Agent Violin Ch. 3

"More tea?"

"Thank you."

"Can't abide these little packets, myself, but, I suppose one takes what comes. There you are."

"Thank you."

"Now, where were we?"

They were entering the second hour of their conversation - that last word loosely construed: It was more or less a monologue, the woman talking, the girl listening, and during it Eriko had learned much about the tall, slim woman in the olive-green fatigues seated opposite her.

"So, then you signed up, ma'am?" Eriko prompted politely.

"Oh, no. No, dear. I'm not the sort to stand in queue waiting for orders like some silly ranker. They, you see, asked me."

Emily Mauve Qian.

Major Emily Mauve Qian, of His Royal Majesty's Special Intelligence Group (SIG).

Born in Hong Kong ("The most beautiful city on earth, dear… Or was. Began falling apart the day that bitch Thatcher gave it back to the ChiComs."). Early years spent in Hong Kong. Daddy was "one of the largest shipping magnates in the whole harbour."

History was not Eriko's forte, and so she was forced to resist the urge to interrupt and ask who Thatcher was, satisfying herself for the moment with the knowledge that Thatcher was a bitch.

"Of course they didn't even ask us. It was all decided for us. No plebiscite, nothing."

Major Emily poured herself another spot.

"Now, let me ask you, darling - who would you rather be governed by, Whitehall or Beijing? Which is my whole point, of course."

Actually, Eriko found the woman's way of speaking sort of... condescending. Although she wasn't sure she should have.

Eriko had seen Brits before: at the Ops School - a pair of O/As (observer/advisors) on a month-long tour - but only at a distance. She had never encountered them face-to-face, and the most striking thing about them in her memory was the tan berets they had worn.

So the young American girl had no real context in which to judge this Englishwoman - or a British-Chinese (Sino-Brit?), or whatever she classified herself to be - and the Eriko was forced out of a sense of polite fair-play to assume that the 'Luvs,' 'Dears,' 'Sweethearts,' 'Darlings,' and even the occasional 'Child,' with which the lady peppered her conversation were simply considered polite by her people.

There was really no way for her to tell otherwise, for, while well-educated by the standards of any university librarian, the path of Eriko's young life (refugee - Special Ops School - deep-cover in an orphanage) had not been inductive to even an narrow cosmopolitanism; and so, while Eriko knew of the divers people who spotted the globe, she knew them only as the astronomer knows his stars: distant; fixed; familiar only by their remoteness - a fact evidenced by (tone and terms of address aside) the keen fascination, near-wonderment, which she took in this strange woman seated across from her.

Eriko was beguiled by her soft, elegant Chinese features; riveted by the melodic singsong of her upper-class British accent - so superior (Eriko thought) to the flat Americanese with which she was forced to respond. The woman was worldly, wise. Sophisticated. She had seen so much, been so many places…

She was rich.

Eriko's imagination could barely fathom that condition. What must that be like?

Just listening to her brought to Eriko's mind a startling objectiveness about herself, about her own life: How narrow her world was. How limited. How… poor.

Major Emily went on talking.

Shortly before the final "ChiCom" takeover of her beloved Crown Colony, Emily and Mum and Daddy and their money had closed up shop and moved - first to Australia ("A perfectly dreadful place, dear - though, if you ask me, it suits those sodding Aussies to a 'T'.") - and then, finally, thankfully, a few years later, to London. There, Daddy's new East-West Import/Export concern had thrived, Emily had gone to Cambridge, and then the war had begun.

And then they had asked her.

Her natural skills with the Chinese language and customs were only part of the reason.

Equally important was her keen, arithmetical mind, which birthed an uncanny problem-solving ability: a near-electric thought process that dumbfounded her instructors and filled her peers with respect and envy, spreading even to the legend of that she had turned an old junk cash register ("till") into an encoding machine. Major Emily neither confirmed nor denied the veracity of that little tale.

Recruited into the Field Office of the "SIGs" after graduation, she had spent time in South East Asia ("Please - don't ask, Luv."), East Africa, India, Iran, western China (Sinkiang and a bit in Tibet); she had been a temporary intelligence liaison to the new provisional Russian government. Most recently, she had been trouping around in those benighted little "Stans" (Tajiki-, Kazakh-, Kyrgyz -, etc.) which fissured the Asian map, posing as a textiles buyer. She had a chest full of medals and a filing cabinet drawer full of commendations.

The woman related all of this as modestly as her upbringing and simple love of facts would allow.

"So, what brings you here, ma'am?" Eriko inquired during a pause, desperate to hold up her end of the conversation - though as soon as she asked, she knew that she shouldn't have.

"Now, hush, hush, doll," Major Emily replied. "I could tell you, but then… Well, you know the joke."

But Major Emily hated the war, she really did. She missed London. She had been away too long. She missed the streets, the shopping, the restaurants… The auctions. But most of all, Major Emily thought, she missed her dear old Bentley - which Eriko (sweet child) assumed must be the name of her dog.

"Well, now," Major Emily suddenly changed tack, "tell me a little something about yourself, darling."

It was the question Eriko had been dreading.

AFTER TAKING HER pistol, the knife had vanished from her throat.

Eriko had remained frozen, her hands in plain view.

"Hello?" the English voice had sung from behind her… and slowly, very slowly, Eriko had turned around.

She was very pretty, that was Eriko's first impression of her - Asiatic, probably Chinese. Thirty years old, maybe? Her black hair was cut rather short, falling just to the collar of her green fatigues.

She was smiling.

"Good morning," the woman said cheerfully.

Eriko just stared at her, and at her own pistol which the woman held. The woman's own weapon hung holstered on her hip. The fatigue design wasn't American and there were no insignia on her which could tell Eriko who or what she was. But, then again, there was nothing on Eriko's own uniform which might return the compliment.

"On your way in, or out?" the woman asked, re-sheathing her knife, but maintaining her grip on Eriko's pistol.

Eriko blinked.

"What?" she asked with trepidation.

The woman nodded her head toward the western horizon.

"New Tokyo," she clarified. "Going in - or out?"

Eriko didn't want to answer. Training was telling her brain to go into POW mode - Name, Rank, Serial Number… But practicality overrode that: She wasn't the one with the gun.

"Out," she said finally, reluctantly.

"Heading for Seville?"

"What?"

"Seville."

Eriko shook her head, uncomprehending.

The tall, pretty woman cocked her head to one side and looked at her quizzically.

"Are you alone up here?" she asked.

Eriko cast a glance back down the mountain.

"I am now…"

"So," the English lady said, "someone sent you up this way."

"Yes..."

"Then, you must be heading for Seville," the woman concluded with flat certitude.

Eriko just blinked again: She had no idea what her captor was talking about. She said nothing.

"Well," the woman continued, "if your friend sent you up this way, the he or she must already know the way. We'd just as well go on by ourselves, and let him or her catch up, don't you think?"

Eriko just stared at her.

"After you," the lady had said, gesturing up the slope with Eriko's pistol, and Eriko had had no choice but to comply.

THE ASCENT HAD been steep, physically taxing not only on the legs, but also the hands which were often needed for support on the way up.

The sun, a blessing earlier, had become an affliction - too hot even way up here - bringing sweat to Eriko's brow, and beneath her boots and clothing.

They had not spoken at all during the climb, the woman and the pistol maintaining a discreet distance behind Eriko all the way, and it was about an hour before the woman behind her suddenly said: "Here we are."

Eriko stopped, breathing hard.

They had made the crest of the slope, not far from the top of the mountain.

Here we are, where? she wondered.

"Over there," the woman waived Eriko's pistol, and Eriko walked over to the slightly indented rock face.

The woman reached over Eriko's shoulder from behind and pulled on a small outcropping of stone. There was a click, and the outcropping opened, hinging outward to reveal a numeric keypad - startlingly, ridiculously, incongruous with nature.

"The code, please," the woman said.

Eriko froze for an instant, before jerking her head around to look the woman in the eyes - which she could see were perfectly serious.

She looked back to the keypad, which only offered a glowing red Zero.

The code?

How would she know-

Then she stopped, staring at the keypad.

And it all came back to her in a flood.

Of course…

It had been so long - but she suddenly remembered… It was as if half her brain were coming back to life.

Of course…

Seville.

Code.

Access code.

Seville…

This was a Safe Haven…

Safe Haven Seville.

And that little conversation back down the mountain finally made sense.

"Having trouble, Dear?" the woman asked from behind her.

"No…" Eriko said in a tone of revelation, her eyes still on the keypad.

But, she would have to think for a moment.

The access code would be the date - today's date - day/month/year, multiplied by the cube-root of the day, plus the square of the month, this sum then divided by the year. Plus one.

All right, then…

But, God, she would have traded her left boot for an electronic calculator right then.

"Oh," the lady behind her said, "math not your thing? Here you are." She handed Eriko a small pad and pen from one of her pockets.

"Thank you," Eriko replied.

"Not at all."

Within a minute or so, Eriko had the right figure and, praying she hadn't forgotten to carry a One or something, tapped it into the pad. She pressed Enter.

Just to the left of the keypad, a four-foot diameter section of the rock face disappeared, rolling to the side with a pressurized hiss. There was a small tunnel behind it.

"Very good," the woman complimented her. "Here you are." She held out Eriko's pistol to her. "Let me guess - you're a DCA?"

Taking back the weapon, Eriko nodded.

"Thought so," her new-found ally replied. "Sorry about all the fuss, but I couldn't have me shooting me, now could I?"

SAFE HAVEN SEVILLE.

All Safe Havens were named after cities of the world, past or present. They came in a variety of shapes and sizes - attic rooms, broom closets, the little chamber behind the false panel in the wall, abandoned cars… Caves.

Safe Haven Seville was a cave - albeit a thoroughly modern one. Begun by nature, finished by the hand of man, it burrowed its way straight into the side of the rock near the summit of an anonymous mountain near the eastern edge of the Cascade Range, sealed from the outside world by the camouflaged hatchway which allowed no egress of detectable heat. The atmosphere inside was maintained by something called 'passive re-circulation' (submarine technology).

It contained food, water (chemically purified and protected from staleness), a small assortment of weapons and munitions, along with other assorted field gear. It had a sleeping chamber, complete with pneumatic mattress, toward the back, next to a partitioned water closet. The main area, the lion's share of the cavern, had a low table with pneumatic cushions which sufficed as seats; a work-bench, a computer terminal on a small desk, and a well-stocked First Aid station. The whole lot was heated by a small chemical stove in the center of the main chamber, which kept the temperature inside (relatively) comfortable.

"WELL, now, tell me a little something about yourself, darling."

Seated across the low table, Eriko's eyes lowered a little. In the back of her mind, she had hoped the major would keep on talking forever - not least because (her genuine interest aside) the more she learned about this exotic woman, the more she realized that she had nothing to say, nothing to offer.

But, very quietly, Eriko told the major where she had grown up.

At the mention of the place, the older woman decorously averted her own eyes and nodded politely - exactly the reaction Eriko had expected.

Mountain Home, Idaho.

"I see…" Major Emily said, trying to sound blithe, interested; but Eriko knew that her side of the conversation had effectively ended: That was all the woman needed to know. That was Eriko's life, her biography prior to the Service.

A rundown, decommissioned Air Force Base in the frozen Rockies, ill-famed as one of the filthiest, and most dangerous of the dozens of refugee camps which dotted the North American map.

Even now, so far away in space and time, that place often provided the setting for Eriko's dreams… the smell, the low-hanging smoke of the cooking fires; the ceaseless, stuttering growl of the gasoline generators, competing with the mournful wails of the little babies and the hollow yelping of the skinny dogs… and in them, she was always hungry.

"Well," said Major Emily after a pause, ending the awkward moment and graciously changing the subject. "I wonder if there's anything to eat around here…."

Of course, all they found were field rations. Dry powdered and mixed with water from one of the cisterns, they were designed to keep a body alive, not to delight the palate. But, at least they were filling.

Over dinner, once again, Major Emily supplied most of the conversation.

She talked about the war.

And Eriko, deprived by her Deep Cover assignment of even a semblance of the truth about world events, leaned forward and hung on her every word.

The offensive in the Middle East had stalled along a line running from the Iranian plateau, west to Basra, and thence to the lower Jordan. The Combined Armies' thrust into Arabia had been thrown back with grievous losses ("You know those macho grunts, Eriko Darling- always thinking with their balls."), and 'Abd-al-Krim - the "Mad Mullah of Muscat" - remained firmly ensconced in his fortress-city of Dubai.

On the Far Eastern Front, the news was a little better. Okinawa was still in the hands of the enemy - but Taiwan, miraculously, yet held out; had even managed to retake some ground with Anglo-American air and naval support. South Korea held on, its Northern cousin in no shape to take them on - and the Chinese were too busy elsewhere to help. The Vietnamese, having had a belly-full of Eastern Alliance bullying, had (de facto, if not de jure) joined up with the good guys, making a secret pact with the South East Asian Front. Luzon was firming. The Aussies were holding the line above New Guinea and the Solomons, while Indonesia remained quiet - which was how both sides seemed to prefer it. The Russians, though still reeling, had managed to stem the ceaseless, slaughtering assaults into their steppes.

Closer to home, the breach along the Rio Grande had been sealed, thanks to a newly-promoted general named De Cartagena, who had taken over command of the combined US-Mexican forces; "Whilst up north, you Yanks and your Canadian cousins continue to hold the fort against the Occupied West Coast," the lady concluded, ending her whirlwind tour of the planet.

It was a lot for Eriko to take in, digest, and she was quiet for quite a bit.

"So," Major Emily asked finally, in-between spoonfuls, "how's life in the DCAs?"

Eriko quietly replied that it "sucked."

"Hmm…" Major Emily replied, thoughtfully chewing her high-protein gruel, while Eriko sat and thought that the lady probably considered her irredeemably gauche for using such a plebeian term. Had Eriko been psychic, however, she would have realized that the Major's Hmm… was a Hmm… of agreement. She would have further realized how dangerously close she was to receiving another well-informed monologue concerning the relative virtues of the various branches of the Allied secret services.

In fact, Major Emily had just opened her mouth to speak when the hatchway leading to the outside world hissed open, turning her attention from her dinner companion to the door. Her eyes lit up.

"Gabe!" she exclaimed. "So you're the intrepid soul come to take our Eriko back to her home. Lord, Darling, you look like a drowned puppy… Or rat."

Gabriel Tanner's fatigues were soaked and filthy, his dark hair matted to his head; he was visibly cold - yet he took one look, and then looked as if he wanted to bolt back out into the great, wild beyond.

"Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ…" he said.

"Now, Gabe," Major Emily cheerfully admonished him, wiping her mouth and standing up, "is that any way to say hello to an old lover?"

Major Emily walked up to stand before him and, smiling up at him, slapped him hard across his cold, dirty face.

"There," Major Emily said. "That's better."

"Fair enough," Tanner replied morosely, tossing his submachinegun onto the computer table. "Just one thing… Don't call me 'Gabe.'"

THE SMALL GIRL hidden under the desk with the chair pulled in heard sounds from outside in the hallway. She crouched lower behind her chair and listened. Her name was Rei.

"Hey!" Rei heard a man call out from behind her door. She huddled deeper in on herself beneath the desk. "Come here, girl!"

There was silence for a moment, as if the voice was waiting for the unseen girl to obey.

"That's better -" the man's voice began…

Then he cried out - short, sharp, painfully. Something heavy landed on the hallway floor with a dead thud.

Then the door burst open.

"Aiko!" a girl's voice called out. "Aiko!"

Terrified, Rei cowered even deeper in the alcove of her desk. But through her fear, Rei thought she recognized the voice… Could it be..?

"Aiko..?" the voice called out again. "Shit…"

Rei heard light footfalls cross the floor. A drawer clattered open. Rei heard rummaging. Slowly, the frightened girl leaned forward slightly, hoping for a peek - but her balance slipped and, to avoid falling, she was forced to grab the seat of the chair. There was a tiny squeak as the chair shifted slightly on the floor. Rei cowered back, her hand going up to her mouth, her eyes wide.

The room was silent for a moment. Rei sat frozen, balled up under the desk, hardly daring to breath, listening…

The chair was suddenly, violently ripped from under the desk, exposing Rei to plain view.

The girl cried out in shock, looking up to see the little black hole of a gun pointed right at her head.

"No!" Rei covered her face with her hands, her eyes tight-shut. "Don't!"

"Rei?"

Rei heard her own name. But she didn't move; she kept her face behind the tiny, futile shield of her shaking hands.

"Rei-" she heard again. Then someone grabbed her arms and pulled her up and out of the alcove. Hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her. "Rei!"

Rei opened her eyes.

She instantly recognized the pretty face.

"Minako?"

Minako let go of her.

Rei stared at the gun the older girl held, shaking, trying to imagine where in the world the older girl could have gotten such a thing.

"Rei," Minako said, "where's Aiko?"

The younger girl's eyes left the gun and she looked back up at Minako's face.

"W…what?"

"Aiko," Minako repeated firmly. "Have you seen Aiko?"