“It would have been incredibly stupid for you to hold him. Look, old boy, I know—”
The rigid control broke. “Don’t call me boy!” Siraj thrust his finger at the screen. “For two days I’ve watched Arab soldiers dying beneath the blade of a Teutonic knight. An American ace burning them in fire, another crushing them, presumably in the name of his god. These were normal men whose only offense was to serve their god …”
And massacre jokers, Noel thought, but he kept the words behind his teeth.
“… and follow a fool,” Siraj concluded. Bitterness hung on the words. “I would have protected those frauds, the Living Gods, and left their deluded followers in peace, but these mad children have made that impossible now.”
Softly, Noel said, “We’re not behind the aces. In fact, I tried to stop them.”
Siraj’s implacable expression did not change. “That doesn’t absolve you. You are still a Westerner, and one could say the worst offender. For a hundred years Britain has destroyed our governments.…”
“What governments?” Noel drawled.
“You have drawn countries in the sand, all in pursuit of our oil. And the UN has stood by while refugee camps have festered and children have starved. I would have done nothing for Jayewardene.”
It left Noel breathless. He had spent years cultivating this friendship. He had killed for this man. “You’re Cambridge educated, for God’s sake, you know how the world works. This is realpolitik. We’ve given you Arabia. It’s time you remembered where your loyalties lie.”
“I have.” A weight of decision was carried on the words. Geography, culture, and religion formed a vast chasm between them, and as if to physically drive home the gulf, Siraj took another few steps away from Noel. “For a thousand years we’ve staggered under the rule of despots. That changes now.”
Noel gave an elaborate shrug. “I’m sure you’ll be a paragon, but reality does intrude, and here’s one for you to consider—ruling with our support would have been much better than what you’re about to attempt.”
“Your problem, Noel, is that you don’t give a damn about anything. You never have. It’s all a game to you.”
The words stung in a way he hadn’t expected. No, you bastard, it’s about crown and country, and doing what’s necessary to protect them both.
Siraj said, “I’ve found my soul, and it’s Arab. A hundred million of my people are looking to me to lead them. I will deliver neither them nor their patrimony into the hands of Western imperialism and paternalism—whether it wears a corporate face or not.”
“Listen to yourself,” Noel said. “You sound like a street Arab.”
The slur hit home. Siraj stiffened, and Noel realized he had allowed his anger and pique to override his ability to read others and calculate every word and gesture he made. “I think you will not be leaving.” The words were forced between the Jordanian’s clenched teeth. “You will be revealed as a spy, and the courts will mete out your punishment.” Siraj raised a pudgy hand. From behind the elaborate carved wood screens four guards stepped out.
Noel glanced out the window. The sun was down, but the last light had not yet faded from the sky. He was trapped. Twilight had robbed him of his power, and there was no escape. Two of the guards grabbed his arms. A third one stuck the barrel of a rifle in his back. The final soldier quickly lifted the Browning out of its holster. “Take him to the Kanater Mens Prison,” the prince said.
They weren’t gentle as they bundled him into the back of a car. Noel looked back through the dust-covered back window at the receding angles of the Great Pyramid. He glanced surreptitiously down at his watch. He had at least eleven minutes until full dark when he could become Lilith. But he didn’t dare reveal her in front of the guards. He would have to wait for the cell. He resigned himself to an unpleasant hour.
It began almost immediately when one of the guards shot Noel a grin. His front tooth, a stainless steel rod, flashed in the last spill of light over the horizon. He had noticed Noel’s glance at his wrist. He grabbed and yanked off the expensive gold Baume and Mercier watch. Next his cufflinks went, and then the small ring he wore on his little finger that served as a distraction for audiences.
Noel realized that the soldier in the front seat was eyeing him oddly. Of course, they expect the British spy to do something, and not behave like limp prey. Yes, this is going to hurt.
Noel lunged forward and grabbed the man’s chin in one hand, wrapped his free arm behind his head, and yanked. The stitches in his shoulder tore free. The muscles in Noel’s back burned as he braced and pulled the soldier over the backseat. The man’s flailing legs kicked the driver and sent the car careening in a mad serpentine back-and-forth across the road. Everyone was shouting. A fist took Noel in the kidney, and he gagged from the pain. The muscles in Noel’s arm tensed. A quick twist would break the neck.
No, better not to kill one of them. I don’t want them too angry.
Instead, he tried to claw for the soldier’s pistol, and the men on either side of him piled on. As best he could, Noel covered his head and endured the drubbing. He lost interest in the rest of the drive, and only returned to his surroundings when he was dragged across the flagstones in the courtyard of the prison. It was full dark and still very hot. Noel was so thirsty that his mouth tasted like he’d been sucking on iron filings.
Finally they dumped him in a cell. It reeked of shit, urine, and sweat. There were no mattresses on the metal cots, just coiled steel frames. A small, ferretlike man lounged on a cot, but he scrambled to a back corner and huddled by the stainless steel and overflowing toilet as the soldiers dragged Noel in and flung him down on the concrete floor. There were a few farewell kicks, and Noel wasn’t able to turn fast enough and not take the blows on his abused gut. One boot did connect with his ribs, and he heard a crack, and pain flared.
Transforming was not going to be fun. He eyed his fellow prisoner. And of course he couldn’t be observed.
“Lucky for you I hurt too bad to kill you,” he said in English.
The man grinned at him ingratiatingly. Noel groaned and got to his feet, crossed to the man, and held his breath against the stench from the toilet. He lashed out with a foot, and kicked the man in the head. Pain made him less precise. There was a chance he’d just created a breathing, shitting vegetable.
Slowly, painfully, his body burned and shifted, flowing like hot wax. Breasts pressed tightly against the fabric of his shirt, and the pants were suddenly far too snug across his hips. Lilith’s long hair brushed at his back. Noel concentrated and teleported away.
Captain Flint set aside the pages of Noel’s report and leaned back in the stone chair that had been carved to accommodate his massive stone body. The commander of Her Britannic Majesty’s Most Puissant Order of the Silver Helix, the ace division of British Military Intelligence, was almost eight feet tall and weighed more than three thousand pounds. He rubbed his eyes, momentarily masking the flames that formed his pupils. “Not the result we had hoped for.”
Noel leaned forward to better hear his commander’s whispered words, so incongruous, coming from the gigantic gray stone body.
Rains sluiced down the outside of the tall windows of this Whitehall office. It was decorated in Flint’s unique style. He made no nod to faux intellectualism. There were only a few volumes on the bookshelves. Instead the polished wood displayed a collection of British arms and armaments ranging from neolithic arrowheads to Enfield revolvers.
“I’ve never seen you so badly misread a situation before,” Flint continued.
“Yes, well, sorry about that.”
“You allowed a personal relationship to interfere with your judgment.”
“Yes, thank you, I rogered the pooch. I get that. Shall we move on? What do you want to do about Siraj?”
“Nothing yet. Let’s observe for a little while. You’re in a unique position to do that.”
“Yes, to think it was me—well, Bahir—that put the son of a bitch in power.