“Mr. On?”

“His name is On Cheung. He’s a businessman from Kansu China. I’ve had the privilege of acting as his agent before.”

“Uh yeah.” I squeezed my eyes shut and listened to the blood roaring in my head. “This is leading us into the topic of money. How much will this Mr. On pay, and do you get a cut of it?”

“For the elder son, five hundred kiam. For the younger son, three hundred kiam. For the daughter, two hundred fifty. There are also bonuses: an extra two hundred kiam for two children, and five hundred if Indihar relinquishes all three. I, of course, take 10 percent. If you have arranged with her for a fee, that must come from the remainder.”

“Sounds fair enough. That’s better than Indihar had hoped, to be truthful.”

“I told you that Mr. On was a generous man.”

“Now what? Do we meet somewhere or what?”

Mahmoud’s voice was growing excited. “Of course, both Mr. On and I will need to examine the children, to be sure they’re fit and healthy. Can you have them at 7 Rafi ben Garcia Street in half an hour?”

“Sure, Mahmoud. See you then. Tell On Cheung to bring his money.” I hung up the phone. “Kmuzu,” I called, “forget about the laundry. We’re going out.”

“Yes, yaa Sidi. Shall I bring the car around?”

“Uh huh.” I got up and threw a gallebeya over my jeans. Then I stuffed my static pistol in the pocket. I didn’t trust either Mahmoud or the baby seller.

The address was in the Jewish Quarter, and it turned out to be another storefront covered with newspaper, very much like the place Shaknahyi and I had investigated in vain. “Stay here,” I told Kmuzu. Then I got out of the car and went to the front door. I rapped on the glass, and after a little while Mahmoud opened the door an inch or two.

“Marid,” he said in his husky voice. “Where’s Indihar and the children?”

“I told ’em to stay in the car. I want to check this out first. Let me in.”

“Sure.” He swung the door wider, and I pushed past him. “Marid, this is Mr. On.”

The baby seller was a small man with brown skin and brown teeth. He was sitting on a battered metal folding chair at a card table. There was a metal box at his elbow. He looked at me through a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. No Nikon eyes for him, either.

I stepped across the filthy floor and held out my hand to him. On Cheung peered up at me and made no move to shake hands. After a few seconds, feeling like a fool, I dropped my hand.

“Okay?” asked Mahmoud. “Satisfied?”

“Tell him to open the box,” I said.

“I don’t tell Mr. On to do anything,” said Mahmoud. He’s a very—”

“Everything okay,” said On Cheung. “You look.” He flipped open the top of the metal box. There was a stack of bundred-kiam bills in there that could have bought every child in the Budayeen.

“Great,” I said. I reached into my pocket and brought out the pistol. “Hands on heads,” I said.

“You son of a bitch,” shouted Mahmoud. “What’s this, a robbery? You’re not gonna get away with it. Mr. On will make you sorry. That money’s not going to do you a damn bit of good. You’ll be dead before you spend a fiq of it.”

“I’m still a cop, Mahmoud,” I said sadly. I closed the metal box and handed it to him. I couldn’t carry it with my one good arm and still point the static pistol. “Hajjar’s been looking for On Cheung for a long time. Even a crooked cop like him has to bust somebody for real now and then. I guess it’s just your turn.”

I led them out to the car. I kept the gun on them while Kmuzu drove to the station house. All four of us went up to the third floor. Hajjar was startled as our little parade entered his glass-walled office. “Lieutenant,” I said, “this is On Cheung, the baby seller. Mahmoud, drop the box of money. It’s supposed to be evidence, but I don’t expect anybody’ll ever see it again after today.”

“You never cease to amaze me,” said Hajjar. He pushed a button on his desk, calling cops from the outer

’This one’s for free,” I said. Hajjar looked puzzled. “I told you I still had two to go. That’s Umm Saad and Abu Adil. These stiffs are kind of a bonus.”

“Right, thanks a lot. Mahmoud, you can go.” The lieutenant looked up at me and shrugged his shoulders. “You really think Papa’d let me hold him?” he said. I thought about that for a moment and realized he was right.

Mahmoud looked relieved. “Won’t forget this, Maghrebi,” he muttered as he shoved by me. His threat didn’t worry me.

“By the way,” I said, “I quit. You want anybody to file traffic reports or enter logbook records from now on, you get somebody else. You need somebody to waste his time on wild-goose chases, get somebody else. You need help covering up your own crimes or incompetence, check with somebody else. I don’t work here anymore.”

Hajjar smiled cynically. “Yeah, some cops react that way when they face real pressure. But I thought you’d last longer, Audran.”

I slapped him twice, quickly and loudly. He just stared at me, his own hand coming up slowly to touch his stinging cheeks. I turned and walked out of the office, followed by Kmuzu. Cops were coming from all around, and they’d seen what I’d done to Hajjar. Everybody was grinning. Even me.

Kmuzu,” I said as he drove the sedan back to the house, “would you invite Umm Saad to have dinner iwith us?”

He looked across at me. He probably thought I was a complete fool, but he was great at keeping his opinions to himself. “Of course, yaa Sidi,” he said. “In the small dining room?”

“Uh huh.” I watched the streets of the Christian Quarter go by, wondering if I knew what I was doing.

“I hope you’re not underestimating the woman,” said Kmuzu.

“I don’t think so. I think I’ve got a healthy regard for what she’s capable of. I also think she’s basically sane. When I tell her I know about the Phoenix File, and about her reasons for insinuating herself in our house, she’ll realize the game is over.”

Kmuzu tapped the steering wheel with his index fingers. “If you need help, yaa Sidi, I’ll be there. You won’t have to face her alone, as you faced Shaykh Reda.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Kmuzu, but I don’t think Umm Saad is as loony or as powerful as Abu Adil. She and I will just be sitting down to a meal. I intend to stay in control, inshallah.”

Kmuzu gave me one more thoughtful glance, then turned his attention back to driving.

When we arrived at Friedlander Bey’s mansion, I went upstairs and changed my clothes. I put on a white robe and a white caftan, into which I transferred my static pistol. I also popped the pain-blocking daddy. I didn’t really need it all the time anymore, and I was carrying plenty of sunnies just in case. I felt a flood of annoying aches and pains, all of which had been blocked by the daddy. The worst of all was the throbbing discomfort in my shoulder. I decided there was no point in suffering bravely, and I went right for my pillcase.

While I waited for Umm Saad’s response to my invitation, I heard the sunset call to prayer from Papa’s muezzin. Since my talk with the elder of the mosque in Souk el-Khemis Street, I’d been worshiping more or less regularly. Maybe I didn’t manage to hit all five daily prayers, but I was doing decidedly better than ever before. Now I went downstairs to Papa’s office. He kept his prayer rug there, and he had a special mihrab built into one wall. The mihrab is the shallow semicircular alcove you find in every mosque, indicating the precise direction of Mecca. After I washed my face, hands, and feet, I unrolled the prayer mat, cleared my mind of uncertainty, and addressed myself to Allah.

When I’d finished praying, Kmuzu murmured, “Umm Saad waits for you in the small dining room.”

“Thank you.” I rolled up Papa’s prayer rug and put it away. I felt determined and strong. I used to believe that this was a temporary illusion caused by worship, but now I thought that doubt was the illusion. The assurance was real.