“Aker will get out of town, as soon as possible.”
Kenan glanced at his watch. “Well, the evening air courier to Arafez left half an hour ago. The ferry to Gadir won’t leave until the tide turns, which is in a few hours. That leaves the trains.”
“Is there anything eastbound tonight?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Probably. Let’s go see.”
Shifrah followed him out of the alley and down the street, angling swiftly through the thinning traffic across one intersection after another on their way toward the Tingis Central Station. The wrought iron roof of the station rose above the neighboring offices and warehouses, and just beyond the station, a little farther up the hillside, she could see the massive hangars where the airships of the Northern Air Corps were housed. But the hangars were closed and there was no sign of anyone there now.
The shrill cry of a steam whistle split the air and Kenan quickened his pace. Shifrah hurried after him and as they turned the corner through the gate in the outer fence around the station, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw a familiar white face in the crowd. The masked woman saw Shifrah looking at her, and she broke into a run.
“Kenan, she’s here!” Shifrah dashed into the station, grabbing his arm and propelling him inside. They found the outer vestibules all empty with only one young woman in uniform at the ticket window to their right. Across the wide floor of the inner station, a shining black locomotive stood at the head of a long train of passenger cars and two young men in matching blue jackets were waving to the engineer leaning out of the locomotive. The engineer waved back and leaned back inside. Another shrill whistle shrieked through the station, and the locomotive shuddered, and began to roll forward.
“It’s leaving!” Kenan pulled his arm free of her grip and climbed clumsily over the turnstile as the young woman at the ticket window banged on the glass and yelled at them.
Shifrah leapt over the turnstile behind him. “Do you see Aker?”
“Of course not!” Kenan snarled. He ran to the side of the train, which was rolling along at a steady pace and gathering speed. Kenan jogged left and right, straining to peer up into the dark windows of the passenger car.
Shifrah stood near him, scanning the windows. There were too many faces, and all moving too quickly. “We’ll have to get on,” she said.
“What if he’s not even on this train?” he asked.
She pointed behind them where the masked woman had just dashed into view.
“I thought you killed her,” he said, as he began jogging alongside the train.
“And I thought you didn’t like it when I kill people.”
Kenan grabbed the hand rail at the end of the nearest passenger car and pulled himself up onto the step outside the door. “Hurry up!”
Shifrah looked back again to see the masked woman vaulting high over the turnstile with her cruel hatchet in her hand. Behind her, three policewomen in gray uniforms raced into the station. Shifrah grimaced. “Damn it.” She grabbed Kenan’s outstretched hand and jumped up beside him just as she ran out of platform. The train accelerated out of the station and Shifrah leaned out to watch the masked woman and the officers jog to a halt at the end of the platform and stare after the retreating train.
“Great, that’s just great, Shifrah.” Kenan stomped up the steps and put his hand on the door handle of the passenger car. “Now we’re on the run for a crime neither of us committed. I told you this could happen. I told you what might happen if you kept friends like this. I told you!”
She slapped him and he shut up, his eyes still smoldering. She said, “And I told you that you could leave whenever you wanted. What’s done is done. So, if you’re finished whining, let’s go look for Aker.”
Chapter 3. Taziri
Yuba cleared the last of the dishes from the table and little Menna ran after him to help with the washing up. Taziri smiled. Five years old. Five!
She stood up from the table, pushed in the chairs, and began straightening up the rest of the room. Toys lay everywhere. Wooden blocks covered in faded paint, old dolls with torn arms and legs and new dolls with hair already in tangles, coloring pencils and scrap paper, little wooden trains and tracks, little wooden airships, little wooden lions and zebras and sivatheras. She gathered them up one by one and tossed them into the bin in the corner. “Menna! Can you help me with your toys, please?”
The little girl ran back in with her hands covered in soap suds, her hair a tangled mess to rival her dolls, and she began merrily hurling her toys in the general direction of the box. Taziri smiled and got out of the line of fire.
From the kitchen, Yuba called out, “Was today payday, or is it tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. The royalty checks for her batteries and capacitors and insulation came like clockwork from Othmani Industries, more money than they had ever seen, and yet somehow their expenses had steadily grown to gobble up the new income. “Why?”
“I wanted to talk to a man about expanding the greenhouse so we can grow more vegetables. We’ll need more glass, of course, and more pipes for the water.”
“That sounds fine.” Taziri flipped through the unopened mail by the door. So many cards, she thought. Invitations to tour this factory or teach at that school or partner with this inventor. She smiled and put them back. Time enough for that tomorrow. She turned back toward the kitchen, but a knock at the front door turned her back again. Taziri opened the door.
Outside stood a small Incan woman with a tiny baby in her arms. She wore tan trousers, a white blouse, a blue vest, and an old Espani military jacket tailored to fit her tiny frame. Her shining black hair was uncovered and it trembled in the evening breeze. Behind the woman stood a pale-faced Espani youth and a masked figure in a conservative Espani dress. Taziri smiled. “Dona Qhora? Alonso?”
The woman with the baby managed a crooked smile and said in a hoarse whisper, “Hello, captain.”
Taziri heard the rasp in her voice and saw the haunted look in Alonso’s eyes. “What is it? What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“Enzo,” Qhora said. “He’s dead.”
“Oh no.” Taziri swallowed. How is that possible? “Come in, come in, please.”
The three visitors shuffled inside and she herded them into the living room where they sat on the new upholstered chairs and couches covered in Kanemi patterns. The masked girl folded her gloved hands in her lap and turned to study a wooden Igbo mask on the wall.
“Can I get you anything to drink or eat?” Taziri asked. “We have ice.”
Qhora shook her head. “I need…” She swallowed loudly.
Taziri sat down beside her. “Tell me what happened.”
But Qhora could only screw up her face into a mass of deep wrinkles and red blotches, and she bowed her head over her baby boy, who lay quite still and peaceful, his eyes closed and mouth drooling. Taziri looked to the youth. “Alonso?”
“Three hours ago,” the young man said slowly. “A man came to our hotel. An Aegyptian in green robes. He attacked Don Lorenzo. They fought in the hall. Mirari helped. I was holding Javier. And he died. Don Lorenzo died. Stabbed through the heart.” Alonso cleared his throat and sat up a bit straighter. “Mirari chased the killer to a house where there were two other people. The police identified them. One of them was a one-eyed mercenary from Eran. The other was…well, it was Kenan Agyeman.”
Taziri stared. Kenan? My Kenan? The young man had served under her for only a year before quitting the Air Corps, but that had been over politics and ego. Kenan’s a straight arrow, as straight as they come. If anything, he was too moral, too dedicated. What was he doing with these mercenaries and assassins?
She felt a shift in the air and turned to see Yuba standing in the doorway with Menna at his side. Taziri blinked. “Honey, these are some old friends of mine. They…”
“I heard,” he said. He picked up Menna. “I’ll take her out back for a little while. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you.” She watched them leave.
