Mike tried to listen, but he was too tense. There were noises outside: occasional chatter, oddly slurred and almost comprehensible snatches of hochsprache. The thud of horses' hooves passed the door from time to time, followed by the creak and rattle of carts. After about an hour, the inner door opened and one of the other soldiers came out. He nodded. "All done."

Mike shifted. "What now?"

Hastert checked his watch. "One hour to go, then we move out. Jack, go dig out a couple of MREs, and you and Dennis chow down. Sir, do you know what this is?" He held up a radio transmitter, like the one Colonel Smith shown Mike earlier.

"Yes." Mike nodded. "Radio transmitter. Right?"

"Right." Hastert looked at him thoughtfully, then reached into a shapeless-looking sack on the floor beside him and pulled out an entrenching tool. "We're going to put it in right-here." He buried the gadget under a thin layer of soil and tamped it down, then scattered the residue. "Think you can find it?"

Mike mentally measured the distance from the door. "Yes, I think so."

"Good. Your life depends on it." Hastert didn't smile. "Because when you get back here, we won't be around."

"I've been briefed." Mike tried not to snap. It was warm and stifling in the dirt-floored shack, and the endless waiting was getting to him.

"Yes, sir, but I didn't see you being briefed, so if you'll excuse me we'll go over it again, shall we?"

"Okay…" Mike swallowed. "Thanks."

The next hour passed a bit faster, which made it all the more shocking when the inner door opened and the other two men came through. "Ready when you are, boss." It was the taller one, O'Neil. Mike blinked. Hey, all three of them are white, he realized: a statistical anomaly, or maybe something else. No sugar trade here means no African slave trade. Just another logistics headache that Smith was dealing with behind his back, finding special forces troops who looked like locals.

"Let's go." Hastert stood up. "Far as the garden party, we're your bodyguard. Once you're inside, we'll split. Anything goes wrong, make for the garden gate opposite the ceremonial parade ground-I'll point it out to you."

He opened the door. It was late afternoon outside, dusty and bright and hot, but with a breeze blowing off the sea that took the edge off the heat. The shack turned out to be one of a whole row fronting a narrow dirt track: a similar row faced them. Half the doors and windows were wide open, with chickens and geese wandering in and out freely to peck in the roadside dirt. There were people. Ragged, skinny children, stooped women and men in colorless robes or baggy trousers. People who looked away when Hastert stared at them, hastily finding somewhere else to go, something else to do. The road was filthy, an open gutter down the middle running with sewage. "Come on," said O'Neil, behind Mike. "You're blocking the door."

Mike stepped forward, trying to project confidence. I'm a big man, he told himself. I'm armed, I've got bodyguards, my clothing's new, and I'm well-fed. He glanced up the street. Nothing on this row was straight: whoever built it hadn't heard of zoning laws, or even a straight line. A cart pulled by a couple of bored oxen, piled high with sacks, was slowly rattling toward them. Behind it, a mass of sheep bleated plaintively, spilling into doorways in a slow woolly flood. "Follow me, and try to look like you're leading," Hastert muttered.

The walk through the town seemed to take forever, although it was probably more like twenty or thirty minutes. Mike tried not to gape like a fool: sometimes it was hard. Smells and sounds assailed him. Wood smoke was alarmingly common, given that most of the houses were timbered. It almost covered up the pervasive stench of shit rising from the hot, fetid gutters. In the distance some kind of street vendor was shouting over and over again-briefly they walked past one edge of a kind of open square, cobblestoned and lined with a dizzying mess of stalls like open-walled huts. Wicker baskets full of caged chickens, scrawny and sometimes half-bald. A table covered in muddy beetroot. Rats, glimpsed out of the corner of the eye, scurrying under cover. Is this where she's been living? he wondered, momentarily aghast. Remembering Miriam's attitude to food hygiene and her nearly aseptic kitchen worktop, he suddenly had a moment of doubt.

Shit, who am I kidding? Mike wondered, tensed up as if he was about to go through the back door of some perp's meth lab. This is fucking crazy! I've got barely any grasp of the language, no way out, I'm in a hostile city in a foreign country and if they get their hands on me-a sick certainty filled him as they reached a much wider road and turned onto it-and I'm supposed to be making contact with an ex-girlfriend who cut me dead last time I called her! He forced himself to straighten his back and move out into the clear middle of this road (no open sewers here), then took it in. Big stone walls to either side, imposing gatehouses with solid wooden doors. No windows at ground level. Multistory piles some way behind the walls, like pocket castles. That's what they are, he suddenly realized. This place is primitive. No police, but heaven help you if the mob catches you stealing. The rich have their own small armies. Warlords, like Afghanistan. A moment later his earlier thought overtook the latest one, colliding in a messy train-wreck: And Miriam's rich. She's one of the people who own these castles. What does that mean?

There were more people hanging around this street, and stalls mounted on brightly colored cart wheels were selling food and (by the smell) slightly rancid beer to them. The road ended ahead, not in a junction but in a huge gate with a park beyond it. Or something that looked like a park. In the distance, a huge palace loomed above tents and crowd. Mike took a deep breath. "This it?" he asked Hastert.

"Yessir." Hastert passed him a rolled-up piece of heavy paper. "This will get you in. I'm told it's an invitation."

"And you…?"

"Got to stop at the gate, sir. Turns out there's a law against bringing guards. You're allowed to bear a gentleman's arms, you're supposed to be Sieur Vincensh d'Lofstrom, but we're… not. See that side gate? We'll run a rotating watch on it. Any trouble, hotfoot it there and we'll provide a distraction while we guide you to Zone Green."

"Check." Mike glanced nervously at a passing bear, which watched him with oddly wise eyes until its owner jerked

viciously on the chain riveted to its iron collar. "If I'm not back in four hours, you'll know I'm in trouble."

"Okay, four hours." Hastert nodded. "Good luck, sir."

"Thanks." Mike shivered. "Hope I don't need it." He took a deep breath and glanced at the guards by the gate, their bright red and yellow uniforms and eight-foot poleaxes. The other side of the gate was a confused whirl of people and sounds and smells, a Renaissance Faire with added stench and more alcohol. Are you somewhere in there, Miriam? he wondered. And: What am I going to say when I find you? Aloud: "Here goes."