Abu Adil’s guard passed us immediately through the gate, and we drove up through the beautifully landscaped grounds. “Let’s wait a minute,” I said, as Kamal, the butler, opened the house’s massive, carved front door. I checked my static pistol again and passed the small seizure gun to the Half-Hajj; Kmuzu had the needle gun that had formerly belonged to Umm Saad. The Stone didn’t need any weapon beyond his own bare hands.

I clucked my tongue impatiently. “What is it, yaa Sidi?” asked Kmuzu.

“I’m deciding what to wear.” I browsed through myrack of moddies and daddies. I finally decided that I’d wear Rex and carry the Abu Adil moddy. I also chipped in the daddies that blocked pain and fear.

“When this is over,” Saied said wistfully, “can I have Rex back? I really miss wearing him.”

“Sure,” I said, even though I enjoyed wearing the badass moddy myself. Saied just wasn’t the same without it. For now, I let him have the anthology. I was hoping to see Mike Hammer put his fist in Abu Adil’s face.

“We must be careful,” said Kmuzu. “We cannot be lulled, because treachery runs in Shaykh Reda’s blood like the bilharzia worm.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I’m not likely to forget it.”

Then the four of us got out of the car and walked up the ceramic-tiled path to the door. It was a warm, pleasant day, and the sun felt good on my face. I was dressed in a white gallebeya and my head was covered with a knitted Algerian skullcap. It was a simple costume, and it made me look humble.

We followed Kamal to a meeting room on the second floor. I felt myself tense as we passed Abu Adil’s recording studio. I took a few deep breaths, and by the time the butler bowed us into his master’s presence, I was relaxed again.

Abu Adil and Umar were sitting on large pillows spread in a semicircle in the center of the room. There was a raised platform in the midst of the arrangement, and already several large bowls of food had been set there, along with pots of coffee and tea.

Our hosts rose to greet us. I noticed immediately that neither of them had any hardware chipped in. Abu Adil came to me, smiling broadly. He embraced me and said, “Ahlan wa sahlan!” in a cheerful voice. “Welcome, and be refreshed!”

“I am glad to see you again, O Shaykh. May Allah open His ways to you.”

Abu Adil was happy to see how subdued I was behaving. He wasn’t happy, however, that I’d brought Kmuzu, Saied, and the Stone. “Come, rinse the dust from your hands,” he said. “Let me pour water for you. Of course, your slaves are welcome too.”

“Watch it, chum,” growled Saied, wearing the Mike Hammer moddy. “I’m no slave.”

“Exactly, of course,” said Abu Adil, never losing his good humor.

We made ourselves comfortable on the cushions and exchanged still more of the obligatory compliments. Umar poured me a cup of coffee, and I said, “May your table last forever.”

“May God lengthen your life,” said Umar. He wasn’t nearly so happy as his boss.

We sampled the food and chatted amiably for a while. The only sour note was struck by the Half-Hajj, who spat out an olive pit and said, “This all you got?” Shaykh Reda’s face froze. I had a hard time not laughing out loud.

“Now,” said Abu Adil after a proper amount of time had passed, “will you object if I bring up the matter of business?”

“No, O Shaykh,” I said, “I am eager to conclude this matter.”

“Then give me the personality module you took from this house.” Umar handed him a small vinyl satchel, which Abu Adil opened. There were banded stacks of fresh ten-kiam bills in it.

“I ask something more in trade,” I said.

Umar’s face darkened. “You are a fool if you think you can change our bargain now. The agreement was ten thousand kiam.”

I ignored him. I turned to Abu Adil. “I want you to destroy the Phoenix File.”

Abu Adil laughed delightedly. “Ah, you are a remarkable man. But I know that from wearing this.” He held up the moddy he’d made the day he’d mind-raped me. “The Phoenix File is life to me. Because of it, I have lived to this advanced age. I will no doubt need it again. With the file, I may live another hundred years.”

“I’m sorry, Shaykh Reda,” I said, taking out my static pistol, “but I’m very determined.” I glanced at my friends. They too held their weapons on Abu Adil and Umar.

“No more of this foolishness,” said Umar. “You came here to exchange moddies. Let’s complete the transaction, and then whatever happens in the future is in the hands of Allah.”

I kept my gun pointed at Abu Adil, but I took a sip from my cup of coffee. “The refreshments are most excellent, O Shaykh,” I said. I set my cup down again. “I want you to destroy the Phoenix File. I’ve worn your moddy, I know where it is. Kmuzu and Saied can hold you here while I go get it.”

Abu Adil didn’t seem the least bit upset. “You’re bluffing,” he said, spreading his hands. “If you’ve worn my moddy, then you know that I have copies. The moddy will tell you where one or two duplicate files are, but Umar has still others, and you won’t learn where they are.”

“Hell,” said the Half-Hajj, “I bet I can make him talk.”

“Never mind, Saied,” I said. I realized that Abu Adil was right; we were at an impasse. Destroying a bubble plate here and a printout there would accomplish nothing. I couldn’t destroy the concept of the Phoenix File, and at this point Abu Adil would never agree to abandon it.

Kmuzu leaned nearer. “You must persuade him to give it up, yaa Sidi.”

“Any ideas?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

I had one last trump to play, but I hated to use it. If it failed, Abu Adil would win, and I’d never be able to protect myself or Friedlander Bey’s interests against him. Still, there was no other choice. “Shaykh Reda,” I said slowly, “there are many other things recorded on your moddy. I learned astonishing things about what you’ve done and what you plan to do.”

Abu Adil’s expression grew worried for the first time. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

I tried to look unconcerned. “You know, of course, that the strict religious leaders disapprove of brain implants. I couldn’t find an imam who’d had one, so none of them could chip in your moddy and experience it directly. But I did speak with Shaykh Al-Hajj Muhammad ibn Abdurrahman, who leads prayers at the Shimaal Mosque.”

Abu Adil stared at me, his eyes wide. The Shimaal Mosque was the largest and most powerful congregation in the city. The pronouncements of its clergy often had the force of law.

I was bluffing, of course. I’d never set foot inside the Shimaal Mosque. And I’d just invented that imam’s name.

Shaykh Reda’s voice faltered. “What did you discuss with him?”

I grinned. “Why, I gave him a detailed description of all your past sins and your intended crimes. Now, there’s a fascinating technical point that hasn’t been cleared up yet. I mean, the religious elders haven’t ruled on whether or not a personality module recorded from a living person is admissible as evidence in a court of Islamic law. You know and I know that such a moddy is wholly reliable, much more so than any sort of mechanical lie detector. But the imams, bless their righteous hearts, are debating the matter back and forth. It may be a long while before they pass a ruling, but then again, you may already be in very serious trouble.”

I paused to let what I’d said sink in. I’d just made up this religious-legal wrangle on the fly, but it was entirely plausible. It was a question that Islam would have to come to grips with, just as the faith had had to deal with every other technological advance. It was only a matter of judging how the science of neuroaugmentation related to the teachings of Prophet Muhammad, may the blessings of Allah be on him and peace.

Abu Adil moved restlessly on his cushion. He was obviously wrestling with two unpleasant options: destroying the Phoenix File, or being turned over to the notoriously unforgiving representatives of the Messenger of God. Finally, he gave a great sigh. “Hear my decision,” he said. “I offer you Umar Abdul-Qawy in my place.”