Caliphate (31 page)

"—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.

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?

Ah . . . that's easy. "I am a member of the corps of janissaries. I have no family but my corps. Certainly I have no family that are filthy, stinking, worthless, infidel Christians and, just as certainly, if I did I would approve of them being enslaved and fucked silly on a regular basis. That I have an infidel last name is just a way for the corps to keep track of me and to remind me to be grateful for being brought out of the darkness and into the light." That's it; my defense is in apparent fanaticism.

Hans felt rather than saw the approach of three janissaries. A quick glance confirmed them as two rankers and one junior noncom.

"Sir, I'm Corporal Mashouf ad-Din, corporal of the watch. I am here to take you to the commander. These men will bring your bags to your new quarters in the castle."

"Very good, Corporal. Lead on."

Hans hadn't known, from anything his written orders had said, the rank of his new commander. Thus, he was a little surprised to see a full-fledged
corbasi
, or colonel, in charge of this one company. He said so.

"In fact," the colonel explained, "I am not just in charge of this one company. It's just the most important thing we do in this area. Over and above that, there are four more companies stationed at af-Fridhav who fall under my command and are responsible for border security. They, however, have nothing to do with this facility. We don't rotate personnel.

"I'm actually very pleased to see you, ibn Minden," the colonel said. "I've had no competent commander for this company and have had to give it most of my attention. As you might imagine, the wretches down at af-Fridhav have taken advantage of that and become sloppy. The
bayraktar
"—ensign or second lieutenant—"here is not very good. Enthusiastic? Yes. Dedicated? Yes. Faithful? Yes. Stupid? Also yes. On the plus side, your
baseski
"—senior noncom, or first sergeant—"is quite competent.

"Come, I'll show you around and introduce you to the company and the infidels whose project we are guarding. Be prepared for frightening things, ibn Minden."

"Infidels?" Hans asked.

"The right number of dinar; the right slave girls, and we can buy infidels like beans," the colonel explained. "These ones, however, cost a lot of dinar and go through slave girls—other slaves, too; you'll find out about that—at an amazing rate. Frankly, ibn Minden, without these infidels we would be facing the extinction of our faith here."

Now isn't
that
an intriguing idea
, thought Hans.
I must learn all there is to learn about this place . . . and these renegades.

Despite the cold, Hamilton was relieved beyond measure to finally get out from the auto, stretch his legs and relieve the pain in his ass. The pounding of the road—
Road? What road? I saw and felt only a linear arrangement of asphalt and rock chunks interspersed with potholes, and lined with garbage to either side—
he'd had more than his fill of.

From the town square where Bongo pulled the auto up to park Hamilton could see one crenellated gothic castle not too far away. Turning his gaze in another direction he saw an altogether more impressive structure. For all that, though, both castles, and the town, as well, showed significant signs of poor maintenance and general decay.

Still looking at the more impressive of the pair of castles, Hamilton said, "I've seen that before . . . in pictures. It looks different though."

"Used to be called 'Neuschwanstein,' before the creation of the Caliphate," Bongo said. "They modified it some . . . but haven't really kept it up. That golden dome is new, for example, where 'new' is defined as less than seventy years old. It's a high-end bordello now. You can visit it if you like. Later."

"How do the Moslems get away with having bordellos?" Hamilton asked.

"Sheer moral ingenuity," Bongo answered. "They temporarily marry the girls to customers . . . for an hour . . . a day . . . a weekend." The agent laughed. "You can marry up to four at a time, if your tastes run to the kinky," he added.

"What's the going rate?" Hamilton asked but, before Bongo could answer, laughed and said, "No, I'm really not interested."

"Actually," Bongo said, "you
need
to visit the place and make use of the . . . facilities. For one thing, in case you've forgotten, our chippie contact is in there. For another, it will give me a chance to nose around the castle that we really
are
interested in."

"Oh, the sacrifices I make for the Empire."

"Speaking of sacrifices for the Empire," Bongo said, "we'd best deliver these human sacrifices. And that's not something to laugh about."

"There are, of course, a few side benefits of being stationed here," the colonel told Hans, as they walked through the stone corridors of the castle. "One is that we get a substantial discount at the whorehouse. At least, the officers do. And the manager, Latif, prides himself on providing only the best. You can even get a decent vodka there."

"Vodka? But—"

"The holy Koran forbids the drinking of fermented grain and grape. Vodka is made from potatoes . . . "

"Ah," Hans said.

"After what I have to show you," the colonel added, "you're going to need a drink. If it makes you feel any better about it, I'll have the regimental surgeon prescribe it for you."

"Maybe," Hans half agreed. "And I've been there, actually, though I didn't drink. It's a very nice place."

The colonel cocked his head. "Really? When were you there?"

"My senior instructor at al-Harv Barracks, Abdul Rahman von Seydlitz, brought the entire company there for our graduation party," Hans explained.

The colonel smiled warmly. "I know Abdul Rahman. A fine old janissary, if a little too softhearted."

"His softheartedness was tolerably hard to see, for a new recruit," Hans said. "And I think it's mostly that he's just a man filled with the love of Allah and for his fellow man . . . and perhaps for women, as well."

"That would be Abdul Rahman. Turn right here," the colonel said. "Down those stone stairs and I'll introduce you to the renegades. And remember what I told you about awful things."

A heavy clattering coming from outside stopped the two janissary officers in their tracks.

"What the Hell is that?" Hans asked.

"Delivery of the new batch of experimental subjects, I suspect," the colonel answered. He walked to the window and beckoned Hans over. Hans saw several trucks, what looked to be a couple of hundred children, a black man in livery and a well-dressed white he took to be a slave dealer.

The colonel said, "You'll see where they're going down below."

It was a small mercy,
Hamilton thought, standing in the chill air, his breath frosting before his face,
that we packed the kids in like sardines. They'd have frozen to death otherwise.