Caliphate

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.

Interlude

Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany,

30 June, 2006

'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?'

'Gabi, it's Mahmoud. What's that crying in the background?'

I suppose there's no sense in trying to hide it now, she thought.

'Ummm . . . the baby. Your baby . . . errr . . . our baby.'

'And you didn't fucking tell me?'

'I didn't want to trap you,' she said, softly, less certain at the moment that she'd done the right thing. 'Or to seem like I was trying to trap you.'

Mahmoud, on the other end of the line, sighed heavily. Gabi could almost see him nodding in his fatalistic and accepting way.

'Okay,' he said. 'What now?'

'I don't know,' she answered. 'I still won't go to the United States.'

'And I won't live in Europe.'