by Alma Boykin
He started to ask her another question and she cut him off. «Love, they’re outside my cell. Good hunting.»
Joschka gave de Vivar the new information. Then he went into the beautiful Baroque and Renaissance Cathedral of the Incarnation, studying the soaring white-and-gold interior of the huge church. He genuflected to the Presence, then lit a candle to Santiago and offered prayers for the men and women searching in and around the edifice, and for his fiancée. Holy Lord God who sent Saint James and Michael Archangel to lead and protect Your faithful, be with us. A quarter of an hour later, he looked over at the sarcophagi in the royal chapel and whispered an urgent plea, then went to find Capitan de Vivar.
The captain had even worse news, at least as far as Rachel’s safety. “We just received word that someone called the Israeli embassy an hour ago, claiming that they had a female Israeli agent of some kind hostage and will execute her in two more hours if they are not provided with transportation and safe passage out of Spain. Then they sent a picture.” He handed Joschka a copy of the image.
“That’s her,” Joschka confirmed, wondering as he did, Rachel, are you playing some kind of game with them? “I trust their demand was rejected?”
“Of course. We no longer negotiate with would-be terrorists,” de Vivar reminded the Austrian.
Rachel had known she was really in trouble when Mask addressed her in Hebrew. She’d sung hymns in the language and had picked up a few more words—the rude ones—from Captain Moshe ben David, so she recognized the tongue, if not what Mask asked her. One word she had understood: Mossad. Well, she’d just confirm their wrong guess and see what happened, in hopes that it would keep them from paying much attention to the search around the cathedral. She’d replied to Mask in Hebrew, calling him and his friends very, very bad things. Bad enough that he’d hit her again, much harder than before.
Then he stared at her face and at something on his hand. Uh oh. The Wanderer’s stomach clenched a little. Her cosmetics bonded to her skin, so they couldn’t rub off easily, but apparently after almost a day and a half the chemicals were breaking down. Mask took a rag, and as Muscles and the third man held her still, he spat on her cheek and then rubbed the makeup off from a spot under her blind eye, revealing her scars.
That clenched her identity, as far as the jihadis were concerned. It also gave Mask an idea. She had seen the smile creeping into his dark brown eyes and hadn’t cared for it one bit. Muscles hauled her to her feet, and Mask punched her in the stomach—hard. As she wretched and gasped, the youngest man jammed a rag into her mouth and gagged her. Then he reached into her shirt and groped her breasts, until Mask cut his fun short. Ja, don’t want him touching an unclean kufir now, do you? Not that I can give you that kind of pleasure, slimemold’s degenerate cousin. The boss barked an order in Arabic, and Muscles had put something on her wrists that caused her even more pain. She glowered at them, earning another blow to the head. The kick she landed on Muscles on the way to her cell cost her a slap, followed by knife slashes that left her face and chest bleeding. It also took the last of her energy.
Once back in her cell, Rachel lay still, avoiding putting pressure on her hands and wrists. If Joschka and the Spanish found the bomb and then could locate her within ninety minutes, she’d be fine. If not, well, she’d decided on plans B and C. Sorry beloved. I may leave you waiting once more, she thought apologetically before making a silent confession. Then she relaxed her muscles and willed herself into unconsciousness.
Half an hour after Joschka confirmed Rachel’s identity, one of Capitan de Vivar’s experts sounded the alarm. “Begin evacuating the area, now! We found it. And there’s more than one.” Joschka wasted no time getting out of the way as GEO, CNP, and bomb disposal people swarmed the plaza and Cathedral. The bombs had been secreted in a series of very large decorative planters near the edge of the plaza, by a main entrance to the area, although the truck bomb was still missing. Lead glazed pottery – cute, Joschka thought, as he listened to the briefing. All right, Rachel, he told her, wherever she was, we found it. Now it’s your turn.
The terrorists may have known bomb making, but their communications were woefully insecure. Or someone had gotten lazy and careless. They’d called the Israeli embassy on a land-line phone, and the embassy’s own security people had traced it back as part of their standard threat response procedures. The location matched the description Rachel had managed to get to her superior, and as soon as the bomb’s location was secure, Joschka and a group of heavily armed policemen and GEO troops were en route to their next objective.
“Check every room, but be careful! They probably have booby traps scattered around,” the policía captain ordered. Joschka reached for Rachel’s mind, but could no longer find it. Her mental trace had vanished.
They found one bonus as they searched—her captors had retreated so abruptly that they’d left behind a set of car keys, two computers, and several cell phones, all of which the counter-terror people would analyze.
The soldiers moved quickly and carefully through the old building, and Joschka growled when they found the execution chamber. A wire noose hung from a thick beam in the ceiling and three cameras had been set up to record events. Judging by other things in the room, all the equipment had been used recently, and the Austrian braced himself for what they would probably find. «Oh little one, I’m so sorry that we’re late,» he sent towards her, wherever she might be now.
“In here!” a voice called from two doors farther down, and the captain and Graf-General looked into the small, shuttered room.
“That’s her,” Joschka confirmed as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Please merciful Lord, please . . . Rachel lay partly on her back, hands behind her. When the CNP man gave the all clear, the HalfDragon knelt by her side after making certain that her body had not been booby-trapped. Despite appearances, she was alive, and Joschka cut away her gag, using one end to wipe some of the blood off her face. She still didn’t move, and Joschka rolled her fully onto her side. “Nasty bastards,” the sergeant hissed when they saw the cuts and bruises on her face and on the side of her head, the glass-powdered wire binding her hands, and the blood on her clothes and the floor.
A shout of “Allahu Akbar!” from a different part of the building, accompanied by gunshots, sent everyone into defense mode. Joschka cringed as he remembered the still missing truck bomb. The Policía captain slammed the door shut as he and the sergeant went on alert, and Joschka dragged Rachel into a corner, out of any possible lines of fire and away from the side of the room closest to the road, interposing his body between her and the entrance before drawing his own weapon. Rachel moved under his hands, and he helped her into a sitting position. Her eye snapped open, and she stared around the room. Then she realized who crouched in front of her. “My lord General?” she croaked.
“Rachel! Thank God,” Joschka breathed, clutching her tightly with one arm as he trained his pistol at the door. Rachel buried her face against his chest. He held her there for several long minutes until the police outside the room gave the all clear. Then the sergeant tossed him a pair of wire cutters and Joschka holstered his weapon and set to work.
“I want the bastards, Joschka. I want them to suffer,” she snarled, after she’d gotten some water. “And I’m not going shopping ever again!”
He didn’t answer, concentrating on cutting her hands free while she briefed the CNP officers. The Austrian nobleman’s mouth twisted into a snarl of his own at how she’d been treated, although he admitted to himself that it could have been much, much worse. “The idiots first thought I was the Defense Minister’s lady, then decided that I was an Israeli, probably with Shin Beit or Mossad,” she explained, as one of the paramedics rinsed and bandaged her wrists. “After all, what other woman would be armed and dare to fight back against ‘warriors of the Prophet’?” She didn’t mention how she’d goaded them.
As soon as they got word that the truck had been found in another building, the policía gave Joschka p
ermission to move Rachel out of her cell. He hadn’t lost any of his strength over the years, as he proved by picking up the exhausted, light-headed, and rather surprised Wanderer, and carrying her out into the cool, misty afternoon. He noticed something and frowned. “Love, where’s your necklace?”
“In my satchel, with General Khan. I put it in there when I showered yesterday morning and decided it would be safer with him if I wanted to try on scarves. I’d hate to snag something expensive.” Joschka set her down on some steps behind the cover of one of the police vehicles. “He borrowed the laptop, and I just let him have the entire bag. I hope he didn’t eat all of my dried beef and cuttlefish!”
Joschka gave her a faintly disapproving look. She glanced around before continuing in Trader. “Did they find the bombs?”
He nodded. “Affirmative. The cathedral plaza has been sealed, and a disposal team is at work. We went there first.” He looked away for a moment. “That’s why we were almost too late.”
“No, love. I’m only one person. Those things going off would have caused who knows how much pain and mayhem for the innocents here. Remember Portobello Road?” There was sorrow in her eye as she laid her hand over his. “We both know how this universe works.”
Joschka had to agree, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He took her battered hand and thanked God that they had found her. And the bombs.
Six hours later, Joschka looked up from his book and smiled. In light of the security situation and the need to fully debrief Commander Na Gael, he, General Khan, and the GEO commander on site, had decided that Rachel was safer in a different location that night, one closer to the local GEO and policía posts, and where she’d be, despite her vociferous protests, under strict and discreet guard. Thus the pillow in his lap, with her head nestled on it as the rest of her curled up on two thirds of the couch in his suite while she dozed. Joschka rested his hand on her shoulder, reassuring himself that she was all right and feeling the faint vibration coming from her. By now nothing about her should surprise me Joschka mused. Even that she purrs!
After another chapter, she stirred and he helped her sit up. She’d been hungry and dehydrated, and she drank another glass of water, then disappeared for a bit before returning to the sitting room.
“A pfennig for your thoughts?” she asked, slowly stretching her arms and shoulders. The muscles ached and the cuts on her wrists stung as the scabs pulled taut.
“That I don’t want to see you in danger ever again. And that I know I might as well ask the jihadis to become Franciscans, because that would be more likely to happen than you not being yourself.” His heart ached at how often he’d come close to losing her, even before today. And those where just the times he knew about!
She nodded, expression grim. “You understand me too well, Joschka. I ‘read’ what the nasty creatures had planned for me. If you hadn’t found me, I was going to sever my veins with the wire rather than give them the pleasure of using me in their propaganda.” Joschka knew she was serious and closed his eyes against the pain in his heart.
“Love, are you still sure you want me?” a quiet voice asked as she settled beside him.
“Yes. Absolutely yes,” and he turned slightly, taking her hand and holding it over his heart. “We’re both soldiers, Hairball. I know what that means, and I’ll take every moment I can get with you.”
She put the pillow back and lay down again, smiling. He stroked her hair, lightly scratching between where her ears had once been. “Oh, and you’ll be happy to know that I found your backpack, with my purchases in it, all safe.”
“That’s good,” she replied. “I’d hate for you to have to try to convince that nice lady in the accessory shop that shrapnel holes came under her guarantee.”
He shook his head at her graveyard humor. “Commander Na Gael Ni Drako, in thirty-six hours you’ve managed to give me two years’ worth of grey hair, irritated Rahoul Khan by missing his lecture session, and ruined a bombing. I don’t suppose you have anything to say for yourself?”
A tiny smile tugged the corner of Rachel’s mouth as she turned her head so he could rub under her chin, her eye wide open and innocent. “Mew?”
The HalfDragon laughed so hard that he dropped his book. He settled down, and she closed her eye, pretending to be asleep. But something she’d picked up from Mask continued to gnaw at her. A connection she’d sensed for an instant, a link to Britain and thence to someone that bothered Mask more than he wanted to admit. Should she mention it to Rahoul? No, she decided, relaxing as Joschka resumed stroking her shoulder. Rahoul had a blind spot and this fell dead in the center of it. She wiggled a little and fell asleep.
Rachel did her best to look harmless and inoffensive as she nibbled the broken-off corner of a gingerbread plaque and trailed along behind Joschka. He’d invited her to come visit despite the season, and she’d taken him up on his offer, to his delight. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled a little, then returned to the urgent matter of finding a specific Christmas tree ornament. Lise, his former granddaughter-in-law, collected traditional straw ornaments, and he thought he’d seen one that she’d like. The Austrian nobleman studied the delicate, ornate starburst and decided that, yes, this was what he wanted. He bought the decoration and handed it to the dark-haired woman at his shoulder. “If you please.” She tucked the item into her satchel.
“That’s everything from my list,” Joschka announced, as they went back into the busy Christkindlmarkt. “Is there anything you need to look for?”
Rachel smiled and shook her head. “No, thank you, my lord. I already found the toys that I wanted for Robin and Sita.” She’d purchased a wooden train and toy horses for her godchildren, and the toys now sat in the bottom of her bag.
Joschka nodded briskly. “Good! Then we will get some hot wine and cider before taking our things back to the suite.” They threaded their way through the cheerful bustle of the traditional German Christmas market as a few token flakes of dry snow fluttered out of low, grey skies. The skies darkened early this far north, and the candles and lights in the windows of the old buildings around the square made a cheerful scene. Although on her guard and spring-loaded for trouble, Rachel enjoyed watching the people coming and going around them. She was warm in her coat and winter pelt, and having her fiancé to herself for two days warmed her inside as well.
She and the Graf-General found an unoccupied bench at the edge of the marktplatz and sipped their drinks, relishing both the spicy flavors and the hand-warming heat. She snuck a few glances at him, admiring the cut and fit of his moleskin coat and trousers. He caught her glance and raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Just wondering where the slightly gawky and rather confused corporal went, sir,” she explained.
Joschka drank a bit more wine and smiled at the flavors and the question. “Oh, I like to think that he matured some—grew into his bones, as they said back home. But the sharp-tongued lieutenant he once met is still around, or so I understand,” he teased.
Rachel sniffed and pretended to take offense. “I was provoked. And Regimental Sergeant Major Smith had warned the captain more than once not to call me names.”
“What did he call you?” Joschka wanted to know, then choked as she replied tartly, “Fluffy.”
After a pause to hide his laughter, he nodded. “No, that wasn’t wise,” he grinned a little, “Hairball.”
“That’s Commander Hairball, my lord.” She smiled. She’d acquired the nickname almost five centuries before, when they were both mercenaries in a different part of the galaxy. Joschka was the only one who still knew or used it.
He stood. “Shall we?” They disposed of their empty cups, and he took her arm as they strolled through the afternoon flurries, her cane making the cobbles ring a little as they went.
He’d gotten them a suite in a quiet old hotel on the edge of the medieval city center. They hung up their coats, and Rachel went to her room to divide up the contents of her bag while Joschka made himself comfortable in the sitting
area. “Where would you like me to put these, Joschka?” she asked, as she carried his parcels in.
“The table is fine.” She did as asked, then came over and settled down beside him. He reached across and put his arm around her shoulders, tugging gently until she slumped over against him, smiling up at her friend and love. They kissed and enjoyed the moment of peace.
“I assume the box on my bed is your doing?” Rachel inquired after a comfortable silence.
Joschka smoothed his beard and looked innocent. “It might be. In case you didn’t want to wear your usual grey tonight.”
“Love, you are going to spoil me rotten if you are not careful,” she cautioned, wagging a finger at him.
“Hmmm. I’ve not noticed you objecting overmuch.” He smiled as he captured her hand and massaged it. “You’ve earned a little spoiling.” His smile faded a little as he ran his thumb over the fresh scars on her wrist, adding, “Besides, you didn’t seem to mind my arranging things.”
Rachel thought about it. “You’re the expert here, Joschka. Why should I hire a local guide and then ignore his advice and hard work?” She grinned, admitting, “It’s nice to have someone else do the planning and heavy lifting on occasion.”
“Hired!” Joschka acted put out.
She straightened up, then stood. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, but coffee would be good.” He closed his eyes and listened to her puttering around at the small wet bar. Soon the aroma of coffee drifted under his nose, and he woke from half-napping to find a cup at his elbow. Rachel had taken out her contact lenses and put on her patch while their drinks brewed, and she looked less happy than a few minutes before.
“Love, I talked to Himself,” she started. Joschka set his cup down, waiting for her news. She shook her head, and he read sorrow in her eye. “He won’t release me. He said it wouldn’t be fair to me, whatever that means, and that my ‘disability’ makes it moot.” She turned away, walking over to the window and looking out at the street below, as her fiancé swore. She’d unpinned her long hair, and absently ran her hand down the plait as she gazed through the mullioned glass. “I’m sorry, Joschka. He was polite, quiet, and as unmovable as the roots of the Drachenburg.” Rachel hung her head, fighting back tears. “I begged him on my knees, and he still refused.”
