Caliphate (40 page)

"You've got to learn to delegate, young
odabasi
. You have a senior noncom, do you not?"

"Yes."

"Can he be trusted to lead some of the training?"

"Probably. The colonel says he's quite good. I haven't had a chance to see it yet."

"Then have him do so. You have an executive officer, don't you?"

"Yes, but he's an idiot," Hans said.

"All second lieutenants are idiots," said Matheson. "They become better through experience. Is he an idiot without energy?"

"Well . . . no. He seems more confused than lazy."

"Then unconfuse him. Give him some missions to accomplish on his own. Meanwhile,
you
sit in the ready room and watch the cameras. Snooze. Relax."

"I'll . . . try," said Hans, dubiously. "But I'll still have two jobs and only one me. I'm still going to be tired, if maybe a little less so."

"For normal fatigue," said Bernie, "up to a point, we have pills."

Hans was at Castle Honsvang, resting, it was devoutly to be hoped. Matheson and Ling had left this morning for am-Munch, Matheson taking the methane-powered car with him.

This left Hamilton and Petra alone. He still "owned" her for a few more days, and Latif still had his deposit against her return. With the mission upcoming and, in Hamilton's opinion, the really excellent chance that within a few days they'd all be dead, there was no question of, and less motivation for, sex.

And besides,
thought Hamilton,
lovely as she is, I haven't the first clue as to whether she's been doing it because she wants to, really, or because it's the only job she knows.

"Petra," he asked, "if we survive . . . make it through, what do you want to do with your life?"

I can't tell him I want to spend it with him
, she thought.
In the first place, it's ridiculous. He's an important man and I'm just a houri, defiled and defiling. He could never stay with me or want me with him permanently. What do I tell him?

Instead of telling, she asked, "What could I do? I can read but that's small beans in your world where all women can read. I know nothing but my . . . profession and that I would like to give up if I can."

"Well . . . of course you can," he said. "We have prostitutes where I come from but prostitution itself is illegal. They have even less of a position in my homeland than they do here. School? You can read, that's quite a bit. Would you like to go back to school?"

"Can you imagine me, at seventeen, sitting down at a desk too small, with my knees under my chin and surrounded by seven-year- olds?"

That was a funny image. Even so, he answered it seriously. "Maybe not in a regular classroom, no. How about if we hired a tutor for you?"

"I own nothing," she said. "Well . . . a little money I've saved hoping to buy myself back from Latif. But that's not enough for a tutor. Besides, I'll have to leave it behind. Asking for it would be too suspicious."

"I have money," he said. "Certainly enough for that. And there are programs, too, that help pay for such things. And my agency is going to owe you
big
if we pull this off."
Of course, if we don't, and the disease is released, we're all going to be dead. So the agency and the country will owe you
massively.

"Why should you pay for me?"

Because I think I'm in love with you? No, mustn't say that. How about,
"Because we're comrades in arms? Because we're friends? Because it's the right thing to do?"

She thought about that for a while. Instead of answering, though, she admitted, "I'm terrified, you know. I might have talked big about striking a blow against this rotten system. But I'm scared to death. Do you know what they'll do to me if they catch me? My brother told me. They'll nail me to a wooden cross and leave me hanging there in agony for days. He's seen it. He's had to do it. Then, when they've extracted the last bit of pain they can from me they'll come with big iron bars and smash my legs so I hangthereuntilIsuffocate." Her voice grew high and a little shrill on the last few, jumbled, half-hysterical words of the last sentence. She really was terrified, he could see, and had been hiding it.

"I won't let that happen," he said. "Whatever the cost."

"If it happens, you'll probably be there on the cross next to mine." She bent her head as her shoulders began to shake.

He took her head in his hands and lifted it up to face him. There were tears gathering in her eyes, he could see.

"
I won't let it happen,
" he promised, again. "If it gets that bad, well, they won't take either of us alive."

"You swear to it?"

"I swear."

"I've got to tell you something," Hamilton said. "I loved a girl once. She was a lot like you in looks, though, honestly, she was just pretty where you're really beautiful. She had all the advantages you never did. But she wasn't spoiled by it. She was very brave right to the end."

"The end?" Petra asked.

"We were in the Army together. Her platoon was ambushed. I couldn't get to her in time. She was killed. In the end, rather than let herself be captured she asked for fire to come in on herself."

"What was her name?"

"Laura . . . Laurie Hodge. I took it really hard for a long time. I suppose that's why I got out of the Army; it just reminded me every day that I'd failed her, a woman I loved."

Hamilton's face grew very serious. "But I won't fail
you
. I couldn't live with myself if I did."

And that was as close as he could come to telling Petra that he loved her.

The city was a better place for an artist than Kitzingen had been. This was true not only in the scenes and people there were to be drawn or painted, but in the ability to sell her work as well. There was more for Amal, as well; more culture, especially. This had figured into Gabrielle's decision to relocate a few years earlier, too.

Then, too, the EU was still growing jobs almost entirely in the public sector. With the country graying, young people leaving, and fewer paying taxes, Gabi needed the improved sales. Worse, given a choice between keeping up welfare payments and reducing the size of the bureaucracy, Europe had no choice. She was incapable of reducing either the number or the living standards of the bureaucrats. Indeed, she could not only not reduce, she had to expand. The bureaucrats were her most important supporters.

Mahmoud helped. He'd still not given up on getting Gabi and Amal to the United States. He called from Boston at least weekly and at least half of any given conversation was, subtly or openly, about just that. He was, in fact, nagging Gabi at the precise moment that the phone screeched and then went dead.

"Mommy," Amal called from the living room of their small apartment. "Mommy . . . something on television . . . something
bad
."

Gabi stood facing the television, tears coursing down her face and her little fist wedged between clenching teeth. The screen was split in three, each section showing a mushroom cloud over an American city. One of those cities was Boston and she knew now why the phone had shrieked and died.

The commentators were all as shocked as Gabi. People were bandying about inconceivable numbers of dead and dying. The bombs were apparently very old technology, very primitive, very powerful, and highly radioactive. Four million dead seemed likely, as each city had been caught during the work day, when the offices and buildings were most full.

Thank God
, Gabi thought, even through her tears, her loss, and her pain,
thank God I didn't take Amal there.
Then, realizing what she'd been thinking, she amended,
Thank fate, in any case.

Everyone was
sure
the United States would retaliate in some heavy- handed, murderous fashion. Thus, Gabi's art took a back seat for a while to her demonstrating, with other fair-minded people, against any such thing. Amal in tow, she was to be seen in Berlin, Frankfurt am Main, Hamburg, Munich. Wherever there was a gathering to remind the United States of its own responsibility for what had been done to it, there she was.

Nor was her voice subdued. Almost uniquely, she could point to Amal and say, "This baby lost a father and
she
is not crying out for a mindless vengeance." That voice could claim as well, "I lost my lover and
I
am not crying out for vengeance."

For a while, even, Gabi was something of a star. That stardom lasted until, eventually, everyone realized that the United States was
not
going to continue the game of mindless retribution, of the "eye for an eye" that left everyone blinded.

And after all, as the President of the United States said, "The perpetrators are all dead. Who is there to take revenge against?" That this was a lie was obvious to no one who wanted to believe it was true.

So, instead of revenge, the United States government reduced its aid to Israel and much increased the aid to Hamas, which had come out on top in the bitter feud with Fatah. It withdrew the last of its soldiers from Islamic soil. It accepted without demure a sudden, and serious, rise in the price of oil. It even changed the immigration rules to permit more immigrants from Moslem countries. It called off the pursuit of Osama bin Laden, which meant little in any case as Osama hadn't been heard from in years.

Of course, the President was only one woman, with one voice. There were other voices . . . carrying very different messages.

We have the right to kill four million Americans—two million of them children — and to exile twice as many and wound and cripple hundreds of thousands.

—Suleiman Abu Gheith
Al Qaeda Spokesmen, June 2002.

Bernie Matheson—no, he was Bongo again—shuffled like a proper
kaffir
in boarding the airship anchored near the shabby, run-down terminal. Ling walked behind, wrapped in a burka. Their bags were carried aboard by a short coffle of slaves, owned by the airship line. As chartering customers, rather, as the servant and presumptive slave of a chartering customer, there was none of the usual customs and security nonsense.

The flight engineer, Retief, met them at the hatchway. It really wasn't his job but he was doing a favor for the normal receptionist, the ship's purser, who was a bit late in getting back aboard ship.

"Welcome back, Mister Mathebula," Retief said. "Your quarters, and quarters for Mr. De Wet and his . . . guest . . . are prepared. We can leave in about two hours. Might I suggest a meal or, perhaps, a drink?" Retief's fingers indicated the direction of the cabin.

Bongo thought,
A frigging polite Boer? I hope we don't have to kill him.

"You have booze here,
baas
?" Bongo asked. "I thought . . . "

"The locals almost never inspect international carriers, Mr. Mathebula. When they do, a minimal bribe is generally sufficient to get them to leave our stocks alone."

"Might take drink,
baas
. Old Bongo plenty scared flying. No like it."

"No need to worry, Mr. Mathebula," Retief answered. "The ship's captain and executive officer are both very competent and even I am qualified to fly the ship, provided I don't have to make any fancy maneuvers or landings."

"Thank you,
baas
. Bongo feel much better."

While Bongo and Retief spoke, Ling walked past them in the direction Retief had indicated. Neither Retief nor Bongo could help noticing how really delightful the sway of her hips was as she walked ahead.

Later, in the cabin, Ling asked, in colloquial English, "What's this shuffling, 'Please don't beat yo' nigga,
baas
,' bullshit?"

"You're not Ling," Bongo said immediately. "Who are you and what are your qualifications?"

"
Zhong Xiao
Lee Gen, Celestial Kingdom's People's Liberation Army Air Force," Ling's lips answered.