Promising, however, was neither promised nor certain.
"And we're running out of test subjects," said Johnston.
"No matter," wheezed Meara, "the Caliph is sending us another two hundred."
Province of Baya,
19 October, 2113
Customs had been surprisingly thorough. Hamilton had assumed that the Caliphate would be as sloppy and susceptible to bribes there as it was reputed to be everywhere else. It hadn't worked that way. Oh, yes, the customs agent had taken the bribe and pocketed it. He'd then proceeded to go through Hamilton's and Bongo's bags with a fine toothed comb.
"The bribe," Bongo had explained, "is only good to keep them from taking the things you have legally. It does absolutely nothing as far as getting them to let you bring in something illegal unless you're already well connected."
"Glad we came in clean," Hamilton had agreed.
The city of am-Munch was . . . well, to call it a "disappointment" was far too mild. It was, in Hamilton's words, "Run down, unsightly, with garbage piled a meter deep to either side of the roads, creepy, depressing, dirty-rotten-filthy, and I can't believe any of my people ever lived in such a dump." He'd been more than happy to leave, despite the quality—or lack, thereof—of the road that lay ahead.
That road was a crumbling highway running through sheer-sided mountain passes. Along that highway, a half dozen small cargo trucks bearing two hundred children trudged behind an auto bearing Hamilton and his black chief toward their destination. Bongo drove. Provided one wasn't a female, the Caliphate was pretty easy as far as licensing went. In other words, no license was required for males and none were possible for females. Rental cars and trucks were somewhat pricey.
Besides driving, Bongo had surreptitiously swept the auto for listening devices. By and large the Caliphate was less than sophisticated about such things. Still, it was always wise to make sure.
"Okay," Hamilton said, "this is too much. We need an 'in' to the castle and we get a purchase order for the entire group going to the castle. That shit just doesn't happen. Anything too good—"
"—to be true, isn't," Bongo interrupted. "I really don't understand your confusion. How do you suppose we knew where the three renegades were? How do you suppose we manage to operate here at all?"
Hamilton thought about that for a while before saying, "We own somebody at the highest levels in the Caliphate, don't we?"
"That's always been my guess, baas." It was a measure of Bongo's sheer professionalism that he'd never yet said that "baas" with the verbal sneer he felt. "There'd be a lot more of them, too, I think, if most of them weren't terrified of extermination."
"It's not like we haven't given them reason for that," said Hamilton.
"Nor like they didn't give us reason to give them reason. 'Sins of the fathers . . . to the third and fourth generations.' Sucks, don't it?"
Bongo downshifted to get over a particularly vile section of the road. He echoed his own words, answered his own question. "Yeah, baas, it sucks. But there's not a lot you or I can do about it."
"But how do we get control of someone in the Caliphate?" Hamilton asked. "We don't have the infrastructure there, so far as I can tell, to do much under the table recruiting."
Bongo kept silent for a moment before answering, "This isn't classified, though it probably should be. Even so, keep it close hold." He looked at Hamilton to make sure he understood before continuing, "I've got a cousin who works with the Bureau of Engraving. They don't do all that much engraving anymore, of course; that's all done by machines now. But they do make the coins. One of the coins they make, so my cousin told me, is the gold dinar. Another is the silver dirhem. Actually, they make the dirhem in about five denominations and the dinar in four."
"So we just bought somebody? Somebody would trade their cause for some gold and silver? That's pathetic."
"Yesss, baas," Bongo nodded, seriously, "And none of us would ever sell out for money."
"I take your point," Hamilton agreed.
Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 9 Muharram,
1538 AH (20 October, 2113)
Hans took a small pride in his rank of odabasi. It meant "janitor" but was, in practice, the equivalent of a first lieutenant in the Imperial Army or Marines. He'd worked long and hard for the rank, graduating near the top of his class in what the Imperials would have called "OCS." That he was still a secret Christian, such as he remembered of Christianity, added yet more spice to the achievement. Indeed, in his five daily prayers, Hans always adjusted his compass to point ever-so- slightly nearer to Jerusalem the Lost than to Mecca the Obliterated. When he was alone, he pointed towards Rome. What his thoughts were as those prayers were held was much closer to "Pater Noster" and "Ave Maria" than to "Alahu Akbar."
None of this had been suspected by his superiors and leaders, trainers and evaluators, for one of the things the crucified priest had told him was that if it was permissible for Moslems to lie to Christians then it was no less permissible for Christians to lie to Moslems. To all appearances he was a model of submission to the will of Allah even as he prepared himself to do the maximum possible damage someday— God give me the chance!—to the Caliphate.
Hans was actually a bit irritated at being dispatched as second in command of this out of the way, little, castellated station in the mountains of Baya. This was completely illogical, on his part, as he'd asked for the assignment in order to be closer to his sister and Ling.
He reported to the sentry at the main gate and received that sentry's salute. Hans announced himself and his rank, and said, "Send someone for me and my bags," before entering the compound and waiting for an escort. While he waited he looked over the sentry's uniform and found no cause for complaint. It was while he was doing that that Hans first noticed the ile smell of burnt meat. He wrinkled his nose with distaste.
"What's that stench?" he asked the sentry on duty.
"We don't know, sir," the sentry answered, "not exactly. We're not allowed in the lab area, generally. But it happens a couple of times a month and has for as long as I've been here, and I've been here longer than most." The sentry pointed upward at a chimney from which emanated the heavy, sooty smoke. The smoke trail at the top of the chimney was a thin wisp, leading to a much heavier cloud far above. "It's that crap. You should be happy you weren't here ten minutes ago, sir. Then it was really vile. And be thankful it's cold. The stench is much worse in the summer months."
Hans nodded absently. A vile stench a couple of times a month was a small price to pay for being surrounded by all the natural and man- made splendor of the area. That his sister and Ling were nearby didn't hurt any, either.
Not that there's not going to be a problem with both of them, he thought. Where Ling's concerned I'm just going to have to accept that she's property, owned and used by others, until I can buy her and free her. For Petra . . . it won't matter as long as no one in the security company notices the similarity. And if she's ever escorted here I'm sure she wears the veil. Except . . . shit. She told me that one of the men who is in charge of this place makes use of her regularly. He'll recognize that we look alike. How do I deal with that?