Music hath Charms
By
Dawnwind
Chapter 9
As much as I would have liked to be the fly on the wall during the contract negotiations between Nazeem and Amahl there are certain delicate meetings even the Invisible Man doesn't eavesdrop on. Whatever occurred, in the end, Nazeem exited with a scowl and abrupt words to his guards standing outside the door.
Sommatra and Farzimah spent the time getting chummy, and I didn't listen in there either, mostly because, as much as I like a good discussion over the relative merits of hair gel over mousse, chats about birth control and who was hotter--Ewan MacGregor or Ben Affleck, left me cold. Okay, so I played invisible wallflower for a little while before I left. Sommatra may have been confined to what amounted to a harem most of her life but she'd used the time to bone up on everything American, much to her brother's disgust, no doubt. She knew more about US TV than I did, and had a DVD, a satellite dish on her television, and Internet connection on her computer. She was a walking, talking Kharistani version of a valley girl. She also admitted to having slimmed down in her late teens after growing four inches in a single year, and bought clothes from the Gap and Victoria's Secret on-line. There are no international borders any more.
By seven p.m. Hobbes was as tense as I've even seen him and I wasn't far behind in that regard. We had no real concrete evidence in the conspiracy beyond the connections we'd uncovered in our major players. Despite bomb sniffing dogs and security even the national airport couldn't muster we hadn't discovered any weapons of mass destruction. The only weird development of the whole day was a macabre delivery containing two coffins marked with Miles and Farzimah's names. San Diego police and every other law enforcement agency in the area swarmed all over the long narrow boxes, ripping out the satin linings and dismantling the coffins to ferret out any danger. There wasn't anything. It was so damned frustrating.
There was nothing else to do but go forward. Maybe we'd all made a colossal mistake--the black roses and coffins were somebody's idea of a particularly bad joke and Melissa Beatten's death was just a sorry footnote in Miles Verbage's future biography. I actually sort of wanted to believe that. It would've made life so much simpler.
The banquet room had been festooned with flowers of every sort, except black roses, and when I walked into the room I was almost knocked out by the heady floral perfume. Lilies, jonquils, tulips, bird of paradise and every sort of orchid you could imagine were splayed out in huge bouquets. It was like standing in the back of a florist's shop and the cynic in me wondered if that could throw off the scent for a drug or bomb-sniffing dog? I had no answer to that one, just a random thought bouncing through my skull.
Three walls of the room were decorated with huge photos of Kharistan and its people. One picture showed the former king, Amahl the first, surrounded by his wife, dressed in a chador, and the four children. Somber Amahl, who had to be less than eight, since that was when his father was killed, Addis, the brother who had died perhaps mysteriously, pretty little Farzimah wearing a cute pink dress and black patent leather shoes since she was too young to be hidden away from male eyes, and toddler Amin. I was afraid the whole family could be wiped out by the end of the night and even though I'd done my level best to make this evening a success, I already felt a failure. We hadn't uncovered the sinister plot and brought Snidley Whiplash to justice before the last reel, like Dudley Do-right always did. Miles had trusted me and I felt like I'd let him down, even though nothing had happened yet.
Two flags were mounted behind the main table, the Stars and Stripes and a deep blue banner with a flying eagle. The eagle had a wingspan that encompassed the entire width of the flag and was replicated exactly in the beautiful centerpiece Mrs. Lee had crafted. It was the first time I'd seen the statue since it was uncrated and placed on display, and I walked carefully around it, admiring the artist's work. The eyes had an almost lifelike quality, and peered intently downward as if searching the countryside for threat.
In the center of the room was a tiny stage where Miles would be performing, with the diners ringed all around him. Everything looked perfect and nothing had been left to chance, but I was scared down deep and the dread wouldn't leave.
The only way to fight that kind of pervasive depression is to find someone upbeat and try to soak up their optimism. I rode the elevator to the private, guarded floor where all the major participants in tonight's little passion play were housed and knocked on room number 759.
"Who is it?" a giggly voice asked.
"Darien Fawkes," I identified myself and when Sommatra peered through the door at me I grumbled, "Who's supposed to be guarding this door?"
"You?" Sommatra cocked her head, opening the door wider so I could come in. She was dressed in a chador, but as Farzimah had told me was the current custom, had it open down the front, and without the veil on she appeared to be wearing a long coat like an old gunslinger. Underneath she had on a canary yellow lace dress over a paler yellow satin gown. The color suited her burnished brown skin tone, giving her a glow. She wasn't as pretty as Farzimah by half, but if Amahl had decided to make her his bride, she'd proven to be a sweet, funny girl with a broad, affable face and lively dark eyes.
"I thought Mountain Man--uh--Avraham was supposed to be here."
"He went down the hall for some sodas," Sommatra answered in her oddly inflected English. She'd focused her study of the language on the version spoken by the 'Brady Bunch' and the 'Partridge Family'. "The place is crawling with guards, don't get your knickers in a twist."
Okay, she obviously divided her time between American and British TV. The only other person I'd ever heard use that particular expression was Claire.
"You ladies about ready? Cause we're supposed to make an appearance on the main floor in half an hour," I informed her.
Avraham came back in just then, handing out cold cans of root bear and Seven-up and I appropriated one. He'd also found the day's issue of Variety magazine for Farzimah, who bustled out in chador-over-ball gown to grab it up.
"I want to check the charts, sales for 'Sandstorm' and 'Empty Rooms' have been phenomenal since Miles' publicity blast," she said flipping through the pages, "Hi, Darien, you look great in a tux."
"Thanks, I feel like a penguin," I groused sipping soda. Just swallowing was more difficult with the constricting starched collar and jaunty black bow tie.
"Miles!" Farzimah called and the Mighty One himself came through the connecting door from his suite, still fumbling with his formal wear. "'Sandstorm' is still at number one and 'Empty Rooms' went to the top twenty in less than a week," Farzimah said, folding back the correct page so he could see the list.
"We're riding high, baby," he kissed her on the mouth in front of a swooning Sommatra.
"Miles!" Farzimah admonished with a giggle, dropping the paper. "I have to suit up, become the princess. My mother expects it. None of that for the rest of the night."
"I feel like I'm back home," Sommatra grumbled, watching her friend adjust the heavy gold mesh veil over her black hair and hook the attached veil into place. Sommatra's chador was a more conventional fabric one, but it was still quite elegant, adorned with tiny mirrors embroidered all around the hem and on the stitching around the eyeholes.
Sherida took a round of photographs to commemorate the start of the evening and very soon we were at the point of no return. Flanked by enough guards to keep the Hope Diamond safe, we sallied forth. Mrs. Abdullah came along on the future king's arm. She was swathed in a concealing chador that had yards more fabric than either of the younger girls' and it was jet black, decorated with tiny black beads around the sleeves but I could see her lively eyes watching everything with an excited air. She wore as many rings on her fingers as her future son in law, who greeted her with a courtly little bow. No wonder he had managed the impossible, wresting Farzimah away from the family bosom. He knew when to kowtow to the queen.
Quite a crowd had already gathered in the banquet room by the time the royal party had assembled and made their grand entrance, so we were met with a warm round of applause. I felt like a fraud, acting like some James Bond wanna-be guarding the beautiful princess and her consort when all the while I was sure that the maniacal bad guy with the weapon that would enable him to take over the world was just behind the screen waiting for me to slip up.
Hobbes, on the other hand, seemed to have hit his stride and looked calm and in control. Or maybe he just faked it better than I did.
Because Kharistan is a Muslim country, no alcohol was served at the bar, but the fruit punch and soft drinks were flowing like water and the festive crowd was looking forward to hearing Miles sing. I hovered just outside the group around Farzimah at all times, bisecting with Bobby's orbit around Mighty Mouse. Apparently older woman like blond haired rock stars, evidenced by the well-heeled fans he'd attracted. I even recognized a short dark haired Attorney General of the United States.
The party really had drawn an impressive guest list from all walks of life. There were government and royal visitors from other countries, wealthy patrons of the arts and quite a number of well-known movie, TV and singing stars. Sommatra was walking around in a daze, trailed by her lurking bodyguard. He was unable to stop her from getting Gwenneth Paltrow and Arnold Swartzenagger's autographs, but did manage to frighten off some fat little potentate from one of Kharistan's neighboring countries with a snarling growl.
I was kind of hoping maybe Mira Sorvino showed up, but apparently she must have been busy filming some new movie. I did see her dad, though.
"Darien!" Claire bustled up to me, and I do mean bustled. She had on a pink satin dress with the skirt bundled up in the back into one of the strange old-fashioned styles called a bustle. I'm not sure how she could sit down comfortably in it, but the front of the skirt hugged tightly over her waist and hips giving her a knock out figure. The top of the dress was cut in a heart shape that curved over her breasts without any visible means of support. Since I was so tall, I suddenly found myself staring straight down into her cleavage with a very dry throat.
She's Hobbes' girl, she's Hobbes' girl.
"Darien!" Claire enunciated louder over the din of the crowd.
I grabbed a cup of punch from a circulating waiter and downed the entire contents. It was a little too sticky sweet for my taste, but at least I had moisture back in my mouth again. "Claire?" I said to prove I'd heard her.
"Look over there!" she nudged me with her arm. Across the room was Paul McCartney, talking to my former prison mate. "It's Paul!"
"Now I'm impressed," I admitted. Not often you get to sit down to dinner with a Beatle, especially since there are so few of them left.
"I think I'm having heart palpitations," Claire said faintly, fanning herself.
"Don't let Hobbes hear you say that, he may get jealous," I teased because I knew it was expected of me but my heart wasn't in it. What if the assassins did their worst? A bomb? Food poisoning? What had we overlooked in our zeal to uncover the plot? There had to be something we'd missed.
"Let's walk over there, maybe I could shake his hand," Claire urged.
I glanced over at Farzimah, who was standing in a group of veiled countrywomen, looking, on the whole, bored. After all, I wasn't supposed to stray far from her. "Go on over, Hobbes probably already got Paul into a conversation over who's better--Elvis or John Lennon." I told Claire, noticing that Mrs. Abdullah was whispering into her daughter's ear. Maybe things were about to get started.
I was right because only a minute or so later a voice boomed from the hidden sound system. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Crown Prince of Kharistan, Amahl Abdullah,"
"Thank you so much for coming tonight." Amahl, dressed in flowing white robes decorated in gold trim, held up his hands in welcome as he stood next to the great eagle statue. Two figureheads of the country, together in one frame of a picture. Several camera flashes went off at once capturing this historic event for posterity. "I told my mother I wanted a small birthday party, but she insisted on inviting one hundred or so of my closest friends."
Hearty laughter greeted this comment as the assemblage settled into their seats. I found myself at the far end of the royal table, standing practically out of sight behind the drape of a curtain that hid the entrance to the kitchen. Waiters were already bringing out salads and water glasses, pushing past me with their huge trays and I had a momentary flashback to the night of the shooting. This time we'd specifically banned guns in the room on everyone, including bodyguards. Only those stationed outside the now closed doors were armed. Even Hobbes had agreed that was the safest way.
"May I introduce my mother, the Queen of Kharistan in exile, Challoor, and my brother Prince Amin." Amahl pointed to each family member, "Next my sister, Princess Farzimah, and last, but certainly not least in my favor, my bride-to-be…"
A gasp came up from the crowd as Sommatra stood with her head slightly downcast in difference to her future husband and king. "Her brother and I spoke earlier this afternoon and the union which was proposed by our fathers at Sommatra's birth has been solidified. When I fly back to Kharistan tomorrow, Sommatra will accompany me and we will be wed in Qwill'ran."
This was obviously joyful news to some of the Kharistani present, who clapped and banged on the table in celebration.
Miles was sitting at a table just opposite the royal table so that he and Farzimah were almost facing each other. He smiled happily at her, no doubt thinking that with big brother's matrimony a done deal, it wouldn't be hard to slip another wedding in behind with less fanfare. However, Mike Kim, sitting to his left, looked downright dour. Not too far away, at the next table, Mohammed Nazeem sneered then glanced over at Miles' business manager. The exchanged glances were too fraught with meaning to be just accidental, and I knew immediately they were acquainted. Bingo, another link in the chain. If only we knew what the chain was attached to.
As the meal progressed, different people got up to express birthday wishes to the Crown Prince. American support for Kharistan was pledged, one A-list director promised that his next movie would be made there, and Miles gave Amahl one of those giant checks just perfect for a photo op made out in the amount of $100,000 for illiterate Kharistani girls. Last to speak was Farzimah who followed up the pledge for education with a vow to bring the women of her country in line with the 21st century and to completely do away with concealing garb all together. So saying, she put her hand to her face veil, glancing over at Sommatra at the same time.
So that was what they were discussing all afternoon between girl talk.
At exactly the same time, each lady unhooked the cover over her nose and mouth, pushed back the head shawl and slipped the chadors off their shoulders. Miles' band, stuck back into a corner behind some potted palms, struck up a rock and roll beat as the lead bass player began to sing, "I wish they all could be Kharistani girls…."
Although a few of the older male Kharistanis, including Nazeem, looked shocked and even angry, most of the women seemed to accept this new liberal stance and many at least took off their face veils but left their heads covered. One girl, who barely looked old enough to qualify as marriageable age, an Abdullah cousin, I think, did remove her cover gown, too.
Amahl smiled broadly at his sister's panache and held out his hand to lead her to the dance floor for a first dance--a waltz, showing just how liberal they really were. Probably back home guys danced with guys and the women ate in a different room.
The true reason Farzimah had gotten her henna design all the way down in the small of her back was finally revealed. Her dress, while tame, I'm sure by Hollywood standards, plunged down nearly to her waist, letting the delicate tracings of flowers and vines peek out for all to see. The gown, made of violet chiffon embroidered with the same Kharistani style stitching featured on most chadors, had long sleeves and from the front a sedate neckline, was a big hit and all the other women looked positively jealous.
Pretty soon only a fraction of the guests were still seated since most had joined the royal family on the dance floor. Miles cut in to make time with his girl, so Amahl danced with his future wife. Sommatra looked like she was in heaven. Her brother did not.
The music changed to a faster song as Miles led Farzimah off the floor towards me. "Darien, could you take my chador up to the room and lock it into the trunk?" Farzimah asked. "The thing is way too valuable to leave lying about and I'm not wearing it a second longer tonight."
"You've got a lot of moxie to do that in front of all those people, Farzimah," I said with admiration.
"My belly was churning, but I feel very strongly that to make our way in the world, women must be unfettered. It doesn't make me less religious or…"
"Far, I think he heard your speech already." Miles winked.
"I've got to tell Hobbes I'm leaving," I started, but the man was suddenly right beside me.
"I heard you, and I've got my cell phone on vibrator in case you need to get in touch," Hobbes patted his hip. "How much time before you sing, Verbage?"
"Pretty soon, just let everybody have some fun on the dance floor and I'll sing when the birthday cake comes out," Miles answered. "This night is going fantastic, I can't believe our luck. Man, I knew hiring you two was the best idea I ever had."
"Even those Freedom Fighters barely showed themselves," Farzimah agreed.
"Oh, they're out there," Hobbes said. "We just made sure they had to stay off hotel property, which forced them across the street and out of the way of the limos comin' in. But the news vans got lots of protest footage."
"Well, anyway, everything's rad. I couldn't have dreamed up a better party." Miles pushed back a hank of blond hair that kept falling over his forehead. I suspected that his hair stylist had intentionally cut it that way.
"Don't close the barn door before the cows come in," Hobbes said cryptically. He scooped up Farzimah's chador, his eyes widening when the weight of the thing registered and dumped it into my arms. "Get back here as quick as you can, Fawkes, I gotta feeling things are gonna go sour real soon."
"Your spider sense tingling?" I shifted the gown over my shoulder, draping the chain mail helmet over one arm.
"Yeah, and Commissioner Gordon is flashing the bat signal in the sky as we speak," Hobbes shuddered, glancing over to where Claire was dancing with Paul McCartney. "Something smells hinky."
"Holy oleo Batman, is that your professional opinion?" I quipped, but I felt it, too. Everything had gone too smoothly, it was like the quiet before a storm. Hobbes made a face at me but his eyes were back to tracking the princess and her rock star.
Going out the main double doors I passed several people exiting for a smoke break, including Nazeem. He looked downright surly when one of the guards pointed out that there was no smoking inside the building and he'd have to join the rest of the cancer stick society out on the crowded patio.
I had no problem tucking the chador away in its specially made trunk and was just about to leave the luxury suite when the Variety Farzimah had dropped earlier caught my eye. The paper had fallen open on the coffee table with the headline 'Smashing CDs Abound' face upwards. At first I assumed the article was about the group Smashmouth who'd done a cover of the Monkee's old hit for 'Shrek' but on closer inspection I saw Miles' name in the first paragraph. Smashing CDs?
Snatching the paper up, I scanned the text shaking my head in astonishment. Girls in New York who'd been in Rosie O'Donnell's audience were reporting that whenever they played the advance copies of 'Sandstorm special edition' their small glass knick-knacks spontaneously shattered.
My breath caught in my throat. It was just like that little perfume bottle Sherida had shown me the day Miles recorded the alternate ending to the song.
Crap.
Mike Kim had suggested that Miles include the new chords specifically for Amahl's birthday and sing the amended version of the song at the banquet. And some strange combination of tones caused glass to break. Not window glass--because that had remained intact in the recording studio, and the Variety article didn't mention anything of the sort. But the chords seemed to break the pretty little things girls collect; small hand blown horses, perfume bottles, art glass. Just like the Kharistan eagle gracing the royal table downstairs.
A bomb. Somehow a bomb had been imbedded into the statue. Once Miles began to sing there was barely three minutes before the eerie chords. Then the eagle would explode sending lethal glass shards in every direction like shrapnel from a landmine. It would kill every person in close proximity.
My heart pounding like a jackhammer I raced down the hall, smacking the elevator button with impatience. As I slipped between the barely open doors I dialed my cell phone one handed and hit the lobby button at the same time. 'C'mon, c'mon, Hobbes, pick up," I chanted, barely able to keep my visible form with so many distractions spiraling up my adrenaline.
"Fawkes?" Hobbes answered, instantly on the alert.
"Hobbes!" I yelled into the tiny receiver, "Don't let Miles start singing. There's a bomb in the eagle centerpiece!"
"What?"
"The chords at the end of the song will activate the eagle to explode," I explained, not going into the specifics. "Just don't let him sing."
"The band already started to play," Hobbes groaned.
I could hear the tinny notes over my cell as the elevator doors opened wide. A bellhop with one of those huge carts full of luggage blocked my way and I had to shove him aside to race across the lobby. He yelled curses after me as I sprinted down the main hallway.
The banquet hall was in an uproar, people surging for the doors as I ran up. Feeling akin to a salmon swimming upstream, I muscled my way through the throng, trying to center myself on Hobbes. The band had obviously stopped playing, since they'd abandoned their instruments in favor of crowding around Miles and Amahl. Everybody was shouting at once with lots of gesturing going on.
"Darien, what's going on?" Miles asked, his voice remarkably steady for somebody who looked halfway to panicville.
"Hobbes said there's a bomb? This is incredible!" Amahl cried.
"I can't explain completely, but we're not in immediate danger as long as you don't sing 'Sandstorm'," I said to Miles, spotting Hobbes examining the eagle. "Those weird chords Mike Kim had you add at the end are some kind of trigger. Amahl, I'd get your family out of the hotel just as quickly as possible, just in case."
As I spoke, music started playing over the sound system, a song so familiar all of us blanched.
"That's the CD, who…?" Miles started.
"Grab Farzimah, Sommatra, your mother and get out of here!" I insisted. Amahl wasn't a king in training for nothing, he knew when to listen to advisors. Grabbing the women he started hustling them to the door, Mountain Man and Amin directly behind them.
"Fawkes, I don't see any wires or a way of disarming this thing!" Hobbes exclaimed. Claire stood resolutely next to him, ready for anything, bless her heart. I wasn't about to let either one of them get hurt, if I had a say in the matter. I was the one with my own private time bomb ticking away in the back of my head, and by my way of thinking, that made me expendable.
"The bomb musta been sealed inside, there's probably no way to switch it off. We got a little over two minutes by my reckoning before this thing blows." I didn't waste any time. Lunging across the table I picked up the eagle, surprised to find it wasn't as heavy as I'd remembered it to be. Mrs. Lee must have weighted the box to make us think it was made of thick, tempered glass when in fact it was light enough for me to run with and I did. "Hobbes, find Kim and Nazeem!" I yelled back, cloaking myself in Quicksilver. "And turn off the music!"
The question was, where to go? Already the song was flowing into the second refrain, the guitar sobbing with passion as it swelled before the next chorus. I had to move, and now. At least if I made it outside the building the music, and especially the fatal chords, wouldn't be audible and I could dispose of the eagle safely. Maybe into the ocean?
Running in the direction the waiters had come when serving the meal, I found myself in a long, gleaming kitchen. There must be a back door, a garbage deposit somewhere? The music continued to play, eerie and surreal, even though I'd left the banquet hall behind. The bastard had hooked into the main speakers for the whole hotel and there was little likelihood I'd escape being blown to smithereens when the song ended.
In a contrary sort of way, I kind of liked the idea of going out with a bang. It was a fitting end to a wild ride of a life. I'd had plenty of downs and this would be one hell of an up note to end on, pun intended. Claire had said the gland would probably kill me, but this way, I'd die before than ignominious end. Instead, I'd be a national hero, the savior of an entire royal family. Darien Fawkes, ex-thief, and martyr to the cause of democracy. It had a nice ring to it.
My lungs were killing me, oxygen stores depleting as I ran faster than I'd ever run in my life. I knew 'Sandstorm' too well, I'd heard it endlessly for the last two weeks. Now every quarter note, every hemi-demi-semi-quaver sounded my death knoll, but I kept running. The passage to the garbage area was open, and I burst out into the open, near the loading dock where Hobbes and I had eaten lunch.
Remarkably, I could still hear the damned music, the last few lyrics strung out on a long note before the coda. With a mighty heave I tossed the eagle into a dumpster, pushing it down the macadam that sloped into the bay. Strange alien chords filled the air at the same moment. They were the last thing I heard.
The explosion slammed me backwards with the force of a hurricane. I landed sprawled against the loading dock but didn't stay conscious long enough to see the remarkable ocean waves caused by the blast which was caught on camera by an amateur videographer trying to get footage of the Del Coronado lights from his hotel window.
"Darien? Can you hear me?"
Claire's face appeared in front of me, all misty and indistinct, but I recognized her blond hair, now straggling out of the sweet little French Twist she'd worn for the party, and her pink gown was streaked with something red. I closed my eyes before trying to figure out what that might be. "Darien?" she repeated louder.
That time I heard it more clearly, but like an instant replay of two weeks ago, my hearing was dampened so much I wondered who'd given me earplugs.
"Ever'body okay?" I slurred, except I could barely hear my own voice and my neck didn't want to support my head when I tried to sit up.
"Stay down, partner," Hobbes smiled at me. I watched his lips, fascinated that I'd known what he was saying even though I couldn't make out the sound.
So, once again I managed to get a head injury while the rest of the group remained undamaged. And this time nobody died, for which I was supremely grateful. Someday I was going to go up to San Francisco to put flowers on Melissa Beatten's grave. And maybe my signed 'Sandstorm' t-shirt. She'd probably like that.
Turns out Nazeem and Kim tried to get away, but when one of the terrified banquet patrons called '911' on his cell, that deployed emergency teams straight to the hotel. And any hotel immediately gets enough fire trucks to deal with a three-alarm fire. What with all the news vans already there, the limos, and then ten zillion hook and ladder trucks and paramedic vans, there was no outlet for Kim's BMW. Poor guy just couldn't flee the scene of the crime.
When he realized we were on to the bomb, he'd used his knowledge of sound systems to put the special edition CD on a continuous loop so that it wouldn't stop playing until one of the hotel staff had to shut down the entire mechanism. Luckily I'd known the length of the song so intimately or I probably would have ended up sliced, diced and pureed.
Nazeem immediately denied culpability and claimed diplomatic immunity, but that doesn't really hold up in any court when you've tried to kill the Crown Prince and he knows about it. Amahl granted the U.S. government free rein to throw the book at Mohammed Nazeem for attempted murder. Then, of course, there was the little matter of high treason and a host of other charges so numerous they put my own rap sheet to shame.
Sommatra was so mortified by her brother's actions she begged to be let out of the marriage contract, but that only endeared her to Amahl. He insisted he wanted to marry her anyway. Nazeem's cousin Tayeb blabbed his head off when confronted with his own list of charges, in exchange for immunity. I think the U.S. decided to deport him regardless. He'd made the bomb, as I'd suspected, and Mike Kim had recruited Mrs. Lee to seal the ingenious device inside the eagle. The bomb had to be able to withstand the heat of the glass blowing without going off inadvertently. Only the right combination of musical tones could shatter the glass and set off the triggering device inside. Members of the Kharistan Freedom Fighters had mathematically formulated those exact notes and scored them into 'Sandstorm' with precision.
I couldn't fathom someone cold-bloodedly calculating the deadly music to orchestrate another person's death. What ghastly things are done in the name of power. Because that's all that it boiled down to, the greedy desire for power. Mohammed Nazeem refused to let go of the old ways, and to that end he'd sided with North Korean extremists. They'd stroked his ego, promising that if he could wrench power out of the Abdullah hands, he could become president or dictator or what ever the hell he wanted to be while they swiftly siphoned off every drop of oil in the country. He'd probably dreamed of being some fat old sultan with fifty wives all kneeling at his feet while he sat up on a throne made of gold. Too bad he ended up in a federal holding cell, awaiting trial.
Without any direction the Kharistan Freedom Fighters put down their placards, folded their tents and slipped into the night. San Diego Police rounded up about half a dozen and the Berkeley Police found a few more but they were just the followers, not the big wigs and we may never know who really started up the organization. Jin Park and Kim's brother disappeared. The name Jade Song was an alias or maybe she never even existed at all, just a fictional name to put on a credit card. In any case, it's in the Fed's hands now, and I wanted nothing more to do with the case.
My head wound kept me in bed for two days since every time I tried to get up the floor tilted like one of those cheap rides at a fly-by-night carnival. Hobbes and Claire catered to my every wish until I wished them out of my apartment so I could get some rest. Hearing took a little longer than that to return since the blast had ruptured both my eardrums, but time heals all wounds, as they say.
I was the hero of the hour, having saved a king and ultimately his country, but fame is fleeting and by the time I could hear well enough to go on 'The View' and 'Today' there was some other international crisis to knock my exploits off the front page. Ah well, 'Entertainment Tonight' did interview me, but that was more because I'd saved Miles Verbage's life than Amahl's. And that was only because Miles wasn't around. He and Farzimah were staying at an undisclosed house somewhere out in the ocean.
Undisclosed? Well, yeah, Jimmy Buffett and me knew where they were, but we weren't talkin'. Miles did put out a public statement saying that the distribution company would recall all copies of 'Sandstorm special edition' and refund them with a new CD he'd be putting out in one month. A second version of 'Sandstorm' would be recorded without the terrible chords on the end along with some new tracks. Oh, and he personally sent each and every member of Rosie O'Donnell's audience a tiny hand blown glass eagle. Funny guy, Miles.
About ten days after Crown Prince Amahl's birthday party I was reading in the International news section about the wedding of King Amahl to Sommatra Nazeem, newly crowned queen of Kharistan, when Hobbes sailed into the Keep with a large envelope.
"Fawkesy," he called waving the package at me. "You've got mail."
"When'd you go postal, Bobby?" I asked, folding up the newspaper.
"Nevermind that," he groaned. "Eberts gave it to me. Looks like it's from the Caribbean."
"Oh, yes, look at those lovely fish on the stamps," Claire peered over my shoulder. Things never changed, it was time for yet another fasting blood sugar test. I'm still not clear on why my getting shot or concussed should necessitate drawing off vast quantities of my precious vital fluids, but I've decided not to fight it so much. I'm still alive, which is a pretty major accomplishment these days, and if Claire wants to try and keep me that way, I'm all for it. Nearly dying can really do a 360 on a guy's attitude towards life.
"Open it up," Hobbes urged.
Ripping open the envelope, I pulled out a CD jewel box and a short letter from my friend.
"Darien, here's a mock-up of my new CD. 'Invisible' is the title track. None of this would have happened if you hadn't come through in a major way. It's impossible to ever give you full credit for saving everyone's lives, dude. Since I couldn't quite put your name on the liner notes, in your line of business being invisible is kind of redundant, huh? Check out the cover picture, kind of my tribute to you. Oh, and the back cover's Far's way of asking it you'll stand up for us at the wedding. Miles"
The front cover featured a picture of the charismatic blond rock star standing ankle deep in the ocean, light from the huge full moon seeming to cast a silvery glow over the man's body so that you could almost imagine he was disappearing right before your eyes.
"He caught it just right," Hobbes whistled in admiration. "You probably don't get to see it, Fawkes, but that's it. That's the look just before you go see through."
"It's brilliant," Claire agreed. "Have you heard this new song? Play it."
I handed over the CD, rainbows glinting off the bottom, while flipping over the little plastic case. On the back was a picture of Miles and Farzimah walking away from the camera. He was in shorts and a blue Hawaiian shirt. She was in a red hibiscus print sarong. They'd swung their linked hands back, the camera catching them at the highest arc of the swing and there, glinting on Farzimah's hand, was a diamond and ruby encrusted engagement ring.
'Invisible' soared out of the speakers hidden behind Claire's fish tanks, but the tone of the song had changed since I'd first heard it. The beginning still mourned the pain of not being truly seen by a lover but in the end the singer had found a new romance and understood that he would never be invisible ever again.
It was a good tune. I'd give it a nine, Dick Clark, and predict it'll go right up the charts to number one. Can't be invisible when you're on the top of the heap.
I've been on top and I've been buried so far under crap I couldn't breathe. Personally I liked being right in the middle, but sometimes being able to go invisible had it's own rewards.
FIN
