Harsh Oases (6 page)

Encountering Ruth had also pulled my strings tight. Too many memories, both good and bad. I needed to relax. Drinking didn’t appeal to me. So I powered up my old Atari for a game of go.

Go had been one of the last games to be formally modeled. More complex than chess, it had eluded encoding for decades. A fifteen-year-old prodigy from Cal Tech had finally succeeded in programming it. He had picked up a ten-thousand-dollar prize from some foundation or other, which he had used as start-up capital for his own software firm to market the game. Last I heard, he had just made the Forbes Four Hundred.

The software needed at least one meg of main memory to run, making the Atari the first home machine that could support it. I had gotten hooked on the game when I had a lot of time on my hands during my recovery.

As I moved the mouse around now, depositing icons of white stones on the screen (the speakers emitting a soft, realistic click with each one), trying to outflank my encoded silicon opponent, watching my stones be surrounded and go dead, I felt all the tension drain away out my fingers, leaving me as nothing but an agent of The Game, and also somehow simultaneously an inert oval counter of polished stone, which was played willy-nilly on the board, and which, when killed and removed, felt nothing at all, not remorse or grief or pain.

* * *

The next day I was kept too busy to think about my personal problems, or the mysterious leaf. I had to inspect the security arrangements on one of our houses, in preparation for the new owner.

The place was a rambling old glass and redwood building, built in the ’Forties by one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s students. It had stood empty until recently, amid a grove of wind-twisted pines, high atop a knoll. (The previous owner, whose wealth came from holdings in various energy industries, had experienced a sudden and precipitous change in his fortunes a few years back, when room-temperature superconductors came online, and had been forced to sell.)

Approachable only by a rocky footpath, the place was almost a fortress, ringed by sensors and anti-personnel devices. The energy-magnate had been something of a bug on terrorism and kidnapping. I supposed that the remoteness of the villa and the presence of these gadgets were the reasons why the new owner had chosen it.

I ran my checks, making sure that none of the booby-traps was accidentally armed. It wouldn’t do to have the newest inhabitant of the Hesperides blown up upon arrival.

Having finished, I went down to the dock to meet him.

The noon ferry arrived on its stilts amid sheets of spray that sparkled in the sun, lowering itself to a berth. I had expected that there would be a few tourists aboard. But I hadn’t reckoned with Major Zaid’s paranoia, for I soon saw that he had commandeered the whole boat

First off were burly identical East German-trained bodyguards in suits and shades, carrying stubby Uzis. They pushed back the crowd awaiting passage to the mainland. Next to step ashore was the head of Zaid’s guards, the Major’s combination of personal secretary and lethal pet ferret

I had met Hamud al-Qasimi once before, when he came to arrange purchase of the house for Zaid. He was a thin, supple man dressed in Italian linen. His skin was a sallow hue, like an old bruise when it goes yellow, and he wore a narrow black mustache, impeccably trimmed. His face was always composed. Nothing in our previous brief meeting had encouraged me to take a shine to him. Todays tactics, which I assumed he had masterminded, likewise failed to impress me with his congeniality.

Once ashore, al-Qasimi turned back to face the boat. With a curt flick of his fingers, he signaled that all was fine for Major Zaid to step down.

When the man raised his hand, his unbuttoned jacket opened, and I saw his rhino-horn dagger—the Yemenese jambiyya—at his waist.

Zaid appeared. He wore the understated grey uniform, with a minimum of gold braid, proper for the North Yemen major he had been before the coup. Although he ruled the country now, he kept the title he had borne when he overthrew the previous ruler, in a gesture of his humble aspirations and dedication to the welfare of his nation. He was a corpulent man who walked with a perceptible waddle, as if he were perpetually uncomfortable in clothes of any sort.

Following Zaid came some male advisors and a flock of women in chadors and veils, the latter s eyes fixed modestly on the ground.

Now that the party was assembled, al-Qasimi looked around and, spotting me, snapped his fingers as summons. I ambled over.

Al-Qasimi’s English was perfect. “Where are the Major’s cars for his entourage?”

“I explained to you earlier, when you requested cars, that none are permitted on the islands.”

Al-Qasimi looked momentarily baffled, as if unused to being thwarted. I couldn’t believe he had assumed I would circumvent regulations just because he had demanded it. I was really convinced that he had simply not heard my earlier refusal, since it was so alien to him.

“How does one move about the island then?”

“We walk. Or ride scooters.”

Al-qasimi’s lips twitched. “Impossible.”

“There are some electric carts—”

“They must do. Bring them here.”

Taking my time, I walked over to the rental agency on the promenade and asked Rob Trowers to send all his carts down to the dock, and bill the Major.

In half an hour or so, a procession of green-canopied electric carts—each carrying four persons, except for the pair with only a driver and luggage—was winding away slowly uphill, their occupants looking quite conscious of the ridiculous image they presented. I smiled broadly at al-Qasiini when he glowered back at me. It was perhaps not the wisest thing to do, but I couldn’t resist.

Back in my office, I sent for Tanager. He took a while to arrive, and when he did, looked sort of beat. I knew he had spent a rough night tending a rowdy crowd intent on celebrating the successful landing of the unmanned Mars Rover. (I doubted that half the celebrants even knew whether Mars was in the solar system or not, but the motto of the Hesperides was: “If it hasn’t happened before, it’s a reason to party.”)

“The Major and his group have arrived. I’m not sure how long they plan to stay. I guess it all depends on when he’s needed in Washington for the negotiations. In any case, we’ve got to be a little sharper while he’s around. I don’t want any of his bozos trampling our other residents or their guests.”

Tanager nodded wearily, and, feeling sorry for him, I said, “I’m sorry about being shorthanded, Bert. I’ll press headquarters about sending us someone fast. But we can’t take just anyone. We tried that last time, and you know what happened.”

“I understand,” said Tanager, and left.

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. I was just getting ready to leave for the day when a visitor let himself in. I had been half expecting this man, or someone of his ilk.

“Hello, Dick. How’s life with the NSA? What’re you up to lately?”

Rangley smiled wryly. “I can’t answer that, Leon. Besides, you know those initials stand for ‘No Such Agency.’”

I had known Rangley since my days with the LAPD, when we had worked together on various cases of national importance, and we had been going through this identical ritual exchange of dialogue ever since.

“I assume you’re here about the Major.”

“Of course. I just want to impress on you, Leon, how important Zaid and his country are to us. If it was up to me, we’d have him stashed away out of the public’s eye in a safe house somewhere. But he is the head of his nation, and he’s stubbornly insisted on buying this house and spending his time here. It’s this reputation the Hesperides has as a playground of the rich. It’s irresistible to someone like Zaid, who’s hardly ever left his own country before, and is out now to flaunt his new stature and the global importance of his nation.”

I was as aware of the Mideast situation as any ardent newsbuff could be, but I tried to probe Rangley now for his insider’s view. “Is the unification of North and South Yemen really that crucial? It’s not as if they’re big oil producers or anything .…”

Rangley looked uneasy, and it flickered across my mind that I had said something important. But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what. I filed the notion away for later.

“It’s true they don’t have any petro-resources,” he said. “But the chance to bring South Yemen out of the Soviet sphere is too vital to pass up, in and of itself. The Russians have their hands full consolidating their hold on Greece, and battling the Turkish-Afghani incursion into Kazakhstan. They’re quite willing to relinquish South Yemen as a client-state, now that Zaid has made overtures of unification. But the whole process has to be conducted with the utmost delicacy. Zaid’s the linchpin. He seems to be popular in both his native North and neighboring South, and he’s acceptable to not only our government but also the Russians. Without him, the whole scheme fails. We have to keep him safe and happy.”

“I’ll wait on him hand and foot.”

Rangley said dryly, “That won’t be necessary. He has enough retainers. Just make sure he doesn’t break his fool neck diving or something, and we’ll be happy.”

“Okey-doke.”

Rangley had been holding a package wrapped in brown paper all this while. Now he tossed it on my desk. “Open it.”

I did. It was the leaves I had sent away for analysis. I was baffled.

“It’s qat” Rangley said. “The Yemeni national drug. They grow it only for domestic consumption. It’s not a habit anywhere else, even in the Arab world. There’s not even any law on the books here against it. The men sit around in social groups and chew it in the afternoons. I understand it gives you a dry throat and a pleasant megalomania. Can’t say I ever tried it myself. Nasty habit. Can run into fifty dollars a week and bankrupt the average worker. It’s one reason the Yemenis have remained so poor. That and the lack of natural resources. Al-Qasimi lost this bundle on his last visit.”

Rangley paused. “We don’t want to publicize this vice. All we need to queer this deal is for the media to run a lot of stories on how the U.S. is supporting a nation of dope fiends. That’s why I’m making a point of returning this.”

The picture of the innately dangerous al-Qasimi having his sense of self-importance exaggerated by a dmg didn’t make me very happy. But what could I do about it?

“All right, Dick. Say no more, the case is closed. But I can only overlook so much. If Zaid and his friends break any serious laws, I’ll be down on them faster than a scramjet. They may have diplomatic immunity, but they can still be booted off the islands. The Hesperides is a private corporation.”

“Fair enough, Leon. I don’t think they’ll be much trouble. Zaid’s still a little shaken-up from what happened last week in LA. Seems one of his wives ran away.”

“Goodness. I can’t see why.”

Rangley laughed. We shook hands, and I saw him to the ferry.

Two days passed after Rangley’s visit. Zaid and his retinue presented no problems. Rumor—usually sourceless and omnipresent in the Hesperides, but in this case based on persistent glassy glints from the vicinity of the Yemeni estate-had it that Zaid and his male staff spent most of their day watching nude sunbathers through digitally-enhanced binoculars. It was a harmless enough pastime—even the tourists were less circumspect—and anyway, what kicks would the exhibitionists get without voyeurs? It was a complete closed ecosystem, each half dependent on the other.

Al-Qasimi and two of his men showed up at the shops one afternoon to purchase supplies. They drove down in one of the carts, paid for everything in mint-fresh bills without letting slip an extraneous word, and drove back.

Throughout the transaction, al-Qasimi had disdained to participate, touching neither goods nor money, but merely standing to one side, supervising, his left hand on his belted rhino-horn dagger. (An invaluable item now, since all the rhinos outside of zoos were extinct, slaughtered for such weapons, or to compound Asian folk medicines.) Walking by, I happened to catch sight of the shoppers. Al-Qasimi ignored me. I tried to imagine what was going through his head. I failed.

Everyone wondered why they laid in no stock of alcohol. It was common knowledge that many visiting Arabs from the stricter states used the opportunity of going abroad to sample what was forbidden them at home. No one could figure out why Zaid and his crew broke the stereotype.

No one but me knew they had something better: their qat.

As for Zaid’s wives, we saw not so much as the hem of a chador. They were immured as ruthlessly as if in prison. I supposed that Zaid was leery of another desertion. So far as I knew, nothing had been learned of his missing wife, although I’m sure it wasn’t for lack of hunting.

I was closing up the office one evening, intent on heading home to relax, when I got a visit from the last person I would have expected.

Ruth looked awful. She had let herself in while my back was turned, as I was powering down the office computer. I looked at her now as she leaned against the door, one palm braced behind her against the wood panels, as if to hold it shut in the face of an intruder, and I doubted whether—had I been seeing it for the first time—I would have recognized her distressed new face, even given as much time as I had had the other day. She looked drawn, as if she had been spending hours under interrogation—a look I knew. She wore workclothes—a plain blue business suit under a labcoat—and couldn’t have resembled less the insouciant Robin Hood of last week.