"Jesus Christ, Hans! For God's sake announce yourself."
Exhaling forcefully—for, immediate stress-wise, the only thing worse than being shot is coming close to shooting a friend— Hamilton lowered his weapon.
"Sorry, John," Hans gasped, putting a defensive hand out. "I'm a little disoriented."
"Never mind," Hamilton conceded. "What's going on back there?"
"The children are freed. I don't know if they're aboard the airship yet. The airship's sinking. We've not much time."
At about the same time the janissary sergeant of the guard decided he should get back to the serious business of breaking down the gate. He opted to do it in the same way the colonel had, assigning men to keep the windows of the towers covered. The sound of the pounding down below quickly changed in quality, too—the earlier battering must have had some effect. The door was clearly weakening.
"I think it's about to give," Hamilton said.
"Yes," Hans agreed. "And that's why you have to go back, to get Petra, if she's still alive. I can hold the fort here. As long as I'm lying down and not moving, I can shoot."
Hamilton hesitated. "What about Ling?" he asked, cocking his head slightly.
Hans sighed. "Ling is important to me, yes. I might even be important to her. But it's mostly important that she be freed, if she can be freed, and have a decent life. This, you and your people can give her better than I can. And for Petra . . . you're her future. I'm only her past."
Hamilton stood for a moment in indecision. He called for Matheson, "Bernie, how much longer do we have?"
"Not much, John. And when you and Hans head to the airship, don't come by the lab; take the upper passages. It's going to be very warm down here."
"Roger," Hamilton answered. "Do we have a few minutes anyway?"
"That much, sure."
Hamilton reached out a fraternal hand to Hans' shoulder. "There's some solid furniture down below. If you're going to stay here, let's make you a fighting position facing the gate that can take a hit."
Nobody was hit racing through the cleared path in the minefields facing the castle's main gate. For this beneficence, Sig and the baseski both said a special prayer of thanks.
"Sergeant of the Guard!" the first sergeant bellowed as he passed through the checkpoint and took a crouch behind a concrete barrier.
"Over here, Top," the sergeant answered from his position in the alcove. The sergeant had to shout to be heard over the pounding of the battering ram. "We're almost through."
Interlude
Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany,
10 July, 2022
The cellar was dark and dank and dreary. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and the pipes and draped along the walls. There was an old moldy mattress on the floor, Amal saw.
"By the time we're through with you, you'll be glad to don the veil, slut," Zahid said, confidently, to Amal. The boy moved a small, silvery pocket knife in front of the terrified girl's eyes.
"Don't hurt me," she pleaded. "Please don't hurt me."
"We're not going to hurt you much," said Zahid. "We're just going to cut you from your ear to your mouth."
"That," agreed Taymullah, "or you can admit you're just a slut and let us all fuck you. Your choice."
That was no better a choice than being cut. Again, tears pouring down her face, Amal sobbed, "Please don't hurt me. I'll wear a veil. I promise."
"Your word's no good, slut," Zahid said. "Only way we can be sure you'll follow the law is if we cut you. Then you'll be too ashamed to show your whore's face."
"DON'T HURT ME!"
"We have no choice."
"I'll do anything you want; just don't hurt me," the girl begged, head hanging in hopeless and helpless shame.
Once more, Zahid flashed his knife by her eyes and then moved it as if to slash her cheek. He didn't cut her though. Instead, he brought the knife down to her shirt and began to cut it away.
The police car that took Gabi to the hospital didn't flash its lights or blast its siren. Instead, it went only as fast as the traffic would bear. It could have used its sirens and lights of course, but the woman sitting in back was so nearly hysterical that the two policemen up front thought that they'd only make things worse.
"What happened? What happened? What happened?" Gabi kept asking. Neither cop had an answer. They knew the woman's daughter had been hurt and was in the hospital, but that was all they knew . . . about the daughter. The policemen recognized well enough the artist woman who'd been so prominent in the papers and on television a couple of years prior.
One of the policemen helped Gabi to walk on unsteady knees from the patrol car into the emergency room. Surprisingly, a doctor and another policemen, this one in mufti, met them near the door. He led them to a small alcove, not too private but as good as could be procured on the spot.
"Your daughter was attacked," the doctor said, even before Gabi could ask a question. "She's hurt . . . badly, I'm afraid. And, yes, she was raped."
Gabi sank into herself, weeping and cringing at the thought of her sweet and innocent baby attacked by animals.
"We don't know who did it," the plainclothes policemen added. "She was in a neighborhood where this sort of thing happens a lot. Usually they leave German girls alone unless the girls have some connection with the Muslims."
Gabi said, between sobs, "My daughter . . . had an . . . Arab . . . father."
"That might explain it," the policeman agreed, "assuming she looked the part."
Gabi swallowed, forced herself to be calm, and asked, "There's more, isn't there?"
"Yes." The policeman looked at the doctor as if begging him to take this burden.
Hesitantly, the doctor said, "Ms. Von Minden . . . after they raped her . . . maybe before . . . maybe even during . . . they beat her pretty badly. She has several broken ribs and a broken arm. She's concussed. One knee is dislocated."
At each addition to the injuries Gabi shuddered as if struck. She looked at the doctor through her tears. "There's more, isn't there?"
The policemen put his finger to his cheek and drew a line down to the corner of his mouth. "It's a Moslem thing," he said. "They slashed her face open so she'll have to wear a veil for the rest of her life."
Gabi stood. Her fists clenched in front of her face. She felt feelings she should never have felt, thought thoughts she should never have had. But this was no abstract principle. This was her daughter, her flesh and blood, who had been hurt. She began to speak, coherently at first and then rising to a scream. "We should have gassed them . . . we should have gassed them . . . we should have gassed them . . . WE SHOULD HAVE GASSED THEM!"
Chapter Nineteen
But when it comes to this disaster, who started it? In his literature, writer al-Rafee says, "If the woman is in her boudoir, in her house and if she's wearing the veil and if she shows modesty, disasters don't happen."
—Sheik Taj Din Al Hilaly
an-Nessang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,
1538 AH (4 November, 2113)