by Timothy Zahn
DEALBREAKER
A Basil & Moebius adventure
by
Timothy Zahn
It was a warm July night in 1947, post-war Paris was teeming with troops and refugees, and a shrewd man could find business opportunities in every dockyard and back alley.
Razz Boothe was negotiating one of just such opportunities when the Collector’s summons came.
“Thirty-eight,” the big, ugly man insisted, his three-day beard glistening in the faint light of the warehouse and his own three days’ collection of sweat. “Final offer.”
“That’s too bad,” Razz said firmly, clamping his jaw against the sudden surge of pain from the brand on his left shoulder. Clamping his right hand over the brand, as well, to hide the telltale red-orange glow that was visible even through two layers of clothing. Trust the Collector to call at the worst possible time.
Because this deal was starting to drift into dangerous territory. Kabelevsky had brought extra muscle tonight, which either meant he was expecting trouble or else was planning to make some. Either way, Razz had to be at the top of his game if he and his partner, Cutter Shanahan, were going to make it through in one piece.
Which was damn hard to do with the lingering ache in his arm reminding him that the two of them suddenly had an urgent appointment on the other side of town. “Really too bad,” he continued. “‘Cause the price is forty-five.”
Kabelevsky rumbled under his breath. “Don’t push it, Razz,” he warned darkly. “That stuff’s not worth more than twenty a case.”
“If you can get it at that price,” Razz pointed out. “Problem is, you can’t. Not without us.” He shrugged. “Besides, what matters isn’t what you pay for something, but what you can sell it for.”
Kabelevsky’s eyes flicked around the warehouse. Possibly he’d just noticed that Cutter wasn’t anywhere in sight, and was wondering if he needed to rethink his options. “I suppose,” he said, looking back at Razz. “So let’s make it forty and call it a night.”
Razz choked back a curse. Normally, he would have stood firm on forty-five, especially since Kabelevsky could easily sell the cigarettes for sixty or more, and even more especially since he and Cutter now represented a good two-thirds of the supply available to the French black market.
But the Collector had started the clock ticking, and he didn’t like being kept waiting. “Fine,” Razz growled. “Forty. You want all of it?”
A flicker of surprise crossed Kabelevsky’s shiny face. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Razz to cave that quickly. “Yeah, sure,” he said cautiously. “You said forty, right?”
“You want some extra fingers to count with?” Razz said sourly. “Yeah, forty a case. Soon as I see the money, your boys can start lugging it out.”
Fifteen minutes later, with the money and cigarettes having successfully changed hands, Razz was back on the street, heading for the alley where he’d parked their car. He was halfway there when Cutter fell silently into step beside him. “Well?” he asked.
“Forty,” Razz snarled. “Go ahead—tell me I got shafted.”He threw a sideways glare at his partner, almost hoping he would say exactly that. A good fight might help him forget the damn puppet strings the Collector had them dancing to.
But Cutter just shrugged. “Figured you’d have to go easy on him.” He tapped his left shoulder. “It’s not like the Collector is big on excuses.”
Razz bared his teeth. No, the Collector wasn’t big on excuses. Or on explanations, reasons, or bargaining. All he cared about was obedience and results.
And pain.
The memory of that pain still sent a shiver up Razz’s back. He and Cutter had succeeded in stealing the little Nazi trinket the Collector wanted and had brought it triumphantly to his home. But instead of delivering his promised payment, the cold-eyed little man had suddenly transformed into an unearthly, squid-like creature, then proceeded to wrap them in two of his tentacles while he dripped some kind of acid onto their shoulders. Now, whenever he wanted them, those acid-etched marks would glow with an echo of that searing pain.
The Collector had never paid them for that Nazi treasure. Nor had there been payment for any of the other art objects he’d sent them to get over the years. He seemed to think that permitting them to remain alive was all the payment they needed. Or deserved.
“I guess we’ll just have to add tonight’s deal to the list of what he owes us,” Cutter commented into Razz’s memories.
“Not that that list will ever get squared,” Razz said sourly.
“I think it will,” Cutter said. “One of these days he’ll pay. He’ll pay big.”
Razz eyed him closely. “You got a plan?”
“I’m working on it,” Cutter said, an odd pitch and tone to his voice.
“Well, make sure you know what you’re doing,” Razz warned.
“I will,” Cutter said. “Come on. Let’s go see what the son of a squid wants this time.”
#
The Collector’s mansion was the sort of place that Razz normally wouldn’t have entered on a bet. The exterior was all dark wood and stone, with latticed windows, gargoyles at the corners of the roof, and a widow’s walk perched at the very top. When Razz was a kid, it was the kind of house the other kids would declare to be haunted, and tell all kinds of nasty stories about.
Even more ominous to the adult Razz was the fact that the building had survived the Nazi invasion, the Allied counter-invasion, and the looting and lawlessness that had accompanied both groups of conquerors, and had done so without picking up so much as a scratch. That automatically marked the place as the home of someone rich, powerful, and probably no stranger to the far side of the law. Not the sort of place a smart guy barged into without an invitation.
Unfortunately, as he and Cutter had learned, even with an invitation it wasn’t a smart thing to do.
The Collector was waiting for them in his office, an expanse of leather and more dark wood, with shelves full of ancient art objects and other strange relics lining the walls. More of the damn things were laid out carefully across the front of the large desk where the Collector sat watching silently as the two men approached.
As usual, he waited until they stopped at the far side of the desk before speaking. “Gentlemen,” he greeted them gravely in that low but oddly musical voice of his. Razz had never been able to decide whether the honorific was meant to be polite or whether the Collector was simply being sarcastic. “Recently several scrolls and other ancient artifacts were discovered in a cave at Wadi Qumran near the Dead Sea in Palestine. One of them is of particular interest to me.”
He selected a sheet of paper from in front of him and handed it across the desk. “Here’s the name of the man who currently possesses it.”
Scowling, Razz took the paper and ran his eyes over it. There was a gibberish name—Ibrahim ‘Ijha—an equally gibberish address, and a single recognizable word: Bethlehem. “What’s all this?” he asked, gesturing to two rows of chicken-scratchings at the bottom.
“The first two lines of text on the scroll I want.” The Collector smiled thinly. “It’s Hebrew script. I don’t expect you to know how to read it.”
“So you’re sending us to Palestine?” Razz said, fighting back a surge of frustrated anger. There was really no point in even asking the question, and he didn’t expect the Collector to answer it. He’d already given them their orders, and there was nothing Razz could say that would make him reconsider.
Unfortunately, it was going to cause all sorts of complications from Razz and Cutter’s end of the stick. Leaving Paris for even a few days would give jackals like Kabelevsky more than enough time to start chewing away at the edges of their black-market business. If he and Cutter were gone long enough, they could very well return to f
ind the whole thing gone like jeep parts in a deserted street. Which meant that they would have to do the job as quickly as possible and haul butt to get back.
Still, if they had to slaughter another gang or two afterward to take back what was theirs, well, they’d done it before.
“I’ve arranged passage aboard a private airplane at Orly,” the Collector continued. As expected, he didn’t bother to answer Razz’s question. “You’re to leave within the hour.” His eyes narrowed, and the room suddenly felt colder. “This scroll is important to me, gentlemen. More important than anything I’ve ever sent you to obtain. Do not fail me.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Razz said, folding the paper and slipping it into his jacket pocket. “Don’t snap your cap—we’re on it.”
“See that you are,” the Collector said ominously. “Now go.”
They were back in the car and headed for their hotel before Cutter spoke again. “So what’s Palestine like?”
“It’s in a dirty, backwater-drainage-ditch part of the world,” Razz growled. “What do you think it’s like?”
Cutter grunted. “We’ve seen worse.”
“Yeah, but at least when we did we were making some money,” Razz grumbled. “That plan you said you were working on, the one to get the Collector off our backs?”
“Yeah?”
Razz scowled at the lights of the Eifel Tower in the distance. “Kick it into gear, will you? I think it’s time us and the Collector parted ways.”
“Yeah,” Cutter agreed darkly. “I’m working on it.”
#
Bethlehem was as dirty, backwater, and unpleasant as Razz had expected. It was crowded, the people babbled constantly at each other in foreign languages, the air was full of strange and nostril-curling odors, and the children running through the streets were all brats. Most of the traffic consisted of donkeys pulling carts, their drivers jockeying for position and right-of-way with each other and with the occasional decrepit car or small truck while the drivers shouted like everyone else. Every few blocks a pair or trio of British soldiers stood guard on a street corner, most of them looking harried or wary or just plain disgusted as they eyed the crowds.
And the town felt old. Strangely old. Eerily old.
“What?” Cutter said.
“What what?” Razz growled.
“You were muttering something,” Cutter said.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were,” Cutter insisted. “You were saying something about death.”
“Fine—so I was muttering,” Razz snapped, a chill running through the heat that was baking him through his rumpled suit. He had no recollection of saying anything at all since climbing out of the rickety van that had brought them here from Kalandia Airport.“I can mutter if I want to.”
“Never said you couldn’t,” Cutter said, starting to sound irritated. “If you want to talk to yourself, talk quieter, that’s all.”
“How about this: let’s not talk at all,” Razz bit out. “That work for you? Not talking?” He jabbed a finger down the crowded street. “Let’s find this damn scroll and get out of this damn country.”
#
Back in Paris, with a piece of paper and an address in front of them, finding the scroll had sounded easy.
It wasn’t.
The town wasn’t laid out in any kind of neat and convenient pattern, at least not any pattern Razz could figure out. The street signs were in Arabic and English, but simmering resentment against British rule had apparently inspired the local vandals to scratch out or otherwise deface a lot of the English versions, and all the Arabic ones looked alike. What should have been a brisk stroll from where the van had dropped them turned out to be a long, frustrating search.
They finally located the address the Collector had given them, and Ibrahim ‘Ijha was indeed there. Unfortunately, he no longer had any of the newly-found scrolls. He’d passed them on, he said, to a gentleman named George Isha’ya.
Fighting their way through the crowds—apparently, they’d had the bad luck to land on some local market day—Razz and Cutter reached Isha’ya’s place, only to find that he, too, had passed the scrolls on to another dealer, an antiquities specialist named Mukhtaar who could supposedly store them more securely while the scrolls’ original finder searched out a buyer.
“Okay, this is starting to get ridiculous,” Cutter huffed as they once again headed out into the noisy, smelly city. “At this rate we’re gonna be here all month.”
“You’re just now finding it ridiculous?” Razz growled back as they circled a particularly aromatic donkey. “If the scrolls aren’t here, I’m thinking we go back to Ibrahim’s place and do some damage.”
Luckily for Ibrahim, third time was the charm.
“Ben hieb!” Mukhtaar said, smiling expansively as he walked toward them, giving them each a quick once-over. “Welcome to my humble shop,” he said, switching to thickly accented English. “You are English? American?”
“Citizens of the world,” Razz said shortly. The subject of nationalities wasn’t one he liked getting into.
“Ah,” Mukhtaar said, gesturing at the maze of tables and display cabinets all around them. “You have come to the right place, for the treasures of the world are to be found here. You are interested in ancient pottery? Coins, perhaps, or rugs or tapestries?”
“How about something a little more special?” Razz suggested, looking casually around. Security-wise, Mukhtaar’s shop was definitely a jump above anything else they’d seen today. The walls were thick and sturdy, made of the local adobe or whatever it was the people here mostly built with. The windows were barred and equipped with shutters, the door frame was metal and looked to be securely fastened to the walls, and the door itself was heavy wood and fitted with a classic Chubb detector lock. “A friend of yours sent us here,” he continued, looking back at Mukhtaar. “George Isha’ya.”
Mukhtaar’s eyes took on a knowing look. “Ah,” he said, nodding and gesturing them toward the back of the shop where a heavy combination-lock floor safe squatted between an old cash register and an equally ancient machine that Razz tentatively identified as a coffee urn. Mukhtaar stepped to the safe, ran the combination, and pulled open the door. “This is one of the scrolls,” he said, carefully taking out a folded piece of cloth or leather and holding it out toward them. “I am told they are very ancient—two thousand years old at least.”
“Interesting,” Razz said, leaning a little closer. The neat lines of words were faint, and he couldn’t tell if it was the same kind of lettering as on the Collector’s cheat sheet. “You say there are more of them?”
“Six more,” Mukhtaar said, showing it to Cutter and then returning it to the safe.“Most are considerably longer than this one. Several other jars and artifacts were also found at the site,” he added, nodding toward one of the nearby tables.
“Yes,” Razz said, slipping his right hand into his side pocket and fingering the cheat sheet. Maybe they could get this done right here and now. “Could we see the rest?”
Mukhtaar hesitated, his face screwing up in indecision. “I am not certain I should do that,” he hedged. “I was merely asked to hold them for a few days. I do not have permission to sell them. Or to show them, really.”
“Yes, but the owner does want to sell them, right?” Razz countered. “Can’t hardly do that if buyers can’t see the merchandise.”
“It is a dilemma,” Mukhtaar agreed. “But they are his to show. I’m sorry, but I cannot.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” Razz pressed, lifting his left hand to casually scratch the side of his head below his fedora’s brim. The.45s he and Cutter carried under their jackets were too noisy to risk in the middle of a city in broad daylight, but the switchblade he carried inside his inner hat band would be just as quick, and it would leave Mukhtaar just as dead.
Behind them, the door clattered open, and Razz turned to see a chattering group of Arab types crowd in. One of them waved cheerfully to Mukhtaar as th
ey headed between the displays toward a low table surrounded by cushions in the back corner. “But I see you have guests,” Razz continued, turning back to Mukhtaar and reluctantly lowering his hand. “Will the owner be coming by soon?”
“He will arrive in three days, in the early afternoon,” Mukhtaar said, clearly relieved at being let off the hook. “If you will return then, I’m certain he would be delighted to show you the rest of the scrolls.”
“Excellent,” Razz said, gesturing Cutter toward the door. “We’ll see you in three days.”
A minute later they were back outside, weaving their way through the crowds. “We’re not really just going to sit on our butts for three more days, are we?” Cutter asked.
“Of course not,” Razz growled. “We go in tonight, find the Collector’s scroll, and blow town.”
“I don’t know,” Cutter mused. “That’s a Chubb safe he’s got in there, and a Chubb detector lock on the door.”
“The door won’t be a problem,” Razz assured him. “I’ve got a regulator key. If I don’t get it the first time I can reset and try again.”
“You can’t reset the safe,” Cutter warned.
“Won’t have to,” Razz said, grinning tightly. “It may be a Chubb safe, but that’s not a Chubb lock on it. Looks like someone bought a used hulk safe and hammered in the first grotty lock they found. Piece of cake.”
“Let’s hope so. What time tonight?”
“I don’t know yet.” Razz pointed to a sidewalk café twenty yards down the winding street. “Let’s get some of whatever they’ve got to drink and see what kind of timing and pattern the Limey patrols are running.”
“How about instead we see if there’s a room nearby to rent?” Cutter suggested. “Just as easy to watch the Brits, and we won’t be so obvious while we’re doing it.”
“I suppose,” Razz said reluctantly. Rooms cost money, and it wasn’t like the Collector ever paid expenses. Worse, dealing face-to-face with people, especially people you were renting a room from, made them better able to describe you to the authorities.
Still, it would be more comfortable to get out of the sun. Besides, as long as he and Cutter had their knives there was no reason any witnesses of any sort needed to be left behind.