The Crisis by David Poyer Page A

father’s names too. They do not change them when they are married.”
    She blinked out the window, shielding her eyes against the glare. The city—a town really—looked nearly empty. Then, as they passed side streets, furiously active. Here and there a balcony or stuccoed wall reminded her of Italy, but shabbier. The dilapidated, crumbling buildings were one-or two-story, painted either white or bright green or blue. Here and there one had collapsed on itself. A woman in a sarilike robe, colorful as a tankful of cichlids, stared from the shade of a ragged awning. Hundreds of flimsy plastic bags slowly tumbled in the wind, past lean men standing by wooden booths, jiggling something in their pockets. One stepped into the street and spat where they’d just passed.
    â€œWhat are they selling?” Erculiano said, peering past her. “I don’t see anything for sale.”
    She twisted, trying to see, but caught only dark visages glowering after them. Her face was black too, but there was no acknowledgment of that in those eyes. Her gaze caught on a line of children sitting against a wall. Their thin legs cocked up in sharp angles. She looked after them for a long time, until they were out of sight.
    â€œIs there famine in the city, Bahdoon?”
    â€œNo famine. Plenty of rice and bread. The president feeds us all. Unless of course they are a rebel.”
    A few blocks on what looked very much like a mob pushed and shoved in front of a row of shops. “Is there unrest in the city?” she asked. “I saw something going on down that street we just passed. Were those looters?”
    â€œNo, no unrest. That is the Indian Quarter. If there is crime, that is for the police to deal with. I’m sure they are on their way. Only a few more minutes to headquarters.” He jerked his neck as if something were biting him between the shoulder blades, and looked away, to the other side of the speeding, lurching car.
    Aisha followed his gaze and saw two men beating up a third, who sagged, staring past his assailants as if he weren’t participating. All three were in colorful shirts and ragged pants. The victim’s gaze followed their car but his expression didn’t change as his eyes seemed to meet hers. Probably, given the tinted windows, he hadn’t seen her at all.
    The mansarded redbrick palace with corner towers was encircled by not just a tall iron fence but a moat. Once it must have been decorative. Now it was a dried-up ring of cracked mud and puddles of scum. The roofs shone the pale green of old copper. More of the troops who’d guarded the airport stood at the gate. A red-and-white crossing barrier from a World War II movie swung up as a guard leaned on the lever arm.
    â€œThe Service of Interior Documentation,” Bahdoon explained. “You will meet our minister, Monsieur Mukhtar Samatar. He is eager to give you every assistance in your mission.”
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    SAMATAR however wasn’t in, and from the looks of the offices, she wondered if he’d ever return. Despite being ringed by troops, the Palais de Sécurité felt abandoned. Bureaucrats in sweated-through pants and dress shirts sat tensely at desks, blinking, smoking one cigarette after another.
    Bahdoon finally found a major who agreed to sit down with them, in a dingy cubby in a subbasement. Apparently a cell block, though now there didn’t seem to be anyone in the holding area, which was dark. But the little Ashaaran didn’t accompany them, vanishing between the main floor and the basement.
    A lower-level policeman who spoke English sat in to translate. An aged, bent, very black clerk or transcriptionist crooned to herself near the door as she bent over an old ledger spidery with ink, which was literally—Aisha looked twice—chained to her desk. A ceiling fan that looked as if it had hung for a century without dusting rocked with a protesting squeal as it rotated at the speed of a