1633

He walked over and squatted next to the prisoner. 'Melissa says it's because the Warders have heard enough to know you're apparently some sort of demon. I think they've already come to that conclusion about us too. But since we seem like friendly enough demons-or at least calm, cool and collected like you-they've just quietly decided it's best not to rile us any. Demons remember shit. And, who knows? If they ever get loose…'

Quickly, he swapped the batteries. Then, drew a photograph out of his pocket.

'It took me a while to finagle it out of her, but this is what she looks like. Why the hell she bothered to hang on to a driver's license in the first place…'

He shook his head at the folly of women, and handed over the little card. Then, as the prisoner began studying the small picture filling one portion of it, Darryl shifted uncomfortably.

'Look, it's a shitty picture of her. Those damn things always are. I think they must have some kinda exotic high-tech camera designed especially to make everybody look as bad as possible. Mine looked like Jesse James with a hangover.'

He wasn't sure the prisoner even heard him. 'I'm telling you-trust me-she's really not bad looking.'

He was cramping the truth here, at least as far as Darryl was concerned. Stocky women in their thirties with plain faces and mouse-brown hair-okay, yeah, pretty damn good figure; especially the jugs-just weren't to his taste. In general, Darryl's tastes ran toward young women with blond hair, slim figures, and long legs. In particular, especially lately, toward a certain young woman in the Tower with-what else?-blond hair, a slim figure, and legs he couldn't see but was starting to have lots of fantasies about.

Alas, she was the youngest sister of the Yeoman Warder Andrew. Who was a rough-looking customer in his own right, even leaving aside his two brothers and his uncle. The uncle especially… Darryl managed not to wince. Then, thinking of Melissa, he did wince.

Give peace a chance, my ass. Melissa catches me making a move…

Eeek.

The prisoner didn't seem to have noticed any of Darryl's hesitation, though. So he plowed on confidently.

'We'll start looking for your kids, too. Make plans for them, when the time comes.'

That brought the prisoner's eyes from the photo. 'And how will you do that?' he asked.

'Well… I'm not sure yet. But, reading between the lines of the latest radio messages, I think-'

He paused, trying to figure out where security began and ended. Then, with a little shrug:

'I think an old buddy of mine is on his way. Not soon, of course. But when he gets here…' Darryl grinned evilly. 'Hell on wheels, that country boy. Take it from me.'

' 'Hell on wheels,' ' echoed the prisoner, smiling faintly. 'There are times, Darryl McCarthy, when I find myself fearing for your soul. Of course, 'tis true-as an Irishman you're most likely damned anyway.'

Darryl jeered. 'You wish!' Again, he shifted uncomfortably. 'And that's something else. I want a promise from you.'

'Aye?'

'You don't ever go to Ireland without me coming along. In an of-fi-cial capacity, that is. I checked with Tom-he knows this stuff-and he tells me the Russkies even got a name for it. It's called 'political commissar.' '

The prisoner's smile was no longer faint. 'An Irish watchdog, is it, set to keep the demon on a leash?'

'Yeah, pretty much. Promise me, Ironsides.'

'Done, Darryl McCarthy. My word of honor.'

'Good enough for me.' Darryl gave him a little clap on the shoulder and rose to his feet.

Then, seeing the prisoner's eyes drop again, he uttered a protest. 'Hey, I'm telling you, it really is a terrible picture.'

The prisoner didn't even seem to hear him. Watching the way he studied the photograph, Darryl winced again. Like most men his age, he didn't like to think he'd someday be afflicted by that dread disease.

' 'Tis a strong face,' the prisoner murmured. 'I like the lines of it.'

Darryl fled, as if from the plague itself.

That same evening, in Amsterdam, still another child's fate was decided. Or, at least, subjected to debate.

All the members of the U.S. embassy were gathered in the main room, as they had been since the news had come from Wismar. After sundown, at least. During the daytime, Gretchen had channeled her own grief into sheer willpower, driving forward the organization of Amsterdam's new Committee of Correspondence with a literal vengeance.

Already, a situation of dual power was emerging within the city. In theory, while the prince of Orange was away marshaling his forces in Overijssel, Amsterdam was under the authority of its city council-what the Dutch called the vroedschap. In practice, however, real power was beginning to slip more and more into the hands of Gretchen and her rapidly growing band of Dutch comrades. The civic militia's soldiers, if not many of the officers, were beginning-tacitly, if not openly-to consult with the leaders elected by the new CoC. Many of the soldiers were joining the CoC themselves.

The process was neither uniform nor smooth, of course. There had been any number of angry shouting matches, in the streets and in the civic militia's assemblies. But, so far, only one of those confrontations had escalated into outright violence.

And, even then, not much violence. A flurry of fists on a city corner, followed by a pause. Into the pause Gretchen had come stalking down the cobblestoned street. The news of Wismar had by then spread throughout Amsterdam as well, and with it the name of Hans Richter. That she was the older sister of the hero of Wismar was just as well known. As was her reputation for being the more ferocious of the siblings.

She had neither threatened with words, nor drawn her pistol. Simply stared at those who had taken it upon themselves to assault a handful of CoC streetcorner orators.

'Begone,' she commanded, and they were.

The infant Rebecca had snatched from carnage was the center of attention in the room. That had also been true, since the news of Wismar came. Grief at the loss of brothers and friends, salved by the sight of a smiling babe.

A cheerful sort of boy, he seemed. Very curious, too, the way his fresh eyes seemed to study everything.

There came a knock on the door. Heinrich answered it.

'For you, Rebecca. A rabbi says he wants to speak to you. In private, he says.'

Rebecca rose from the couch, handed the child to Gretchen, and went to the door.

Standing outside, looking very uncomfortable, was a man she recognized. She couldn't remember the old man's name, any longer. But she was certain it was the same rabbi who, two and a half years earlier, had led Amsterdam's Jewish community to expel her father Balthazar for heresy. Excommunicated and banned-what the Jews called in herem.

She'd detested the man then; and, judging from the sour look on his face, detested him still.

'Yes?' she asked coolly. 'You have discovered the child's identity?'

'We knew that almost immediately,' he replied. 'The difficulty has been in deciding what to do.'

'What is there to decide, for the sake of God? If he has family, we will return him to them. If not, we will care for him ourselves.'

The rabbi glared at her. 'Do not speak of 'God,' heretic. You do not have the right. Nor-' The old man's hard eyes went past her shoulder, looking into the interior of the house. '-does that boy. So we have decided. Even his kinfolk have agreed. He is in herem. Best you take him yourself.'

'What?' Rebecca groped for the logic. The insane logic. 'He's not even a year old! He can't be!'

'He was born less than a year ago. What does it matter? He is destined for heresy anyway. Best for all of us if we deal with it now.'

Rebecca's temper was on the verge of cracking. She had to grit her teeth for a moment. Then, almost hissing the words:

'Let me explain something, you arrogant old man. Not even such as you can claim to read the future. And it gives me great pleasure to inform you that, centuries from now, you will be quite forgotten by everyone except for-if you are lucky-a handful of scholars. There is only one Jew from the Amsterdam of this era who will be remembered by the world, and that is-'

She slammed to a halt, almost choking.

'My God. But-'

Wildly, she turned her head, staring back at the infant perched on Gretchen's lap. 'But he was born in…' This time she did choke.

'Oh, God,' she finally managed to whisper. 'What is his name?'

He told her. Then added: 'November of 1632, yes. We have copies of those books also, heretic. Those which we found of interest. So take him now. We cast him out.'

Vaguely, Rebecca felt him leave. Vaguely, she closed the door. Her eyes were fixed entirely on the child.

No one had ever heard Rebecca whoop with glee. It was quite a piercing sound, actually. Something of a cross between sheer unadulterated joy and a warrior counting coup-or collecting a scalp.

By the time they finished wincing, Rebecca had crossed the room and snatched up the baby. Then, holding him high:

'Do you know who this is? One of the world's dozen greatest philosophers! Baruch de Espinoza!'

She clutched the baby to her chest-the rather bewildered baby, judging from his expression-and babbled on:

'Better knowm as Benedict Spinoza, after they expelled him and he went to live with the Mennonites who took him in-an expert lens-grinder too, he was-although that's what probably killed him, ruining his lungs with the dust-and that won't happen now-be sure of that, my husband's a union man-oh, I must tell Michael! We'll adopt him ourselves!'

She thrust the child back into Gretchen's arms, and raced for the stairs leading up to the radio room. 'Who is on duty? Jakob?'

'Yeah, he's up there, Becky. He's-'

No point in continuing, so Jimmy fell silent. Rebecca had already reached the first landing, her footsteps-normally so light-sounding like a herd of stampeding buffalo. They could hear her shouting to the radio operator in the room above. 'Quickly! Quickly! While the window lasts!'

Everyone still in the room stared at the baby. The infant returned their scrutiny with one of his own. He seemed a bit puzzled by it all.

Which would not be surprising, of course, since the adults were more than simply puzzled. As the minutes went by, in fact, and the enormity of the event came into