Inside Straight

Melinda M. Snodgrass Blood on the Sun

Golden light strobed across the white plaster walls as Bahir teleported into the room. The young soldier, his cheeks downy with the fragile growth of his first beard, gave a grunt of alarm, and the machine gun dropped from his nerveless fingers. Bahir caught the weapon before it could hit the floor and discharge. He handed it back to the boy, and felt the stitches in his right shoulder twinge.

“Go,” Bahir said. He had to repeat the command to be heard over the panicked shouts from the street below, the whine of a helicopter engine ramping up, the occasional chatter of gunfire, and the moaning wail of the wind tugging at the eaves of the mansion. The boy gulped and left.

The bedroom looked like the erstwhile ace Simoon had swept through. Carpets were missing. The silver coffee set that had been Abdul’s pride—and the source of so many tantrums when the coffee had been poorly prepared—was gone. The Caliph himself lay on the wide bed shrouded by the white mosquito netting, writhing and rolling, biting at the corner of a pillow, and emitting shrieks of rage and grief.

The door to the room flew open, and slammed against the wall. A panicked officer rushed in. “Caliph, we must flee. The aces may come.” He broke off and blurted, “Bahir. The battle … ?”

“Lost.”

There was a moan from the bed.

“We’re safe for the moment, but I would not linger.”

Abdul quailed before the burning gold eyes.

“Retreat?” the officer said.

“Yes,” Bahir said, and waved him out. He crossed to the bed. A broken mirror on the floor gave back a crazy kaleidoscope image of himself. The usual brilliant gold and red luster of his hair and beard were dimmed by a coating of sand, and the edge of his golden cloak was stained with blood and dirt. Blood also stained the front of his shirt where the cut from Lohengrin’s sword had broken open again. Bahir dropped onto his knees at the side of the bed. The rank smell of fear-driven sweat stung Bahir’s nostrils.

“Lost. Lost. Allah turns his face from me.” The Caliph’s voice held the same moaning wail as the wind that shook the windows with a booming hum.

“The Djinn was powerful, but you are the son of the Nur. Let us exact vengeance on the West.” It was a subtle push. It was never wise to let the Caliph think you were instructing him.

Abdul-Alim sat up and mopped his face on his sleeve. He was an unlovely sight, with his swollen, reddened eyes and red nose dripping snot. There were painful welts on his cheeks where he had been stung by the American ace’s wasps. “The UN secretary-general,” he said. “You said to invite him. If he hadn’t been here I couldn’t have seized him.” Abdul’s tone was querulous.

“Well, now we can use him. You can show them the justice of the Caliph.”

Abdul stood up and paced. The broken mirror cracked beneath his booted feet. “Yes. Yes. I warned them what would happen. His blood will be on their heads. I think I should kill him, yes?”

Bahir bowed his head. “What is your command?”

“Yes, yes, kill him.”

Bahir felt a momentary flare of joy. At last. “It will be done. But, my lord, you must tell me where you have hidden him. When last I checked, he had been moved. I hope at your command.”

The narrow lips stretched in a cunning, self-satisfied smile. The Caliph rested a hand on Bahir’s head, then slid it down and across his cheek. The palm was moist with sweat. Bahir felt his own sweat trickle like an insect crawling through the hair at his temples, and burn in the sword cuts. Each throb of his pulse counted the passing seconds. “I hid him in the burial chamber of the Great Pyramid.”

And as Bahir swept his golden cloak around himself, and felt that nerve-deep stretch and pop, he reflected how the choice of hiding place exemplified everything that was wrong with Abdul-Alim.

His arrival never made a sound. When he left a space there was a faint pop, like the bursting of a soap bubble as air rushed back into the space previously occupied by his body, but the arrival was soundless. There was no warning for the four guards who sat around a card table on folding chairs. Their Uzis leaned against the legs of the chairs or were slung by their straps. A softly hissing propane lantern threw its yellow glow across the massive cut stones. Jayewardene sat on the floor. His hands were tied behind his back, his ankles bound, and his head was covered by a hood.

Bahir drew his scimitar. The soldiers scrambled to their feet, and one tried to hide the hip flask. They salaamed. Bahir thrust the point of the sword at the man fumbling in the pocket of his fatigues “You … will be dealt with later. Now bring me the prisoner.”

They rushed to obey. The cords around Jayewardene’s ankles were cut and he was pulled to his feet. The secretary-general almost fell again as he tried to balance on feet gone numb. Bahir sheathed the scimitar, and threw his arm around the Indonesian. Oddly, there was no comment from beneath the hood.

But perhaps as a precog he was expecting this, Bahir thought.

“Turn around,” he ordered the soldiers. The sand gritted on stone as the men shuffled around until their backs were to him. Bahir drew his pistol, and shot them in the back of the head with two quick double taps. There were shouts from up the corridor. Bahir flung the cloak around himself and Jayewardene, concentrated, and teleported. They were gone before the reinforcements arrived.

He dropped the secretary-general in an auto graveyard in New Jersey, across the river from Manhattan. The air held the tang of brine and oil from the passing ships, and the rusting hulks of old cars loomed all around them.

The hood covering Jayewardene’s head fluttered as he sniffed. “I do hope you’ve left me reasonably close to the UN,” he said mildly.

“Reasonably,” Bahir said in English. “You show an admirable calm.”

“This was a time I saw true. May I know my rescuer?”

“Sorry. No.” Bahir laid his hands on the man’s narrow shoulders and turned him a hundred and eighty degrees. “You’ll get wet and muddy, and perhaps fall a time or two, but if you walk straight ahead you’ll come to a road. Someone will stop. Eventually.”

“You have a low opinion of people,” Jayewardene said gently.

“They so rarely disappoint me.” Bahir teleported away.

There were more people in the room when he returned, and Abdul-Alim was regaining his swagger. One of the Egyptian generals was arguing that the Caliph should stay in Cairo while the Baghdad advisors stuttered their objections. Abdul pushed through the crowd. There was an eager light in his brown eyes.

“Is it done?” he asked.

“Almost,” Bahir said. He gripped Abdul on the particular pressure point on the elbow that delivers paralyzing pain, swept his cloak around them, and teleported away.

The wind that cried like the souls of the dead in Aswan also blew in Cairo. As Bahir and Abdul-Alim appeared in the center of the marketplace, Bahir heard the dry clacking of the fronds on the palm trees that clashed and shook under the wind’s assault.

Open-air stalls filled the dusty square, but the sellers of Egyptian souvenirs were absent. There had been no tourists in Cairo for many weeks. Instead, the stalls held foodstuff and cooking oil. The smell of overripe melon mingled with the pungent, oily smell of kerosene, and that of coffee. The shrouded figures of women with baskets over their arms glided between the stalls. In cafes, men in keffiyehs drank the thick coffee, played dominos, and argued.

Their sudden appearance stopped every conversation, and pulled a few screams from the heavily veiled women. Bahir transferred his grip from Abdul-Alim’s waist to the nape of his neck. With his other hand he drew his scimitar.

“What are you doing, fool? Take me back at once!”

Bahir ignored him. He filled his lungs so deeply that he felt pressure against the waistband of the trousers that he wore beneath his dishdasha and jalabiya.

“Hear me! Abdul-Alim has led the armies of the faithful to humiliating defeat at the hands of Western crusaders and abominations! His foolishness has cost the life of our great hero. The Righteous Djinn has fallen.” A moan ran through the listening people. “The caliphate will fall, the oppressors will return.…” The moan became a roar. “Unless…” The roar was muted. “… we unite behind a true leader, a great leader. Not this weak and useless man.”

Bahir gave Abdul-Alim a hard shove. The Caliph staggered a few steps, struggled to keep his footing, failed, and fell forward onto his hands. Bahir ripped away Abdul-Alim’s keffiyeh. Gripping his scimitar in two hands, he spun in a dervish’s dance and swung the blade. It whistled through the air. Bone and sinew offered momentary resistance, then blood jetted from the severed neck. Abdul-Alim’s head fell with a meaty thwack onto the flagstones.

There were screams and wails. Bahir thrust the bloodcoated blade into the air. “PRINCE SIRAJ! LEADER OF THE ARAB PEOPLE! SIRAJ!”

For a moment there was confused silence, then a few tentative voices began. Siraj. Siraj. Siraj. More and more people took up the name. Soon it was being shouted, and people went sprinting away down the narrow streets to spread the word. People still loyal to Abdul the Idiot drew knives and flung stones.

Bahir swung his cloak and teleported away as the riot began in earnest.

He reappeared on the grounds of the Mena House Hotel. The long shadow of the Great Pyramid fell across the date palms and jasmine-scented gardens. Bahir looked up at the rough sandstone blocks marching toward the pinnacle. The westering sun sent the shadows of the palm trees across the manicured golf course and up the walls of the hotel. The way the shadows fell created the impression of lines on paper waiting for a mighty pen to write a message.

And the message is—Britain is back, Bahir thought.

He closed his eyes and prepared himself. If teleporting left him feeling as if every nerve, bone, and sinew in his body had been plucked like a violin string, the transformation was even more disturbing. It burned along his nerve endings as he watched the skin on his hands lose the golden tan and the blond hair on the joints of his fingers turn brunette. His hair now brushed at his collar, and his face felt vulnerable as the beard vanished. He felt his body lengthening, as if invisible hands pulled at his flesh like the hands of a potter coiling soft clay. It pulled at his wounds and hurt like the very devil. Finally it ended.

Noel pulled off the cloak, folded it into a small square, and tucked it beneath his arm.

He sauntered toward the hotel accompanied by the whirr and clack of the sprinklers anointing the grass of the golf course with the waters of the Nile. He chose a service entrance, picked the lock, and slipped inside. The generators rumbled with a sound like the breathing of a massive beast, as they pushed the air-conditioned air through the hotel.

Back in his room, he washed away the dirt and blood and laid a sulfa-coated bandage over the wounds on his shoulder and belly. He hissed at the medicine’s bite, but felt satisfied. He had been hurt worse and for a less successful result.

He made a few phone calls and then dressed once more in his signature black leather jacket, black silk shirt and tie. Noel strolled down the main staircase. In the lobby, the desk clerks continued their work, answering the phone with soft voices, writing down messages, and placing the notes in room slots. A waiter paced cat-footed across the lobby, carrying a scotch and soda balanced on a tray. Only a few miles away Cairo was in flames, but here wealth buffered all.

Noel used a house phone to call Siraj. A few moments later one of the prince’s bodyguards appeared to escort Noel to the royal suite. Noel pushed past before the guard could knock, and entered without waiting for permission.

Siraj stood frowning at the television screen where Al Jazeera ran a constant kaleidoscope of changing images: the battlefield, the riots in Cairo, the fleeing armies of the caliphate, the great glowing lion, the jokers dancing on the ruins of Philae. Their twisted forms made it look like a scene from The Inferno.

“Hello, President,” Noel said, and he flashed a smile at Siraj. The prince’s frown didn’t fade. Noel walked to the table that held an array of bottles. He picked them up one after the other. Not one of them held an alcoholic beverage. It made him oddly uneasy, but Noel shook it off and continued. “A BBC camera crew is on the—”

“I prefer to announce that I’ve taken control on Al Jazeera.”

Noel pushed down the flare of annoyance that roiled briefly in his gut, then threw up a hand. “Fine. I’ll push back the time with the BBC.”

“You don’t understand me. I will not speak to any Western media outlet.” The prince’s tone was flat, and devoid of emotion. The anger was gone, replaced with a flutter of concern. Not in their years as roommates at Cambridge or in the years subsequent had Noel ever heard such a tone out of the Jordanian.

Noel decided to change the subject. Let Siraj have his little glamor fit. “You’ve got an ally in Bahir,” Noel said. “He killed Abdul the Idiot and declared for you.”

“That’s an ally I’m not sure I want,” Siraj said. “Isn’t he driven by religion?”

Noel shrugged. “Oh, here’s something else you should announce. Agents of the Silver Helix freed Jayewardene, so do take a bow for that as well when you assume control.”

“You should not have done that. He was our hostage. My hostage.”

“It would have been incredibly stupid for you to hold him. Look, old boy, I know—”

The rigid control broke. “Don’t call me boy!” Siraj thrust his finger at the screen. “For two days I’ve watched Arab soldiers dying beneath the blade of a Teutonic knight. An American ace burning them in fire, another crushing them, presumably in the name of his god. These were normal men whose only offense was to serve their god …”

And massacre jokers, Noel thought, but he kept the words behind his teeth.

“… and follow a fool,” Siraj concluded. Bitterness hung on the words. “I would have protected those frauds, the Living Gods, and left their deluded followers in peace, but these mad children have made that impossible now.”

Softly, Noel said, “We’re not behind the aces. In fact, I tried to stop them.”

Siraj’s implacable expression did not change. “That doesn’t absolve you. You are still a Westerner, and one could say the worst offender. For a hundred years Britain has destroyed our governments.…”

“What governments?” Noel drawled.

“You have drawn countries in the sand, all in pursuit of our oil. And the UN has stood by while refugee camps have festered and children have starved. I would have done nothing for Jayewardene.”

It left Noel breathless. He had spent years cultivating this friendship. He had killed for this man. “You’re Cambridge educated, for God’s sake, you know how the world works. This is realpolitik. We’ve given you Arabia. It’s time you remembered where your loyalties lie.”

“I have.” A weight of decision was carried on the words. Geography, culture, and religion formed a vast chasm between them, and as if to physically drive home the gulf, Siraj took another few steps away from Noel. “For a thousand years we’ve staggered under the rule of despots. That changes now.”

Noel gave an elaborate shrug. “I’m sure you’ll be a paragon, but reality does intrude, and here’s one for you to consider—ruling with our support would have been much better than what you’re about to attempt.”

“Your problem, Noel, is that you don’t give a damn about anything. You never have. It’s all a game to you.”

The words stung in a way he hadn’t expected. No, you bastard, it’s about crown and country, and doing what’s necessary to protect them both.

Siraj said, “I’ve found my soul, and it’s Arab. A hundred million of my people are looking to me to lead them. I will deliver neither them nor their patrimony into the hands of Western imperialism and paternalism—whether it wears a corporate face or not.”

“Listen to yourself,” Noel said. “You sound like a street Arab.”

The slur hit home. Siraj stiffened, and Noel realized he had allowed his anger and pique to override his ability to read others and calculate every word and gesture he made. “I think you will not be leaving.” The words were forced between the Jordanian’s clenched teeth. “You will be revealed as a spy, and the courts will mete out your punishment.” Siraj raised a pudgy hand. From behind the elaborate carved wood screens four guards stepped out.

Noel glanced out the window. The sun was down, but the last light had not yet faded from the sky. He was trapped. Twilight had robbed him of his power, and there was no escape. Two of the guards grabbed his arms. A third one stuck the barrel of a rifle in his back. The final soldier quickly lifted the Browning out of its holster. “Take him to the Kanater Mens Prison,” the prince said.

They weren’t gentle as they bundled him into the back of a car. Noel looked back through the dust-covered back window at the receding angles of the Great Pyramid. He glanced surreptitiously down at his watch. He had at least eleven minutes until full dark when he could become Lilith. But he didn’t dare reveal her in front of the guards. He would have to wait for the cell. He resigned himself to an unpleasant hour.

It began almost immediately when one of the guards shot Noel a grin. His front tooth, a stainless steel rod, flashed in the last spill of light over the horizon. He had noticed Noel’s glance at his wrist. He grabbed and yanked off the expensive gold Baume and Mercier watch. Next his cufflinks went, and then the small ring he wore on his little finger that served as a distraction for audiences.

Noel realized that the soldier in the front seat was eyeing him oddly. Of course, they expect the British spy to do something, and not behave like limp prey. Yes, this is going to hurt.

Noel lunged forward and grabbed the man’s chin in one hand, wrapped his free arm behind his head, and yanked. The stitches in his shoulder tore free. The muscles in Noel’s back burned as he braced and pulled the soldier over the backseat. The man’s flailing legs kicked the driver and sent the car careening in a mad serpentine back-and-forth across the road. Everyone was shouting. A fist took Noel in the kidney, and he gagged from the pain. The muscles in Noel’s arm tensed. A quick twist would break the neck.

No, better not to kill one of them. I don’t want them too angry.

Instead, he tried to claw for the soldier’s pistol, and the men on either side of him piled on. As best he could, Noel covered his head and endured the drubbing. He lost interest in the rest of the drive, and only returned to his surroundings when he was dragged across the flagstones in the courtyard of the prison. It was full dark and still very hot. Noel was so thirsty that his mouth tasted like he’d been sucking on iron filings.

Finally they dumped him in a cell. It reeked of shit, urine, and sweat. There were no mattresses on the metal cots, just coiled steel frames. A small, ferretlike man lounged on a cot, but he scrambled to a back corner and huddled by the stainless steel and overflowing toilet as the soldiers dragged Noel in and flung him down on the concrete floor. There were a few farewell kicks, and Noel wasn’t able to turn fast enough and not take the blows on his abused gut. One boot did connect with his ribs, and he heard a crack, and pain flared.

Transforming was not going to be fun. He eyed his fellow prisoner. And of course he couldn’t be observed.

“Lucky for you I hurt too bad to kill you,” he said in English.

The man grinned at him ingratiatingly. Noel groaned and got to his feet, crossed to the man, and held his breath against the stench from the toilet. He lashed out with a foot, and kicked the man in the head. Pain made him less precise. There was a chance he’d just created a breathing, shitting vegetable.

Slowly, painfully, his body burned and shifted, flowing like hot wax. Breasts pressed tightly against the fabric of his shirt, and the pants were suddenly far too snug across his hips. Lilith’s long hair brushed at his back. Noel concentrated and teleported away.

Captain Flint set aside the pages of Noel’s report and leaned back in the stone chair that had been carved to accommodate his massive stone body. The commander of Her Britannic Majesty’s Most Puissant Order of the Silver Helix, the ace division of British Military Intelligence, was almost eight feet tall and weighed more than three thousand pounds. He rubbed his eyes, momentarily masking the flames that formed his pupils. “Not the result we had hoped for.”

Noel leaned forward to better hear his commander’s whispered words, so incongruous, coming from the gigantic gray stone body.

Rains sluiced down the outside of the tall windows of this Whitehall office. It was decorated in Flint’s unique style. He made no nod to faux intellectualism. There were only a few volumes on the bookshelves. Instead the polished wood displayed a collection of British arms and armaments ranging from neolithic arrowheads to Enfield revolvers.

“I’ve never seen you so badly misread a situation before,” Flint continued.

“Yes, well, sorry about that.”

“You allowed a personal relationship to interfere with your judgment.”

“Yes, thank you, I rogered the pooch. I get that. Shall we move on? What do you want to do about Siraj?”

“Nothing yet. Let’s observe for a little while. You’re in a unique position to do that.”

“Yes, to think it was me—well, Bahir—that put the son of a bitch in power.”

“He’s still better than the Nur, or Abdul-Alim.” Flint shifted the papers and studied another section for a long moment. “Interesting that he named a caliph and didn’t take the title for himself.”

“He’s not such a fool. He can never be sufficiently ardent for the fundamentalists, and he can wring our nuts more effectively if he’s perceived as a secularist.” Noel hesitated, and the memory of Straight Arrow’s condescension replayed for a gut-tightening instant. He knew it was childish of him, but he wanted to have one small thing about which to crow when next he met his American cousins. “Are we going to take credit for rescuing the secretary-general?”

“Yes, I suppose so. But I don’t know if I ought to let you take the bow.”

“But you will.” Noel added just a bit of wheedle to make it less demanding.

Flint sighed. “You got the poor bastard kidnapped in the first place. I do wish you’d stop improvising.”

“I get results.”

“Just not always the ones we expect.”

“Touche. What do we do about Fortune and these baby aces?”

Flint snapped his fingers and watched the flame dance briefly on his fingertips. “Have you any suggestions?”

“Is this you setting up for plausible deniability, or do you honestly want my opinion?”

“You’ve been around these children. I expect your insights are better than my own.”

“Then let me have a presence in all camps. Bahir with Siraj. Noel can continue to liaise with the Yanks. And Lilith can join their little club. Lohengrin will forgive her if she asks prettily enough. After that I’ll just …” he flashed Flint a smile, “… improvise.”

Flint snorted to cover his amusement. He pointedly pulled out another file. “Keep me informed,” he said, without looking up.

Noel let his body shift. Felt the whisper of Lilith’s long hair across his hips. Soon he would measure his dark against Curveball’s gold, and find out if John Fortune really was a hero.

He doubted it.