house in Cambridge. I find myself wondering what became of Chris. Kenneth is a bond trader -
I pull back my wandering thoughts when Siraj says, "I think Jayewardene would like to have found a solution."
"So, why didn't you agree, sir?"
"Because I'll lower prices on my timetable, not theirs." Siraj's expression has hardened again. He picks up a deck of cards, and begins to shuffle it absently.
It's a risk, but I have to speak up. Partly for the oil, but partly for these people I've lived among. "The UN, NATO, and the Americans are massing troops in Israel, Lebanon, Turkey, Upper Egypt, on aircraft carriers. Our army is shattered. We left its bones along the Nile. And they have aces. Loh . . ." I turn it into a cough and, I hope, cover the mistake. "The Crusader is with them, and the Iron Man."
"They will not invade." Siraj hands me the deck and I automatically take it. "The West has covertly stolen our oil for decades. They will be too squeamish to openly steal it."
"But, sir, your speciality is bridge. This is poker. Are you sure they are only bluffing?" And I'm betrayed by my nervous hands and tired mind.
I, too, riffle the cards, but it turns into a bridge of cards flowing like bird wings between my palms. I quickly stiffen the muscles in my fingers, sending cards spurting in all directions.
I drop down and feel my thobe tug at the back of my neck as I kneel on the soft black material. I'm scrabbling for the cards, not daring a single glance at Siraj. Fear and tension form an aching knot in my belly. I can't keep doing this. I've got to get a night's sleep. Spend a day in Cambridge.
Flint, Weathers, Fortune, Siraj, Jayewardene. Oh, yes, I've got quite a little list.
And none of them would be missed.
Dirge in a
Major Key: Part I
S. L. Farrell
"DB, WHEN ARE YOU getting back? It's been damn near a goddamn month now. S'Live wrote a new song he wants us to get on the album. Yeah, it's last minute but KA says he can get it done. We're using this crappy sequenced track right now, but it ain't making it. We need you to really lay it down. And the engineer thinks we need to retake a couple tracks while we still have the studio reserved, and there are all your dubs we've been waiting on for fucking forever . . . ."
Michael was lying on his bed, in the room he and Rusty shared on the aircraft carrier USS Tomlin, currently sailing with its escort cruisers in the middle of the Persian Gulf. Michael thought he could feel the slow roll of the ship in the swells, but that was almost certainly an illusion. They'd been on the ship for almost three weeks now. The initial adrenaline rush at the thought of going into action had long ago vanished, to be replaced by simple boredom.
Here, it was two in the morning and the lights were off except for sleeping lamps. Michael stared up at the shadowed gunmetal gray ceiling with its lacework of piping. He'd snagged a pizza from the mess as a late-night snack an hour ago; it felt like a brick sitting in his stomach. Rusty snored on the bunk below him - both of their beds specially widened and reinforced to accommodate them - as Michael listened to The Voice talking half a world away. In the background, he could hear Bottom and Shivers discussing music: "Y'know, I wonder how would it sound if you played a low G under that Cm chord rather than the tonic . . . ?"
Once, hearing that, he would have wanted nothing more than to be back there in the studio with them. Once, it would have been him driving the band to get the tracks down, to get the final mix in the can, to get a tour together since that's where the money was in the music business now, to get all the reviews and interviews they could. Now, it all just felt . . . distant.
He felt disconnected from everything. From everyone.
"Soon," he told The Voice. "I gotta do this thing."
"For the fucking Committee."
"Yeah."
"So where the fuck are you?"
"I can't tell you. All that secrecy and security shit, y'know."
The Voice gave a huff of exasperation. "Ain't it enough they've damn near killed you a couple times over? Ain't it enough that you've been doing publicity crap for