by Tim LaHaye
Buck knew all right. Ming was tiny to begin with. She was anything but boyish, but Zeke had cut her hair, showed her how to carry herself as a man, clipped her nails, removed the color from her face. From his stash of clothes and alterations on her old GC uniform, he had turned her into a young, male GC Peacekeeper.
“What name?” Buck said.
“Her brother’s,” Z said. “Chang. Last name Chow. I didn’t know she was gonna be out of here as soon as I got her ready.”
“Not your fault. How long has she been gone? Maybe we can catch her.”
“Buck!” Leah said. “She’s an adult, a widow. If she wants to go to China, you can’t stop her.”
Buck shook his head. “How long do you think we’re safe here with everybody running around the streets whenever they feel like it? Chang’s already told us the palace is starting to suspect something. If Steve Plank heard about it in Colorado, it won’t be long before somebody comes snooping around.”
“She probably didn’t tell you what she was doing because she knew you’d try to talk her out of it.”
“I might have tried to help. Find her a ride, something.”
“Yeah, like you were going to arrange for a plane and a pilot.”
Buck shot a double take at Leah’s sarcasm. His father-in-law had groused that she was capable of it, but Buck hadn’t been the brunt of it before. “This isn’t helpful, Leah,” he said.
“Helpful would have been to send Albie with her.”
“I didn’t know she was going!”
“Well, now you do.”
“And I’m willing,” Albie said. “But—”
“We can’t spare you,” Buck said. “Anyway, your cover’s blown, and we don’t have a new one for you yet.”
“I can take care of that inside twenty-four hours,” Zeke said.
“No! Let’s just hope she checks in and keeps us posted.” Buck kicked a chair. “How in the world is she going to sound like a guy? She’s got that soft, delicate voice.”
“Not when she was barking orders at the prison,” Leah said.
“She’d better bark all the way to China, then,” Buck said. “Imagine if she gets found out. They discover she’s AWOL from Buffer, connect her with her brother, and bingo, he’s history. And where does that leave us?”
Chloe hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t that Ptolemaïs would look like it had been through a war. For so long, the GC had largely left Greece alone. Its being part of the United Carpathian States contributed, she was sure. Nicolae would not have wanted the publicity that came with exposing Judah-ites in his own region. But the network of believers had so flourished that eventually it was too big to hide. Once the first wave of strong-arm tactics swept through and resulted in many facing the guillotine rather than accepting Carpathia’s mark of loyalty, the battle between the GC and the Christ-following underground escalated. The administration of the mark of loyalty had begun with prisoners and had not gone well. The leadership had been infiltrated. Two young prisoners had escaped. And once the worst of the guillotining task was over, things got sloppier.
One of the strongest branches of the International Commodity Co-op, Chloe’s own brainchild, was headquartered in town. It had become the clandestine meeting place for believers. But the ambush had cost the church there not only Lukas “Laslos” Miklos, but also one of its most beloved senior members, Kronos, as well as the teenager Marcel Papadopoulos. And if the girl who claimed to be Georgiana Stavros was indeed an impostor named Elena, as Steve Plank had heard, then for all Chloe knew Georgiana was dead too.
Few people were on the street in the light of day, and many of them were GC. They saluted politely the Indian and the westerner in high-level officers’ garb and smart white caps piped in blue braid. Albie had taught Hannah and Chloe a proper salute, which they soon realized was crisper and more dead-on than most of the real GC used. Indifference was their mask. No eye contact, no talking to each other loudly enough for anyone else to hear. A serious look, close to a scowl, made them look all business. They had places to go and people to see, and their demeanor discouraged cordiality and small talk.
From the GC Palace complex in New Babylon, Chang Wong, through carefully placed confidential memos from pseudo high-ranking palace Peacekeepers, had sparked a rumor in Greece that the brass were sending a top guy to start cleaning up the mess there.
Chloe believed that GC forces who looked at Hannah and her twice were not just lonely men. She assumed they assessed the uniforms and put two and two together. Some had to assume these two were with the new guy, whoever and wherever he was.
Hannah had affected the perfect walk, and Chloe—had she not been so on edge—would have been amused at “Indira.” They hurried to a dingy storefront, where a cracked window had been crudely taped. A dusty TV sat on a shelf and pointed to the street, and a half-dozen or so GC knelt or squatted in front of the window watching it. One noticed Chloe’s and Hannah’s reflections in the window and cleared his throat. The others quickly stood and saluted.
“Just make way, gentlemen,” Hannah said, again with her practiced accent.
It was all Chloe could do to compose herself when first she saw Petra burning, and eventually whatever it was that had caused GCNN to pull the plug on the coverage. The milling GC leaned forward and stared at the TV, then at each other. “What was that?” one said. “Survivors?”
Others laughed and punched him. “You’re crazy, man.”
“Back to work, gentlemen,” Hannah said.
“Yes, sir, ma’am,” one said, and the others laughed.
“You know the difference between a male and a female officer, son?” Chloe snapped.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, straightening.
“You think that was funny?”
“No, ma’am. I apologize.”
“Where’s the nearest pub?”
“Ma’am?”
“Hard of hearing, boy?”
“No, ma’am. Three blocks up and two over.” He pointed.
“You on duty, Peacekeeper?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where are you supposed to be?”
“Squadron headquarters, ma’am.”
“Carry on.”
The women had left their phones off, having agreed with Mac that they would not use them until after their first contact with the underground or in case of an emergency. Chloe knew her father and her husband would be trying to reach her after what she had seen on TV, but that would have to wait.
A few minutes later a young man in a chair in front of the pub—Chloe guessed him in his early twenties—glanced at them from behind his Global Community Weekly. Chloe wondered if the young man would believe her husband used to publish that very magazine. The boy appeared to casually shift position, pulling a corduroy cap lower over his eyes and resting his foot against a window at sidewalk level.
“Did you see what I saw?” Hannah said under her breath.
“Yep. Stick with the plan.”
The women treated the lookout as if he were invisible and entered the pub. The shades were pulled, and it took a minute to adjust to the darkness. The place carried the stench of stale alcohol and an indifference to plumbing.
A couple of GC at a table in the corner immediately slipped out a back door on the street side. Chloe and Hannah pretended not to notice. The proprietor greeted them apologetically in Greek.
“English?” Chloe suggested.
He shook his head.
A nearby man in a turban rose and said something quickly to Hannah in an Indian dialect. Chloe was stunned at how Hannah covered. She looked the man knowingly in the eye and winked at him, shaking her head slightly. This somehow satisfied him, and he sat.
The proprietor swept a hand toward a row of liquor bottles behind him. Chloe shook her head. “Coca-Cola?” she said.
“Coca-Cola!” he said, smiling, and reached below the counter. Instinctively, Chloe rested her elbow on the handle of the Luger at her side, and she
noticed Hannah casually place her hand on the leather strap snapped over the grip of her nine-millimeter Glock.
The man behind the counter kept his eyes on them even when reaching, and now he smiled, bringing into view one ancient glass bottle of Coke. He held up one finger, pointing at the bottle and pushing two glasses across the counter. Chloe lay two Nicks in front of him and carried the stuff to a table.
After a sip, the lukewarm liquid biting at her dry throat, Chloe turned in her chair and quickly surveyed the room. People who had been gawking turned away. “English?” she said. “Anyone?”
A chair scraped and a heavyset man wearing several layers of clothing, his face moist from perspiration, approached with shy, small steps. He saluted politely, though he was clearly not GC. “Leedle Englees,” he said.
“You speak English?” Chloe said. “You understand me?”
He made a tiny space between his thumb and index finger.
“A little?” she said.
He nodded. “Leedle.”
“Downstairs,” Chloe tried. “Where’s downstairs?”
The man furrowed his brow, wrinkling the small 216 tattooed on his forehead. “Dounce?” he said.
She pointed down. “Downstairs. Basement. Cellar?”
He held up a meaty hand and shook his head. “Clean,” he said. “Wash. Launder.”
“A laundry?” she said, and felt Hannah’s gaze. This was it.
He nodded.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Tank ye,” he said, but stood there, thick fingers entwined. Chloe dug half a Nick from her pocket and held it out to him. He took it with a bow and headed for the bar.
“Wonder what they know?” Hannah said quietly. “Rest of the place seems to be waiting for us to make a move.”
“Uh-huh,” Chloe said. “Let’s just sit awhile, then mosey out. The laundry is a front, but people must actually take clothes there.”
Hannah shrugged. “Do they have to come through here to get there? I have to think few believers would risk frequenting this place.”
The women sipped their Cokes and glanced at their watches. No one but the two GC had left since they arrived, and no one had entered either. The young man from the chair walked lazily back and forth in front of the door twice. At least two passersby saw the women in uniform and apparently chose not to enter.
Chloe and Hannah stood and wandered out, looking for another entrance that could lead downstairs. “English?” Chloe asked the young man out front. He shrugged, staring at her. “Is there another entrance to this place?”
He shook his head.
“Not around back? Not through the alley?”
He shook his head again.
“I heard there was a laundry here,” she said. “I need some cleaning done.”
He stared at her. “I see no laundry.” His accent was Greek.
“We don’t carry it around,” she said. “How do I get downstairs to the laundry?”
“Past the toilet,” he said, his voice husky. “Back door, this side.” He nodded toward the exit the GC had used. He tilted his chair back until it bumped the wall. “But they’re closed.”
“In the middle of the day? Why?”
He shrugged, pulling his cap lower and turning back to his magazine.
“Oh, well,” Chloe said, sighing. Hannah followed her to the corner and out of sight. “I give him thirty seconds,” she said.
After a beat, Hannah peeked around the corner. “You’re right, as usual,” she said. “Gone.”
The women hurried back to the pub, went in the back door, past the washroom, and down rickety wood steps. A thin, middle-aged woman wearing a bulky gray sweater and a bandanna that covered her hair and much of her face stood terrified in the light from the window.
“Laundry?” Chloe said.
The woman nodded, a fist pressed under her neck.
“We can bring laundry here?”
She nodded again. Through the edge of a thick curtain hanging in a doorway behind the woman, Chloe spotted the young man. His eyes were wide. She pointed at him and beckoned with a finger.
“No!” the woman said desperately, backing against the wall.
The young man ventured out, a weapon showing under his shirt.
“Uzi?” Chloe said.
“Yes, and I’ll use it,” he said.
“Take off your cap,” Chloe said.
“I’ll shoot you dead first,” he said, reaching for his weapon.
The woman moaned. “Costas, no.”
As he brought the ugly weapon into view, Chloe and Hannah reached not for their guns but for their caps. Revealing their foreheads, they whispered in unison, “Jesus is risen.”
The boy closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. The woman slid down the wall to the floor. “He is risen indeed,” she managed.
“I almost killed you,” Costas said. He turned to the woman. “Are you all right, Mama?”
His mother had buried her face in her hands. “You come disguised as GC?” she said, her English labored. “What are you doing here?”
“I am Chloe Williams. This is my friend, Han—”
“You are not!” the woman said, wiping her face and struggling to her feet. She rushed to Chloe and embraced her fiercely. “I am Pappas. I go by Mrs. P.”
“This is my friend Hannah Palemoon.”
“You are in the Co-op too?” Mrs. P. said.
Hannah shook her head.
“You are from India?”
“No. America.”
“You disguised in disguise?”
Hannah smiled and nodded and looked to Costas. “Are we safe?”
“We should move,” he said, leading them through the curtain to a huge concrete-walled storeroom full of supplies from all over the world. “The Co-op works as well here as anywhere,” he said. “But we are suffering. Only a few of us are left.”
“The people upstairs don’t bother you?”
“We give them things. They ask no questions. They have their own secrets. Someday, when it serves them, they will turn us in.”
“Head of the Co-op in my place,” Mrs. P. whispered, her hand over her heart. “No one will ever believe.”
“You can’t stay long,” Costas said. “How can we help you?”
Two young GC Peacekeepers flashed an obscene gesture at Mac as they flew past in a small van; then Mac noticed the look on one’s face when the uniform must have registered in his mind. The vehicle skidded off the asphalt and threw gravel as it backed toward him. “We waved!” the passenger hollered as the van stopped. He jumped out. “We waved at you, sir! Did you see us?”
“I did, and I thank you very much.” The driver tumbled out as well, and Mac returned their salutes. “My support staff had an errand headin’ the other way, and I have business at the airport.”
“We can drop you. Do you need us to drop you? We’ll drop you.”
“I appreciate it,” Mac said, as he shoved his bags ahead of him and climbed in back. “What’s goin’ on in Petra?”
“We got ’em, sir,” the driver said, turning up the radio. Mac rested his forehead in his hand as if trying to listen carefully. He prayed desperately for his comrades. “Smoked ’em all. There’ll be nothing left to bury.”
“Let me hear it, boys,” Mac said, and the two fell silent. Just before the connection was lost, Mac heard enough from the pilot to encourage him. “Well, that is good news, isn’t it?” he said.
The passenger turned. “Sure enough. I don’t know what to make of that last bit, but we got ’em; we sure did.”
At the airport Mac could hardly believe the disarray. What was left of the GC force there looked undisciplined and lackadaisical. That could work only to his advantage. “I need wheels,” he told the only Peacekeeper who rose and saluted him in the main hangar. “I need the key to those wheels, I want to store my stuff, and I want to see a Rooster Tail, if it’s here.”
“Oh, it’s here, sir, and we’ve been expecting you. I’ll take yo
ur stuff.”
“Did I say I wanted you to take my stuff?”
“No, sir, you plain as day said you wanted to store it yourself.” He ran to a desk where he dug keys out of a huge cardboard box. “The Rooster Tail’s in Hangar 6. The car’s the first one on the end. I can bring it to you.”
“You do that.”
“Oh, almost forgot. I’ve got to put your code into the computer and—”
“Not before you bring the car, you don’t.”
“Well, that’s true enough.” And he ran off.
Mac was aware of others staring at him, sitting straighter, looking busy. But nothing seemed to be going on, no planes coming or going.
“Gonna get us some help here, Commander?” someone called from across the room.
Mac glared at him. “Excuse me, officer?”
“I said, are you—”
“I heard what you said! Now get your seat out of that chair and address me properly!”
The man rose quickly and caught his foot on a wheel of the chair, stumbling before he righted himself and approached. Mac leveled his eyes at him. The man stopped and saluted. Mac ignored it. “You make it a practice to holler at your senior officers across the room?”
“I wasn’t thinking, sir.”
“You had a question.”
“Just wondering if we were going to get some support here, sir. You see how shorthanded we are.”
Mac looked from one side of the hangar to the other and out onto the runway. “You’re overstaffed and underworked, and you know it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No, sir. It’s just that, well, we used to—”
“As you were.”
The man saluted again and backed away. The younger officer skidded Mac’s car to a stop in front of the hangar and opened the trunk. “You want some assistance with that high-speed Transatlantic, sir?”
“I need nothing but a toolbox and to be left to it. What’d you people find in it?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“You’re not serious.”
“We were instructed to leave it for the brass. That would be you, I guess.”
Mac pressed his lips together. Was there nothing Chang Wong could not accomplish with a few keystrokes? “Give me a toolbox and tell me who’s handling the Judah-ite roundup.”