The blue and white portrait of the young girl wearing a turban flashed before Alex's eyes. For the past fifteen minutes she had been fidgeting with the little medallion on her key ring, waiting in a café for Volodja and Emin to return from the Red-Light District. She had bought the medallion years ago as a souvenir from Mokkum. It was too crowded, too small, and far too frivolous for her taste. She much preferred port towns — their serenity, silence, and simplicity. She loved the sound of water lapping against the docks, the cry of seagulls, even the sharp smell of fish markets. Mokkum's notorious reputation had been reason enough to dislike it. That was why she had stayed behind in the decent part of town while the men ventured into the bad neighbourhood.
It had been an interesting few days. Emin had finally reappeared. They had been startled but visibly relieved to see their gloomy friend alive. Emin looked exhausted and painfully thin. He spoke briefly of his pursuit of the former Leader of Borderland and how he had been on the wrong track. He mentioned Stepan, the Borderland actor who bore a striking resemblance to Vladko Shut. They were delighted to hear how he had helped capture Anthony Chubice in Zion.
"And now you're here in the North of Gaul…" Volodja said pensively.
"Yes. I've picked up some interesting leads on Ivo Arsonist. The trail has brought me here. Someone in Mokkum can give us vital information on his whereabouts."
"But why didn't you go straight to the Low Lands?"
"Because I wanted to ask you both to join me on this mission."
"Don't get me wrong," Volodja replied, "but you've managed perfectly well on your own in North Gomora. What do you need us for? I'm not as experienced as you, and Alex isn't suited for this kind of work."
"I'm no GI Jane," Alex cut in, "but I think Emin meant he needs me as a translator if we're heading to the Low Lands."
"No, Alex! Emin doesn't need your verbal skills for this job."
"Well, maybe it's time to change tactics," she shot back. "You might get more out of people by talking to them instead of beating them senseless!"
Emin interrupted their bickering. "The person in Mokkum is a male prostitute — Ivo's favourite little plaything. That one will need… extra encouragement to talk. But once we have the information, we'll likely have to travel further to pay Ivo a visit. That's when I might need your people skills, Sashenka."
"You don't need to drag her into this," Volodja said sharply. "Most people in the West understand Anglo-Saxon anyway."
"Most people in the West are also suspicious of anyone who looks Musulman, especially when they start asking questions," Alex added grumpily.
"You can't argue with that, Volodja," Emin said. "It won't be easy to get close to him. Rumour has it he's somewhere in the South. That's why I thought a newlywed couple on honeymoon might work. They raise far less suspicion. I'll stay in the background and cover you. Besides, I heard what Alex did to Nina Skunz. She saved her husband. I'm sure she can handle a trip across the West."
"It was a mistake. She wasn't supposed to be there," Volodja muttered, clearly displeased.
"You succeeded. You survived. That's what matters," Emin replied calmly.
"I don't want her in danger."
"She won't be," Emin promised.
The next morning, they had left for the Low Lands. So far, the men hadn't needed her language skills. They had gone looking for Salt Cherries, Ivo's favourite boy toy in Mokkum.
Alex couldn't shake a nagging sense of foreboding — a heavy pressure on her chest. Emin seemed almost invincible. He could handle anything and always stayed in control. But what if something went wrong? Volodja had recovered from the gunshot, yet his shoulder was still not what it used to be. It could fail him at a critical moment.
Ivo Arsonist had been the former Minister of Internal Affairs of Borderland. He had formed and commanded Nazi battalions such as the Aces and the Valkyries. The list of crimes on his conscience was long — assaults, terrorism, corruption, drug trafficking. He was responsible for the assassinations of numerous politicians and journalists who had tried to expose him. Another dark stain on his record was his well-known taste for young men and teenage boys. Though he never openly admitted to being homosexual, he never denied the accusations either. He was constantly seen in the company of youths, some of whom had been foolish enough to speak publicly about his preferences. None had lived long enough to repeat their stories.
Alex spotted Volodja's slender figure emerging from the crowd across the street. He saw her wave and crossed over to join her.
"You're back?" she asked, feigning casual surprise.
"Yeah, we found Salt Cherries. Quite the character. I'll never get used to these perverts," he said with a grimace. "There was a small fight with his pimp, but Emin shut it down quickly. Now he's interrogating the little sweetheart. He asked me to give them some privacy." He chuckled darkly.
Alex kept her voice low, aware of how the other café patrons reacted to hearing Pan-Slavic. The tension in the air was palpable. She pointed it out to Volodja and they began whispering. They needed to leave as soon as possible, but they couldn't abandon Emin.
Trouble arrived the moment two policemen entered the café. One was a tall, blond Low Lander. The other was clearly a man but dressed and made up like a lazy transvestite. A cheap red wig barely concealed his square jaw and five o'clock shadow. His thin lips and short nails were painted red — the only feminine touches on an otherwise broad-shouldered, masculine frame. Alex sensed his inadequacy from across the room. The café owner nodded toward them, and the officers approached.
"Is something wrong, Officers?" Alex asked.
"Identity cards, please," the blond one grunted.
She translated for Volodja, who immediately tensed. The day before, Emin had provided them both with new fake identities in case they were stopped. They handed over the forged documents and tried to remain calm. Volodja reached across the table and stroked her hand, which was nervously twisting a napkin.
"You're both Scythes," the blond officer muttered. "You'll need to come with us. We have some questions."
"Why? We haven't done anything wrong. We were just having coffee…"
"Miss, I insist. Come with us now. Don't make us use force."
Volodja, unable to follow the exchange, motioned for her to comply. They had no choice. Every eye in the café followed them as they were led outside.
In the back of the police car, Alex gripped Volodja's hand tightly until they reached a nondescript building that looked more like a minor office block for labour unions than a police station. They were placed in a small, windowless room lit by harsh fluorescent tubes and told to wait for the inspector. The inspector never came.
Volodja's patience eventually snapped. He began pounding on the door, shouting to be let out. Finally, the transvestite officer opened it and told him to shut up in broken Anglo-Saxon. He winked at Alex and gestured for her to follow. When she refused to move, he frowned, strode over, and seized her arm.
Volodja exploded. He shoved the man violently away and pulled Alex behind him. The transvestite called for backup. As a fight erupted between the blond officer and Volodja, the pervert dragged Alex down the corridor by force.
"Let her go, you filthy faggot!" Volodja roared, before the blond knocked him down and began striking him with his baton.
The transvestite hauled Alex into a larger room further down the hall, locked the door, and pocketed the key. He looked at her with a nasty, predatory grin.
"The inspector told us to search you properly. Since I'm the only girl here…"
"You're not a girl, you sick bastard! And that ridiculous wig will never make you one!"
"Shut your mouth, missy, or I'll have you charged with misgendering. Now come to Momma, you little slut."
Alex used the table in the centre of the room as a barrier, dodging his long, grasping hands. Enraged, he shoved the table aside and lunged. She kicked off her shoes, grabbed one, and struck him repeatedly with the heel, hitting him hard enough to draw blood. The pain only seemed to excite the depraved monster. He tackled her to the floor, slapped her several times, and tore at her blouse. He bit her cheek viciously as he pinned her down. Her screams grew louder and more hysterical.
Volodja heard them from the other room. Something inside him snapped. He disarmed the blond officer, got him in a chokehold, and squeezed until the man went limp. Shoving the unconscious body aside, he charged down the corridor and rammed the locked door with his shoulder — once, twice, three times — until it burst open.
The pervert was on top of Alex, trousers down, ripping at her clothes. Volodja's vision darkened with rage. He grabbed the man's head with both hands and twisted violently, snapping his neck. He kicked the corpse off her and pulled Alex to her feet, pressing her tightly against his chest as she broke down in sobs. Her blouse was torn, bruises already forming on her neck and arms. He helped her put her shoes back on and straighten her clothes. They gathered their things and fled.
They found Emin waiting on a garden bench not far from the café. Volodja told him what had happened while Alex sat between them, leaning against Volodja's shoulder. She hid her face behind a light summer scarf and dark sunglasses, but Emin still noticed the bruises. His blood boiled. Knowing Volodja had killed the pervert eased his fury slightly, but not enough.
"Take her back to the hotel," he told Volodja quietly. "Then come back. We need to clean up."
Volodja still remembered the route to the abandoned office building. They arrived just in time to see the blond officer staggering out toward his car, apparently having regained consciousness, and intending to call for help. Emin crept up behind him, grabbed a fistful of his golden hair, and slammed his head against the roof of the vehicle. The man collapsed.
"Where's the other one?" Emin asked. "I spotted a good swamp nearby. We'll dump the car and the bodies there."
Emin felt a wave of disgust when he saw the dead transvestite. He could easily imagine the horror Alex had endured. Together they dragged the heavy body outside and loaded it into the back seat. The unconscious blond officer was buckled into the passenger seat. While Volodja cleaned up the bloodstains inside the building, Emin drove the car to the swamp. He positioned the dead pervert behind the wheel, released the handbrake, and watched as the vehicle rolled slowly into the murky water. He stayed until the roof and blue lights disappeared beneath the surface.
It was already growing dark when Emin returned to their car. Volodja was asleep in the passenger seat. Emin climbed in and gently woke him. For a while, they sat in silence, watching the sun sink into the blood-red marshes of the Low Lands.
"Did you get anything out of Salt Cherries?" Volodja asked eventually.
"Yes."
"Will he talk?"
"No. He's dead. His pimp, too. Asphyxiation by gas."
"Good. So where are we headed now?"
"Our next destination is Latium."