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Mike smiled. 'Just a few minutes. Even Becky'll admit that a little of Berg's Wozzeck goes a long way.'

***

To the Spanish soldiers in the Wartburg, the eerie cacophony of Wozzeck seemed to last a very long time. The soldiers crammed into the castle were filled with anxiety. For two hours, now, they had been subjected to that incredible aural bombardment. For the soldiers standing on the ramparts, it had been even worse. The blinding glare of the spotlights which Ferrara and his teenage 'tech warriors' had jury-rigged, sweeping endlessly back and forth across the castle, added visual assault as well.

As always with Spanish armies, the troops were accompanied by officials of the Holy Office of the Inquisition. Ten priests, now standing on the ramparts alongside the soldiers, hissed their fury.

Fury-and fear. The Spanish branch of the Inquisition, which answered only to the crown of Spain, was an order of magnitude more vicious and unrestrained than the Papal Inquisition. But they were by no means mindless thugs. The Spanish Inquisition had developed secret police techniques to a level of sophistication which would not be surpassed until the Tsarist Okhrana of the late nineteenth century. By the standards of the seventeenth century, they were considered the unrivaled practitioners of what a later age would call 'psychological warfare.'

They had just met their master. Their mistress, rather. It was a pity, perhaps, that they did not understand the historical irony involved. A young woman from the cursed race which the Inquisition had hounded for two centuries was about to pay them back in full measure. Her own intelligence, coupled to the entire musical tradition of a later Western world, would complete the task which rock and roll and country-western had begun.

The selection from Wozzeck ended. As the next piece began blaring in the night, the Inquisitors heaved a small sigh of relief. At least this music-whatever it was-had some logic.

Their relief lasted not more than a minute. There is a logic to Mussorgsky's Night on Bald Mountain, true enough. But it was not a logic which appealed to them. Neither did the grinding, ominous strains of the same composer's 'Bydlo' from Pictures at an Exhibition.

Rebecca built from there. Grieg's short, sharp, thunderous 'In the Hall of the Mountain King' came next. As the popularity of that portion of Peer Gynt grew, over the years after its composition, Grieg himself had come to detest the thing. 'The worst kind of Norwegian bombast,' he once called it. But on that night, the savage Nordic triumphalism of the piece served Rebecca's purpose well enough.

Tremble, lords of the dungeon! Trolls and Vikings are at your door!

A Russian variation on the theme followed. The heroic choral strains of 'Arise, ye Russian People' from Prokofiev's Alexander Nevsky filled the air, succeeded immediately by the driving fury of 'The Battle on the Ice.' On the ramparts of the castle above, the Spanish variation of the Teutonic Knights suffered, in their minds, the same disaster which had befallen the butchers of Pskov centuries earlier on the real ice of Lake Chud.

The Inquisitors tried to dispel their own growing terror by driving their soldiers into action. Shrieking and bellowing, they forced shivering Spanish arquebusiers to the ramparts. Dragging them by the neck, in some cases, ordering them to fire at the Satanic music and spotlights.

Given the inaccuracy of arquebuses, the command was foolish enough. Given the accuracy of the weapons in the hands of the devils in the darkness, it was sheer folly.

'Take them out!' commanded Mike. He studied the ramparts through the binoculars. The spotlights were now focused on the priests and soldiers lined along the battlements, illuminating them clearly. 'Aim for the inquisitors!'

Alexander Nevsky ended, immediately replaced by the conclusion of Prokofiev's Piano Concerto no. 3. The wild exuberance of the music from the third movement served as a backdrop for the rambunctious enthusiasm of the U.S. snipers. Julie Sims was not among their number, true. But if Julie was the best sharpshooter in the U.S. army, there were many other very fine ones. Within two minutes, all of the Spanish soldiers had retreated from the battlements. They left behind twenty of their own dead-and seven inquisitors.

***

'A daft breed,' grumbled Lennox. He and Mackay had tried to seek shelter from the auditory storm in the HQ tent. To no great avail, as loudly as Harry was playing the music. 'A guid thing I slept earlier. Get nae sleep now.'

Alex shrugged. ' 'Tis better than rap music.'

Lennox snorted. 'Anyt'in' is better'n tha' crap!'

Another piece blared over the loudspeakers. Lennox flinched.

Mike, seeing the motion out of the corner of his eye, turned his head and grinned.

'That's from something called The Rite of Spring,' he explained. 'Becky's real fond of it.'

'Glad she's no my wife,' muttered Lennox under his breath. 'Even if t'lass does look like Cleopatra.'

Mackay smiled. He stepped forward, coming alongside Mike at the tent's entrance.

'I'm curious,' he said. 'Rebecca's been with you lunatics for not much more than a year.' Alex gestured into the darkness with his chin. 'So how has she managed to learn so much of your music?'

Mike shrugged. 'Beats me. Her father helped, of course. Balthazar's gotten to be a fanatic about classical music. Says he's sick to death of stupid lutes.' He hesitated, torn between pride and a desire not to seem like a doting husband. But, since he was both proud of his wife-fiercely proud-and a doting husband, the struggle was brief.

'I don't know, Alex. How she managed that, along with all her reading, and everything else? I just don't know.' His chest swelled. 'The only thing I know for sure is that Becky's the smartest person I've ever met. Or ever will, I imagine.'

Mackay nodded. 'True enough. Still-'

He froze. 'What is that?'

Mike listened, for a moment, to the sound of Leontyne Price's powerful soprano. Then, laughed. 'Don't you like it? It's called the 'Liebestod.' By a guy named Wagner.'

Alex pursed his lips. 'Incredible voice, I grant you.' He grimaced. 'But it sounds as if the poor woman is dying.'

'She is.' Mike turned his head, staring at the battlements above. Gaily: 'And she takes her sweet time about it, let me tell you.'

***

And so it went, through the night. The program which Rebecca had prepared followed the 'Liebestod' with a whole dose of Wagner. She detested the composer, as it happened-as much for the histrionics of his music as for his personal vileness and anti- Semitism. But she thought the music suited the occasion. So, striking their ears like lead mallets, the Spanish soldiers forted up in a German castle were assaulted by the ultimate in Teutonic bombast. 'The Ride of the Valkyries' came next, followed by all of the orchestral grandiosities from the Der Ring des Nibelungen: 'Entry of the Gods Into Valhalla,' 'Wotan's Farewell,' 'Siegfried's Funeral March' and-last but not least-the 'Immolation of the Gods.'

When it was over, Frank Jackson sighed with relief. 'Good thing they lost World War II,' he growled. 'Can you imagine having to listen to that shit forever?'

Mike snorted. 'You think that was bad?' He glanced at the eastern horizon. The first hint of dawn was appearing in the sky. 'Try listening to Parsifal, some time.'

He raised the binoculars and studied the battlements. They were still shrouded in darkness, except where the spotlights flashed across the walls. There was not a soldier in sight.

'Becky made me do it, once. All five hours of the damned thing.'

Jackson frowned. 'Why? I thought you told me she hated Wagner.'

'She does. She just wanted to prove her point.'

A new, very different strain of music came over the loudspeakers. Mike glanced at his watch. 'Perfect timing,' he said softly. 'What the French call the 'piиce de rйsistance.''

Frank cocked his ear. 'What is it?'

'According to Becky, this piece of music captures the heart of war like nothing else ever composed.' Mike stepped out of the tent and strode into the clearing beyond. Seeing Ferrara standing nearby, he signaled with his hand. The former science teacher nodded and turned to his youthful subordinates. Partners in crime, rather.

'Time to start the fireworks, boys.' Grinning, Larry, Eddie and Jimmy scampered off, each headed for one of the catapults-and the rocket stands which stood near them.

Mike returned, walking slowly and pausing at every step. He was listening to the music. By the time he got back to the tent, Frank's face seemed strained.

As well it might be. Shostakovich's Symphony no. 8 was well underway now, blasting the horror of a war-ravaged Russia of the future across the war-ravaged land of today's Germany. Stalin had wanted a triumphalist piece, to celebrate the growing tide of Soviet victory over the Nazis. But Shostakovich, though a Soviet patriot himself, had given the dictator something quite different-the greatest symphony of the twentieth century. And if the piece as a whole transcended the year 1943, the third movement did not. It was a pure, unalloyed, cold-eyed shriek. Terror and agony and heartbreak, captured in music.

The first rockets sailed from their launching pads and began exploding over the ramparts. The explosive charges in the warheads were not designed for destruction so much as for show. Instead of splattering the castle with shrapnel, they shrouded the Wartburg with sparkling dazzle. A glaring, flaming accompaniment to the Symphony no. 8-a visual promise, added to a musical one. This is what awaits you, soldiers of Spain.

***