Harsh Oases by Paul di Filippo Read Free Book Online Page A

owner.
    The place was a rambling old glass and redwood building, built in the ’Forties by one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s students. It had stood empty until recently, amid a grove of wind-twisted pines, high atop a knoll. (The previous owner, whose wealth came from holdings in various energy industries, had experienced a sudden and precipitous change in his fortunes a few years back, when room-temperature superconductors came online, and had been forced to sell.)
    Approachable only by a rocky footpath, the place was almost a fortress, ringed by sensors and anti-personnel devices. The energy-magnate had been something of a bug on terrorism and kidnapping. I supposed that the remoteness of the villa and the presence of these gadgets were the reasons why the new owner had chosen it.
    I ran my checks, making sure that none of the booby-traps was accidentally armed. It wouldn’t do to have the newest inhabitant of the Hesperides blown up upon arrival.
    Having finished, I went down to the dock to meet him.
    The noon ferry arrived on its stilts amid sheets of spray that sparkled in the sun, lowering itself to a berth. I had expected that there would be a few tourists aboard. But I hadn’t reckoned with Major Zaid’s paranoia, for I soon saw that he had commandeered the whole boat
    First off were burly identical East German-trained bodyguards in suits and shades, carrying stubby Uzis. They pushed back the crowd awaiting passage to the mainland. Next to step ashore was the head of Zaid’s guards, the Major’s combination of personal secretary and lethal pet ferret
    I had met Hamud al-Qasimi once before, when he came to arrange purchase of the house for Zaid. He was a thin, supple man dressed in Italian linen. His skin was a sallow hue, like an old bruise when it goes yellow, and he wore a narrow black mustache, impeccably trimmed. His face was always composed. Nothing in our previous brief meeting had encouraged me to take a shine to him. Todays tactics, which I assumed he had masterminded, likewise failed to impress me with his congeniality.
    Once ashore, al-Qasimi turned back to face the boat. With a curt flick of his fingers, he signaled that all was fine for Major Zaid to step down.
    When the man raised his hand, his unbuttoned jacket opened, and I saw his rhino-horn dagger—the Yemenese jambiyya—at his waist.
    Zaid appeared. He wore the understated grey uniform, with a minimum of gold braid, proper for the North Yemen major he had been before the coup. Although he ruled the country now, he kept the title he had borne when he overthrew the previous ruler, in a gesture of his humble aspirations and dedication to the welfare of his nation. He was a corpulent man who walked with a perceptible waddle, as if he were perpetually uncomfortable in clothes of any sort.
    Following Zaid came some male advisors and a flock of women in chadors and veils, the latter s eyes fixed modestly on the ground.
    Now that the party was assembled, al-Qasimi looked around and, spotting me, snapped his fingers as summons. I ambled over.
    Al-Qasimi’s English was perfect. “Where are the Major’s cars for his entourage?”
    “I explained to you earlier, when you requested cars, that none are permitted on the islands.”
    Al-Qasimi looked momentarily baffled, as if unused to being thwarted. I couldn’t believe he had assumed I would circumvent regulations just because he had demanded it. I was really convinced that he had simply not heard my earlier refusal, since it was so alien to him.
    “How does one move about the island then?”
    “We walk. Or ride scooters.”
    Al-qasimi’s lips twitched. “Impossible.”
    “There are some electric carts—”
    “They must do. Bring them here.”
    Taking my time, I walked over to the rental agency on the promenade and asked Rob Trowers to send all his carts down to the dock, and bill the Major.
    In half an hour or so, a procession of green-canopied electric carts—each carrying four persons, except