Shit, who am I kidding? Mike wondered, tensed up as if he was about to go through the back door of some perp’s meth lab. This is fucking crazy! I’ve got barely any grasp of the language, no way out, I’m in a hostile city in a foreign country and if they get their hands on me—a sick certainty filled him as they reached a much wider road and turned onto it—and I’m supposed to be making contact with an ex-girlfriend who cut me dead last time I called her! He forced himself to straighten his back and move out into the clear middle of this road (no open sewers here), then took it in. Big stone walls to either side, imposing gatehouses with solid wooden doors. No windows at ground level. Multistory piles some way behind the walls, like pocket castles. That’s what they are, he suddenly realized. This place is primitive. No police, but heaven help you if the mob catches you stealing. The rich have their own small armies. Warlords, like Afghanistan. A moment later his earlier thought overtook the latest one, colliding in a messy train-wreck: And Miriam’s rich. She’s one of the people who own these castles. What does that mean?
There were more people hanging around this street, and stalls mounted on brightly colored cart wheels were selling food and (by the smell) slightly rancid beer to them. The road ended ahead, not in a junction but in a huge gate with a park beyond it. Or something that looked like a park. In the distance, a huge palace loomed above tents and crowd. Mike took a deep breath. “This it?” he asked Hastert.
“Yessir.” Hastert passed him a rolled-up piece of heavy paper. “This will get you in. I’m told it’s an invitation.”
“And you . . . ?”
“Got to stop at the gate, sir. Turns out there’s a law against bringing guards. You’re allowed to bear a gentleman’s arms, you’re supposed to be Sieur Vincensh d’Lofstrom, but we’re . . . not. See that side gate? We’ll run a rotating watch on it. Any trouble, hotfoot it there and we’ll provide a distraction while we guide you to Zone Green.”
“Check.” Mike glanced nervously at a passing bear, which watched him with oddly wise eyes until its owner jerked viciously on the chain riveted to its iron collar. “If I’m not back in four hours, you’ll know I’m in trouble.”
“Okay, four hours.” Hastert nodded. “Good luck, sir.”
“Thanks.” Mike shivered. “Hope I don’t need it.” He took a deep breath and glanced at the guards by the gate, their bright red and yellow uniforms and eight-foot poleaxes. The other side of the gate was a confused whirl of people and sounds and smells, a Renaissance Faire with added stench and more alcohol. Are you somewhere in there, Miriam? he wondered. And: What am I going to say when I find you? Aloud: “Here goes.”
INTERRUPTION
Miriam sat alone in her bedroom for a couple of hours, thoughts spinning feverishly through her brain. Shall I stay or shall I go? The old Clash song held a certain resonance. Give the bastards what they want and Iris doesn’t get hurt. The logic was sound, but the sick sense of humiliation she felt whenever she thought about it gave her a visceral urge to lash out. Go through with it. One year, two at the most. Yes, and then what?
They’d use artificial insemination. She’d have one or more small infants, be exhausted from the effort—it wasn’t for nothing that they called it labor—and the babies would in turn be hostages to use against her. The idea of bringing up children didn’t fill her with enthusiasm; she’d seen friends turned old before their days by the workload of diaper changes and late-night feedings. It was probably different for royalty: she’d have servants and wet nurses on call. But still, wasn’t that a bit irresponsible? Miriam felt a twinge of conscience. She’d gotten into this mess of her own accord. It wouldn’t be fair to take out her resentment on a baby who wasn’t even around at the time. Or on the idiot prince. It wasn’t his fault.
I wish I could just run away. She lay back on the bed and indulged her escape fantasies for a while, studiously not thinking about Iris. I could go back to New Britain. I’ve got friends there. But the Clan knew all about her company and her contacts. I’d have to start from scratch. Talk to Erasmus about a new identity. And without the Clan connection, she’d be a lot less useful to him and his friends. What if he wanted to stay in their good books? He could easily turn her over to Morgan. Nameless dread filled her. New Britain didn’t look like a hot place to spend the rest of her days, especially starting out halfway broke in the middle of a recession while trying to hide from the Clan. Which obviously ruled out technology start-ups, businesses based on her existing know-how, anything that might draw their attention. Iris found Morris. Who or what hope have I got?
Her thoughts turned to Cambridge. Home. I could go back to being a journalist, she thought. Yeah, right. That would work precisely as long as it took for her to run into someone she’d interviewed at a trade conference. Or until she needed a bank account and a driving license. Post-9/11, disappearing and getting a new identity was becoming increasingly difficult—
Which leaves the feds, she thought. I could go look up Mike. He worked for the DEA, didn’t he? Since Matthias went over the wall, something had clearly gone deeply wrong with the Clan courier networks. Matthias had blabbed to someone, and whatever he’d told them had caused the feds to start staking out safe houses. Which means they know something about the Clan, she told herself, with a dawning sense that she’d been far too slow on the uptake. She sat up. I’ve been an idiot. If I defected, I could join the Witness Protection Program and then—
She hit a brick wall. A series of unwelcome visions began playing themselves out in the theater of her imagination. There went Angbard—a scheming old bastard he might be, but still her uncle—shoved into a federal penitentiary at his age. Lock him up for life and throw away the key. And there went Iris—the entire family, everybody, they could arrest us all for complicity, criminal conspiracy. Right? There went Olga. And Brill—probably for murder, in her case, come to think of it. The government would play hardball. They’d find some way to come over here and mess things up. If necessary, they’d chop up a captured world-walker’s brains to figure out what made them tick, grow it in a petri dish and mount it on a bomber. Before 9/11 she wouldn’t have credited it, but this was a whole different world, these were dangerous times, and the administration might do anything if it thought there was a serious threat to the nation.
Forget law and order: it would be all-out war. Afghanistan was a source of hard drugs and terrorism before 9/11, and look what they’d done there when the rules changed. Everybody had cheered the collapse of the Taliban—and yes, those bastards had it coming—but what about the village goatherds on the receiving end of cluster bombs, intended for sheep that looked like guerillas when viewed in infrared from thirty thousand feet? What about the women and children killed when some bastard up the road with a satellite phone decided to settle a local long-running blood feud using a B-52 bomber, by phoning the CIA and telling them that there were Al-Qaida gunmen in the next village?