That was what Lankowski meant when he said that he worked for the Syrian government "as often as not." Because as often as not he worked for a government higher than that of Syria.
They already have their own rival to the Hegemon.
"Perhaps someday," she said, "my children will be trained and used to help defend some nation from Muslim conquest."
"Since Muslims do not invade other nations anymore, I wonder how such a thing could happen?"
"You have Alai sequestered here somewhere. What is he doing, making baskets or pottery to sell at the fair?"
"Are those the only choices you see? Pottery-making or aggressive war?"
But his denials did not interest her. She knew her analysis was as correct as it could be without more data--his denial was not a disproof, it was more likely to be an inadvertent confirmation.
What interested her now was Bean. Where was he? When would he get to Damascus? What would he do about the missing embryos?
Or at least that was what she tried to pretend to herself that she was interested in.
Because all she could really think, in an undercurrent monologue that kept shouting at her from deep inside her mind, was:
He has my babies.
/> Not the Pied Piper, prancing them away from town. Not Baba Yaga, luring them into her house on chicken legs. Not the witch in the gingerbread cottage, keeping them in cages and fattening them up. None of those grey fantasies. Nothing of fog and mist. Only the absolute black of a place where no light shines, where light is not even remembered.
That's where her babies were.
In the belly of the Beast.
The car came to a stop at a simple platform. The underground road went on, to destinations Petra did not bother trying to guess. For all she knew, the tunnel ran to Baghdad, to Amman, under the mountains to Ankara, maybe even under the radioactive desert to arise in the place where the ancient stone waits for the half-life of the half-life of the half-life of death to pass, so pilgrims can come again on haj.
Lankowski reached out a hand and helped her from the car, though she was young and he was old. His attitude toward her was strange, as if he had to treat her very carefully. As if she was not robust, as if she could easily break.
And it was true. She was the one who could break. Who broke.
Only I can't break now. Because maybe I still have one child. Maybe putting this one inside me did not kill it, but gave it life. Maybe it has taken root in my garden and will blossom and bear fruit, a baby on a short twisted stem. And when the fruit is plucked, out will come stem and root as well, leaving the garden empty. And where will the others be then? They have been taken to grow in someone else's plot. Yet I will not break now, because I have this one, perhaps this one.
"Thank you," she said to Lankowski. "But I'm not so fragile as to need help getting out of a car."
He smiled at her, but said nothing. She followed him into the elevator and they rose up into...
A garden. As lush as the Philippine jungle clearing where Peter gave the order that would bring the Beast into their house, driving them out.
She saw that the courtyard was glassed over. That's why it was so humid here. That's how it stayed so moist. Nothing was given up to the dry desert air.
Sitting quietly on a stone chair in the middle of the garden was a tall, slender man, his skin the deep cacao brown of the upper Niger where he had been born.
She did not walk up to him at once, but stood admiring what she saw. The long legs, clad not in the business suit that had been the uniform of westerners for centuries now, but in the robes of a sheik. His head was not covered, however. And there was no beard on his chin. Still young, and yet also now a man.
"Alai," she murmured. So softly that she doubted he could hear.
And perhaps he did not hear, but chose that moment only by coincidence, to turn and see her. His brooding expression softened into a smile. But it was not the boyish grin that she had known when he bounded along the low-gravity inner corridors of Battle School. This smile had weariness in it, and old fears long mastered but still present. It was the smile of wisdom.
She realized then why Alai had disappeared from view.
He is Caliph. They have chosen a Caliph again, all the Muslim world under the authority of one man, and it is Alai.
She could not know this, not just from his place here in a garden. Yet she knew from the way he sat in it that this was a throne. She knew from the way she was brought here, with no trappings of power, no guards, no passwords, just a simple man of elegant courtesy leading her to the boy-man seated on the ancient throne. Alai's power was spiritual. In all of Damascus there was no safer place than here. No one would bother him. Millions would die before letting an uninvited stranger set foot here.
He beckoned to her, and it was the gentle invitation of a holy man. She did not have to obey him, and he would not mind if she did not come. But she came.