"I won't let that happen," he said. "Whatever the cost."
"If it happens, you'll probably be there on the cross next to mine." She bent her head as her shoulders began to shake.
He took her head in his hands and lifted it up to face him. There were tears gathering in her eyes, he could see.
"I won't let it happen," he promised, again. "If it gets that bad, well, they won't take either of us alive."
"You swear to it?"
"I swear."
"I've got to tell you something," Hamilton said. "I loved a girl once. She was a lot like you in looks, though, honestly, she was just pretty where you're really beautiful. She had all the advantages you never did. But she wasn't spoiled by it. She was very brave right to the end."
"The end?" Petra asked.
"We were in the Army together. Her platoon was ambushed. I couldn't get to her in time. She was killed. In the end, rather than let herself be captured she asked for fire to come in on herself."
"What was her name?"
"Laura . . . Laurie Hodge. I took it really hard for a long time. I suppose that's why I got out of the Army; it just reminded me every day that I'd failed her, a woman I loved."
Hamilton's face grew very serious. "But I won't fail you. I couldn't live with myself if I did."
And that was as close as he could come to telling Petra that he loved her.
Interlude
Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany,
11 September, 2015
The city was a better place for an artist than Kitzingen had been. This was true not only in the scenes and people there were to be drawn or painted, but in the ability to sell her work as well. There was more for Amal, as well; more culture, especially. This had figured into Gabrielle's decision to relocate a few years earlier, too.
Then, too, the EU was still growing jobs almost entirely in the public sector. With the country graying, young people leaving, and fewer paying taxes, Gabi needed the improved sales. Worse, given a choice between keeping up welfare payments and reducing the size of the bureaucracy, Europe had no choice. She was incapable of reducing either the number or the living standards of the bureaucrats. Indeed, she could not only not reduce, she had to expand. The bureaucrats were her most important supporters.
Mahmoud helped. He'd still not given up on getting Gabi and Amal to the United States. He called from Boston at least weekly and at least half of any given conversation was, subtly or openly, about just that. He was, in fact, nagging Gabi at the precise moment that the phone screeched and then went dead.
"Mommy," Amal called from the living room of their small apartment. "Mommy . . . something on television . . . something bad."
Gabi stood facing the television, tears coursing down her face and her little fist wedged between clenching teeth. The screen was split in three, each section showing a mushroom cloud over an American city. One of those cities was Boston and she knew now why the phone had shrieked and died.
The commentators were all as shocked as Gabi. People were bandying about inconceivable numbers of dead and dying. The bombs were apparently very old technology, very primitive, very powerful, and highly radioactive. Four million dead seemed likely, as each city had been caught during the work day, when the offices and buildings were most full.
Thank God, Gabi thought, even through her tears, her loss, and her pain, thank God I didn't take Amal there. Then, realizing what she'd been thinking, she amended, Thank fate, in any case.
Everyone was sure the United States would retaliate in some heavy- handed, murderous fashion. Thus, Gabi's art took a back seat for a while to her demonstrating, with other fair-minded people, against any such thing. Amal in tow, she was to be seen in Berlin, Frankfurt am Main, Hamburg, Munich. Wherever there was a gathering to remind the United States of its own responsibility for what had been done to it, there she was.
Nor was her voice subdued. Almost uniquely, she could point to Amal and say, "This baby lost a father and she is not crying out for a mindless vengeance." That voice could claim as well, "I lost my lover and I am not crying out for vengeance."
For a while, even, Gabi was something of a star. That stardom lasted until, eventually, everyone realized that the United States was not going to continue the game of mindless retribution, of the "eye for an eye" that left everyone blinded.
And after all, as the President of the United States said, "The perpetrators are all dead. Who is there to take revenge against?" That this was a lie was obvious to no one who wanted to believe it was true.
So, instead of revenge, the United States government reduced its aid to Israel and much increased the aid to Hamas, which had come out on top in the bitter feud with Fatah. It withdrew the last of its soldiers from Islamic soil. It accepted without demure a sudden, and serious, rise in the price of oil. It even changed the immigration rules to permit more immigrants from Moslem countries. It called off the pursuit of Osama bin Laden, which meant little in any case as Osama hadn't been heard from in years.
Of course, the President was only one woman, with one voice. There were other voices . . . carrying very different messages.
Chapter Fifteen
We have the right to kill four million Americans—two million of them children — and to exile twice as many and wound and cripple hundreds of thousands.
—Suleiman Abu Gheith
Al Qaeda Spokesmen, June 2002.
am-Munch Airport, 23 Muharram,
1538 AH (3 November, 2113)
Bernie Matheson—no, he was Bongo again—shuffled like a proper kaffir in boarding the airship anchored near the shabby, run-down terminal. Ling walked behind, wrapped in a burka. Their bags were carried aboard by a short coffle of slaves, owned by the airship line. As chartering customers, rather, as the servant and presumptive slave of a chartering customer, there was none of the usual customs and security nonsense.
The flight engineer, Retief, met them at the hatchway. It really wasn't his job but he was doing a favor for the normal receptionist, the ship's purser, who was a bit late in getting back aboard ship.
"Welcome back, Mister Mathebula," Retief said. "Your quarters, and quarters for Mr. De Wet and his . . . guest . . . are prepared. We can leave in about two hours. Might I suggest a meal or, perhaps, a drink?" Retief's fingers indicated the direction of the cabin.
Bongo thought, A frigging polite Boer? I hope we don't have to kill him.
"You have booze here, baas?" Bongo asked. "I thought . . . "