sides as the hysterical throng abandoned the book district. Fine with me, she thought; there was a busy Underground station a few blocks away, where she could disappear completely into the sprawling city, prior to making her way to her and Seven’s nearest safehouse. A discarded plastic mask, lying atop a trash bin, caught her eye, and she snatched it up as she went by. She fastened it over her face, just to be safe. It was a “Barney” mask, just her luck, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. The crowd soon thinned as it dispersed into the various streets and alleys leading away from Charing Cross Road. A safe distance away from the site of the implosion, Roberta paused and looked back the way she’d come, hearing the shrill howl of sirens converging upon her former address.
[85]“Damn,” she muttered, finally allowing herself a moment to mourn the passing of the bookshop, and all the precious personal effects and equipment it had contained. Another secret headquarters up in smoke, she grieved, shaking her head. It hadn’t been easy installing the transporter vault and Beta 6
computer into an ordinary London flat, especially when many of the key components needed to be beamed in from another solar system. She wasn’t looking forward to setting up shop somewhere else, all over again. A tear rolled down the face of a plastic purple dinosaur. She liked living in London, darn it, despite the weather and the food. ...
At Leicester Square, just outside the entrance to the Underground, she saw a holiday bonfire roaring atop a concrete traffic island. Grotesque parodies of Mike Tyson and Camilla Parker-Bowles were going up in smoke as delighted onlookers hooted and hollered in approval. Would a papier-mâché caricature of Khan someday be consigned to the flames, to the cheers of all humanity?
We can only hope,she thought.
CHAPTER FOUR
PALACE OF THE GREAT KHAN
CHANDIGARH, INDIA
NOVEMBER 6, 1992
IT WAS WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT, but Khan was not at all fatigued. One of the special privileges of being a superior being was that he required very little sleep to function at the height of his abilities; merely two or three hours a night sufficed. This, he believed, was as it should be. He had far too much to accomplish to waste hours of his life in idle slumber.
“Watch yourself, my friend!” he warned Joaquin, as he sparred with his bodyguard in the palace’s well-equipped modern gymnasium. Sweat glistened on Khan’s muscular chest. He swung his rattan training sword, or soti, at his faithful protector, who defended himself with a marati, a staff of fire-hardened bamboo bearing heavy wooden spheres at both ends. They circled each other on padded mats while honing their skills at gatka, the centuries-old martial art of[87]Khan’s fierce Sikh ancestors.
Khan had studied gatka since he was a child, and it remained his preferred form of exercise, especially when his mind was troubled, as it was tonight.
Why have I not heard back from the retrieval squad?he wondered. His agents should have reported the capture of Seven and Roberta Lincoln by now. Has something gone amiss with the London operation?
He slashed again at Joaquin, who deftly blocked the attack with his bamboo shaft, then thrust the forward end of the marati at Khan. A solid ironwood sphere came flying at his head, and Khan pivoted on his heel, barely escaping the blow. “A near miss!” he congratulated Joaquin. “Excellent!”
Even as he fought a mock battle against the stolid Israeli strongman, Khan simultaneously listened to Ament’s latest report on domestic affairs in the Punjab and elsewhere. The clash of wood upon wood punctuated the trenchant words of his most elegant advisor.
“Inflation remains a problem throughout the country,” she informed Khan, standing several paces away from the edge of the training mat, “although there has been a welcome upturn in foreign investment, in part because of the rigorous fiscal policies we have mandated
[85]“Damn,” she muttered, finally allowing herself a moment to mourn the passing of the bookshop, and all the precious personal effects and equipment it had contained. Another secret headquarters up in smoke, she grieved, shaking her head. It hadn’t been easy installing the transporter vault and Beta 6
computer into an ordinary London flat, especially when many of the key components needed to be beamed in from another solar system. She wasn’t looking forward to setting up shop somewhere else, all over again. A tear rolled down the face of a plastic purple dinosaur. She liked living in London, darn it, despite the weather and the food. ...
At Leicester Square, just outside the entrance to the Underground, she saw a holiday bonfire roaring atop a concrete traffic island. Grotesque parodies of Mike Tyson and Camilla Parker-Bowles were going up in smoke as delighted onlookers hooted and hollered in approval. Would a papier-mâché caricature of Khan someday be consigned to the flames, to the cheers of all humanity?
We can only hope,she thought.
CHAPTER FOUR
PALACE OF THE GREAT KHAN
CHANDIGARH, INDIA
NOVEMBER 6, 1992
IT WAS WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT, but Khan was not at all fatigued. One of the special privileges of being a superior being was that he required very little sleep to function at the height of his abilities; merely two or three hours a night sufficed. This, he believed, was as it should be. He had far too much to accomplish to waste hours of his life in idle slumber.
“Watch yourself, my friend!” he warned Joaquin, as he sparred with his bodyguard in the palace’s well-equipped modern gymnasium. Sweat glistened on Khan’s muscular chest. He swung his rattan training sword, or soti, at his faithful protector, who defended himself with a marati, a staff of fire-hardened bamboo bearing heavy wooden spheres at both ends. They circled each other on padded mats while honing their skills at gatka, the centuries-old martial art of[87]Khan’s fierce Sikh ancestors.
Khan had studied gatka since he was a child, and it remained his preferred form of exercise, especially when his mind was troubled, as it was tonight.
Why have I not heard back from the retrieval squad?he wondered. His agents should have reported the capture of Seven and Roberta Lincoln by now. Has something gone amiss with the London operation?
He slashed again at Joaquin, who deftly blocked the attack with his bamboo shaft, then thrust the forward end of the marati at Khan. A solid ironwood sphere came flying at his head, and Khan pivoted on his heel, barely escaping the blow. “A near miss!” he congratulated Joaquin. “Excellent!”
Even as he fought a mock battle against the stolid Israeli strongman, Khan simultaneously listened to Ament’s latest report on domestic affairs in the Punjab and elsewhere. The clash of wood upon wood punctuated the trenchant words of his most elegant advisor.
“Inflation remains a problem throughout the country,” she informed Khan, standing several paces away from the edge of the training mat, “although there has been a welcome upturn in foreign investment, in part because of the rigorous fiscal policies we have mandated
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