"Back to the embassy," John said to himself; then aloud, to the driver of his car.
"Don't know if we can, sir," the driver said. He was an embassy man himself, diplomatic service, and quite capable. Harry. Harry Smith, John reminded himself. It was too easy to forget about people, when you spent time looking at the world through Centers eyes.
Too true, son, Raj said. And if you think it's a problem for you. .
"Lot of the streets looked to be blocked," Smith went on. He shrugged. "Kin find m' way through, maybe."
"Mr. Smith," John said.
The driver twisted around to look at him; he was a slight, grizzled man, with blue eyes and wrinkles beside them. There was a slight eastern twang in his Santander. John recognized it, and the manner.
"My wife is down near the train station, working in the emergency hospital," he said. "I have to get to the embassy to get some help so I can get through to her. If you don't think you can make it through, I'll drive."
The blue eyes squinted at him. "Nossir. You watch our back, I'll drive." He reached under the front seat and pulled out a pump-action shotgun. "You know how to use one of these, sir?"
Smiling, John took it and racked the action. A shell popped out; he caught it one-handed and fed it back into the gate in front of the trigger. A wary respect came into Smiths eyes; it increased when John tucked the weapon under a traveling rug on the seat beside him.
"I'll bring it out if we need to use it, or show it to somebody," he said. "Now let's get going."
* * *
"I need some volunteers," John said. "To get someone out of the city."
He nearly had to shout over the clamor of the crowd outside the gilded wrought-iron gates of the embassy compound. There were thousands of them, more crowded down the street, surging and screaming. Marine guards in blue dress uniforms were stationed inside the gate and along the walls, carrying rifles with fixed bayonets. A little ceremonial saluting cannon had been wheeled out and faced the main entranceway, just as a hint in case the crowd decided to try and batter the metal down. That was unlikely; under the gilding the bars were as thick as a woman's wrist. The Marines were discouraging those trying to break through with the butts of their rifles, or short jabs with their bayonets. Nothing more was needed, not yet.
A slow trickle was getting in, through the postern gate beside the main ones; people with valid Santander papers, or spouses, or embassy personnel who'd gotten trapped out in the city.
"Sir?" The Marine captain looked around incredulously.
"Captain, my wife is out there, and I need some volunteers to help me get through the crowd."
The captain opened his mouth; John could see the snap of refusal forming. He looked the man in the eye.
"This is very important duty," he said meaningfully.
It wasn't much of a secret in the compound that John was with the Secret Service. Nor that he was immensely rich, or that he had connections at the highest levels, military and civilian.
"I'm not sending any of my men out into that," the officer said bluntly, jerking a hand towards the near-riot beyond the gate. Just then was a barked order, and the dozen troopers by the gate fired a volley into the air. The crowd surged back with screams of panic, then ran forward again when nobody fell.
"I wouldn't ask you to," John said. "I'm going, whether anyone wants to come with me or not. I'd appreciate some help, but I don't expect you to order anyone out."
The Marine officer hesitated. "My responsibility is to guard the perimeter."
"And to assist the staff in their functions."
Decision crystallized. "All right, sir. You can ask. Sergeant!"
A thickset man with a shaven head covered in a network of scars looked up. The Santander Marines saw a lot of travel, mostly to places where the locals didn't like them.
"Sir!"
"Mr. Hosten needs some volunteers to accompany him into the city and pull someone out. See if anybody feels like it."
What was left of the sergeant's eyebrows-they'd evidently been burned off his face at some point-rose. He looked appraisingly at John and smiled like a dog worrying a bone.
"Hey, Sarge."
John looked around; it was the driver.
"Yeah, Harry?"
"It's righteous, Sarge. I'm going."
The noncom looked down at the drivers legs, and the graying man shrugged.
"Hey, we're driving-I don't have to sprint."
"You always were a natural-born damned fool, Harry," the sergeant said. He looked back at John. "I'll pass the word, sir."
John stripped off the morning coat as he waited, switching to the four-pocket hunting jacket his valet brought and gratefully throwing aside the starched collar of his dress shirt. Smith glanced at the shoulder rig that lay exposed.
"Guess I shouldn't have asked about the scattergun, sir," he said.
"How could you know?" John pointed out. "Look, am I likely to get anyone?"
"Besides me?" Harry shrugged. "I've been out of the corps a while now, but Berker knows me-hell, Berker carried me out when I got a slug through both legs. He'll-"
The bald sergeant returned, with five men behind him. They were all armed, and several of them were stuffing gear into field packs.
"Sir!" he said. "Corporal Wilton, privates Goms, Barrjen, Sinders, and Maken." In a whisper: "Ah, sir, I sort of hinted there'd be some sort of reward, you know?"
"There certainly will be," John said. To the men: "All right, here's the drill. We're heading for the main train station and the emergency hospital that's been set up there. We're going to pick up Mrs. Hosten-Lady Pia Hosten-and then we're either coming back here, or getting out the city to the east, depending on which looks most practical. I expect anyone who comes with me to follow orders and not be nervous about risks. Understood?"
A chorus of yessirs, a couple of grins. None of the men looked like angels, but then they were Marines, and assignment to the embassy guard in Ciano had been something of a plum, reserved for men with something on their records besides a decade of well-polished boots.
He looked up. Something was flying through the pillars of smoke that reached up into the sky over Ciano. A huge shark-shape, three hundred meters long, a shining teardrop droning through the air to the sound of motors. Dozens more followed it, a loose wedge coming in from the west like the thrust of a spearpoint.
"Let's do it, then."
* * *
Wounded men screamed in fear as the building shook. Pia Hosten grabbed a pillar and held on as the stick of bombs rattled the iron girders of the roof. The fitted stone swayed slightly under her touch, a queasy feeling. Half the nursing sisters were gone, and there were wounded everywhere-hundreds in this room, thousands in the building, the heat mounting under the tall arches and the smell of puss and gangrene mounting, and more still coming in. The gas was off, and the mains.
"Water. . water. ."
I should have done as John said, she thought, hurrying over with a dipper.
She raised the man's head and put the rim to his lips. He drank, then choked and began to thrash.
"Sister Maria!" Pia called.
The man arched, then slumped; his eyes rolled up and went still.
The nun arrived, then scowled. "He is dead."
"He wasn't when I called you!" Pia snapped, then leaped up to hold the older woman as she sagged. "I am sorry, Sister."
"There are so many," the nun whispered. "My God, my God, why have you forsaken us?"