The Seven Keys of Balabad Read online

  But Alamai held her ground.

  “Our intention was not to insult you, Rahimullah Sadeq,” she said, placing her hand over her heart. “These are strange times we live in. Times when government ministers evaporate from their offices and giant carpets vanish into thin air.”

  Alamai glanced over her shoulder at Oliver and Zee.

  “My father believes these events are connected, that whoever stole the Sacred Carpet is also behind the disappearance of our friend. He thought you could help us,” she said.

  The warlord sat up slowly on his stool and pulled on his orange beard. He waved his hook at the young man sitting in the corner of the shop and muttered a question to him in a Baladi dialect that none of the children could understand.

  The man nodded quickly, then scurried out the door.

  “Agamon's carpet, you say?” said the warlord. “Now, perhaps we may be coming to something.”

  “You know something about theft of the Sacred Carpet?” asked Zee, leaping forward excitedly, and earning a disapproving glare from Alamai.

  “Me? No,” said Rahimullah Sadeq. He turned to Alamai with a thin smile. “But like you say, daughter of Halabala, I may know somebody who knows somebody. I may have heard a whisper.”

  Rahimullah got to his feet and turned his back on his three visitors. He reached up on the shelf behind him and grabbed a long dagger, its turquoise- encrusted handle carved into the shape of a Siberian bear. He gently unsheathed the blade.

  “It is beautiful, is it not?” he said, gesturing toward the dagger's ornate handle.

  Suddenly, the warlord flung the dagger down so that the blade pierced the wooden counter and stood quivering in place. Oliver nearly leapt out of his shoes.

  Rahimullah emerged from behind the counter, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentle and calm.

  “Whenever I look at it, Alamai, I think of your father. Our great bear. I owe Hamid Halabala my life,” the warlord said. “And so I will do everything I can to help you. But please, don't speak of this to anyone. One does not get very far in my line of work by breaking confidences.”

  The children nodded in agreement.

  “I'll tell you one thing,” Rahimullah continued. “I have been in this business for many years and I have learned a trick or two, but even the great Rahimullah Sadeq could not have made the Sacred Carpet disappear. He who did this must have had connections that reach to the very top. It is the only explanation.”

  Just as Rahimullah spoke, his young assistant returned, accompanied by a small man with a mop of unruly black hair and a few day's stubble on his face. The man's shalwar kameez was filled with holes, and he was missing most of his front teeth. He bowed his head low before Rahimullah, slinking forward to clasp the warlord's hand.

  He mumbled something in Baladi, but Rahimullah shot back his reply in English.

  “Stand up!” said the warloard.

  The man rose and glanced around the room, aware for the first time that he must be in the midst of foreigners. In his experience, that could only mean danger.

  But the most extraordinary object of all was the warlord himself.

  “I pray I have not done anything to upset you, great Rahimullah,” he hissed. “I do not want trouble.”

  “And you will have no trouble,” said Rahimullah. “If you give me and my friends the information we need.”

  The man glanced back at the three children. He held out his hands and shook his head from side to side.

  “I'm sure I wouldn't know anything,” he said.

  “I haven't even told you what this is about yet,” said Rahimullah.

  “Some days ago, some men were snooping around the market, looking to put a team together for a job up north. They were offering a lot of money, if my sources tell me correctly.”

  The warlord fixed his eyes on the unfortunate thief before him.

  “I hear you were one of the men they hired,” he said.

  The man grabbed desperately at his tattered shalwar kameez, his face pale with terror.

  “Please, Rahimullah, sir, I was hardly involved. I am a simple man,” he insisted. “All I did was help load the carpet onto the truck. My mother is sick and—”

  “Enough!” bellowed the warlord. “I don't care about your troubles. Have you no honor? Stealing from a mosque, and the Sacred Carpet, no less! You make me ashamed to be a thief.”

  The man looked around the shop, hoping for a way out. But there was nowhere to run. He glanced behind him, but Rahimullah's assistant was blocking the door.

  “Tell me who hired you,” said Rahimullah.

  “I don't know who hired me,” said the thief. “He didn't tell me his name, and for that kind of money, I didn't insist.”

  “You lie!” said Rahimullah.

  “No, I swear it is true,” said the man, falling to his knees. “I beg you.”

  “How did they get past the police? How did they make the carpet disappear?”

  “They paid off every policeman in the valley,” said the man. “The guard at the mosque was bought off for a song.”

  Rahimullah regarded him for a moment, then nodded his head.

  “What did he look like, the man who hired you?”

  “I don't know,” said the thief. “He was a foreigner. They all look the same to me.”

  Rahimullah leaned down and grabbed the man by the scruff of his collar.

  “There are a thousand foreigners in Balabad. There must be something more you can tell us about this man. Something that you remember!”

  The man ran his fingers through his hair and thought a moment.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, there was something….”

  “Tell us,” said Rahimullah. “And if you deceive us, I promise that I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your short life.”

  “His hands—” said the thief, looking wildly about the room.

  “Hands!” said Rahimullah. “You'll have to do better than that.”

  “If you had seen them, you'd understand,” said the thief. “I will never forget those horrible hands. They were as white as the fangs of a wolf, and as cold as the snow on the Ghozar peaks.”

  o, what in the world do we do now?” said Zee. “Shake hands with every foreigner in Balabad until we find one with cold fingers?”

  The three friends were back at the kebab stand on Mansur Street, trying to make sense of the most extraordinary morning of their lives. They had learned more about the greatest crime in Baladi history than even the police had been able to manage. But they still didn't know the name of the mastermind, and more importantly, they had no idea how they would find Mr. Haji.

  “We do not yet have all the answers, but we do have some clues about this man,” said Alamai.

  “Like what?” snapped Zee. “It's like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “You ul- Hazais are too quick to be defeated,” shot back Alamai. “As well as knowing about his strange hands, we know that he is well connected, and we know that he is a foreigner. That is of great relief to me. I could never believe a Baladi was behind such a shameful crime.”

  “You are so naive,” said Zee. “Baladis may not have been behind the plot, but they were a part of it. The guard at the mosque was bribed, and Baladi thieves were hired to spirit the carpet away.”

  Alamai shot Zee a dirty look, her green eyes flashing in anger.

  “What would you know about it?” she said. “You're only half Baladi, anyway, with your jeans and your fancy sunglasses. Your family could come and go as it pleased, while the rest of us stayed here and suffered through the war. Who are you to pass judgment?”

  “Who am I?” Zee shouted, pulling the skeleton key out from under his shalwar kameez. “It was my house that was broken into. It is my family that has been most affected by this—”

  There was a crash as Oliver slammed his 7UP bottle down on the plastic table.

  “I've got it!” he shouted.

  “Got what?” said Zee.
r />   “What do you mean?” said Alamai.

  “Cold hands! Cold hands! I know I've heard that somewhere before,” said Oliver.

  “What are you talking about?” said Zee, pushing his long hair out of his eyes.

  But Oliver didn't answer. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and dialed his parents’ number.

  “Mom,” he said quickly. “What was the name of that archaeologist? The one with the really cold hands?”

  “ugo Schleim!” exclaimed Alamai, her eyes full of P W wonder. “How could you possibly know this?”

  It had been just five minutes since Oliver phoned his mother, and already he, Alamai, and Zee were crammed into the backseat of a brightly colored Baladi rickshaw, hurtling through the crowded streets toward the Mandabak Hotel. There was no time to call Sher Aga to pick them up, and the hotel was clear across town, so walking wasn't an option, either.

  Oliver told Alamai and Zee about the reception for Hugo Schleim that his mother had gone to at the Mandabak, about the slimy kiss the archaeologist had given her, and about his ice- cold hands.

  “It makes perfect sense,” Oliver said. “Schleim is a foreigner and he has connections. There were loads of important people at the reception, and according to my father's article, he was one of the last people to see Aziz Aziz before he disappeared.”

  Zee shook his head in disbelief.

  “Oliver,” he said dryly. “I always knew you were a fun guy to hang out with, but I think I may have underestimated you. Alamai, I do believe that we are in the presence of greatness.”

  “We are! We are!” Alamai agreed. “There is no doubt about it.”

  The Mandabak was one of the most famous hotels in Balabad City, and for good reason. The place oozed intrigue like a black- and- white detective movie. The owner was a retired English boxer named Simon. Legend had it he had been caught throwing a title fight in London and barred from the ring for life in the 1970s, so he'd decided to pack it all in and come to Balabad. He was one of the only outsiders to have stayed through the long years of war, and nobody was quite sure how he had survived.

  The hotel was set up in the abandoned British Embassy, a graceful white mansion that seemed transplanted from the English countryside. A marble stairway led up the center of the building to the lobby, and there were wide bay windows on either side.

  The hotel guests were a mix of silver- suited businessmen and backpack- wearing tourists, with a smattering of wealthy Baladis thrown in.

  “Wow,” said Alamai as the three friends raced up the front stairs. “I did not know such a place existed in Balabad.”

  The Mandabak lobby had smooth tile floors and a carved wooden staircase leading up to the guest rooms.

  Behind a dark wooden desk sat a dapper Baladi man with a thin mustache and short-cropped hair. He regarded them quizzically. It wasn't every day that three breathless children showed up at the hotel unaccompanied.

  “Can I help you?” said the hotel man.

  “Perhaps,” said Oliver, trying to sound as grown- up as possible. “We're looking for Mr. Hugo Schleim.”

  “Schleim?” said the man, glancing down at a guest list on the desk in front of him. “Is he expecting you?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Oliver lied. “He should be.”

  The man ran his finger up and down the list.

  “Well, that's very odd,” he said, his voice skeptical. “Mr. Schleim checked out first thing this morning.”

  “He did?” said Oliver, his heart sinking. “But that's impossible. Where could he have gone?”

  The hotel clerk shrugged his shoulders.

  “I wouldn't be able to tell you,” he said.

  After all the excitement of the Thieves Market and his brainstorm at the kebab stand, Oliver had half expected to burst straight into Hugo Schleim's hotel room and find Mr. Haji tied to a chair.

  But if they weren't at the hotel, they could be anywhere.

  “Now see here, my good man. There must be some misunderstanding,” said Zee confidently. “My friends and I had an appointment to see Mr. Schleim today. We are here on behalf of my father. Please tell the manager that Zaheer Mohammed Warzat ul- Hazai, son of Abdullah Qureshi Warzat ul- Hazai, would like to see him immediately.”

  Oliver glanced at Zee. He could swear hid friend had grown about three inches taller. He sounded exactly like his father dressing down a member of the ul- Hazai household staff.

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” said the man behind the counter, twitching his mustache and straightening himself up. “I'll just call Mr. Kale.”

  He picked up a phone and cupped his hand over the receiver, and a moment later, a middle- aged Englishman with thick arms, a bald head, and a tough, round nose popped out from behind a door in back of the counter.

  “Mr. ul- Hazai,” he said. “I'm Simon Kale. It's a pleasure to have you with us. What can I do for you?”

  “Thank you,” said Zee, giving him a slight nod. “My father passes on his best wishes to you.”

  “It's very kind of him to remember us,” said Mr. Kale.

  There was an excruciatingly long pause.

  “Actually, we are here on very important business,” said Zee. It was obvious, to Oliver at least, that he was making it up as he went along.

  “Oh?” said the hotel owner.

  “Yes, yes,” said Zee, his mind racing to fill in the details. “You see, Mr. Schleim is in possession of something of ours. A very special item from my father's personal collection. We had arranged to retrieve it from him today.”

  “Ah, I see,” said the Englishman. “How strange. Mr. Schleim didn't mention anything to us. This is most unfortunate. I wish I could help, but I'm afraid I have no idea where he's gone.”

  “Well, perhaps he left the item behind in his room,” said Zee.

  “Gosh,” said Mr. Kale. “I suppose that's always possible—”

  “I'm sure it would be no inconvenience if we had a look,” Zee said quickly, cutting him off. “My father would be extremely appreciative. Would you mind showing us the way?”

  “Sh-show you the way?” Mr. Kale stammered. “Of course, of course, I guess that would be all right.”

  He bent down to grab a set of keys from a drawer in the desk.

  “Right this way.”

  The three children followed Mr. Kale up the stairs and down a narrow hallway to a wooden door with the number six painted on it. The hotel owner opened the lock and pushed the door open to reveal a bright, airy room with a large brass bed, a wooden desk, and a round coffee table surrounded by three leather chairs. The bed was unmade, and there was a half-empty bottle of mineral water and a half-eaten breakfast of croissants and marmalade on the coffee table, along with several pieces of fruit.

  “I don't believe anybody has been in to clean yet,” said Mr. Kale. “But I'm afraid it doesn't look as if Mr. Schleim has left anything behind.”

  “Are you sure he didn't say anything about where he was going?” Oliver asked desperately.

  “Not to me,” said Simon. “The truth is, Mr. Schleim didn't say much of anything the whole time he was here. He would leave very early each morning and come back late each night, usually well past dinnertime. Sometimes a friend would pick him up in the mornings, a blond guy with shaggy hair, but he didn't say much, either.”

  Zee walked over to the coffee table and picked up one of the pieces of fruit. It was oval in shape and a dark indigo color, much like a plum. The skin was smooth and covered by a thin gray bloom. He held it up to his nose.

  “My compliments, Mr. Kale,” he said without turning around. “You must be the only hotel in Balabad to serve damsons with breakfast. That is a very nice touch.”

  “Oh, that's not part of the hotel breakfast,” said Mr. Kale. “Mr. Schleim would bring those back with him each night. Lord knows where he got them. I haven't seen damsons since I left England. Personally, I find them a bit sour.”

  Zee whirled around to face the hotel owner.

  �
��You say Mr. Schleim brought these back with him every night?” he said.

  “Yes,” Mr. Kale replied. “I wish he'd told me where he got them. I didn't think you could find damsons in Balabad.”

  “You can't,” said Zee calmly.

  He clutched the fruit in his hand.

  “Except in one place,” he continued. “The British brought damson seeds to Balabad in the nineteenth century. They were a gift for the king of that time, and he had them planted in the gardens on the grounds of the Royal Palace.”

  “I didn't know that,” said Mr. Kale. “And I have lived here for thirty years.”

  “My father has always been close to His Highness,” Zee explained. “He used to play at the palace as a child. The gardens are one of the first places he took me to see when we came back.”

  “Well, I never!” exclaimed the Englishman. “I'll have to go up there and take a look someday.”

  Zee glanced from Alamai to Oliver, a wide grin creeping across his face.

  “I was thinking the exact same thing,” he said.

  oments after Oliver, Alamai, and Zee entered the Mandabak Hotel, a second rickshaw swung onto the street with a terrible screech. It shot straight past the front door and glided to a stop in the shade of a leafy tree halfway down the road.

  “Perfect,” said the rickshaw passenger, handing the driver a crisp one- hundred- dollar bill. “You speak English?”

  “For one hundred dollars, I speak anything you want,” said the driver with a smile. “I am study two years English at home with my—”

  “Too much information,” said the passenger, cutting him off. “Now, just twist your side mirror around so I can see the front door.”

  The driver tucked the money into his pocket and did what he was told.

  “Anything else, sir?” asked the driver, turning around to face his new favorite customer. He might have been a big tipper, but he was also a strange- looking man, with a red, swollen mash of a nose, wild blond hair tucked underneath a gray turban, and cold blue eyes that didn't fully open.

  “No. Just sit tight. We could be here for a while.