Caliphate

asking. Neither cop had an answer. They knew the woman's daughter had been hurt and was in the hospital, but that was all they knew . . . about the daughter. The policemen recognized well enough the artist woman who'd been so prominent in the papers and on television a couple of years prior.

One of the policemen helped Gabi to walk on unsteady knees from the patrol car into the emergency room. Surprisingly, a doctor and another policemen, this one in mufti, met them near the door. He led them to a small alcove, not too private but as good as could be procured on the spot.

'Your daughter was attacked,' the doctor said, even before Gabi could ask a question. 'She's hurt . . . badly, I'm afraid. And, yes, she was raped.'

Gabi sank into herself, weeping and cringing at the thought of her sweet and innocent baby attacked by animals.

'We don't know who did it,' the plainclothes policemen added. 'She was in a neighborhood where this sort of thing happens a lot. Usually they leave German girls alone unless the girls have some connection with the Muslims.'

Gabi said, between sobs, 'My daughter . . . had an . . . Arab . . . father.'

'That might explain it,' the policeman agreed, 'assuming she looked the part.'

Gabi swallowed, forced herself to be calm, and asked, 'There's more, isn't there?'

'Yes.' The policeman looked at the doctor as if begging him to take this burden.

Hesitantly, the doctor said, 'Ms. Von Minden . . . after they raped her . . . maybe before . . . maybe even during . . . they beat her pretty badly. She has several broken ribs and a broken arm. She's concussed. One knee is dislocated.'

At each addition to the injuries Gabi shuddered as if struck. She looked at the doctor through her tears. 'There's more, isn't there?'

The policemen put his finger to his cheek and drew a line down to the corner of his mouth. 'It's a Moslem thing,' he said. 'They slashed her face open so she'll have to wear a veil for the rest of her life.'

Gabi stood. Her fists clenched in front of her face. She felt feelings she should never have felt, thought thoughts she should never have had. But this was no abstract principle. This was her daughter, her flesh and blood, who had been hurt. She began to speak, coherently at first and then rising to a scream. 'We should have gassed them . . . we should have gassed them . . . we should have gassed them . . . WE SHOULD HAVE GASSED THEM!'

Chapter Nineteen

But when it comes to this disaster, who started it? In his literature, writer al-Rafee says, 'If the woman is in her boudoir, in her house and if she's wearing the veil and if she shows modesty, disasters don't happen.'

—Sheik Taj Din Al Hilaly

an-Nessang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

Cursing herself for a fool, Petra ran toward the edge of the town. I'm an idiot, an idiot, an idiot! I've lost my damned communicator and now Hans and John are both probably frantic.

She stopped where the woods ended, looking right and left for any sign of people, especially policemen or janissaries. She saw none. Heart pounding, she released the folds of the burka she'd gathered up so she could run through the woods. She looked again for signs of people. Seeing none, and still gripping her submachine gun, she sprinted—as best she could, given the constraints of the burka— across the frozen field and for the shadows of the town. That few towns in Germany had streetlights anymore, an-Nessang not being among those that did, helped.

Breathless, Petra slammed herself against a wall and then crouched down, much like a feral animal. She listened for the sound of footsteps for a while and, after hearing none, stood and tucked her submachine gun in the folds of her burka. Even there, her fingers remained wrapped around the pistol grip of the weapon.

Trying to exude a confidence, a sense of right-to-be- there, that she did not feel, Petra walked out from the shadows in the direction of the car where she was to meet Hans or John. Her footsteps were brisk, her pace steady. A lone policeman, leaning against a lamppost, shivering and in the process of nodding off, nodded to her form instead. Politely, she nodded back and continued on her way.

Petra, raised first in a Christian town and then in a brothel, didn't know that any show of friendliness was overwhelmingly likely to be misunderstood as a show of interest, an invitation. The policeman, cognizant of his power and authority, cold and thinking perhaps of getting much warmer, followed her.

Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

The situation was about to get hot. Still, Hans crouched behind the heavy oaken table, reinforced by chairs and trunks and whatever was to hand, that he and Hamilton had set up to cover the gate once it fell off of its hinges or was otherwise smashed through. He wasn't too worried about a direct hit. True, the oak, even at two inches thick, wasn't up to warding off rifle fire. But the trunks and other pieces in front of and behind the oak should have been enough.

A direct hit wasn't going to be the only problem, though. The open foyer in which he hid was of stone. That stone would cause ricochets. And against those, Hans had no protection at all but his officer class torso armor.

He didn't expect a lot of protection from it but, even so, Hans took the crucifix from under his uniform and hung it plainly on the outside.

Bam . . . bam . . . bam, the ram battered at the gate. Hans heard a sound of wood cracking and splintering. Bam . . . bam . . . crrraackckck and the left-hand side of the gate popped open, followed by the right.

Hans didn't hesitate. As soon as the wooden gate was out of the way he opened fire, holding the trigger down until bolt locked to rear on an empty magazine. In the confined space of the alcove before the gate, perhaps no more than ten feet by twelve, Hans put just over one bullet into every two square feet. The half dozen janissaries holding the ram were cut down like harvested wheat. Except that wheat doesn't bleed or scream.

'Goddammit, Matheson!' the pilot screamed. 'I'm losing lifting gas like you wouldn't fucking believe and if you don't get your ass up and I'm leaving without you!'

'Calm down, Lee, I'm on my way,' the black answered, as he prepared to close the door from the lab to the staircase. Already, with every burner in the crematorium on full blast, the temperature in the lab was inimical to human life. How high it would get neither Matheson nor Richter could be certain.

The fail safe proved to be a nonconcern. If the crematorium had such, it certainly didn't work. Matheson suspected that the burners worked only because they had no moving parts.

'Lee,' Matheson asked, 'are the kids loaded?'

'How the fuck do I know? My buoyancy is dropping so fast I can't even tell you what my weight is. Maybe they're on; maybe they're not.'

'Roger. I'm on my way.' Matheson hurried up the stone steps several flights before stumbling over a child who cried out.

'Shit. Lee, don't go anywhere. The kids are not, repeat not, loaded.'

'Jesus H. Christ,' said Lee.

'I'm getting them on their feet now. Just hold on.'

'I'm trying to hold on, you dumb son of a bitch. I just can't guarantee I'll be . . . ah shit.'

'What? What is it?' Matheson asked.

'Lost another gas cell. You've got to hurry.'

'On your feet, children,' Matheson shouted in Afrikaans, a language most of the boys and girls had at least some familiarity with. 'Now up the steps.'

'We tried, baas,' one of the girls answered. 'The way is blocked by the rest of us.'