In the Heart of Darkness(124)

She managed, barely, not to heave a sigh of relief.



Professional assassins, like Ajatasutra, were probably beyond her capability. Street thugs, she thought she could handle.



Her mind now (more or less) at ease, Antonina had no difficulty getting through the final few minutes of her meeting with Balban. Her biggest problem was restraining her impatience at Balban's protracted social pleasantries. The hour ahead of her was dangerous in the extreme, but Antonina was the kind of person who just wanted to be done with it.



As soon as possible, she rose and made her exit. Balban escorted her to the door. On the way, they passed Ajatasutra in the corridor. Antonina smiled at him pleasantly, and walked by without flinching. It was not easy, that—after all, she might be wrong.



But Ajatasutra did nothing beyond return her nod with a polite smile.



Balban opened the door, mumbling some final courtesies. Antonina strode through the courtyard to the open gate which led to the street beyond. Even before she passed through the gate, she heard the door close behind her.



Balban, shaking his head, turned away from the door. To his surprise, Ajatasutra was still standing in the corridor.



"A pity," muttered Balban. "Such a beautiful—"



"She knows," hissed Ajatasutra.



Balban blinked his eyes.



"What?"



"She knows," repeated the assassin.



Balban frowned.



"Why do you say that? I saw no indication that she had any suspicions at all."



He made a little gesture at Ajatasutra.



"And—just now—she walked right by you with hardly any notice."



"That's the point," retorted the assassin. "That woman is not stupid, Balban. She knows exactly who I am. What I am. Every other time I've been in her company she always kept a close eye on me. It was a subtle thing, but—" Frustrated, he groped for words. "I'm telling you—she knows."



Balban hesitated. He turned his head, looking at the door. For a moment, it almost seemed as if he would reopen it. But the moment passed, quickly. Then, when Ajatasutra began to approach the door himself, Balban stayed him with a hand.



The spymaster shook his head.



"I think you're imagining things, Ajatasutra. But, even if you're not, there's nothing we can do about it."



Balban scowled. "I think Nanda Lal's orders were an overreaction, anyway. The last thing I'm going to do—now, of all times!—is run any risk of exposing our mission."



He began moving down the corridor. With his hand still on Ajatasutra's shoulder, he guided the assassin along with him. "Besides," he added, "what difference does it make, even if she does know? She's just a woman, Ajatasutra—a small woman, at that."



Cheerfully:



"A sheep often knows it's in danger, when the wolfpack begins circling. What good does that do the sheep?"



Ajatasutra shrugged off the hand. He stopped abruptly, forcing Balban to look at him.



"She is not a sheep, Balban," stated the assassin firmly. "She grew up on the streets of Alexandria. The toughest streets in the Roman Empire. Her father was a charioteer—some of the roughest men you'll ever encounter. And her husband is not only a great general but a great swordsman as well. And those thugs you hired are not 'wolves.' They're a pack of mangy street curs."



"That's enough!" snapped Balban. "I've made my decision."



He stalked away. Ajatasutra remained alone, standing in the corridor, staring at the door. He stood there, silent and unmoving, for a full minute. Then, smiling thinly, he whispered, "Good luck, wolves. You're going to need it."





Antonina strode up the street in the direction she always took, until she was far enough away from Balban's villa to be out of sight. She had traveled two blocks, by now, and knew that the ambush would be coming very soon.



At the next corner, she turned abruptly to her right and began walking quickly down a narrow side street. Behind her, faintly, she heard footsteps. Several men a block away, by the sound, startled into sudden activity.



She began running.



The street was barely more than an alley. She was unfamiliar with it. But she had noticed—in times past, as she had walked by—that the street was the domicile for a number of the small bakeries and cookshops which provided Constantinople with its daily supply of bread and meat pastries.



She raced by three such shops. Too small. She needed a big one, with a full kitchen.



At the fourth shop, she skidded to a halt. Hesitated. She could smell the thick, rich scent of meat broth.



Maybe.



She heard the footsteps approaching the mouth of the street.