Well, what the hell, what did it cost me? “What do you want to do, Mom?” I asked.

She frowned. “I don’t really know. Something useful. Something real.”

I had a ludicrous image of Angel Monroe as a candy-striper in the hospital. I dismissed the notion immediately. “Abu Adil brought you to the city to spy on Papa, right?”

“Yeah, and I was a sucker to think he really wanted me.”

“And on what kind of terms did you leave him? Would you be willing to spy on him for us?”

She looked doubtful. “I really let him know I didn’t like being used,” she said. “If I went back there, I don’t know if he’d believe I was sorry. But maybe he would. He’s got a big ego, you know. Men like that, they always think their women’d walk through fire for ’em. I suppose I could make him buy it.” She gave me a wry grin. “I was always a good actress. Khalid used to tell me I was the best.”

Khalid, I remembered, had been her pimp. “Let me think about it, Mom. I wouldn’t get you into anything dangerous, but I’d like to have a secret weapon Abu Adil didn’t know anything about.”

“Well, anyway, I feel like I owe Papa something. For letting Abu Adil use me like that, and for all Papa’s done for me since I came to live in his house.”

I wasn’t crazy about letting my mother get involved any further with the intrigue, but I was aware that she might be a wonderful source of information. “Mom,” I said casually, “what do the letters A.L.M. mean to you?”

“A.L.M.? I don’t know. Nothing, really. The Alliance of Lingerie Models? That’s a hooker’s trade union, but I don’t even know if they got a local in this city.”

“Never mind. How about the Phoenix File? That ring a bell?”

I saw her flinch just a little. “No,” she said slowly, “I never heard of that at all.” There was something about the way she said it, though, that persuaded me she was lying. I wondered what she was hiding now. It took the optimistic edge off our previous conversation, making me doubt how much I could trust her. It wasn’t the right time to pursue the matter, but there’d be a moment of truth when I got out of the hospital again.

“Mom,” I said, yawning, “I’m getting kind of sleepy.”

“Oh, baby, I’ll go then.” She got up and fussed with my covers. “I’ll leave the curdled camel’s milk with you.”

“Great, Mom.”

She bent and kissed me again. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m gonna see how Papa’s doing now.”

“Give him my regards and tell him that I pray to Allah for his well-being.” She went to the door, turned, and waved to me. Then she was gone.

The door had barely shut before a thought struck me: The only person who knew that I’d gone to visit my mother in Algiers had been Saied the Half-Hajj. He must have located Mom for Reda Abu Adil. It must have been Saied who’d brought her to the city to spy on Papa and me. Saied had to be working for Abu Adil. He’d sold me out.

I promised myself still another moment of truth, one that the Half-Hajj would never forget.

Whatever the goal of the conspiracy, whatever the significance of the Phoenix File, it must be tremendously urgent to Abu Adil. In the past few months, he’d set Saied, Kmuzu, and Umm Saad to pry into our affairs. I wondered how many others there were that I hadn’t identified yet.

Later that afternoon, just before suppertime, Kmuzu came to visit. He was dressed in a white shirt, no tie, and a black suit. He looked like an undertaker. His expression was solemn, as if one of the nurses outside had just told him that my situation was hopeless. Maybe my burned hair would never grow back, or I’d have to live with that awful, cold white gunk on my skin for the rest of my life.

“How are you feeling, yaa Sidi?” he asked.

“I’m suffering from Delayed Post-Fire Stress Syndrome,” I said. “I’m just realizing how close I came to not making it. If you hadn’t been there to wake me up—”

“You would have been roused by the fire if you hadn’t been using the sleep add-on.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “I suppose,” I said. “Still, I owe you my life.”

“You rescued the master of the house, yaa Sidi. He shelters me and protects me from Reda Abu Adil. You and I are even.”

“I still feel I’m in your debt.” How much was my life worth to me? Could I give him something of equivalent value? “How would you like your freedom?” I asked.

Kmuzu’s brows drew together. “You know that liberty is what I desire most. You also know it’s in the hands of the master of the house. It’s up to him.”

I shrugged. “I have a certain amount of influence with Papa. I’ll see what I can do.”

“I would be most grateful, yaa Sidi.” Kmuzu’s expression had become noncommittal, but I knew he wasn’t as cool as he was pretending.

We talked for a few minutes more, and then he got up to go. He reassured me that my mother and our servants would be safe enough, inshallah. We had two dozen armed guards. Of course, they hadn’t prevented someone from entering the grounds and torching the west wing. Collusion, espionage, arson, attempted murder — it had been a long while since Papa’s enemies had so noisily expressed their displeasure.

After Kmuzu left, I got bored very quickly. I turned on the holoset fixed to the furniture across from my bed. It wasn’t a very good unit and the projection coordinates were off by a considerable margin. The vertical variable needed adjusting; the actors in some contemporary Central European drama struggled along knee-deep in the dresser. The elaborate production was subtitled, but unfortunately the captions were lost, out of sight with the actors’ legs in my sock drawer. Whenever there was a close-up, I’d see the person only from the top of his head to the bottom of his nose.

I didn’t think I’d care, because at home I don’t watch much holo. In the hospital, however, where the order of the day was boredom, I found myself turning it on again and again all day long. I browsed through a hundred channels from around the world, and I never found anything worth watching. That might have been due to my semi-stoned state and my lack of concentration; or it might have been the fault of the little amputated figures wading around on the dresser, speaking a dozen different languages.

So I bailed out of the Thuringian tragedy and told the holoset to turn itself off. Then I got out of bed mi mm «• my robe. That was kind of uncomfortable because of my burns and also because of the white gunk; I hated the way it felt, stuck to my hospital gown. I stuck my feet to the green paper slippers the hospital provided, and headed for the door.

An orderly, was coming in just as I was going out, carrying a tray with my lunch. I was pretty hungry and my mouth began to water, even before I found out what was on the plates. I decided to stay in the room until after I ate. “What do we have?” I asked.

The orderly set it down on my tray table. “You got tasty fried liver,” he said. His tone let me know it wasn’t my thing to look forward to.

“I’ll eat it later.” I left my room and walked slowly down the corridor. I spoke my name to the elevator, and in a few seconds the car arrived. I didn’t know how much freedom of movement I had.

When the elevator asked me what floor I wanted, I asked for Friedlander Bey’s room number. “VIP Suite One,” it told me.

“What floor is that on?” I asked. “Twenty.” That was as high as you could go. This hospital was one of only three in the city with VIP suites. It was the same hospital where I’d had my brainwork done, less than a year before. I liked having a private room, but I didn’t really need a suite. I didn’t really feel like entertaining.

“Do you wish the twentieth floor?” the elevator asked.

“You bet.”

“Do you wish the twentieth floor?” “Yes,” I said. It was a stupid elevator. I stood hunched over while it traveled slowly from the fifteenth floor to the twentieth. I was looking for a posture that didn’t feel sticky and squishy, and I wasn’t having any luck. I was also starting to get very sick of the white gunk’s intense peppermint smell.