Oh shit. Fuck it, he knew she couldn't really be the ice-cold super-ace perfect agent she seemed to be. This actually is a lady who is scared. 

He keeps absolutely every trace of that sentiment off his face with an effort of will because she has pointy knees and a keen knowledge of anatomical weaknesses.

"Ma'am - Raina, I'm sorry. I shoulda made sure that was OK in advance, not just assumed. That's on me. Sorry." He coughs. "We can come up with something to stop the other guys pulling that shit too, if you like. We got time, I tipped the butler guy." He kind of gets why it's worse coming from him, actually. 

Something softens. "You kept your cover. It was the best idea for the mission. And I really don't think we could come with a way it would be inappropriate for them to... Continue." 

He smirks. "I dunno, you know how weird and possessive us Americans can be. I'm very happy with them underestimating me. I would have to keep calling you dollface, though. I'm no expert in Urdu, but it sounds pretty good, right?" The term 'shit-eating grin' could have been invented for him. 

He'll post himself at the end of the corridor and give her cover to pick the lock. 

"It sounds awful." 

It does actually sound nice. Unfamiliar but somehow poetic. 

She makes short work of it and they're through in no tome. 

Usmaan's study is trashed. There's the body of a records-book, the leather binding cracked down the spine and the pages all torn out. The desk is overturned. It looks like there was a fire in one corner. 

Raina shares a troubled look with Caragon. Is this Usmaan himself, or did he get raided? With the state he's in it could truly be either one.

"See if you can figure out who did this, or why. I'll try for important documents."

She rifles through desk drawers and files, looks for trick drawers or false walls or that sort of thing. And a safe, obviously. They're looking for a safe. 

"Usmaan did. That's his lighter. Also, he's gone crazy."

There are the twisted remains of a safe among the ashes. 

Inside there are a scorched sheaf of grainy photographs of that profaned idol of something like the god Shiva. Lists of addresses. Weird fragments of unholy texts: 

...and the profaned godhead that could lay armies waste was stricken from its Altar of Sin whose presence could flay the soul of a man and which bestowed the power of [here the text is burned through] and the godhead that was made Matter was taken and borne away and sold for common silver and has passed from the remembrance of men and languishes in some noble hall impotent until such time as it shall be recovered by one who possesses the Blasphemous Altar...

"The Blasphemous Altar? Usmaan was talking about the infidels. The Godhead that was made matter... Does any of this mean anything to you?"

She leafs through the pages, showing them to Carter, a furrow in her brow. 

None of this is making any sense.

There's not much time to contemplate it actually, because she can hear steps coming down the hallway. They have thirty seconds, maybe less. 

"Nah, that's fucking creepy as shit. I kinda thought you'd know - sounds like some kinda cult thing?"

He's interrupted by the footsteps breaking into a dead run. Five seconds now, maybe. 

The papers go behind the desk where they can't be seen from the doorway; she hops up on the desk and grabs Carter, pulling him close and kissing him square on the mouth just as the door opens. 

Oh, God, this is such a huge mistake. Their cover is about to get blown and all she can do is think about how warm and sweet his mouth tastes on hers. 

Oh. 

His arms come around to hold her close - she's so light, doll-like, muscles tense with secret power like a live wire - and he kisses her properly, cover be damned, the way she deserves to be kissed. Fierce, but gentle. Hungry. 

He bursts in to his private office, fumbling for his gun-

The American. And some whore. Fucking in the ashes of everything he ever knew. 

He lets go of the gun carefully. 

And then he starts to laugh. 

Once he starts, he doesn't stop. 

Her surprise is not feigned, and neither is the edge of fear in her voice as she asks, "Sahib? I-I am sorry, we should not be here, I tried to tell him-" 

hA haHaHAhahAHAhHAh hahahahaha

She looks to Carter. Her hands are still gripping his arms like a lifeline, like he's all she needs to hold onto in this world, and he can feel her heartbeat pick up as she starts to prepare for a fight. 

She's unsure; she wants his input on this, like they're actually a team. 

Well, fuck.

He offers her a small smile. Usmaan clearly isn't listening, so he risks a low murmur in a language the man doesn't speak well - "Maybe we should take the opportunity?"

They could approach Usmaan like this, see what they can get out of him here. 

It's too high a risk. He might remember - might know that something is amiss and realise they've been playing him, might blow their whole cover. 

Maybe it's the kiss. Maybe it's the surprise of being caught; maybe it's Usmaan himself, maybe she's spending far too much time with Carter these days. 

It doesn't seem such a bad idea. He's here and he's crazy enough that he probably won't be believed anyway. It's not like they're making any progress without, this place has been burned down.

She shares a look with Carter. It's probably best for her to approach first. 

"Sahib? What's so funny, Sahib?" 

"Ha." He pulls himself together, grins hazily up at her. "It's you! And him! And me! All of us! All of us here, as if it still- as if- ha! The American and the whore fucking," he spits the word, "in the ashes! It was true. It was all real. I saw myself burn the pages. I saw you defile the ash. And it came true! It's all true! The Old God stirs as we fumble at Heaven- His city here beneath our troglodytic huts- the catacombs they sealed, not well enough! Where did I think that warehouse went? Hmm? Hahahahaha!"

"With the statues? And the old paintings? Does the Old God seem to take Shiva's form?" she coaxes, approaching with a honeyed voice. 

More wild laughter. "No no no, the one the," he spits a slur so hard Raina can feel the flecks of spittle on her cheek, "the one they call Shiva has his form, for He is older far, ancient before any man touched a pen, even to draw His true form is to open the threshold, girl! And of us? Of the Prophet? No, girl, Allah had no hand in the making of that place."

She's not a historian (well. she was. it's a long story.) but she's not quite heard of gods that predate the Hindu pantheon, even before the British and Mughals altered them. This is very, very old religion.

How have they ended up dealing with this sort of thing?

"What did they show you down there Usmaan?" 

He doesn't reply. But in the ash, with a finger, he sketches a shape, oblong but of a curiously disquieting proportion. Like a great table, with something like a pedestal, and incense-sticks. "What they found. What they are doing. They bring their machines and their idiot sages in their white coats and they scratch at the seals of Gehenna."

"How far up does this go? Your suppliers? Your superiors? Who else is involved, Sahib?"