Orson Card - Shadow Puppets

After the momentary panic-and the momentary self-blame-she realized that of course it was not an assassin, it was simply a passenger from her flight, hurrying to get out of the airport, while she, uncertain and lost in her own thoughts, had been walking too slowly and obstructing traffic.

I'll go to a hotel, she thought. But not one that Europeans always go to. But wait, if I go to a hotel where everybody but me is Arablooking, I'll stand out. Too obvious. Bean would tease me for not having developed any useful survival habits. Though at least I thought twice before checking into an Arab hotel.

The only luggage she had was the bag she was carrying over her shoulder, and at customs she went through the usual questions. "This is all your luggage?" "Yes." "How long do you plan to stay?" "A couple of weeks, I expect." "Two weeks, and no more clothing than this?" "I plan to shop."

It always aroused suspicions to enter a country with too little luggage, but as Bean said, it's better to have a few more questions at customs or passport control than to have to go to the baggage claim area and stand round where bad people have plenty of time to find you.

The only thing worse, in Bean's view, was to use the first restroom in the airline terminal. "Everybody knows women have to pee incessantly," said Bean.

"Actually, it's not incessant, and most men don't notice even if it is," said Petra. But considering that Bean seemed never to need to pee at all, she supposed that her normal human needs seemed excessive to him.

She was well trained now, however She didn't even glance at the first restroom she passed, or the second. She probably wouldn't use a bathroom until she got to her hotel room.

Bean, when are you coming? Did they get you onto the next flight? How will we find each other in this city?

She knew he would be furious, however, if she lingered in the airport hoping to meet his flight. For one thing, she would have no idea where his flight would be coming from-he was wont to choose very odd itineraries, so that he could very easily be on a flight from Cairo, Moscow, Algiers, Rome, or Jerusalem. No, it was better to go to a hotel, check in under an alias that he knew about, and- "Mrs. Delphiki?"

She turned at once at the sound of Bean's mother's name, and then realized that the tall, white-haired gentleman was addressing her.

"Yes." She laughed. "I'm still not used to the idea of being called by my husband's name."

"Forgive me," said the man. "Do you prefer your birth name?"

"I haven't used my own name in many months," said Petra. "Who sent you to meet me?"

"Your host," said the man.

"I have had many hosts in my life," said Petra. "Some of whom I do not wish to visit again.

"But such people as that would not live in Damascus." There was a twinkle in his eye. Then he leaned in close. "There are names that it is not good to say aloud."

"Mine apparently not being one of them," she said with a smile.

"In this time and place," he said, "you are safe while others might not be."

"I'm safe because you're with me?"

"You are safe because I and my... what is your Battle School slang?... my jeesh and I are here watching over you."

"I didn't see anybody watching over me.

"You didn't even see me," said the man. "This is because we're very good at what we do."

"I did see you. I just didn't realize you had taken any notice of me.

"As I said."

She smiled. "Very well, I will not name our host. And since you won't either, I'm afraid I can't go with you anywhere."

"Oh, so suspicious," he said with a rueful smile. "Very well, then. Perhaps I can facilitate matters by placing you under arrest." He showed her a very official-looking badge inside a wallet. Though she had no idea what organization had issued the badge, since she had never learned the Arabic alphabet, let alone the language itself.

But Bean had taught her: Listen to your fear, and listen to your trust. She trusted this man, and so she believed his badge without being able to read it. "So you're with Syrian law enforcement," she said.

"As often as not," he replied, smiling again as he put his wallet away.

"Let's walk outside," she said.

"Let's not," he said. "Let's go into a little room here at the airport."

"A toilet stall?" she asked. "Or an interrogation room?"

"My office," he said.

If it was an office, it was certainly well disguised. They got to it by stepping behind the El Al ticket counter and going into the employees' back room.

"El Al?" she asked. "You're Israeli?"

"Israel and Syria are very close friends for the past hundred years. You should keep up on your history."

They walked down a corridor lined with employee lockers, a drinking fountain, and a couple of restroom doors.

"I didn't think the friendship was close enough to allow Syrian law enforcement to use Israel's national airline," said Petra.

"I lied about being with Syrian law enforcement," he said.

"And did they lie out front about being El Al?"

He palmed open an unmarked door, but when she made as if to follow him through it, he shook his head. "No no, first you must place the palm of your hand."

She complied, but wondered how they could possibly have her palm print and sweat signature here in Syria.

No. They didn't, of course. They were getting them right now, so that wherever else she went, she would be recognized by their computer security systems.

The door led to a stairway that went down.

And farther down, and farther yet, until they had to be well underground.

"I don't think this complies with international handicapped access regulations," said Petra.

"What the regulators don't see won't hurt us," said the man.

"A theory that has gotten so many people into so much trouble," said Petra.

They came to an underground tunnel, where a small electric car was waiting for them. No driver. Apparently her companion was going to drive.

Not so. He got into the backseat beside her, and the car took off by itself.

"Let me guess," said Petra. "You don't take most of your VIPs through the El Al ticket counter."

"There are other ways to get to this little street," said the man. "But the people looking for you would not have staked out El Al."

"You'd be surprised at how often my enemy is two steps ahead."

"But what if your friends are three steps ahead?" Then he laughed as if it had been a joke, and not a boast.

"We're alone in a car," said Petra. "Let's have some names now.

"I am Ivan Lankowski," he said.

She laughed in spite of herself. But when he did not smile, she stopped. "I'm sorry," she said. "You don't look Russian, and this is Damascus."

"My paternal grandfather was ethnic Russian, my grandmother was ethnic Kazakh, both were Muslims. My mother's parents are still living, thanks be to Allah, and they are both Jordanian."

"And you never changed the name?"

"It is the heart that makes the Muslim. The heart and the life. My name contains part of my genealogy. Since Allah willed me to be born in this family, who am I to try to deny his gift?"

"Ivan Lankowski," said Petra. "The name I'd like to hear is the name of the one who sent you."

"One's superior officer is never named. It is a basic rule. of security."

Petra sighed. "I suppose this proves I'm not in Kansas anymore.

"I don't believe," said Lankowski, "that you have ever been in Kansas, Mrs. Delphiki."

"It was a reference to-"

"I have seen The Wizard of Oz," said Lankowski. "I am, after all, an educated man. And... I have been in Kansas."

"Then you have found wisdom I can only dream of."

He chuckled. "It is an unforgettable place. Just like Jordan was right after the Ice Age, covered with tall grasses, stretching forever in every direction, with the sky everywhere, instead of being confined to a small patch above the trees."