Caliphate (32 page)

The children, all of them drained and numb, and numb with more than cold alone, shuffled stiffly out of the cargo trucks and began forming up in a mass as they'd learned to do. In this strange, cold and forbidding place, none even tried to make an escape, though guards were watching just in case.

A janissary noncom—
Funny that I never saw a janissary before this trip—
emerged from the main gate and politely introduced himself. Once Hamilton had made his business clear, the janissary sent for another man, this one responsible for logistics. The logistician counted the children, carefully, twice, and signed for them. His signature on the inventory sheet was all that was required for payment to be completed.

The noncom, he'd given his name as "Mashouf," looked Hamilton over with something between contempt and pity. Whether that was because Hamilton's assumed persona was that of a Boer infidel, or because he was in the distasteful business of selling children, Hamilton couldn't have guessed.

But it couldn't be worse than I feel about myself.

Hamilton felt no better as he and Bongo checked into one of the town's better hotels. The manager was all obsequious politeness as he showed the two to the "deluxe" suite. It had a living room and two bedrooms, was more or less reasonably furnished, although the furniture tended to the tacky in Hamilton's opinion.

"The maid will clean daily," the manager had said, "and if you need, she can perform other services as well."

"No . . . no, we won't need her for either," Hamilton answered. "My man here will keep the place up and if I need a woman, I'll probably go up to the other castle."

"Very good, sir. If you do, ask for Latif and tell him you're a guest of this hotel. We have an agreement for a discount."

"Thank you, I will."

The sun was long down, and Hans had repaired to the brothel with almost frantic haste. Ling hadn't been expecting him so soon, less still had Petra. If Ling was expecting anyone it was the agent from the American Empire, whose image had been electronically transferred via her chip directly to her memory.

Nonetheless, Ling cleared her slate while Petra rescheduled to give herself an hour's free time before the customers began rolling in heavily. The two had then taken charge of Hans.

In fact, they took very close charge of the man. Ling, with one look at his stricken face, had settled him in an alcove in the common room and then raced off to Latif to beg for him a bottle of forbidden alcohol.

"Sure, why not?" the whoremaster had shrugged. "You're one of my best girls . . . I can spare you a bottle in a worthy cause . . . for, let us say, five dinar?"

"Don't be a pirate, Latif," Ling had answered. "The stuff's worth no more than a few dirhem."

"For you," Latif countered, "four dinar."

"Twelve dirhem."

They'd finally settled on "one dinar, five dirhem"—objectively outrageous, but Ling had had little alternative—to be added to Ling's freedom price. Since she was not just a slave, but a chippie and hence could never be truly free, that seemed a small matter to her.

Now, Ling and Petra poured the stuff into Hans while he poured forth his story.

"It's monstrous," he said, not merely visibly shaken but visibly
shaking
, despite the copious amount of unfamiliar alcohol he'd taken on. "What goes on down in that castle is just . . . beyond belief . . . they're
infecting
people with a disease just to see if it works and to see if they can turn it off on command. Mostly old slaves but today they brought in a shipment of
children
. Can you imagine? Children?"

A little voice in Ling's head told her,
Get him to shut up. At least get him out of there. What he's talking about so freely could get you all put to death.

"Come on, Petra," Ling said, as naturally as if there were no voice. "We'll take him to my quarters. This is too public."

Expertly, the girls got Hans to his feet and maneuvered their way under his arms. This was not so unfamiliar a sight in the common room that any of the other clients really paid any attention, though Ling, of course, immediately alerted on her contact.

At least, none of the customers paid attention until Hans screamed, "Monster" and launched himself at a newly arrived customer, a tall, slender white type in clothing that screamed, "Infidel."

Hamilton had remembered a picture book from his childhood, showing a fairy castle then lost behind the "Iron Veil" of the

Caliphate. As a boy, the romance of the thing, the beauty in the pictures, hadn't moved him nearly so much as the crenellated battlements and towers. The differences he saw in the exterior of the castle were substantial enough that he had doubts the two images were even of the same structure. And, of course, the thing hadn't been painted in a very long time. White had changed to a dirty gray. Even the golden dome didn't really shine. It was all rather sordid and disappointing.

The inside of the place was still pretty splendid, Hamilton had to admit.
Better than the thatched roofs and dirt floors of
Moroland
, in any case. And that's even before counting the hookers in.

A doorman, elegantly dressed and of medium build, took Hamilton's heavy coat and asked, "How shall I sign you in, sir?"

"Johann De Wet, Boer Republic of South Africa," Hamilton answered. By now the use of the false name came easily.

"Very good,
Mineer
De Wet. And may I ask, is there a particular kind of girl you're looking for or would you prefer to look around?"

Being in no particular hurry, not wanting to make himself obvious by asking for the uniquely exotic Chinese chippie by type, and knowing Bongo could use the time to scout out the castle, Hamilton answered, "They all look so nice. Why don't I just look around?"

The doorman bobbed his head appreciatively and said, "Then, sir, I recommend that you take a table in the common room. The girls are trained not to be aggressive—this isn't that kind of place—but if you see one you like just call her over. They
are
trained to be accommodating."

"Thank you. I think I'll do that."

There were signs, written in three languages, pointing the way. Hamilton followed those. With no art, neither statuary nor paintings, to adorn the walls, Hamilton had no reason or excuse to draw the passage out. He went directly up the broad staircase and then proceeded on to what he would have known, from the noise, to be the common room even if the signs hadn't indicated it.

Walking through the main door, Hamilton was unsurprised to see two girls carting off an obviously drunken soldier. He recognized the uniform as being very similar to those worn by the guards at the other castle. He also noticed that his contact was one of the two girls.

Notwithstanding, he was immediately very taken by the other, the one on the left, a tall and svelte blonde much to his taste. The closer she came the more intrigued he became. She wasn't Laurie Hodge, if anything this girl was prettier, but she could have been a close cousin, or even a sister.

Thus it was that Hamilton was taken completely off guard when the uniformed soldier screamed "Monster!" and launched himself at him.

Both girls were bowled over by Hans' mad charge. By the time they managed to get to their feet Hans and the stranger were grappling on the floor, trading ineffectual punches and kicks. A couple of patrons grabbed their drinks and their girls and backed away from a table just in time to avoid Hans and Hamilton's knocking it over on them.

Latif was at the scene in an instant, accompanied by two amazingly beefy guards. These latter pulled Hans and Hamilton apart effortlessly even as Latif bellowed, "What in the one hundredth name of Allah is going on here?"

Ling glided over to stand in front of Hans. "He must have been fed something bad to drink," she said, lifting her head defiantly.
And you don't want to get in trouble for feeding alcohol to a janissary, do you?

The whoremaster nodded.
No, as a matter of fact I don't. Yet this will come out of your hide before it comes out of mine.
"Take him to your quarters," he commanded Ling. "And don't let him out until he's sober." To one of the guards he said, "Assist her."

Petra made as if to follow Ling until Latif held up one hand to block her. Latif glanced from the now bedraggled-looking new customer to Petra and back again.
Yes, he's interested in her.

To Hamilton he said, "Would it be considered adequate recompense, sir, for the insult you have suffered in my house if this woman is turned over to your use for . . . say . . . a week?"

Pity it isn't the chippie that he offered. Still, the two look like they work together so this may be useful. But be a Boer,
Hamilton thought.
Bargain.

"A week is hardly—"

"Two then. Surely that will assuage your honor."

"Two," Hamilton agreed, with a solemn nod.

"And the hospitality of the house," Latif said, loudly enough for the staff to hear.

"Must be something serious for Latif to give out free booze," said one of the nonhooking staff to a currently unattached girl.

"No shit," the houri answered.

"Push," the doctor said, gently but firmly and encouragingly. "Puuushshsh!"

Gabi heard him dimly, all her senses concentrated in the white light of sheer agony with its source somewhere around her stretched and tortured vagina.

"Ohgodohgodohgooo . . . aiaiaiai! Mahmoud, you SON OF A BIIITCH!" she screamed, head thrashing wildly from side to side on the thin hospital pillow. Of course, Mahmoud wasn't there. He was in Boston from which place he still wrote regularly, all glowing reports designed—she was sure—to lure her into the embrace of the enemy.

She missed him pretty badly. Ordinarily. When she wasn't passing a baby.

Mahmoud, and how much she missed him, however, were all quite forgotten as the next wave of wracking pain, this one worse than the previous, overtook her. Once again Gabi began her "Ohgodohgod . . . you motherFUCKER, Mahmouououd!" refrain.

"Funny how few genuine atheists there are in birthing beds," muttered the doctor in attendance. Even as Gabi gasped, his skilled hands were working to catch and lift the baby, while cutting and binding the umbilical.

Her breasts were still heaving when she heard a slap and an outraged cry. And then the doctor laid her new daughter to her breast and it was all much, much better.

In many ways, art was an ideal occupation for a single mother in the Federal Republic of Germany, for not only was there a substantial social safety net, but art was, as often as not, sold "under the table" and much of the income derived from its sale was never reported. Of course, some of it was reported because Germany's social safety net benefits went up, up to a certain point, based on the normal income and contributions of the worker. It was going to be a high tight-rope walk for Gabi to eke out the most benefit for herself and the baby, reporting some income and keeping the rest to herself.

The baby was not, of course—and never would be, as far as Gabrielle was concerned—christened. For that matter, she didn't opt for a traditional name, Germanic or Christian. Instead, mindful of the baby's father and wanting her to be a part of Mahmoud, as well, Gabi chose "Amal." In Arabic, this meant "Hope."

One of the reasons, and perhaps the major one, that Gabi had always been ambivalent about motherhood was, as she frankly admitted to herself, a mix of fear of inadequacy and fear of responsibility. She was pleased to discover that both fears were groundless, that she already had everything important required to be a mother. That was one surprise, but not the biggest. The biggest was that she
loved
being a mother.

"Not that I want to do the whole thing over again, mind you," she said to Amal while changing the baby's diaper.
And isn't it funny how your own baby's poop doesn't really stink?
"You are quite enough for me and if your father will only come to his senses, I'll have everything I want."

Gabi was just finished taping the diaper in place when the phone rang, setting her to running for it even as it set Amal to crying.

"Hello?"