by Steven Brust
“Yeah.”
“But in the meantime, we’re both still alive. So let’s get to this, shall we?”
* * *
Florencia’s voice came over the phone’s speaker preceded by a harsh buzz. “Mrs. Merriweather is on line one.”
Camellia considered not taking the call, then considered making Elsa wait just because, but rejected both thoughts. “Thank you, Florencia,” she said, and pushed the button for line 1, and for speaker. “Hello, Elsa. You’re on speaker.”
“Hello, Camellia. So are you. Is anyone there?”
“No, you?”
“No.”
“Maybe our speakers can have lunch together. What’s on your mind, Elsa?”
“Are you making any progress on the murders?”
“Elsa! My goodness. This is a first.”
“Please, Camellia. Is there progress?”
“Why do you care all of a sudden? What aren’t you telling me?”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
“I know no such thing. Precedent is that you give no information, but precedent is that you don’t ask about investigations in progress. I should think they balance out, don’t you?”
“Camellia, I’ve spoken with our financial people. We have decided to increase our contribution to the Foundation by two hundred percent beginning this quarter.”
“I see.”
“I believe I could make it four hundred percent if I could demonstrate that you are making progress on this case. They consider this important.”
Good God. Is she frightened? Yes, she’s frightened!
“Are you trying to buy me, Elsa?”
“If you’re for sale. Please. I just want a progress report.”
“Very well, Camellia. Then I can tell you that we’ve had a major breakthrough. I can’t give you details, because we don’t yet know exactly what the ramifications are. But, yes, a big breakthrough.”
“So you think you’ll have the affair wrapped up soon?”
“I believe so, yes. Probably within a couple of days.”
“Thank you, Camellia.”
“No, no,” she said. “Thank you.”
She disconnected, and pulled in all the reports from the Ranch. Then she pushed the intercom button. She started to punch in Becker’s number, but stopped, frowned, and tapped her fingers on her desk. Then she pushed the intercom button. “Florencia,” she said, “at nine AM according to his local time please get Donovan Longfellow on the line.” And thank you, Elsa, for giving us the major breakthrough.
* * *
Becker was calling on Skype. All right, Don-baby. Let’s see what we can pry out of this sonofabitch that he doesn’t know I’m prying. He clicked answer and Becker’s face filled the screen.
“What did you learn, Mr. Longfellow?”
Donovan said, “That’s what I was going to ask you, Mr. Becker.”
As usual, Becker either didn’t notice the tone or ignored it. “I assume you mean what we’ve learned from the prisoners?”
“Yes.”
“Much the same as those who made the earlier attempts—hired anonymously through email, paid via dead drops.”
“But two of these were sorcerers, Mr. Becker.”
“This fact had not escaped my notice, Mr. Longfellow.”
“There must be records of them.”
“No doubt the Mystici have such records. We have requested them, but have received no reply.”
Donovan grunted. Becker was, as always, staring right at the screen, his eyes focused just a bit below the camera, so it seemed like he was staring at Donovan’s collar. He never moved. “What will happen to them?” asked Donovan.
“The sorcerers will face Sensitivity Removal Protocol; the mercenary will be disciplined.”
“Disciplined, Mr. Becker?”
“You have no need to know the details, Mr. Longfellow.”
Donovan clenched his fist under the table and attempted to keep his face expressionless, grateful for once for the Skype distortion. “How will the Mystici feel if we do that to two of theirs?”
There was a pause. The area behind Becker was blank, empty, like he’d put up a dark-colored curtain or something just so there’d be nothing to look at. “I do not understand why you’re asking that now, Mr. Longfellow. It isn’t the first time it has happened.”
“It’s the first time I’ve been involved in it. And I want to know how they respond. How do they feel when we do that to one of their people? May I remind you that I’m the one in the field? I’m the one who has to deal with the consequences if something goes wrong.”
“Mr. Longfellow, you must understand that we and the Mystici need each other.”
“Need each other, Mr. Becker? How is that?”
“I know you were given at least the outline of our history, Mr. Longfellow. They came into being as an over-reaction to a decree by Pope John XXII. We split from them as an under-reaction to Franco. These events defined the organizations. The Mystici now fear doing too much, and we fear doing too little. They need us doing what we do—keeping magic secret. We need them doing what they do—using their resources to increase our understanding of magic and what it can do.”
“And do they share these discoveries with us, Mr. Becker? Because it seems to me that we would have to act to keep magic secret whether they chose to cooperate or not, whereas they have no need to give us anything.”
Becker actually shifted a little in his chair. Might he be uncomfortable? “It is part of their ethos that they do not interfere with anything their members do, including criminal activity, unless it becomes egregious, by which time it would often be too late. If we didn’t exist, they would need to carry this on themselves. So, yes, they share their research results with us, although not always instantly.”
“You know a great deal about them, Mr. Becker.”
“Yes, I do. It is part of my job to know these things. Now, please fill me in on what you’ve learned.”
Donovan was silent a little longer as he switched gears. Then he said, “They immolated the poor bastard. A fire spell.”
“I knew the result. It was a plain and simple fire spell? Nothing deceptive?”
“No. As straightforward as it gets, except that it started with some sort of spell to weaken Young’s defenses. He caught fire, screamed, ran outside, and kept running until he died, about thirty yards up the street.”
“I see.”
“Then they tried to blow us up. Marci caught it just in time or we’d all be dead. Oh, and speaking of Marci, she covered for us. I think we’ll get away with it. They’ve already hung it on a couple of people.”
“We have, indeed, gotten away with it. I heard about the explosion, and wondered if it was aimed at you. I’ve been monitoring the news stations. It’s being considered a terrorist attack. Please extend my commendation to her. To your whole team.”
“I will, thank you.”
“I believe that is all then, Mr. Longfellow.”
Donovan caught movement—like Becker might be reaching to disconnect, which would be unlike him. Donovan spoke quickly. “I will have to think about what you’ve said, and consider if it might have an effect on the investigation.”
“I do not see how it could.”
“Nor do I, Mr. Becker. But you must admit, it is a great deal of information. I wish I’d had it before.”
“There was no need.”
“It makes me wonder what else I don’t know.”
“About the Mystici? A great deal, no doubt.”
“Yeah. Hey, tell me one more thing. I understand why they have more people than us—we’re a little more selective, and don’t recruit as aggressively. But why do they have so much more money than us? If I worked for them I’d be getting more than minimum wage.”
“They wouldn’t hire you, Mr. Longfellow.”
“True.”
“And to answer your question, it’s because they are willing to do things for money that we are not.�
�
“Like what?”
“They will, on occasion, sell sorcerous services. Not for anything illegal, you understand. But certainly for things that are morally dubious.”
“You mean, to people outside of the Mystici? To civilians?”
“Yes, exactly.” Then, after a moment, “Mr. Longfellow? Mr. Longfellow, are you still there?”
“Mr. Becker, did you have a good reason for not mentioning this until now?”
“Your pardon, Mr. Longfellow. I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“It makes all the difference, Mr. Becker. It changes the entire investigation.”
“Can you explain?”
“The source of Alexander Young’s wealth, Mr. Becker. I had not considered the possibility that he was making a fortune selling protective spells to civilians. That broadens the possibilities for—you know something, Mr. Becker? At this moment, I am not inclined to explain anything to you. I’ll get back to you when I have something specific. Good night.”
“Mr. Long—”
Donovan closed the call and set himself to invisible, then spent some time cursing softly under his breath. He was still cursing when his phone rang. He looked at the number. He didn’t recognize it—it wasn’t Becker—but he knew what country code thirty-four meant. “Well,” he said to the empty room. “This is bound to be interesting.”
* * *
Becker frowned when his phone rang. Not many people called him on his personal number, especially during work hours, and none of them had blocked numbers. His first guess was that someone wanted to sell him something, and he considered letting it go to voicemail, but then mentally shrugged and answered the phone. “This is Becker.”
“Manuel.”
His first impulse was to look around the office to see if he were being watched—absurd. No one would care to whom he was speaking. His next impulse was to disconnect. Before he had time for a third impulse, the voice came from the phone again. “Hello? Manuel? Are you there?”
He swallowed and said, “Yes, I’m here. Hello, Charles.”
“It’s been a long time. I didn’t expect you’d have the same cell number.”
It’s the only thing I kept. “What’s on your mind?”
“Manuel? You sound, ah, different.”
Becker suddenly felt hysterical laughter welling up—a feeling he hadn’t had in years. Different? Seriously? Different? Yeah, maybe just a little bit. The feeling passed as quickly as it rose, like a sudden thunderstorm that leaves everything behind it feeling empty and silent. “How about you?” he said. “How have you been?”
“Keeping busy.”
“What are you doing these days?”
“Promise not to laugh?”
“No.”
“I own a string of Laundromats in Houston.”
Becker didn’t feel the urge to laugh, but he smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know which is stranger, Charles. The Laundromats, or Texas.”
“I know. How the mighty have fallen, right?”
“I guess.”
“What are you doing?”
“I work for the Spanish Foundation.”
There was a pause, then, “No shit? Do they know about you?”
“Of course,” he said, maybe a bit sharply. “I’m working in Investigations and Enforcement, so my history—our history—was actually a bonus.”
“Yeah, I guess I can see that. So, is it worse being on the sidelines than it would be to be out of the game entirely?”
“My goodness, Charles. A sports metaphor? You have gone Texan.”
“I guess I have. There are worse fates. I think.”
God. And now I’m just talking to him like, like back before. Is this bad? No, not bad. But strange. “To answer your question, I don’t know which is worse.”
“Yeah. So how is it? I mean, the Foundation. They keeping you busy?”
“Busy enough, yes.
“That’s good.”
“How about your Laundromats?”
“I’m up to the point where I can take vacations, which is nice. In fact, that’s why I’m calling. I’m on vacation, and suddenly started wishing you were here.”
“Oh? Where?”
“Orlando. Disneyland.”
“Disneyland, Charles? You? Do you have kids?”
“No kids, just me and a sweet little redhead I’d love for you to meet. Hey, don’t knock it. It’s pretty cool, actually. Journey into Imagination. It’s magic, Manuel.”
“Only magic we’ve got left.”
“Yep. Hey, Manuel. We were right, you know.”
“I know.”
“I wish it had worked. Failing that, I wish we hadn’t been busted. But what we were trying to do. We were right.”
“I know.”
“Man, it’s good to hear your voice. You ever get to the States? I’d love to sit down and have a beer with you.”
“Yeah, let’s do that. I can get some free time. Maybe meet you at Disneyland, and you can show me around.”
“I’d love that. Got an email address?”
Becker gave it to him, and said, “Email me, and we’ll set something up. But I have to run—work is calling.”
“All right, Manuel. I’ll be in touch. It was good to hear your voice.”
“Yours too, Charles.”
Manuel disconnected and frowned at his cell phone. He shook his head. Then he hit a button and said, “Mr. Horowitz?… Would it be possible for you to trace the call that just came in on my personal phone?… Thank you. Get back to me when you have something.”
Disneyland was in California; Disney World was in Orlando.
Charles, my old friend, just what are you up to?
* * *
Donovan stared at the phone. Yep, that was interesting all right.
He’d never before spoken to anyone in the Executive Branch, much less with Morgan herself. That, in itself, was interesting and needed thinking about. But first—
The head of the Mystici was scared because Alexander Young had been killed. According to Morgan, Young’s death had frightened the person at the top of the largest and most powerful organization of sorcerers in the world.
Alexander Young was more important than they’d realized.
Well, okay. Young was a sorcerer. Specializing in defensive spells. Well, fine. Then …
He turned to Skype and made a call.
“Hey, Donny. Another body already?”
“Hey, Marci. No, nothing like that. Is this a good time?”
“For about fifteen minutes until the water boils. What’s up?”
“Alexander Young was good at defensive and protection spells. Are there any that would be tied to him personally?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something he casts and then sort of maintains, maybe unconsciously.”
“Oh, sure. The ones that are up constantly, the best ones, are like that.”
“So, when he died, it might be that a bunch of protection spells went down?”
“Very possible. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking if someone high up in the Mystici, I mean, all the way at the top, suddenly became paranoid when Young was killed, we may have a clue about our guy’s endgame.”
“Oh,” said Marci.
“Yeah. Okay, you go back to watching a pot boil. I need to think about this.”
“Don’t strain anything.”
“Heh.”
Donovan pressed the hang-up button, then paced around the room for a good half hour. He gave some thought to what it meant if Young had, indeed, been protecting high-ranking members of the Mystici, but he also had to consider the matter of Morgan having called him personally. He looked at that from several angles, but couldn’t get away from it: Why do you avoid the proper channels? Because you don’t trust the proper channels.
Becker was, at least in Morgan’s mind, a suspect. And Morgan knew a great deal more than Donovan did.
He sat down and made anoth
er Skype call.
“Mr. Longfellow,” said Becker in his usual cool and empty voice. “I’m pleased you called back. I didn’t much care for how you ended our last conversation.”
“I need the video feed from the hotel lobby.”
“I’m not certain we can get that, Mr. Longfellow.”
“I am.”
“Mr. Longfellow, kindly watch your tone.”
Donovan closed his eyes and took a slow breath. “My apologies, Mr. Becker. I was wrong. Mr. Becker, I understand the Foundation was built to preserve secrecy. That secrecy being turned inward has cost several lives, including that of Mr. Vasilyev. And it very nearly cost my team our lives. However, I was wrong to think it was your fault. It’s the whole culture of the Foundation.
“But right now, Mr. Becker, we don’t have time for that. They took another shot at my team, and they know they’ve failed. They might put the brakes on, but they might push on to their endgame as fast as they can. If my theories about why Alexander Young was killed are correct, that is exactly what they’ll do. We do not have time to play nice, Mr. Becker. So, if you would, please talk to whoever you need to talk to, apply whatever pressure you need to apply, and get me those tapes, all right? Because if this ends up costing one of my people because you refused to get us key information, I’m not going to be at all happy.”
There was a pause; then Becker said, “Very well, Mr. Longfellow. I’ll see what I can do,” and disconnected.
Well, fuck, thought Donovan. I think I just might have gotten through to the cold son of a bitch.
* * *
The buzzer went off, which was a sufficiently rare event that it took Donovan a moment to realize what it was. He got up from his breakfast—toast with blackberry marmalade and an orange—and went over to the intercom. He pressed the button and said firmly, “Uh … hello?”
“Hey, Laughing Boy. Can you buzz us in?”
Susan? “Us?” What the—
“Marci and me.”
Um … “Sure,” he said, and did so.
Five minutes later “they” were at the door. He opened it, and it was, indeed, Susan and Marci. They filed past him, Susan with a small tote bag, Marci with a suitcase. He shut the door behind Marci and began his careful inquiries: “What the fuck?”
“Hey,” said Susan. “Do you feel like you’re taking your life in your hands every time you get on that elevator?”