Umar raised one hand in a rueful gesture. “Allah gives us tools to use as best we can,” he said. “Sometimes a tool breaks and we must discard it.”

“Allah be praised,” I murmured. ,

“Praise Allah,” said Umar. We seemed to be getting along just fine now.

“One other thing,” I said. “The policeman who was with me the last time, Officer Shaknahyi, was shot and killed yesterday.”

Umar didn’t stop smiling, but his brow furrowed. “We heard the news. Our hearts go out to his widow and children. May Allah grant them peace.”

“Yeah. In any event, I greatly desire to have the man who killed him. His name is Paul Jawarski.”

I looked at Abu Adil, who writhed restlessly on his hospital bed. The plump old man made a few low, unintelligible sounds, but Umar wasn’t paying any attention to him. “Certainly,” he said. “We’ll be glad to put our resources at your disposal. If any of our associates know anything about this Jawarski, you’ll be informed immediately.”

I didn’t like the way Umar said that. It was too glib, and he looked too unhappy. I just thanked him and stood up to go.

“A moment, Shaykh Marid,” he said in a quiet voice. He stood up and took my arm, guiding me to another exit. “I’d like to have a private word with you. Would you mind stepping into the library?”

I felt a peculiar chill. I knew this invitation was coming from Umar Abdul-Qawy, acting independently, not Umar Abdul-Qawy, the secretary of Shaykh Reda Abu Adil. “Fine,” I. said.

He reached up and popped the moddy he was wearing. He hadn’t spared so much as a glance at Abu Adil.

Umar held the door for me, and I went through into the library. I seated myself at a large oblong table of glossy dark wood. Umar didn’t sit, however. He paced in front of a high wall lined with bookshelves, idly tossing the moddy in one hand. “I think I understand your position,” he said at last.

“Which position is that?”

He waved irritably. “You know what I mean. How much longer will you be content to be Friedlander Bey’s trained dog, running and fetching for a madman who doesn’t have the wit to realize he’s already dead?” “You mean Papa, or Shaykh Reda?” I asked. Umar stopped pacing and frowned at me. “I’m speaking of both of them, and I’m sure you goddamn well know it.”

I watched Umar for a moment, listening to the trilling of some of the songbirds that were caged all through Abu Adil’s house and grounds. It gave the afternoon a false sense of peace and hopefulness. The air in the library was musty and stale. I began to feel caged myself. Maybe it had been a mistake coming here today. “What are you suggesting, Umar?” I asked.

“I’m suggesting that we begin thinking of the future. Someday, not long from now, the old men’s empires will be in our hands. Hell, I run Shaykh Reda’s business for him right now. He spends the whole day chipped in to … to—”

“I know what he’s got chipped in,” I said. Umar nodded. “All right, then. This moddy that I use is a recent recording of his mind., He gave it to me because his only sexual kick is jamming himself, or an accurate facsimile of himself. Does that disgust you?”

“You’re kidding.” I’d heard much worse in my time. “Forget that, then. He doesn’t realize that with his moddy, I’m his equal as far as tending to business is concerned. I am Abu Adil, but I have the added advantage of my own native skills. He is Shaykh Reda, a great man; but with this moddy, I am Shaykh Reda and Umar Abdul-Qawy together. Why do I need him?”

I found this all terrifically amusing. “Are you proposing the elimination of Abu Adil and Friedlander Bey?” Umar looked around himself nervously. “I propose no such thing,” he said in a quiet voice. “There are too many other people depending on their judgment and vision. Yet there may come a day when the old men themselves are a hindrance to their own enterprises.”

“When the time comes to push them aside,” I said, “the right people will know it. And Friedlander Bey, at least, will not begrudge them.”

“What if the time is now?” Umar asked hoarsely. “You may be ready, but I’m not prepared to take over Papa’s affairs.”

“Even that problem could be solved,” insisted Umar. “Possibly,” I said. I didn’t let any expression cross my face. I had no idea if we were being watched and recorded, and yet I didn’t want to antagonize Umar. I knew now that he was a very dangerous man.

“You will learn that I am right,” he said. He tossed the moddy in his hand some more, his brow furrowed again in thought. “Go back to Friedlander Bey now and think about what I’ve said. We’ll talk again soon. If you do not share my enthusiasm, I may need to push you aside along with both our masters.” I started to rise from my chair. He raised a hand to stop me. “That is not a threat, my friend,” he said calmly. “It is only how I see the future.” “Allah alone sees the future.” He laughed cynically. “If you think that pious talk has any real meaning, I may end up with more power than Shaykh Reda ever dreamed of.” He indicated another door on the south side of the library. “You may go out that way. Follow the corridor to the left, and it will lead you to the front entrance. I must go back and discuss this Songhay Republic business with the woman. You needn’t worry about her. I’ll send her back to her hotel with my driver.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” I said. “May you go in peace and safety,” he said. I left the library and followed Umar’s directions. Kamal, the servant, met me along the way and showed me out. Again he kept silent as we walked. I went down the steps toward the car, and then I turned to look back. Kamal stood in the doorway, staring after me as if I might be concealing stolen silverware in my clothing.

I got into the sedan. Kmuzu started the engine and swung the car around and out through the main gate. I thought about what Umar had said, what he’d offered me. Abu Adil had exercised his power for almost two centuries. Surely in all that time there had been many young men who’d filled the position Umar now held. Surely some of them had had the same ambitious ideas. Abu Adil still remained, but what had happened to those young men? Maybe Umar had never considered that question. Maybe Umar was nowhere near as smart as he thought he was.

Shaknahyi had been killed on Tuesday, and it wasn’t until Friday that I was able to go into the station house again. It was, of course, the Sabbath, and I toyed with the idea of passing by a mosque on the way, but I felt hypocritical about that. I figured I was such a crummy person that no amount of worshiping could make me acceptable to Allah. I know that’s all hollow rationalization — it’s the sinners, after all, who need the benefits of prayer most, and not the saints — but I just felt too soiled and guilty to enter the House of God. Besides, Shaknahyi had set an example of true faith, and I’d failed him. I had to redeem myself in my own eyes first, before I could expect to do the same in the eyes of Allah.

My life has been like a rolling ocean, with waves of comfort and ease followed by waves of adversity. No matter how peaceful things get, I know more trouble will soon sweep over me. I’ve always told everyone how much I preferred being on my own, a solitary agent answerable only to myself. I wished I meant it half as much as I pretended.

I needed every bit of the inner strength and confidence I’d achieved to deal with the obstinate forces around me. I was getting no help at all from Lieutenant Hajjar, Friedlander Bey, or anyone else. No one at the station house seemed particularly interested in talking with me on Friday morning. There were a lot of part-time office workers there, Christians who filled in for the religious Muslims on the Sabbath. Lieutenant Hajjar was there, of course, because on his list of favorite pastimes, religion finished down somewhere between oral surgery and paying taxes. I went immediately to his square, glass-walled office.