Chapter 7
let us in the apartment complex and led me down a flight of stairs. I stayed two steps behind him. Parking up a couple of levels was my idea. Bad enough I had to park my classic in Hell's Kitchen, the least I could do was stow it in the slightly more affluent upper levels.
At apartment 301, Michael stopped and knocked once. Without waiting for a response, he entered. I hesitated only briefly before following him through.
"Gabe?" Michael called out. Water came on in the back of the apartment. Followed by the clinking sound of someone doing dishes. Michael headed toward the sound. "Gabe?"
Michael didn't invite me to follow him into the kitchen, so I closed the door behind me. I heard the lock engage automatically. A large tricolor flag spanned two windows. The top edge was held in place by several thumbtacks. It did double duty as a curtain, although not very well. Light from the passing cars flashed through the threadbare material, first brown, then yellow and green. The pattern seemed familiar, but I couldn't be certain. Pan-African or some such, I decided, as I scanned the rest of the apartment. "
The walls were as thin as the cloth, and street noise filled the tiny apartment. Gaudy wallpaper peeled away from the edges of a water-stained ceiling, and a single bare lightbulb hung dangerously overhead. Despite the harsh light it cast, the apartment felt homey. Brick-and-board bookshelves lined most of the walls and under the windows. Five worn but comfortable-looking chairs circled about a battered end table. The smell of dark-roasted coffee wafted in from somewhere and mingled with the strong aroma of curry.
I snooped around for something that resembled bio-tech equipment, though I would have settled for anything made in this decade. The only thing I saw was dusty hard-copy tomes on Islam, the Bahai movement, versions of the Koran, political history, and Malcolm X. Not one medical journal among them. As a roach scuttled along one of the bookshelves, my stomach fluttered. My only hope was that a sterile lab was hidden behind one of the bookshelves, like something out of James Bond.
An eruption of masculine laughter came from the kitchen. Through the rumble of their voices, the words were impossible to distinguish. The sound had an odd pattern and cadence. It was fast-paced and rose at the end of phrases definitely not English.
Just as I was ready to burst in and introduce myself, a black man stepped into the hallway. His skin was a well-worn, walnut hue, so deep it almost seemed to glow. A dazzling smile still graced an open and expressive face. Dark brown eyes twinkled when he saw me. Salt-and-pepper hair was cut short on the sides. He wore a loose-fitting, button-down shirt and jeans, and looked like the farthest thing from a biotech.
"I'm Jibril. You must be Deidre." He smiled again, this time just for me. He took two steps, closing the distance between us, and extended his hand.
"No, I must be crazy." I took his hand and pumped it once, grinning maniacally. I noticed a bright flash of something embedded in his forehead between the eyes. "You have one of those new microchip tattoos?" I asked.
Jibril nodded sagely. "Would you like to see it?"
I'd always been curious how those things worked, so I said, "Yes."
He closed his eyes for a moment, and the chip began to glow slightly. When I stared at it, I saw a swirling, gilded script moving from right to left between his eyes.
"It's beautiful," I said. "But I can't read the words. What does it say?"
Strolling out of the kitchen, Michael leaned against the doorframe. " 'There is no God, but Allah,' " Michael translated, " 'and Muhammad is the prophet of God.' "
"Heckuva statement," I breathed.
With a hardy laugh, Jibril clapped me on the shoulder. "You're right, Michael. Definitely refreshing."
"Didn't I tell you so?" Michael smiled. "Deidre is a regular firebrand."
Our brief dash in rain had soaked Michael's leather jacket. He stood so close that I could smell the musty, wet odor. The curls of his hair hung enchantingly over one eye. I wondered how it would feel to reach up and run my fingers through it.
I cleared my throat, and a soft punch to his arm hid my growing embarrassment. "You getting sweet on me, big guy?"
Jibril bright grin faded. "My prince," he said, arching his eyebrow.
"A discussion for another time." Michael glared at Jibril. Though his tone was light, the smile he gave Jibril held a trace of tightness.
"Of course, but ... If you want to talk about it, I've been there, you know."
"Who could forget," Michael said with a smile.
"Yes, well." Jibril coughed out a little laugh. Turning to me, he brightened. "You came here for something. Let me get it for you."
I frowned. Jibril made it sound like the LINK was something he could just pull down from his bookcase and hand over. " 'Get it for me'? Shouldn't we prepare for surgery or something?"
"You'll see." He smiled cryptically. Jibril walked over to the flag-draped window. Kneeling next to the bookcase underneath, he retrieved a small wooden box. It was plain dark wood, perhaps mahogany. There were no markings on it whatsoever, and it was about the size of an old cigar box. He pulled out something small and shiny. He replaced the box, and returned to my side. His hands enveloped mine. His skin felt dry against my sweating palms.