Hammer of the Witches

by Kai Wai Cheah

  I stroked my chin. “I see.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “You can’t run forever. The police aren’t going to stop hunting you. The best you can do is wait until they have other crises to handle and then resurface.”

  “I know that!” she snapped.

  I caught myself from overreacting the way she did. Yes, she was under a lot of stress, but I hadn’t seen this coming. As I studied her face, I saw her eyes droop. Fatigue?

  “It’s just… this is the best we can do,” she continued. “We’ll find the one who targeted us, but for now, we have to survive.”

  “We will. And then, we’ll take the war to the enemy.”

  She smiled daggers. Not at me, at whoever this enemy was.

  “They’ll regret making war on us. We’ll show them why we’re called the hammer of the witches.”

  Something was very wrong. It was like she had flicked a switch, jumping from angry to upbeat in the space of a breath.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  Fire flashed through her eyes. “Yes. I’m fine.” Just as quickly, they faded to embers. “I just have a lot to think about.”

  “I’ve got an idea that might help,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  I’d expected an argument. Instead, she sat meekly and listened. At the end of it she said, “Frank isn’t going to like it.”

  “Why?”

  “He hates Hesperians.” She chuckled. “Well, he’ll have to get over it.”

  We couldn’t fly directly to Germania. Every German airport required mandatory DNA testing. With the police chasing Hexenhammer, we had to remain invisible.

  The easiest option was to tap into the Program’s assets. For the Anglia job we had flown in on an Agency-owned airplane, and our paperwork declared we had been pre-cleared, allowing us to breeze through Customs without leaving DNA records behind. But that kind of operation needed time to be set up. When I checked with O’Connor, he said he couldn’t summon a pre-cleared flight on such short notice. Even the Program couldn’t circumvent Pantopian paperwork.

  Without Kalypso, we had to make do.

  We spent the rest of the trip to Thessaloniki searching for alternative travel routes. The second-best option was by train, but there was no direct line to Germania.

  That left us with buses.

  At Thessaloniki we caught an overnight coach to Budapest. We barely made it to the bus station in time to buy the last pair of tickets out.

  The bus departed at eight in the evening. The moment the bus moved off, the tour guide introduced herself. Her voice was annoyingly perky.

  “Thank you for traveling with Stephanos Travel, and we wish you a pleasant journey. I hope you’re comfortable because our ride will take seventeen hours. But don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of rest stops along the way!”

  Eve groaned. “Seventeen hours of this?”

  “My condolences.”

  We were now tourists on a sightseeing adventure across Pantopia. Eve snuggled up against me and fiddled with her holobuds. I did the same. The guide rattled off facts about the countryside and her company. I paid just enough attention to track our progress and continued to write my contact report on the events at Hellas. We went to sleep a couple of hours later, when the guide finally shut up.

  We didn’t rest long. When we arrived at the Macedonian border, we had to disembark and pass through Customs. My contact lenses were designed for extended wear; I could wear them for a week at a time without worrying about infection. And I always kept my fingercaps on when I’m on the job.

  “You don’t need to freshen up your appearance?” I asked.

  She checked herself in a compact and shook her head. Most women carried one to refresh their makeup. She did it to refresh her face. I would have found it amusing if the situation were less serious.

  We passed through customs without a hitch. Back aboard the bus, we napped—or at least tried to—until we reached the Rascian border. Another inspection, then we went back to sleep.

  I dreamed of… something. Sharp teeth and sharper knives and a man with wings and too many eyes, a parade of faint jumbled impressions, terminating with a flash of white.

  I awoke with sunlight in my eyes, a sweet scent in my nostrils and a heavy weight on my shoulder. It was Eve. Still asleep, her hand intertwined with mine. She smelled like roses and vanilla. I slowly released her and gently eased myself off her. She mumbled something and flopped against me.

  This was awfully familiar. The first time we had slept together, she did the same thing, chasing me whenever I tried to extract myself.

  I turned on my buds and let her sleep.

  O’Connor had finagled the list of arrested Hexenhammer members from somewhere and attached it to the draft. I downloaded it for safekeeping—Eve would want to look at it later—and read the rest of the mail.

  We’re still trying to get an access agent inside Interpol’s HH task force. In the meantime, keep a low profile. Something feels wrong about all this. We don’t know where Interpol is getting their information from, and they won’t reveal their sources. It’s like the intel just appeared out of thin air.

  I’m working on getting a copy of Interpol’s target deck. While we’re confident you’re not on it, you cannot afford to get caught. We can’t help you if you do.

  Cyrus’s assessment of black market and ultranationalist purchasing patterns in Hellas fits with our own intelligence. However, we have precious little data on Hexenhammer. All we can confidently say is that the local ultras weren’t responsible for Chios. It doesn’t rule out HH.

  The airship is doing fine. The techs put her back together in record time. Pete and Harding are going to run flight tests and inspections soon. They tell me that when, not if, everything checks out, they can be in Pantopia within 36 hours.

  P.S. As for your idea re: what to do with HH, it’s crazy. But crazy enough that it might just be accepted. I’ll keep you updated.

  Eve stirred next to me. Covering her mouth, she yawned.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “Morning,” she replied. “Anything new?”

  “Yeah.” I paused. “It can wait until breakfast.”

  We were surrounded by civilians. Anything anybody said aboard the bus could be heard by everyone else. The guide continued her patter. I continued to ignore her.

  Until the bus jerked into a sudden stop.

  The guide conferred briefly with the driver and then turned to us, her face sober.

  “I’m sorry, everyone,” she said. “It seems we have some, ah, traffic issues. We’ll be crossing the border shortly.”

  Eve leaned out of her seat. “What’s going on?”

  I craned my neck, looking out the windshield. Groups of people gathered ahead of the bus, congregating into a wall down the road. Passengers blocked the view to my right. Out the window to my left, I saw a tall fence stretching across a field. On the Rascian side, rows of brightly colored tents covered the field, enough for a small army. In Ungria, a thin line of cops in riot gear stood watch. Men chanted in Musafiric, loud enough that I could hear them.

  “Open the gate! Open the gate!”

  A loudspeaker boomed in response. The speaker’s words were too muffled to make out, and my implant returned an error message. It didn’t have an Ungrian language pack.

  “Do you know what the police are saying?” I asked.

  “Something about how they’re blocking the road and need to disperse.”

  The demonstrators ignored them.

  At the front of the bus, a pair of Han tourists—maybe a husband and wife—kicked up a fuss.

  “What is this!” the man yelled. “Why are we not moving?”

  “The road is blocked,” the guide said. “Please be patient. We will–”

  “How come they are blocking the way? This shouldn’t happen! You should know about these things, right?”

  “We didn’t receive word about these protests. I’m sorry. There
’s nothing we can–”

  The man yelled what sounded like a curse in his native tongue. I didn’t have a language pack for that either.

  Eve shifted her weight. “I’m going to stop–”

  I grabbed her arm. “No.”

  She speared me with a furious gaze. “What?”

  “Sit down.”

  “What do you mean–”

  “Sit.”

  She sat.

  “Listen,” I whispered. “We are on the job. We cannot afford to be remembered.”

  “But he’s–”

  “Being an asshole. Yes. But the last thing we need is for any of these tourists to take a video or photo of us and post it on Memet, uStream or wherever. Just let the guide take care of it.”

  She gritted her teeth. Clenched her fists.

  “Fine.”

  The guide continued to engage the man in a soothing tone. His wife rubbed his shoulder and whispered into his ear. Finally, the man crossed his arms and simmered down.

  The driver tooted the horn. The protesters refused to move.

  “Seems we’ll be stuck here for a while,” Eve muttered.

  The driver held down the horn. This time, the crowd made way, slowly and reluctantly. The bus inched forward.

  And stopped.

  Men swarmed the bus and pressed up against the windows. They were all from the Near East. They shook their fists at us, with a few slapping their right fists into their left palms. It was a threatening gesture. I scanned the crowd for weapons. None in sight.

  Sirens cut through the air. The cop spoke again.

  “He’s issuing a final warning to disperse,” Eve translated.

  The men packed themselves in around us. Ahead, the massive gates opened. The protesters charged the opening, and a pair of armored trucks greeted them.

  Streams of high-pressure water blasted into the crowd. Sharp cracks thundered through the air. I ducked and then realized the cops were deploying stun grenades.

  A high-pitched two-tone wall of deafening noise followed. I stuffed my fingers into my ears. It barely helped. The mob scattered before the sonic assault.

  The trucks advanced slowly through the open gate, a phalanx of riot police behind them. As they approached, I saw that one of the trucks had the distinctive rectangular projection of a long-range acoustic device. The other boasted a pair of water cannons.

  The rioters attempted a halfhearted flanking maneuver. The police held them off with their shields and tossed tear gas grenades into the crowd. The Musafireen backed off, and the cops pressed the advantage. Water and sonic waves lashed the crowd again. The mob retreated, clearing the road.

  The police escorted us into Ungria, and the gate closed behind us.

  ***

  “We sincerely apologize for the incident,” the police spokesman said in Anglian. “The migrants have been increasingly aggressive these days. They are trying to break through into Ungria by following motor traffic through the gates.”

  The Han tourists continued to complain. The cop repeated the same talking points: we are doing our best. We cannot deploy into Rascia without justification. There’s only so much we can do about migrants at our level.

  Eve didn’t care much for the explanation. She crossed her arms and stewed in silence. At least we had cleared Customs without incident. The police recorded our statements—Eve and I told them we were seated near the back, and we didn’t see anything—and let us go.

  I hated leaving a paper trail, but the cops didn’t record our biometrics. With any luck, the reports would quickly disappear into an ocean of paperwork, never to be seen again.

  The Customs office served double duty as a rest stop. As the bus fueled up, we bought sandwiches and coffee. Musafireen continued yelling at us in the distance. The police continued staring them down. Eve and I found an empty bench.

  “I never thought it was this bad,” Eve said.

  “What do you mean?”

  She gestured at the mob. They had already recovered from the sonic assault. Fresh faces filled the frontline while the ones in the rear washed off tear gas and changed their clothes.

  “They’re desperate,” I said. “DW drove them here.”

  “No,” she said. “They’re invaders.”

  I flattened my emotional response.

  “Oh?” I said.

  “The press calls them refugees. But if they’re refugees, what are they doing here? There are plenty of countries in the Near East that can accept them. The Rashidun Sultanate, the United Amirates, Mazghania. They share similar languages, customs and cultures with these countries. Instead, they risk life and limb crossing the sea to come here, a land that does not share their languages, their beliefs, their values.” She shook her head firmly. “They’re not refugees. They’re economic migrants. They’re not here to assimilate; they’re here to leech off the welfare system and to build a separate society. How is that not an invasion?”

  “Is that why you do what you do?” I asked.

  “Of course. I have no desire to live in a Pantopia ruled by a theocracy.”

  Making a mental note to update her Nemesis dossier, I pulled up the list of arrested Hexenhammer members on the phone and handed it to her.

  “Recognize these names?”

  She studied the list in silence. Her lips tightened. Her brow furrowed. She clenched her fists.

  “They arrested the ultranationalists. All of them.”

  “Including the ones you wanted to talk to?”

  “Yes.”

  I called up the list of suspects she sent me.

  “How many people are left?” I asked.

  “Six. Could be fewer; I know there are some people on the list who don’t use their real names.” She cursed softly under her breath. “I don’t understand. How did they move so fast? How did they know who we were and where to find us?”

  “Interagency cooperation in action.”

  “No, you don’t understand. Frank and his team routinely monitor law enforcement databases. If the police mentioned anything about Hexenhammer, we would have known. The police should not have known about us.”

  “What about intelligence agencies?”

  “We’ve penetrated a couple,” she said carefully. “The Gallians and the Germans. Same thing: they didn’t have anything about us. They didn’t have a body of knowledge about us. They couldn’t have moved so fast.”

  “The traitor theory is looking increasingly plausible.”

  She pursed her lips. “Maybe.”

  “We need to proceed under the assumption that the safe house is compromised.”

  “It’s never been used before.”

  “Is it on an internal record?”

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “Right. I’ll tell Frank to get us a new one.”

  “That’s the way to go.”

  ***

  When we finally arrived in Budapest, Eve checked her mail.

  “Frank says he’s got a clean safe house prepared—one that isn’t in our records,” she said. “It’s in Dusseldorf.”

  “That’s our next stop,” I said.

  Between the protest and the police investigation, we arrived in Budapest in the mid-afternoon. We had missed the last train to Germania. We booked two tickets on the morning train to Frankfurt and checked into a hotel. At least it was a chance to experience real food and a real bed.

  We checked into separate single rooms, of course. The last thing I needed was an accusation of impropriety. In the evening I spent an hour working out, burning off the nervous energy I had accumulated in the day. One set of bodyweight exercises, one set of empty-hand drills, alternate and repeat until muscles burned and lungs ached. After a quick shower, I joined Eve for dinner.

  Michelin-starred chef, cozy interior, fine wine paired with excellent food. A time-honored way of releasing inhibitions and loosening tongues. But despite my best efforts, Eve remained sullen, taking tiny bites and speaking little. It was the quietest I had ever seen her.

 
; “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just… I have a lot to think about today.”

  “I understand,” I replied. “The road is wearing me down, too.”

  Even with exercise my muscles were still stiff, my joints tight. We’d been cooped up in a seated position for hours on end, unable to stand or lie down. And my body clock was still playing catch-up with the local clock.

  I was getting old.

  After dinner, I retired to my room. I washed my old clothes in the bathroom and emailed O’Connor.

  Eve and I are arranging an emergency RV for HH assets in Dusseldorf. Will need equipment to secure a new safe house. Please see attached list.

  Before bed, I tried contacting Hakem Dunya again. I dreamed of stars and claws and huge men with massive guns but no archangel. Maybe I was too fatigued and too distracted to do it properly. I’d have to try again after things settled down.

  We set off again first thing in the morning. As we crossed into Osteria, the train conductors inspected our passports and tickets. Working with mobile devices, they compared names against an international blacklist. There was no DNA screening for trains entering and exiting the Pantopian Union. We flew under their radar and carried on.

  Once inside the PU, we no longer needed to submit our passports and luggage to Customs inspections. In Vienna we switched trains, arriving in Frankfurt just after ten at night. When I checked my mail, I saw a response from O’Connor.

  We delivered the equipment you requested. They are all sterile and expendable, but we prefer to get them back. You will find them inside Locker 28 at Dusseldorf Hauptbahnhof. Password is 7628. They will be in position by the time you arrive tomorrow. You have 24 hours to pick them up.

  We boarded the morning train to Dusseldorf, arriving just after two in the afternoon. As she stepped off the car, Eve stifled a yawn.

  “Finally,” she muttered.

  “It’s been a long journey,” I said.

  “No kidding. Come on; Frank is waiting for us.”

  Luggage in hand, we made our way to the exit. As Eve looked for Frank, I hung back and watched for people watching for us.

  “Frank!” she said.