Busted Flush

Double Helix

FOR NATION SHALL

RISE AGAINST NATION

Melinda M. Snodgrass

SIRAJ AND THE CALIPH stand at the window of his office gazing into the sky. The Caliph was short to begin with and age has bent his shoulders. I can easily see over his head. The plane is a small spot of darkness against the intense blue of the sky. It’s rapidly gaining altitude.

“Kill him!” says the Caliph. “Send the sword. They will see we are not to be treated as children to take their discipline!” Even through the old man’s quaver I can hear the snap of command, the charismatic presence that could send a hundred thousand of the faithful into the streets in reaction to a slight, real or imagined, against Islam.

I keep very still, wishing for invisibility, but Siraj looks back over his shoulder at me. I can see the slow burning anger in his eyes, and I wish that Jayewardene had taken a different tack. What the secretary-general had perceived as sweet reason Siraj had read as condescension.

“Could you teleport to it?” Siraj asks, nodding toward the plane. He is formally attired in a snowy white thobe with a gold-trimmed bisht thrown over top. A gold signet ring glitters on his little finger as he holds the cloak closed.

“No.” I keep it a short lie. You always get into trouble when you try to explain things. And a lie is necessary. All I need is to be ordered to kill the secretary-general of the United Nations.

Now the Caliph is frowning at me. “Why not?”

“I can’t calculate the speed and adjust for distance. And if I miscalculate . . .” I shrug. “I cannot fly, sir.”

“You are afraid?” It’s more of an accusation than a question. The Caliph is staring at me. His eyes are like dark coals held in a cobweb of lines that gouge the skin that’s not covered by his luxurious beard. “You will not act for the faith? For your people?”

I nod at Siraj. “The president has not commanded me to act.”

“You could just teleport somewhere else . . .” A sudden smile softens the lines in Siraj’s face. “While you’re plummeting toward the ground.”

“And that might be a problem, sir.” I offer him a quick smile.

“Why will you not take action?” the Caliph demands of Siraj.

“Because my predecessor made that mistake, and it’s one of the factors that brought down disaster upon us in Egypt.”

The old man throws his hands in the air and stalks toward the office door. Siraj watches closely until it closes behind him.

He sighs and moves to a table of elaborately inlaid wood and mother-of-pearl. A chess set is off to one side. A couple of decks of playing cards and a score pad rest on one corner. Siraj is an obsessive bridge player. We had spent many hours with Kenneth and Chris playing rubber after rubber in our house in Cambridge. I find myself wondering what became of Chris. Kenneth is a bond trader—

I pull back my wandering thoughts when Siraj says, “I think Jayewardene would like to have found a solution.”

“So, why didn’t you agree, sir?”

“Because I’ll lower prices on my timetable, not theirs.” Siraj’s expression has hardened again. He picks up a deck of cards, and begins to shuffle it absently.

It’s a risk, but I have to speak up. Partly for the oil, but partly for these people I’ve lived among. “The UN, NATO, and the Americans are massing troops in Israel, Lebanon, Turkey, Upper Egypt, on aircraft carriers. Our army is shattered. We left its bones along the Nile. And they have aces. Loh . . .” I turn it into a cough and, I hope, cover the mistake. “The Crusader is with them, and the Iron Man.”

“They will not invade.” Siraj hands me the deck and I automatically take it. “The West has covertly stolen our oil for decades. They will be too squeamish to openly steal it.”

“But, sir, your speciality is bridge. This is poker. Are you sure they are only bluffing?” And I’m betrayed by my nervous hands and tired mind.

I, too, riffle the cards, but it turns into a bridge of cards flowing like bird wings between my palms. I quickly stiffen the muscles in my fingers, sending cards spurting in all directions.

I drop down and feel my thobe tug at the back of my neck as I kneel on the soft black material. I’m scrabbling for the cards, not daring a single glance at Siraj. Fear and tension form an aching knot in my belly. I can’t keep doing this. I’ve got to get a night’s sleep. Spend a day in Cambridge.

Flint, Weathers, Fortune, Siraj, Jayewardene. Oh, yes, I’ve got quite a little list.

And none of them would be missed.