Music hath Charms
By
Dawnwind
Chapter 8
Take out Indonesian food and a pound box of See's finest chocolates were the provisions for our late night TV watching. Farzimah sighed with pleasure when Jay Leno announced Miles and I could see the love pouring off her when he appeared on screen. I wish I could find someone like that who'd wait in the wings for me. I remembered the first time I'd seen Farzimah, standing just outside Miles' dressing room, happy to be the one he came home to, and secure in the knowledge that he always would. She had the strength to be a ruler of her country and the intelligence to guide others into a better future, but that wasn't where her heart lay. She truly was a 21st century woman, able to have it all and content enough not to need it.
Miles had changed into what amounted to biker gear, a black leather short waisted jacket with lots of zippers, a dark green muscle shirt and jeans so tight Farzimah blushed. He and Leno had an easy rapport and started right in discussing the current state of affairs in Kharistan. I could only imagine what Kim was doing backstage. Hopefully, Hobbes was keeping him on a tight rein and didn't have to pull out his piece or anything.
"Much fun as it is, y'think it's wise for Mighty Man to be baiting Mike like this?" I asked, trying to keep my interest in the here and now. The afternoon trip to the Keep had thrown me for a loop and I found my mind drifting out every once in a while.
"This was Miles' idea, not mine." Farzimah munched thoughtfully on a jimmy sprinkled chocolate. "He's forcing Mike's hand, I think, because he wants him out."
"It's not going to work, because Kim has to stay around until Friday, I'll bet he has orders." I hadn't yet told her about the latest with Kim and his brother, "Besides, we need to keep Mike as close as possible to ferret out as much info as we can."
"Keep your friends close but your enemies closer?" she quoted.
"Exactly." I liked a girl who could quote with the best of them.
By the Kilborn show, Miles in his element, and anything Kim might have said to him in the cab ride over between tapings must have gone in one ear and out the other. He chatted about the upcoming coronation dinner, teasing Kilborn for not being invited. So much for keeping a low profile.
My dreams were full of dark, ominous figures intent on mayhem, sometimes to me, and sometimes to Miles and Farzimah. I was glad to wake after one that seemed to go on and on endlessly in the way of nightmares. I lay gasping in the guestroom of Miles' house, trying to sort out the demon images and failing. A sense of gloom descended on me that Friday was going to be bad and I dreaded the rest of the week. I sat in the floor-to-ceiling window on the second floor of that ocean side house and watched the sky lighten. Since the sun rose behind me, out of the East, I couldn't see the magnificent display of gilt, rose and pale blue that usually welcomes the day but that was just fine with me. Instead I watched the shadow of the house lengthen across the sand until it hit the oncoming surf. Seagulls wheeled in the wind, diving into the waves to catch tiny fish for food. Somehow, the encroaching darkness stretching out to the endless ocean and animal life killing smaller prey for survival exactly suited my mood.
As Farzimah had predicted, her week was taken up with chores. She had to meet with committees involved with every facet of the upcoming dinner concert and also the benefit concert. First there was a last minute fitting for a gown to wear under her Kharistan costume and then a long session with the henna artist who decorated not only Farzimah's palms with swirly designs and delicate flowers but also her arms and the small of her back. The artist, who wore a red dot in the middle of her forehead like that singer Gwen Stefani, wanted to put some designs on my hand too, but I put her off. That whole thing's a girly fashion, isn't it? In the end, Farzimah persuaded me to have a small 'tattoo' drawn on the bottom of my right foot, for luck, she said. It was a Kharistani custom for men to have them there, so what did I know? I needed all the luck I could muster.
Miles and Hobbes came home with a seething Mike Kim. I was almost sure I spotted smoke coming out of his ears.
All the newspapers had gone crazy for Kharistan, it seemed, putting all Mike's dire predictions of rock stars who courted politics to shame. Kharistan was the hot new topic; especially since the crown prince lived right here in San Diego and was about to be crowned king.
"How was New York, man?" I asked Hobbes when we finally escaped the crush at Miles'. Sherida was over the moon with all the positive publicity and wanted pictures to capture the mood. Since Joe Lincoln came over to set up his photographer in the in-house studio and watch Miles rehearse, the house was full of people. Farzimah had a day of family business to attend to and had taken two of her guards with her.
"Tense," Hobbes answered. "Just a joy to spend hours with Kim in all those green rooms while Verbage yammered on about every subject he'd been warned off."
"I kinda wondered if you had to pull your gun on him," I joked.
"Miles or Kim? I considered it about the time ol' Mike was about to climb the walls at Leno's," Hobbes confessed with a leer. "Didn't ever get a chance to go out and hunt up some of my old haunts."
"No Nathan's hot dog?" I tried to sound sympathetic, but sorta smug that he hadn't had any more fun than I'd had in the last few days.
"No kosher bagels, no real New Yawk style pizza," he shrugged. "Guess I'll have to live with the stuff they make here. Let's go over to the 'Chicago Pie' and get a Midwestern version."
"Make it to go and we can eat it at my place while I bring you up to date on what Eberts dug up." I climbed into the front of the van, riding 'shotgun'. "Didja get to meet all those other stars in the green rooms?"
"Susan Sarandon talked to me personally," Hobbes preened, "Got Vin Diesal's autograph."
"Man, I know you fixed that coin toss," I moped. Okay, he did have more fun than I did.
Driving up to the gates of the Abdullah family estate, I finally felt like I was about to meet royalty. I had complete respect and admiration for Farzimah, but I'd met her under very un-princess like circumstances, so I had a hard time thinking of her in the same league as England's Queen Elizabeth, despite the gorgeous gold and white chador she'd shown me. So, I was the slightest bit nervous when we stepped out of the car in front of a looming three story manse in the ritziest section of San Diego. A uniformed butler let us into the house, welcoming Farzimah with a solemn bow.
With the ease of someone in her own home, Farzimah urged us all to spread out on the sleek brocade furniture and went in search of her elder brother, calling his name like a teen-ager answering the phone.
While we were waiting a tiny woman dressed nearly identically to the one in Farzimah's pictures came in with a tray of dates, dried fruit and nuts. Amin followed behind with an oddly shaped teakettle and cups. "Nice t'see you guys again. This is my Auntie, she's the best cook any where in the world."
The woman, who couldn't possibly top five feet even in high heels, ducked her head, acting embarrassed, but her black eyes were twinkling merrily.
"And every few months I have to come back home just to get some of her chicken couscous. It's the only way I can survive Berkeley," Amin moaned in a most pitiful voice, grabbing her hand for support. "It sustains me."
Chuckling, Auntie kissed his hand through her veil and shuffled out, her chador so long it dragged on the carpet.
"Think that'll convince her?" Amin asked deviously.
"You're in, kid, it's chicken and couscous for dinner unless I'm very much mistaken," Hobbes agreed.
Farzimah came back in the room with an older, heavier version of Amin. Amahl wasn't quite as tall as his younger brother, but he must spend some time in the gym cause he had some serious muscle going on for an engineering geek. We were just in the midst of introductions and explaining why Miles hadn't come along to see his good friend when Tayeb poked his head in.
"Amin, you coming or not?"
"I didn't know Tayeb was here," Farzimah's hissed at her younger brother, her voice unnaturally pitched. But she got it together before turning around with a gracious smile. "Tayeb, Amin neglected to mention you were visiting, too. Want some snacks with us?"
"No, we're going out to buy some gunpowder. Tayeb's teaching me to make fireworks. We're gonna put on a show after Miles sings on Friday." Amin explained, swiping a handful of dates before getting up. "For a tribute to big brother here."
"That wasn't discussed in advance," Farzimah argued. I knew she was largely in charge of the whole shebang, so an unplanned addition could play havoc with the schedule.
"What kind of fireworks?" Hobbes asked with suspicion.
"The usual," Tayeb regarded Hobbes with a bland stare. "I've put on a few Fourth of July shows in my time. I know how to rig a safe explosive. Plus Roman candles and little rockets, stuff like that."
"We can't just have fireworks without a city permit," Farzimah fumed.
"No problem, Sis, Tayeb has connections," Amin assured, throwing an arm around his buddy. Tayeb looked uncomfortable with the close proximity and moved away slightly, ostensibly reaching for a few nuts.
"If there are any difficulties, we can arrange something else, your highness," Tayeb directed at Amahl and I noticed he'd never once actually looked at Farzimah.
"Make some up," Amahl shrugged. "If we can't use them then, we'll find another time."
"How much knowledge does that kid have with explosives?" Hobbes asked aloud once Amin and Tayeb had left.
"I'm not sure, but he said he's done this kind of thing before," the future king sounded impossibly naïve. "Do you consider him a threat? He's a friend of the family."
"That's exactly why we've come, your highness," I said, not exactly sure what to call him. Besides the dates were sticking to my teeth. I took a hasty gulp of tea to wash them down and ended up with a gummy wad at the back of my throat. Hobbes had to whack me on the back when I started coughing.
"Please, call me Amahl. I find it sort of unnerving to be referred to as your highness," Amahl admitted.
"Get used to it," Farzimah teased in a singsong voice.
"Believe me, I'm trying," he laughed. "So, what is this all about?"
"We have reason to believe someone will try to kill you at the dinner on Friday," Hobbes put our cards on the table, explaining the whole hypothesis with expedience.
Unfortunately, without any solid facts to back us up, there was a definite air of paranoia in the tale. I wasn't at all surprised to see a look of skepticism on Amahl's handsome face especially after we inferred that someone in his cabinet might be a double agent.
"I trust my advisors implicitly," he huffed.
"Is there anyone new?" Hobbes pressed. "Anyone whose views don't completely mesh with yours?"
"To be truthful, many of the old guard aren't comfortable with my so called 'radical' ideas, but I feel we need to move Kharistan into the 21st century as quickly as possible. We're already hopelessly behind. We must lure American educated Kharistanis back to the homeland to jump-start our industry and computer know-how. And to do that we can't embrace the old customs but meld them into a new era of prosperity and freedom," he took a deep breath, warming to his subject. "There are only a few of my people who whole heartedly support my proposals but most of the rest will come around once I'm firmly on the throne next year. I know that this will be an uphill battle and a rough year until I finish my thesis."
"So, everyone around you is willing to follow you?" Hobbes questioned.
"As far as I know," he frowned, his eyebrows dipping down over his eyes like the Wise Old Owl in Bambi.
"You thought of something?" I asked. It was the first time I'd been able to speak without choking on date particles.
"Sommatra's brother."
"Sommatra?" Farzimah echoed, her voice raising to shrill in just under a second. "They still expect you to marry her?"
"Our fathers signed a pact at her birth, Far," Amahl didn't look at all happy about it.
"Have you seen her since she was five?" Farzimah jumped up in annoyance.
"You know that would be forbidden, Sis."
"In the 19th century, but you just got finished saying you want Kharistan to march into the 21st and you're agreeing to an arranged marriage?" Farzimah fumed. "This is outrageous, Amahl! When I met her, she was fat as a house and nearsighted, but her nasty ol' gran wouldn't allow a girl to wear glasses!"
"People do change, Farzimah, and I will not have you discussing my intended in that manner, is it understood?"
The King had spoken, and Farzimah knew it. She backed down with tight lips.
"This Sommatra's brother?" Hobbes sat forward like a beagle on the hunt. "You've had words?"
"We have e-mailed. He came over at the winter break to arrange the dowry price and discuss when the wedding should take place," Amahl said slowly. "I have dated before, although not a great deal, since I was concentrating on my studies and I wasn't totally comfortable with not seeing her before the wedding."
"He was old school?" I put in.
"Mohammed Nazeem acts like he was born one hundred years ago," he stated.
"So does his sister," Farzimah added in an aside, then stuffed a sweetmeat into her mouth, chewing furiously.
"And he's still agreeing to the marriage?" Hobbes inquired.
"He believes his father's signature is binding," Amahl answered. " I…I said I needed to meet Sommatra and there was a loud disagreement. Nazeem was very vocal in his distrust of Americans. He finally agreed that he would bring Sommatra over to attend the dinner for my birthday so I can meet with her before hand, obviously with a chaperone in attendance, and if there really is a conflict, then I could pay him $100,000 to nullify the contract."
"Highway robbery!" Farzimah exploded.
"I don't have that kind of money at my disposal, and I'm sure the Kharistani people would not take kindly to their king using taxes to pay off his bride's family," Amahl sighed, and it was in that small sigh that I knew that there once must have been a real girlfriend, but he'd broken off with her. "But, I don't see a way out."
"What if this Mohammed is one of the opposition?" Hobbes speculated.
"In league with these Kharistan Freedom Fighters?" Amahl grimaced. "I don't see how that could be to anyone's favor. Communism has proven to be an unworkable solution in nearly every country. Russia collapsed, as did East Germany."
"They get into power and they can do whatever they want," Hobbes answered. "Once a government is overthrown it's real easy to set up a puppet leader for a little while and when the people are really dissatisfied, up pops some charismatic leader who slides into a dictatorship without anybody noticin' until it's too late."
"Why would Mohammed Nazeem agree to letting Amahl see Sommatra if he doesn't really want the marriage to go ahead?" Farzimah asked.
"Because no matter what happens at the meeting, he'll disagree to it and cause a scandal," I shook my head at the hubris of the guy. "Then he'll go back to Kharistan with stories about how the future king spurned his sister, maybe embellishing it with a little rape…"
"I would never…" Amahl protested.
"You already said the country is in upheaval, that would really throw even your most ardent supporters into a tailspin," Hobbes nodded. "If you were killed on Friday…"
"No, better yet, both he and Sommatra killed on Friday," I finished. "Nazeem goes back to Kharistan with a revenge motive. None of your family would ever be accepted, and your progressive ideas would be tainted goods. Easy enough for the North Koreans to put somebody in and then start pumping up the oil until there isn't anything under the topsoil but ants."
"Bring me concrete proof," Amahl said in a dead voice.
"Here's everything we know so far and we're learning more every day," Hobbes handed over the report we'd prepared. Well, actually, Eberts had printed it up, collated it and put it into an attractive folder, but I watched.
"Now all we need is a link between all these separate factions," Hobbes mused. "We got Mike Kim and his brother with the KFF, but there's no proof yet that Tayeb could be connected in with them and now this Nazeem guy…"
"I'm scared," Farzimah said in a tight voice. "I don't want to have this stupid dinner anymore."
"We cannot cancel at this late date," Amahl spoke up, once again the future king. "There are dignitaries coming, heads of state--the media."
"Plus Sommatra," Farzimah snarked with a curl of her lip.
"When did you actually see her?" I asked, just for a little lighter subject matter.
"We're the same age, when I was sixteen and went back for the funeral. When I took those pictures you saw--so that would be in '93."
"You didn't show me any pictures of her," I pointed out.
"Not likely," Farzimah sneered.
"So maybe she's changed?" Amahl asked hopefully.
"Maybe so," Farzimah's expression softened, obviously understanding her brother's distress. She had chosen her own path and being the female in the family, she didn't have the expectations he had to face. Amahl was starting down a rough road and I didn't envy him one bit. "I just wish you'd told me about all of this before." Farzimah took her older brother's hand, giving it a little swing.
"A king keeps his own counsel, my sister," Amahl said formally. "What's the old expression? The buck stops here."
So, on Thursday, with one day to go before the big event, we knew who the players were but not how they fit onto the chess board, much less what they intended to do or how they would go about doing it. Sorta like playing that preschool game where you stick your hand into a box and feel around for something familiar. Feels like an assassination plot, sounds like one but what does it look like?
We had Agency personnel crawling all over the chosen banquet room at the hotel, bumping into secret service and Abdullah family retainers, as well as Kharistan militia and hotel security. There were some really big wigs invited to the family birthday and nobody wanted WWIII started just before the cake was cut. This place was going to be bottled up tighter'n Fort Knox by the time the first course was served Friday night. Hobbes and Eberts were tracking down every lead we had, renewed with fresh vigor now that we had Nazeem's name added to the list.
I was to stick close to Farzimah and Miles, which meant tagging along to endless meetings, another interview for The-Up-and-Coming-Pop-Sensation-of-the-New-Millennium, and picking up the centerpiece for the main table. Miles had a rehearsal in his own studio surrounded by his own band and a couple of Abdullah guards for good measure, so we figured he was safe enough to be left 'alone'.
"Our national symbol is the eagle, like the U.S.," Farzimah explained. "Except our bird is in flight." She led the way into a glassmaker's shop, pausing to admire several examples of the artist's work. There were intricately crafted animals of every sort, including frogs who seemed to be dancing like ballerinas, sea creatures caught in mid-motion as if they would swim off once you turned away and horses so alive their eyes flashed fire. I had to touch the curling mane of one bucking stallion to assure myself it was actually glass and not hair.
"Miss Abdullah!" The glassmaker was a tiny Asian woman with gnarled hands that seemed incapable of capturing such incredible beauty. "You have come for the eagle."
"Yes, Mrs. Lee," Farzimah grinned, totally excited. "Can I see it or have you packed it up already?"
"It is packed, yes," Mrs. Lee had the stilted accent of one born in another country, but her last name was so typically Asian I felt paranoid for suspecting her of Korean origins. "But I have a photo, see?"
She pushed a Polaroid across the counter. The sculpture was magnificent, a huge eagle with outspread wings, eyes boring downward as if scanning the ground below for prey.
"Wow, that thing looks real," I complimented.
"This eagle watches our people and keeps them safe. Amahl will be his human counterpart," Farzimah sighed, nodding her satisfaction to the little glassmaker. "Which is why all these machinations are so chilling. This should be such a happy time."
"You not like?" Mrs. Lee stared at the two of us.
"No, no, it's wonderful," Farzimah assured. "We just have a some difficulties with the banquet, nothing to do with your amazing work. Thank you so much."
"Luckily you have big strong man to help transport this. It very heavy," she beckoned me into the back of the shop, "I have dolly. C'mon, you bring it out for the Princess, eh?"
It was heavy and I spent the rest of the day playing pack mule. Carry this, Darien. Darien, you're tall, can you reach that? Hey, Darien, lend a hand, here will you?
So much for being a top government agent with a legitimate super power, all I needed was to be strong and tall. No thinking required.
I started wondering if Bobby, who was strong, but not very tall, was making any headway in the research department but it wasn't until I was taking a beer and KFC break late afternoon that my cell phone buzzed me in the leg.
"Fawkes, you would not believe what Eberts and I dug up," Hobbes said without preamble.
"Should I come down? Need me to stake out an address? Maybe confront some crazed gunman?"
"You're bored?" Bobby's phone voice was amused.
"I hang with these guys much longer and I'm in danger of permanently turning into a roadie. I'll have to let my hair grow long and stringy, wear a bandana over my forehead and old heavy metal band t-shirts and start smoking Turkish cigs, what'd you dig up?" I groused.
"Tayeb Parvin is a cousin to Mohammed Nazeem, Sommatra's brother," he announced smugly. "And Nazeem works in the foreign relations department of the Kharistan government. He's responsible for dealings with…"
"North Korea," I finished for him, feeling a tightness settle in my chest. This could be really bad and the black mood I'd been fighting descended like a smothering blanket. "Do they have contact with any of the KFF?"
"Nazeem can't have avoided working with Jin Park, the guy whose money backs the group and that links all the players together in one nice box."
"But, Hobbes, we still don't know what they plan to do!" I groused.
"Yeah," his explosive sigh sounded like a bomb blast over the phone. "What'd you do today?"
"Helped out. Played gofer, but man, the centerpiece for the main table is awesome. The eagle must have a wingspan of four feet. Weighed a friggin' ton, too."
"Listen, unless there's anything new, I'll meet you tomorrow at noon at the hotel. We're on duty until this whole circus ends and I'm not letting those freedom fighters ruin this for Amahl. He's decent people and deserves better."
I flipped my cell phone closed, pretending to be Jim Kirk on an uncharted planet having just conferred with 'Bones' about the exotic flora and fauna. Boy, what I wouldn't do to have a tricorder about now. Those doohickeys could figure out anything. Maybe Spock could untangle the plot of what we had to go up against but I'm not sure even his amazing brainpower could handle the staggering amount of characters in this action thriller.
Nazeem and Tayeb were related, huh? Mohammed Nazeem was using his sister to further a political plot like something out of Shakespeare. How long ago had this whole thing begun and who was the mastermind behind it? Who would ultimately be in power? There must be some schmuck just waiting in the wings for Amahl to take a nosedive into his hummus. It couldn't possibly be sweet Amin, and I doubted it was Tayeb or any of the college geeks from the KFF, so there were players we hadn't encountered yet. Like an iceberg, more was hidden than what we could see.
I stayed the night again at Miles' place, but sleep was elusive and I finally got up to find some leftovers and a TV. Nothing better than some infomercial about hair products at two a.m. to relax a guy enough to sleep. It wasn't even Soledad reruns disturbing my slumber. Instead, I had a repeat of the one where Miles and Farzimah were being terrorized only this time they got killed in several gruesome ways while I watched. Just peachy.
After rooting some chocolate cake out of the fridge I started to go back upstairs to curl up on one of the leather sofas and watch the boob tube, but something compelled me to poke my head into Miles' private recording studio. He was there, strumming quietly on an old battered guitar. I stood watching, and listening, for a long time before he noticed me. Smiling, Miles beckoned me in before scribbling something on a sheet of music paper.
"You can't sleep either?" I asked by way of greeting. I held out some of the cake, but he pointed to an empty plate that still held chocolatey crumbs and shook his head, still writing. "I don't wanna disturb you if you're in the zone."
"It's just about done, just noodling with the bridge," Miles shook his head, humming a snatch of tune. He played the same notes on the guitar and quickly erased what he'd just written, changing around some of the notations. "In fact, I think it's done."
"Good, cause we both should probably get some shut eye, gonna be a wild day tomorrow."
"Once this is all over, Farzimah and me are going to the islands and I can't wait."
"Yeah, I remember you mentioning that," I finished the cake, licking icing off the fork. "D'you really know Jimmy Buffet?"
"We're spending a weekend at his house," Miles blushed to the roots of his blond, just shorn locks. "I met him a couple of months ago." The corners of his mouth turned up in a goofy, star struck smile.
"You tell him about the robbery?" I couldn't help laughing at his embarrassment.
"I sent that guitar back to the Hard Rock Café anonymously." Miles scrubbed at his tired eyes. "But maybe I'll fess up over a couple of beers, who knows? You want to be the first to hear the new song? You were sort of half of what inspired me."
"I did?" I asked mystified. "Yeah, I'd love to hear it."
Fitting his fingers over the strings for the first chords, Miles played a mournful, but almost angry melody that spiraled around the lyrics, "I can't see you even when the sun is bright, it isn't darkness that hides you…." He frowned, changing a note before singing that line again and continuing with the melancholy song. Just after the now familiar bridge came the words that really got me; "I look right through you but all I see is me."
"Music--makes us invisible, it sets us apart, it lets us escape, but from the visible there is no escape. Hilda Dolittle," I quoted, my heart thumping wildly. The song was about invisibility but it wasn't about me.
"That's perfect!" Miles smacked the music stand, sending papers fluttering to the ground. "Who's Hilda Dolittle?"
"Damned if I know. What's the name of that song?"
"Invisible," he grinned slyly. "What else?"
"Who else inspired that song? A woman?"
Bending over to pick up the scattered sheets, Miles' face was hidden from me. "I was engaged before I was arrested. Y'know I was sent up for armed robbery. I had the gun but the other guy had the rage. He beat the store owner almost to death." He tamped the papers into some semblance of order, placing them more carefully on the music stand. "Elizabeth said she'd wait for me. She'd been my high school sweetheart, all blond curls and lofty ambitions. I shoulda known she wouldn't carry a torch for somebody who'd been in prison, but I believed it, y'know? I wanted her to be there when I walked out, all loving and pretty."
God, did I know. I'd longed for something like that too, but never even came close. Only people who'd wanted me around were the guys who slunk around in the evenings at shower time looking for a little action. I'd finally learned to accommodate their desires, but no one asked about mine.
"She came to a few conjugal visits, making me think I had a chance but she was justshining me on. After I got out she was already living with somebody else, but the worst of it was I found out she'd been pregnant but gotten rid of it."
"Aw, crap," I whispered. So I had been right, there was a woman before Farzimah, but she hadn't held a candle to the princess. "Man, I'm sorry."
"I had other friends, family, for support but songwriting was what really got me through it and it was probably for the best, huh?" Miles blinked away what looked suspiciously like tears. "I'd never have met Far if I'd gotten married back then…Farzimah turned my whole life around."
"I get the feeling you did that all on your own, but she's one in a million, Miles. Cherish her."
"I do."
"You gonna sing 'Invisible' at the banquet?"
"I haven't quite decided, I'm not sure it's ready for public scrutiny." He doodled little circles and triangles in the corner of the paper. "I'm really dreading this all tomorrow. It started out as something I could give to Amahl--a send off, sort of, but it's turned all rotten inside."
"From what we're uncovering, it's more like Mike Kim and others used you to get close to Amahl and topple things from the inside, but it didn't work as planned."
"Do you have a clue about what's goin' down, Darien?" Miles shaded in one of the triangles with the edge of his pencil without looking at me, but I'd noticed he often asked the uncomfortable questions with a pretense of casual interest.
"You'll be the first to know, bro, believe me," I promised.
"The most important thing is keeping Farzimah and her family safe," Miles vowed. "Whatever happens, like on the Titanic…"
"Women and children first?" I made a face, "Okay, that's one image I wish you hadn't put in my head. Now all I see is the whole hotel sinking into the Pacific with ice bergs all around."
"When this is over, I'm gonna ask her to marry me," Miles looked haunted by all the memories he recreated in his songs. "This time I found happiness."
"I'll bet you a c-note she says yes."
"You're on."
"That guitar looks like it's been dragged through the mud and used as a pillow. You have that thing back in the joint?"
"It's my first and my favorite." He patted the scarred wooden instrument. "Everything sounds sweeter when she sings for me." He broke into the Beatles' song 'In my life' and the delicate bridge, once played by the Beatles on a harpsichord, was the sound of fairies and sprites dancing in enchanted forests. It was impossible that such an ugly old guitar could create such heavenly music and for a minute or two I was ready to believe there really was magic and miracles in the world.
"In my life I've loved them all," Miles sang and we both sat in the silence waiting for the spell to break before we went back to our normal life.
"You see her?" I asked, scanning the hordes of passengers streaming through the airport terminal. In a goodwill effort, Farzimah and I had been drafted into meeting Sommatra and Mohammed Nazeem at the airport and escorting them to the hotel. I'd never really gotten to sleep since the late night jam session with Miles, and I was wasted. Miles had assured me he'd actually gotten forty winks before getting up to bedlam, but now it was mid afternoon and there was only a few hours left before D-day.
"She's hard to miss, Darien, big as an elephant in a chador," Farzimah grumped. She'd wanted to spend the day with Miles, but that hadn't been remotely possible so she was stuck with me. Or I was stuck with her, since for the first time ever, she wasn't very good company.
"Well, I see a guy who looks a little like Tayeb and a tall, slender girl dressed in your native costume," I could see over the heads of the crowd more easily that Farzimah could. "So put on your welcome face."
"That can't be her!" Farzimah exclaimed.
It was. What little I could really see of Sommatra was quite a bit smaller than a pachyderm, and tall enough to play woman's basketball. She even topped her brother by about half an inch, which probably didn't sit well with him. Sommatra must have been wearing contacts, unless Farzimah had been exaggerating about her eyesight, because she didn't bump into any obstacles, and looked me square in the eye when we shook hands.
Nazeem looked murderous, but Sommatra was obviously used to ignoring him and started in chatting with Farzimah the minute she had a chance. Farzimah played it cool for a few minutes but seemed to warm quickly to the other woman's enthusiasm, leaving me with the sulking older brother.
"You travel a lot for your work?" I asked politely, ushering them over to where Abdullah family guards were already collecting an impressive amount of baggage.
"What do you know about it?" he sneered.
"Amahl--uh--his Royal Highness told me you worked in the government. Foreign affairs, I think he said."
"I have dealings with many other countries. It's necessary to for the economy of my country since we export oil, but I don't have to like it," Mohammed Nazeem answered curtly, walking quickly to catch up to the others.
"I'm so excited to be here!" Sommatra gushed, peering around quickly before Mohammed practically shoved her into the limo.
"We won't be here long, I already told you," he said coldly. "We will go straight to our suite in the hotel so that my sister will have as little exposure as possible to infidels and sinful pursuits."
"I want to see Hollywood and Beverly Hills 90210," Sommatra ignored her brother's glower, claiming a window seat so she could see out as we drove away.
"I'm sure that could be arranged but that's over an hour away, up north," Farzimah sounded much happier than earlier. "San Diego is famous for the zoo and…"
"'Simon and Simon'!" Sommatra exclaimed, obviously a fan of one of the most famous TV series filmed in the city.
"Maybe we could have lunch tomorrow at the Hard Rock Café?"
"Oh, yes!" Sommatra cried.
"No," Nazeem proclaimed. "We are on a mission. If the crown prince--" he said the words with barely contained contempt, "upholds his end of the contract and you are found agreeable in his eyes, you will be the future queen of Kharistan. Queens don't tour malls and rock and roll establishments."
"You're wrong there, pal," I joked, thinking of the word queen in a whole different connotation.
"I would prefer if your bodyguard would refrain from speaking to me," Nazeem spat, addressing Farzimah, probably because there weren't any other men of his station in the car. "His scent is stinking up the car."
"Listen…" I started, a flash of anger blazing through me. Who did this SOB think he was anyway? Farzimah laid a small hand on my arm, stopping any further breach of protocol. Wouldn't that be a kicker if I fucked up the whole marriage contract and maybe the assassination attempt before we even got to the hotel?
"First off, Darien is a family friend, not my bodyguard," Farzimah's voice was pure ice next to Nazeem's. "And I would ask you to keep a civil tongue in your mouth when speaking to me."
Farzimah might outrank him, royally at least, but she clearly didn't faze Nazeem. "I only speak to you, Princess, because I am compelled to since we share the same vehicle. Obviously you don't respect your superiors or the old, traditional ways, judging from your attire. I would prefer to speak only to your brother, instead he sends me foreigners and women to greet me. This just shows me what regard he holds me in and I can only respond in kind."
"Ah, but sir, it is you who are the foreigner here," Farzimah said with a razor sharp edge. I don't know why I ever thought she was shy and retiring.
Sommatra's coal black eyes watched the argument from behind her covering veil, but I could see she wasn't siding with her brother. Maybe we had an ally in a most unlikely person.
Security was so tight at the hotel it took us half an hour to wade through the lobby, get the Nazeems their suite and ferry them upstairs in the designated elevator. Although, admittedly, some of that delay had to do with the semi-automatics Nazeem's bodyguards were packing. I saw Hobbes looking a bit envious when he spied the weapons. They finally made some agreement with the hotel management that the two guards could keep their smaller weapons if they put the Russian made rifles in the hotel safe. I know I felt safer with the big guns locked up. I couldn't tell whether Mohammed Nazeem was impressed with the thoroughness of our security or angry at being detained and briefly searched. He just looked pissed off no matter what anybody did.
Leaving Farzimah in her own lavish suite adjacent to Miles', I headed back to the lobby hoping to find some food to fortify myself for the ordeal ahead. I really hate wearing a tux and just thinking about all the studs and starched collars was already making me sweat. Not to mention that we still knew diddly squat about how the danger would manifest itself.
"Nazeem's a real prize, ain't he?" Hobbes remarked, leaning against the ornate carved grand staircase that led up to the second floor.
"He took exception to me even bein' in the car with him," I grumbled. "Anywhere to get food around here?"
"Fawkes, the hotel has four separate restaurants and a bar, take your pick."
"I mean real food--simple, like nachos or a burger that doesn't cost nine bucks."
"Ah, then allow me." Hobbes led the way out back where the delivery trucks were parked. The hotel's service staff was clustered around a silver sided 'roach coach' munching on sandwiches and steaming bowls of soup. Only five bucks later I had a big bowl of chili and a cardboard container of crispy chips smothered in spicy cheese sauce. An icy red can of Coca-Cola was the perfect accompaniment to such a meal.
Bobby and I settled on the loading dock with our lunch around us, both filling our bellies before either of us spoke. It was a gorgeous day, the wind off the ocean was sweet and salty, and it was all I could do not to chuck the whole problem into Hobbes' lap and go lie in the sun. Even from this less than desirable side of the hotel the view of the ocean was incredible, and the Del Coronado hotel gleamed like a jewel out on the island just across the water.
"Any updates on the 'situation'?" I wiped my fingers on about half a dozen napkins to clean up the tomato and cheese. "And whatever happened about Tayeb's fireworks? Y'know that kid is an electrical engineer. How hard would it be for him to rig a bomb?"
"Fawkes," Hobbes warned, jerking his head in the direction of the small group of people still finishing their lunches. "Tayeb's been under surveillance since the first day we met him at the mall. We always suspected he had ties higher up and man, first impressions pay off, huh? Cousin to the minister of Foreign Affairs…"
"So is there enough to implicate…?"
"Not a drop. He and Amin did exactly what they said they were going to do on Wednesday. My guys said they bought the supplies to make fireworks and did. Since it was easy enough to dissuade him from the whole pyrotechnics idea, especially in lieu of the fact that he really would have needed a city permit, obviously that wasn't an important part of the overall plan."
"Maybe it was meant as a distraction?"
"I don't think so. I'm still bettin' that the real action happens during the meal--when the KFF can completely discredit the royal family and maybe get as many of their supporters as possible killed at the same time. Your idea of malicious rumors about Amahl was dead on. CIA reports there are already posters all over the capital city Qwill'ran calling Amahl anti-Kharistani and implying he's sidin' with Bush on all that mess with bin Laden."
"You're tradin' secrets with the CIA?" I asked, impressed.
"Still know a couple of spooks on the inside." He shrugged semi-modestly. "Well, back to friskin' down the upper crust of San Diego society. Y'know we already found one well-heeled dame packing a semi-automatic in her handbag? Smallest one I've ever seen. We arrested one guy who runs a computer company because he was carrying six concealed weapons. Six!" Bobby's boasting kind of depressed me. What's the world coming too when average citizens deck themselves out like guerilla militia out on a commando run?
