always, reminded her of shredded weeds.
Mirsaad's mouth sketched a quick grin. 'No. He is just filling in. He speaks no English.'
She decided to take that information with a pinch of salt. After all, nobody but Mirsaad knew that she spoke Arabic.
Keeping one eye on the small council office across the street, she took a sip of tea and adjusted her posture to stop one of the machine guns from digging uncomfortably into her breast.
'What sort of story are you going to file?' she asked.
The reporter finished chewing a mouthful of food before answering. 'Not one that will make me popular with the good burghers of Neukolln,' he said quietly. 'The shariatown vote is very big news here. Very divisive. It is being used by the right to whip up anti-immigrant feeling. It is being used in the Muslim neighborhoods to further entrench separatism. Meanwhile, guilt-ridden liberal Germans torture themselves over how much respect they must show other cultures because of 'past mistakes.''
'The best lack all conviction while the worst are full passionate intensity, eh?'
'Something like that, yes,' he answered once he understood what she meant.
'And your story?'
'Well, I must be balanced, of course.' His cheeky expression implied that he would be nothing of the sort. He leaned forward and spoke carefully. 'But I see nothing good coming of this, Caitlin. Back in 2001, well before the Disappearance, the Islamic Federation of Berlin, after twenty years of trying, finally succeeded in getting the city to allow purely Islamic schools to take in Muslim children. The city no longer controls those lessons, which are more often in Arabic than German and usually are held behind closed doors, especially for girls. Not long after that, the hijab became much more common. Girls began leaving school as early as possible. Groups of male students formed associations that now lobby for their schools to become fully fledged madrassas. It is a disaster for these children, and for Germany…'
He paused and glanced around the small cafe.
'I see this vote on localized sharia law for civil cases as being the same but worse, infinitely worse. Does that make sense?'
'Yes.' She nodded while keeping one eye on the building across the street.
'Let me tell you a story,' he said, warming to his theme so much that he forgot his lunch. 'When I first arrived in Germany in 1992, I came as a trainee for Deutsche Welle Radio. I was hired partly because of my background, partly because of my language skills. I speak five languages; did you know that?'
'Bret did say something about it once,' she said, nodding. Two black crows and their male shadow disappeared behind the iron grilled door.
'The flight I caught from Amman stopped in Turkey, and many migrants got on. Families of guest workers. One of them sat next to me. He looked like a goat farmer, because he was a goat farmer from somewhere outside Nevsehir. He had never flown before. Probably never been in powered transport at all. I had to do his seat belt for him. Show him how the tray table worked. Show him to the toilet. I don't know what he did in there, but I heard the crew complaining bitterly about it later. He sat next to me in his old sandals and skullcap, working his prayer beads. He was inches away but unreachable. He lived in another time. Another world, Caitlin. If he is alive, he lives there still, despite having been in Germany for over fifteen years. His body might dwell here, but his mind and soul remain firmly in the past. A past he considers superior in every way to the reality of modern life.'
She sipped at her tea and regarded him anew. The lines in his body were all tense, and his jawline bulged as he ground his teeth. She tracked the old shop clerk with her peripheral vision as well as two tables of men who had just sat down on the other side of the cafe. But the reporter had kept his voice down, and the music was loud enough to have covered his little monologue.
'You ever thought of moving to the States?' she asked. 'They're looking for settlers. Five languages would give you a head start on your hundred points to qualify. Your choice of career could have been better, though. That old goat farmer would probably be thought of as more useful than a reporter.'
'That old goat farmer would be the death of America,' he replied earnestly before suddenly loosening up.
'But yes, I have thought about it. Laryssa and I have even discussed it. She is a qualified nurse. She would easily find a placement there. But the fighting in New York. And this fascist Blackstone. I fear we would be jumping from the frying pan into the fire.'
'Could be,' she conceded.
The door across the street opened again, and a woman stepped out. She was instantly notable for two reasons. She was dark-skinned but wore modern clothes, and she was alone. No man escorted her.
She stepped out into the street enveloped by a fierce aura, as though challenging anyone to confront her.
Caitlin doubted that anybody would.
Only a fool would cross Fabia Shah.
The mother of al Banna.
37
Kansas City, Missouri If opening the Hawthorne Power Plant was the highlight of Kipper's day trip, visiting the restored North Kansas City Hospital was undoubtedly the lowest point. An unforeseen late-afternoon shower lashed the windows as Kipper made his way down hallways mopped and polished to a high sheen in his honor. The staff, many of them recent migrants and refugees, dipped their heads, watching him in awe as he proceeded to the intensive care unit with Culver in tow, a clutch of colonels and generals flanking him, and white-coated medical staff hurrying to stay in touch.
A doctor waited outside the ward he was to visit. The thirty-something man in green surgical scrubs looked careworn and tired.
'Welcome to North Kansas City Hospital, Mister President,' the doctor said, extending his hand. 'I'm Alex Leong, director of the facility. Sorry about my appearance. I've just come out of surgery a few minutes ago.'
'I hope it went well,' said Kipper.
'We'll see,' Leong answered as they shook hands. Kip marveled at the man's thin, long fingers, which returned his grip with a truly surprising amount of strength.
'How are the troops?' he asked somberly.
'We've received two hundred and nineteen wounded from New York over the last forty-eight hours,' Leong said. 'We're finding that their body armor protects them from most fatal wounds to the center mass. Unfortunately, we have seen a spike in traumatic amputations, in some cases multiple amputations.'
Kipper could feel his face twisting with distaste and consciously forced himself to frown, trying to mask his distress at Leong's report. He'd learned it freaked people out if he looked like he was getting upset. 'Do you have everything you need?' he asked, knowing that Jed Culver would be grinding his teeth at any more ad hoc resource commitments.
The doctor shook his head. 'The army is giving us everything they can spare, but some of the supplies are past their expiration date. Bandages and basic needs are holding out well enough, but we are having trouble with pharmaceuticals and other perishable items.'
'Jed?'
'Yes,' Culver sighed. 'Top of my to-do list, sir. I'll contact Senator Clavell and see what can be done.'
'There is one other problem,' Leong said, gesturing for the presidential party to follow him onto the ward.
'Tell me, Doctor.'
'We're desperately short of blood,' Leong said.
'What type?' Kipper asked.
'All types.'
Kipper turned to his army liaison. 'Colonel Ralls, can you get me a hundred people up to the hospital ASAP? I saw a settler train come in this morning. They'd all have their health checks in order. I'm asking for volunteers, so you tell them why we need them. Tell them I need them. Can you handle that?'
Ralls nodded. 'I'm on it, Mister President,' and retreated down the hallway.
'While we're waiting for the colonel to find some donors,' Kipper said, rolling up his sleeves, 'perhaps we can
