Secondhand Sorcery

They were angry. Ruslan could tell. Even when they were trying to hide it—when Mila was smiling and patiently explaining, when Noorlan was sitting in a chair reading, when Aziz stared out the window and said nothing at all—Ruslan could feel it. The stiffness of their shoulders, the set in their jaws, the way they answered questions just a little too fast, all of it sucking the air out of the little apartment they were stuck in together.

Not all adult anger was dangerous. When they were just angry at you, and that was the whole cause, that was nothing; they would punish you for whatever you did, and that would end it. When they were irritated about something else, that was actually worse, because you couldn’t make them happy again just by submitting. You’d have to lie low for however long it took for the real problem to go away, and in the meantime you had to tiptoe around with that tight feeling in your chest, which was the worst feeling you could have. If you screwed up, you’d suffer for it, but it wouldn’t settle things any. If anything, it made it worse; on top of everything else, that fat useless Ruslan was being a fool.

But this wasn’t even that good. This was the kind of anger that came with fear, the kind nobody was allowed to speak about or show. They’d still react if you did something to bother them, but the penalty would actually be milder than usual, and come with a phony smile and a suggestion that you go do something quiet in your room.

It brought back, once again, memories he’d tried to forget, of Komron and his cronies drinking around the fire with winter setting in, the big man himself bragging that he was not worried at all, shoving down food and throwing half-picked bones on the fire while the camp women eyed their shrinking stores and the seven-year-old assistant cook huddled under thin and patched blankets with a gnawing pain in his stomach. Nobody wanted to tell Komron how bad things were really getting. Not that he didn’t know already.

Ruslan was allowed to eat this time—small favor—but it was still the same anger, the same fear. They talked quietly together in corners, eyeing Ruslan sidelong when he came into the room and shutting up totally when he got too close. Always with a dead-eyed breezy smile, teeth bared like a wolf’s. Ruslan got the message, and tried to stay in his bedroom most of the time, the room he thought of as his cell. The three adults slept on the couch or the floor.

There wasn’t much Ruslan could do to help. He stopped playing the keyboard they got for him, so it wouldn’t annoy them, and tried to smooth things over by cooking a bit, to help out, only Noorlan told him with a determined friendly grimace that dinner would be delivered and it was better not to make such a mess.

It would be easier if Yuri were still around. Not that Yuri was his friend; far from it. Yuri had always done his best to make Ruslan’s life miserable, whenever their paths crossed. But you could always count on Yuri, when the situation was tense, to make trouble for himself, and draw it all down on his own head. That was the one good thing about him, but he was gone. Maybe dead. Ruslan tried to feel sad about it, and he kind of was, but mostly for his own sake.

Hamza hadn’t been much better, but he’d at least left Ruslan alone as long as Ruslan didn’t get in the way. Sometimes, when he was feeling good, he tried to make peace, by bringing him a present from town. Mostly, though, Hamza saw his younger brother as a bizarre burden to bear, this fussy little animal that didn’t know how to have fun, and had to be babysat on every mission. The best part about Hamza was that he didn’t hide anything, or hold grudges; when he was mad, he would smack you upside the head or punch you in the arm, and that would set everything straight as far as Hamza was concerned. He was a simple man. Or had been. It hadn’t been his fault that he couldn’t ever see things Ruslan’s way. Not really.

Nadia … Nadia could be nice, sometimes. She would listen to him play his harpsichord, if she was in a good mood, and suggest new tunes for him to try. They could talk about books they liked, though they had different tastes in books. That was something. Mostly, though, she held herself back, and gave her big brother a disgusted look if she looked at him at all. That look that said, Ruslan, why are you so … ? Inviting him to fill in the blank. He had plenty of words to fill it, and he knew she was right most of the time. But mostly, he didn’t like her, and felt only a little bad that he didn’t mourn her more.

That just left Fatima, but he didn’t like to think about Fatima any more than he had too. It hurt too much. Fatima, his Fatima, Fatimat-bint-Eumar, Fatimat-al-zahra, his one hope for the past five years, Fatima who teased and mocked but never rejected, Fatima the strong, Fatima the lioness, Fatima his hope. The late, departed Fatima, the last chapter on the best part of his life.

And he had never told her. Ruslan knew he was not the best Muslim; he didn’t remember when he’d stopped saying the prayers, probably around the time he noticed they didn’t change anything in his life. God wasn’t something he stopped to think about too much. But he did know that she wasn’t really his sister, under the only law she respected. They were just under the same guardian—just like Ali and the first Fatima, Muhammad’s daughter. Ali had won her hand over all the wealthier and more powerful suitors, even though he was only her poor cousin. They’d had the whole world against them too, in the early days, but they’d been happy together, hadn’t they?

But now that time was passed, and the opportunity was gone. In less than a month everything Ruslan had known for the latter half of his life had been blown away like flower petals in a strong wind, and now it was Ruslan, alone, in the hands of a gang of Russian spies he barely knew.

His only comfort was that, even though they were angry and afraid, and they wouldn’t tell him why, they were still a little bit afraid of him, too. Mila, and Noorlan, and Aziz. They might know more than him and almost hold him prisoner, but as long as they flinched just a little before they politely told him to go away, he still had the power.

So he kept on living, though he wasn’t sure why, for three whole days after it all went wrong and the light of his life was lost. He’d learned long ago how to cry in silence when he had to, biting down on his hand to stifle the sobs, and to do it in the dark of his own room at night. He did his part on Sunday anyway, visiting the hospital with Kizil Khan to heal the sick, then running for his life when their halo brought down an artillery strike on the whole block. He returned home to this apartment, and learned that Hamza and Yuri had been found and attacked, probably killed. He was too tired and shocked to cry, when he heard. He was still numb for the whole next day, but still conscious of the stifling fear in the air.

The day after, Mr. Yefimov came to the apartment unannounced, and Ruslan remembered what fear really was.

Ruslan was glad he hadn’t seen much of the man. He was their boss, and he’d given them a big speech after dinner on Friday, telling them the plan, but since then he’d mostly kept away, giving instructions to Snowdrop’s emissor. All three spies hurried to make themselves presentable for him—Mr. Yefimov liked things neat and orderly—while he waited in the kitchenette, somberly sipping tea. Ruslan hid in his room until Noorlan came to outright order him out. All four of them stood at attention while he addressed them.

“We are faced with a great and sudden danger,” he announced, “and at the same time with a bold new opportunity. The window of usable time is not particularly great, but should be sufficient if we do not dawdle.” He paused a moment to let this sink in, looking them over in turn. He didn’t blink very much, Ruslan noticed, and he looked all of them straight in the eye. Even Ruslan, the boy with the power of life and death.

“The imperialists’ security has been very good, but not so good as they hoped. We have acquired two crucial pieces of information. The first is that they intend to sweep us from the city very early tomorrow morning. To this end they have recruited, in some haste, some fifty thousand security personnel of all types. They are mostly in place already; it is a testament to their security that I learned of this plan so late.

“By sunset they will have their full cordon ring established around the Ankara metropolitan area; before dawn they will begin moving that ring inward, systematically checking the entire city, room by room, and detaining every person they find who cannot give a satisfactory account of their identity. A second ring of emissors will be embedded among that fifty thousand, ready to respond to any attempted paraphysical irruption of their encircling maneuver.”

Ruslan wished he dared to look at the others’ faces; all he could tell was that Noorlan, beside him, was breathing a little faster. “We need not be overly concerned by this plan,” Yefimov continued. “They should have no reason to look for persons matching our particular descriptions, with one exception whose appearance is unremarkable in comparison to the local population.” He nodded curtly at Ruslan, who was not reassured.

“Furthermore, the bulk of their personnel will be poorly trained foreigners who will not be familiar with the area or even speak particularly good Turkish. We all have good facsimiles of local documents. Miss Mila is the only one of us who cannot plausibly present herself to such people as a Turk, and encountered by herself she will not excite sufficient suspicion to warrant more than brief detainment. A lone American who overstayed her visa.”

He looked at Mila, who said “Yes, sir,” in a weak voice.

“However, there is a complication. It has only this morning come to my attention that, of our four recently fallen young comrades, at least one has survived, and is now in captivity.”

He had more to say—much more—but Ruslan couldn’t understand it, or stand up straight. The old familiar tightness in his chest had changed to something different, something even heavier, and without thinking he stumbled backwards into a chair, and knocked it over trying to sit in it. Once he was down he stayed down, staring up at the ceiling while he waited for the blood to return to his brain.

Yefimov’s face loomed over him. “I have said,” he repeated calmly, “that we are deficient in time. Your emotional reaction is understandable, and perhaps commendable, but nonetheless inconvenient. Your compatriot is in bondage at this very moment, in danger not only as regards her own person but also with respect to our own operational security. Now is the time for intrepid resolve.”

“Her?” Ruslan said, the weight of his hopes making it difficult to breathe.

“Yes. One of your sisters—the information we were given was insufficient to identify which, but I gather from certain ancillary documentation that the captive is female.”

Ruslan sat up at once, clenching the leg of the upturned chair until the dizziness passed. It was Fatima, he knew it. It had to be. Hope had come back into his life. “What do we have to do to rescue her?”

“I applaud your audacity. The young lady has been injured, but it seems she is now in stable condition—“

“I can fix her!” he blurted out, then flinched as Mr. Yefimov’s dark eyes bored into him. Not that he looked upset. More puzzled, like interruption was incomprehensible—as if a live fish had fallen out of the sky and landed, still flopping, on his head.

“I am aware of this,” Yefimov informed him at last. “It is for this reason that your assistance will be of the greatest importance. At present she is being held at one hospital, under heavy guard; at approximately 1600 today she will be moved to another. Both within the cordoned area, as we are ourselves. The optimal time to rescue your sister will be during transport, for obvious reasons. She will have an escort, but nothing sufficient to deter us. Are you willing to assume your place in the vanguard, Master Marshall?”

“Yeah!” he said at once, feeling himself smile for the first time in days. “Of course! Just tell me where to go!”

“Your noble sentiments will not be forgotten. But it must be borne in mind that we are already surrounded, and any attempt will bring the net down upon us prematurely. It is now very nearly 1100; I have already contacted Snowdrop’s master, in anticipation of your agreement, for which I hope you will pardon me. The lady is willing to assist in breaching the perimeter for you, as soon as you have recovered your sister.

“The four of us, unfortunately, will be of no utility to this plan, and simple prudence dictates that we remove ourselves from the city before the trap is completely sprung. You will therefore be a lone operative until such time as you have restored your sister to health and secured her assistance. Once the two of you have eluded escape, you will make for the breach created by Snowdrop, and rendezvous with us at the earliest convenience. Do you remain willing to assist us in this matter?”

“Yes,” he said. If it got him away from these four, even temporarily, and had even a chance of getting Fatima back, it was good. It wasn’t like he had anything else left to live for.

“Very good,” Yefimov answered. “Then we shall make arrangements. The four of us—not counting Master Marshall—would do better to travel separately through the cordon. Noorlan, you shall remain with our asset prior to the start of operations.”

Noorlan agreed, his prominent forehead shining with cold sweat. Ruslan knew how he felt, in a vague way. His minders were still frightened, and they might still be angry, and Ruslan was a little frightened himself. If he stopped to think about it, he might get very frightened, which was why he wouldn’t stop. There was no time for fear anymore. He couldn’t fail again. Life was too short.

Just hold on a little longer, Fatima. Your Ali is coming.