A Fire in the Sun

I pulled the car to the curb outside Courane’s. Saied was miserable. “What you want me to say?” he pleaded.

“You got nothing to say. I’ll see you you later.”

He nodded and got out of the car. I watched him walk into Courane’s bar, then I popped the tough-guy moddy. I drove west and north, to Papa’s house. Before I confronted Abu Adil, I had two or three other things to take care of.

I found Kmuzu in our temporary apartment, working at my Chhindwara data deck. He looked up when he heard me come into the room. “Ah, yaa Sidi!” he said, as pleased as I’d ever seen him. “I have good news. It will cost less to organize charity food distribution than I thought. I hope you’ll forgive me for examining your financial situation, but I’ve learned that you have more than twice what we need.”

“That a hint, Kmuzu? I’m only going to open one soup kitchen, not two. You got an operating budget worked out?”

“We can run the food center for a full week on the money you get from Chiriga’s on a single night.”

“Great, glad to hear it. I was just wondering why you’re so excited about this project. How come it means so much to you?”

Kmuzu’s expression turned solidly neutral. “I just feel responsible for your Christian moral education,” he said.

“I don’t buy it,” I said.

He looked away. “There is a long story, yaa Sidi, “he said. “I do not wish to tell it now.”

“All right, Kmuzu. Another time.”

He turned to me again. “I have information about the fire. I told you I’d found proof it was deliberately set. That night in the corridor between your apartment and that of the master of the house, I discovered rags that had been soaked in some flammable fluid.” He opened a desk drawer and took out some badly scorched cloth remnants. They’d been burned in the fire, but hadn’t been totally destroyed. I could still see a decorative pattern of eight-pointed stars in pale pink and brown.

Kmuzu held up another cloth. “Today I found this. It’s obviously the cloth from which those rags were torn.”

I examined the larger cloth, part of an old robe or sheet. There wasn’t any doubt that it was the same material. “Where’d you find this?” I asked.

Kmuzu put the rags back in the desk drawer. “In the room of young Saad ben Salah,” he said.

“What were you doing poking around in there?” I asked with some amusement.

Kmuzu shrugged. “Looking for evidence, yaa Sidi. And I believe I’ve found enough to be certain of the arsonist’s identity.”

“The kid? Not Urnm Saad herself?”

“I’m sure she directed her son to set the fire.”

I wouldn’t put it past her, but it didn’t quite fit. “Why would she do that, though? Her whole scheme has been to get Friedlander Bey to admit that Saad is his grandson. She wants her son to be heir to Papa’s estate. Killing the old man off now would leave her out in the cold.”

“Who can say what her reasoning was, yaa Sidi? Perhaps she gave up her plan, and now she’s seeking revenge.”

Jeez, in that case, who knew what she’d try next? “You’re keeping an eye on her already, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Yes, yaa Sidi.”

“Well, be extra watchful.” I turned to go, then faced him once more. “Kmuzu,” I said, “do the letters A.L.M. mean anything to you?”

He gave it a moment’s thought. “Only the African Liberation Movement,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said dubiously. “What about the Phoenix File?”

“Oh, yes, yaa Sidi, I heard about it when I worked in Shaykh Reda’s house.”

I’d run into so many dead ends that I’d almost given up hope. I’d begun to think the Phoenix File was something Jirji Shaknahyi had invented, and that the meaning of the words had died with him. “Why did Abu Adil discuss it with you?” I asked.

Kmuzu shook his head. “Abu Adil never discussed anything with me, yaa Sidi. I was only a bodyguard. But bodyguards are often overlooked or forgotten. They become like the furniture in a room. Several times I overheard Shaykh Reda and Umar talk about whom they wished to add to the Phoenix File.”

“So what is the damn thing?” I demanded.

“A list,” said Kmuzu. “A compilation of the names of everyone who works for Shaykh Reda or Friedlander Bey, either directly or indirectly. And of anyone who owes either of them a great favor.”

“Like rosters,” I said, puzzled. “But why should the file be so important? I’m sure the police could put together the same list anytime they wanted. Why did Jirji Shaknahyi risk his life investigating it?”

“Each person on the list has a coded entry that describes his physical condition, his tissue-matching profile, and his record of organ transplants and other modifications.”

“So both Abu Adil and Papa keep up with their people’s health. That’s great. I didn’t think they’d bother with details like that.”

Kmuzu frowned. “You don’t understand, yaa Sidi. The file is not a list of who might need to receive a transplant. It is a list of available donors.”

“Available donors? But these people aren’t dead, they’re still—” My eyes opened wider and I just stared at him.

Kmuzu’s expression let me know that my horrified realization was correct. “Everyone on the list is ranked,” he said, “from the lowest underling to Umar and yourself. If a person on the list is injured or becomes ill and needs an organ transplant, Abu Adil or Friedlander Bey may choose to sacrifice someone with a lower rating. This is not always done, but the higher one’s rating, the more likely it is that a suitable donor will be chosen.”

“May their houses be destroyed! The sons of thieves!” I said softly. This explained the notations in Shaknahyi’s notebook — the names on the left side were people who’d been prematurely relaxed to provide spare parts for people on the right side. Blanca had been too far down on the list for her own good; she’d been just another expendable slut.

“Perhaps everyone you know is listed in the Phoenix File,” said Kmuzu. “You yourself, your friends, your mother. My name is there as well.”

I felt fury growing in me. “Where does he keep it, Kmuzu? I’m go

Kmuzu raised a hand. “Remember, yaa Sidi, that Shaykh Reda is not alone in this terrible enterprise. He cooperates with our master. They share information, and they share the lives of their associates. A heart from one.of Shaykh Reda’s minions may be put in the chest of Friedlander Bey’s lieutenant. The two men are great competitors, but in this they are cordial partners.”

“How long has this been going on?” I asked.

“For many years. The two shaykhs began it to make certain they themselves would never die for lack of compatible organs.”

I slammed my fist on the desk. “That’s how they’ve both lived to such doddering old age. They’re fucking fossils!”

“And they are insane, yaa Sidi,” said Kmuzu.

“You didn’t tell me where to find it. Where is the Phoenix File?”

Kmuzu shook his head. “I don’t know. Shaykh Reda keeps it hidden.”

Well, I thought, I’d pla

“Yaa Sidi, you aren’t going to confront Shaykh Reda with this, are you?” He looked very troubled.

“No, of course not,” I said. “I know better than to take on both of the old men together. You just keep working on our soup kitchen. I think it’s time the House of Friedlander Bey began giving back something to the poor people.”

“That is good.”

I left Kmuzu working at the data deck. I went back out to the car, revising my schedule for the day in light of the blockbuster that had just gone off at my feet. I drove to the Budayeen, parked the car, and started up the Street to Chiri’s.

My phone rang. “Marhaba,” I said.

“It’s me, man. Morgan.” I was glad I was still wearing the English daddy. “Jawarski’s here, all right. He’s holed up in a crummy apartment in a real slum. I’m hangin’ out in the stairwell, watchin’ the door. You want me to drop in on the man?”