Fire in the Sun by Effinger George Alec

Author:Effinger, George Alec [Effinger, George Alec]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 1989-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Ishaq Abdul-Hadi Bouhatta—Elwau Chami (Heart, lungs)

Andreja Svobik—Fatima Hamdan (Stomach, bowel, liver)

Abbas Karami—Nabil Abu Khalifeh (Kidneys, liver)

Blanca Mataro—

Shaknahyi had been sure that the four names on the left were somehow connected; but in Hajjar's words, they were only "open files." Under the names, Shaknahyi had written three Arabic letters: Alif, Lâm, Mîm, corresponding to the Roman letters A, L, M.

What could they mean? Were they an acronym? I could probably find a hundred organizations whose initials were A.L.M. The A and L might form the definite article, and the M might be the first letter in a name: someone called al-Mansour or al-Maghrebi. Or were the letters Shaknahyi's shorthand, an abbreviation referring to a German (almâni) or a diamond (almâs) or something else? I wondered if I could ever discover what the three letters meant, without Shaknahyi to explain his code.

I slipped an audio chip into the car's holosystem, then put the notebook and Tema Akwete's envelope in the briefcase and locked it. While Umm Khalthoum, The Lady of the twentieth century, sang her laments, I pretended she was mourning Jirji Shaknahyi, crying for Indihar and their children. Akwete still stared out her window, ignoring me. Meanwhile, Kmuzu steered the car through the narrow, twisting streets of Hâmidiyya, the slums that guarded the approach to Reda Abu Adil's mansion.

After a ride of nearly half an hour, we turned into the estate. Kmuzu remained in the car, pretending to doze. Akwete and I got out and went up the ceramic-tiled path to the house. When Shaknahyi and I had been here before, I'd been impressed by the luxurious gardens and the beautiful house. I noticed none of that today. I rapped on the carved wooden door and a servant answered my summons immediately, giving me an insolent look but saying nothing.

"We have business with Shaykh Reda," I said, pushing by him. "I come from Friedlander Bey."

Thanks to Saied's moddy, my manner was rude and brusque, but the servant didn't seem to be upset. He shut the door after Tema Akwete and hurried ahead of me, going down a high-ceilinged corridor, expecting us to follow. We followed. He stopped before a closed door at the end of a long, cool passage. The fragrance of roses was in the air, the smell I'd come to identify with Abu Adil's mansion. The servant hadn't said another word. He paused to give me another insolent look, then walked away.

"You wait here," I said, turning to Akwete.

She started to argue, then thought better of it. "I don't like this at all," she said.

"Too bad." I didn't know what was on the other side of the door, but I wasn't going to get anywhere standing in the hallway with her, so I grabbed the doorknob and went through.

Neither Reda Abu Adil nor his secretary, Umar Abdul-Qawy, heard me come into the office. Abu Adil was in his hospital bed, as he was the previous time I'd seen him. Umar was leaning over him. I couldn't tell what he was doing.

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