“Oh yes,” said the blonde nervously. Hastily, she rose to her feet. “I’m sorry. I truly am. The booze went to my head. It won’t happen again.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Adams,” said Mr. Hasan. “Good night, Mrs. Adams.”
“Good night, good night,” said the blonde and half walked, half ran from the table, her two bodyguards trailing behind like frightened puppies.
“Excitement’s over, folks,” said the Afreet. “Drinks, as always, are on the house.”
Quickly, Jack rose to his feet. Hasan and the genie were already walking away. “Cash me in,” he told Cassandra, as he flipped the dealer a red chip, “and deposit the money in a safe-deposit box. I’ll see you later.”
Anxiously, he hurried after the man in white. His whole plan of action depended on the next few minutes.
“Mr. Hasan,” he called, “can I have a word with you?”
The Old Man of the Mountain, for Jack knew he could be no one else, turned. As did the genie, who showed no signs of recognizing Jack. “Yes? Do I know you?”
“No,” Jack said, and mentally crossed his fingers, “But you know my boss. He sent me here to observe your auction.”
“Auction?” repeated the Old Man of the Mountain, his voice no longer friendly. “To what event do you refer, Mr…?”
“Green,” supplied Jack, preparing for his biggest gamble of the night. “The auction taking place tomorrow evening, Mr. Hasan, involving a certain Russian.”
“Who is your boss, Mr. Green?” hissed the Old Man of the Mountain, sounding remarkably like a snake. A very deadly snake.
“He has many different names,” said Jack slowly, “but most people just call him The Man.”
19
Hearing that name, the Old Man’s features underwent a startling transformation. His white cheeks paled yet further, until not a bit of color remained. The sneer on his lips changed to a sickly grin. The harshness disappeared from his voice, replaced by an alarming false heartiness.
“My apologies,” he declared, taking Jack by the arm, “Please don’t be offended by my lack of manners. I had no idea. Usually, The Man sends the One Without a Face to inform me of his wishes.”
“No problem,” said Jack, wondering who the One Without a Face might be. It was the least of his worries at the moment. Al-Sabbah on his one side, the Afreet on the other, they were heading across the casino to the registration area. “Where are you taking me?”
“My office, of course,” said al-Sabbah, “We can speak in privacy there. I assume you came about the loan?”
“There is the question of payments,” said Jack, trying not to say too much or too little.
“I fully understand The Man’s concern,” said al-Sabbah. Reaching the main desk, he signaled to one of the clerks to admit them through a gate at the end of the counter. An unmarked door in the rear wall led to a luxuriously furnished office.
“Would you care for some liquid refreshment?” the Old Man of the Mountain asked, dropping into a large armchair behind an oak desk. There was a fully equipped bar in the rear of the chamber. “My Afreet is an accomplished bartender. I, of course, do not consume alcohol.”
“A Coke will be fine,” said Jack. He wondered if the two ravens were with him or Cassandra. It didn’t matter. He was on his own for this encounter.
The Afreet handed Jack his drink and took up a position behind al-Sabbah’s chair. Standing there motionless, it could have been a statue carved from red neon.
“My obligation with your boss comes due next week,” said the Old Man of the Mountain, leaning forward on the desk. “Is there a problem?”
“Nothing in particular,” said Jack, sipping his drink. “Though there have been rumors…”
“Lies, lies, lies,” said al-Sabbah passionately. “Untruths spread by my enemies.” The Lord of the Assassins paused, regaining his composure. “There were unexpected cost overruns involving construction. Nor did anyone, including my most trusted soothsayers, expect this accursed recession to last this long. However, business has increased dramatically the past few months. I anticipate no problem meeting the terms of our agreement. Especially with the additional funds generated by the auction tomorrow evening.”
“Care to explain?” asked Jack.
“A wise businessman seizes opportunity by the throat,” said al-Sabbah. “The resurrected Ancient One. Lord of the Lions, alerted me to the value of the renegade Russian scientist. With the aid of the Brotherhood of Holy Destruction, I rescued Karsnov from otherwise unavoidable execution and brought him here. However, instead of lending his talents to either party, I decided to put his services up for auction. Though complaining bitterly about my betrayal, both parties agreed to participate. As has Loki, representing certain unnamed Eastern European powers. The bidding should be fierce. And the returns quite profitable, for both me and your employer.”
“I hope so,” said Jack, trying to recall classic hard-boiled movie dialogue, “for your sake. The Man sent me here to act as an observer. Nothing more. He likes to keep an eye on his investments. I assume you have no objections to my attending the auction?”
“No,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “Of course not. The Man’s wishes are my own.”
“Good,” said Jack, nodding. “The boss will appreciate hearing that.”
He put down his glass. “The Russian is safe?”
“Absolutely,” said the Old Man. “He rests in a heavily guarded suite on the floor above us. Would you care to meet him?”
“Why not?” said Jack. If the situation grew desperate, any information he could provide Cassandra about Karsnov’s location would be invaluable. “How do we get there?”
“Follow me,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. Leaving his office, they walked over to the statue of Jupiter. Behind it was a single elevator There was no call button on the wall, only a numeric keypad.
“This leads to my private sanctum upstairs,” declared al-Sabbah. “It can be accessed only by entering the proper security codes.”
The Old Man’s nose wrinkled in disgust. An odd expression swept across his face. “Do you notice a strange odor in the air?”
Jack sniffed. “Funny. It smells like the reptile house in the zoo.”
“My thoughts exactly,” al-Sabbah said, and hurriedly punched in the correct numbers. The elevator doors slid open. The smell inside the lift was nearly overpowering. There were three buttons on the inside control panel. The Old Man of the Mountain punched the middle one.
Silently, the elevator rose to the second floor. Not sure what to expect, Jack was relieved when they stepped out into an empty office much like the one they had left only a few minutes before. The only difference was a pair of smoked-glass doors situated behind the oak desk. The same reptilian smell greeted them as they moved forward.
“Where are the guards?” asked al-Sabbah, not expecting an answer. “They know better than to desert their posts.”
“They are not here,” declared the genie, peering behind the desk. Jack breathed a sigh of relief. He had half expected the Afreet to find the receptionists’ bodies stuffed into the desk drawers. With supernaturals, anything was possible.
“Where did they go?” asked Jack. “What happened to them?”
“I do not understand,” said the Old Man of the Mountain, his tone apprehensive. “They have strict orders to allow no one other than myself onto this level. This elevator offers the only access to the floor. A surprise attack is out of the question.”
“But,” added Jack, unnecessarily, “they’re gone.”
“The whole floor is quiet,” said al-Sabbah. The level was silent as a tomb. “With thirty of my men stationed here, there should be some noise. Something is wrong.”
Face contorted with worry, the Old Man of the Mountain barked out a string of commands in Arabic to the Afreet. Instantaneously, the genie transformed into a cloud of red smoke, its empty clothes crumpling to the floor. Mistlike, the entity seeped through the narrow opening separating the
glass portals.
“I am very sorry,” said the Old Man of the Mountain, turning to Jack, “but I am afraid you will have to leave us for the moment. Something quite unusual has taken place here. I sent my assistant to investigate, but I fear that I cannot guarantee your safety if you remain. Explaining your demise while in my company to The Man could prove to be embarrassing. Would you mind returning to the casino?”
“Not at all,” said Jack, hoping he did not look as green as he felt. “I was sent to observe, not interfere.”
“Thank you,” said al-Sabbah. “I appreciate your understanding,” The Old Man of the Mountain paused. “Perhaps you would care to sample the delights of Paradise? It is designed for relaxation and delight. A visit there might erase die ugly memories of this unfortunate episode.”
“I have heard a number of interesting stories about your heaven on Earth,” said Jack.
“You would honor my establishment if you accept my invitation,” said al-Sabbah. “A small party of special guests depart at twelve noon. Meet them at the elevator behind the statue of the Bronze God. A visit lasts three hours. You will return long before the auction. That, for your information, is scheduled to take place tomorrow at ten in the room directly above this chamber.”
“See you then,” said Jack, stepping back into the lift and pressing the button for the ground floor. He felt as if he were leaving the scene of a real-life Stephen King movie. The entire time spent in the reception office he had been waiting for Jason to jump out from behind the desk swinging a chainsaw-butcher knife. Saving the world was difficult enough without having to traffic in blood and gore. Jack preferred his fantasy much lighter. Without genies, assassins, or inexplicable disappearances.
20
Roger groaned in frustration. Of all the resorts in the world, why did they have to stay in one that contained a replica of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon? Though it was long after midnight, the Crouching One showed no signs of leaving the elaborate arboretum. Instead, the Ancient One insisted on wandering to and fro along the maze of pathways, reminiscing about old times. Roger, who had heard most of the demigod’s stories dozens of times before, was bored to tears. And though he prided himself on how little sleep he needed, he was tired and ready to call it a night.
The Crouching One, unfortunately, required no rest al all. Gods never slept. Normally he treated Roger’s request for rest as an annoying but necessary habit. Tonight, captivated by his surroundings, the Lord of the Lions wanted company. Which meant Roger.
“I am amazed at the accuracy displayed throughout this reconstruction,” said the Crouching One, bending over to smell a black orchid, a rare breed that opened only in darkness. “According to those encyclopedias I read, a complete description of the Hanging Gardens no longer exists. I wonder how the Old Man of the Mountain managed to find one?”
Roger almost answered, then thought better of it. In a brief exchange with al-Sabbah earlier in the day, the Lord of the Assassins mentioned that Gilgamesh, the immortal Babylonian hero, designed the entire resort. It was a name best kept hidden from the Lord of the Lions. He and Gilgamesh had clashed in the past.
The Hanging Gardens consisted of a square tract of land four hundred feet on each side. Built as a series of low-rising terraces, there were hundreds of varieties of plants and trees contained in its confines. Dozens of winding trails and narrow paths cut through the vegetation, preserving the natural beauty of the grounds. In the one concession to modern agriculture and Nevada heat, the entire four acres were watered by a vast system of automatic sprinklers.
“Nebuchadnezzar built these gardens to please his wife Amyitis,” said the Crouching One, strolling up the winding path leading to the fifth level. They had started at the bottom of the gardens hours ago and Roger estimated it would take them hours more to reach the top at the demigod’s leisurely pace. “She disliked the flat plains of Babylon and yearned for her home in the Median Hills.
“It took ten thousand slaves working day and night fifteen years to complete the project. Located at the peak of the gardens was a huge reservoir that fed the streams and ponds that dotted the landscape. Whenever the water level dropped below a certain mark, hundreds of huge vats filled with liquid were rolled up the terraces to replenish the tank.”
Roger yawned. His interest in gardening began and ended with lettuce in salads. To him, the fabled hanging gardens were nothing more than a haven for annoying insects.
“If you study the plant formations very carefully,” continued the demigod, “you will notice that the darker foliage forms a series of wedge-shaped patterns and letters. That is the lost secret of the hanging gardens. Viewed from the windows of the king’s palace, the entire tableau creates a cuneiform love poem to Nebuchadnezzar’s fickle wife.”
The demigod laughed, a disconcerting sound. “Beware of demanding women, my disciple. They are like a cancer eating at your vitals. Nebuchadnezzar was Babylon’s greatest king. He practically rebuilt the city, revitalized his nation, and erected the Hanging Gardens. Yet Amyitis was never happy. Her whining drove her husband to drink. Many were the times I advised him to throw the nag to the lions. But he would rather face an army of Persians blindfolded than confront his wife.”
The Crouching One paused. His eyes narrowed and his hairless brow crinkled in concentration. “It cannot be them, but it must,” he declared, sounding shocked. “The Raging Women.
“Behind me,” commanded the demigod, jerking a hand at Roger. “Quickly. Close your eyes and keep them closed no matter what you hear. Hurry. The horrors approach.”
Roger had no idea what the demigod was talking about, but he also understood that now was not the time to ask questions. He did exactly as he was told. Whoever or whatever sparked such a reaction from the Crouching One was serious business.
Their smell preceded them. Roger hated animals and avoided zoos, but having been raised in the Far West, he recognized the smell of snakes. And the hissing noise they made.
“Remain silent and do not open your eyes,” warned the Crouching One. “Otherwise, you are a dead man. The Raging Women are extremely vain and extremely ugly. If you see their features and speak of it, it will go hard on you.”
“Nergal,” said a new voice, female but definitely not human. “We heard you returned from limbo. How appropriate to encounter you here in these re-created gardens.”
“Sisters,” said the Crouching One, his voice polite. “This meeting is as unexpected as it is a pleasure,” Then his tone turned harsh. “Your prey…?”
“Is human this night,” said another voice, equally inhuman. “Was human. You have nothing to fear from us. Our mission here is complete. We were exiting this place when we caught a whiff of your scent. My sisters and I thought it only appropriate to say hello after these many centuries.”
“Very touching,” said the Crouching One sarcastically. “A card would have been enough. We never were particularly close. Your kind and mine never did get along. Be gone. Your presence disturbs my meditations. I have plans to consider.”
“Your thoughts concern death and destruction,” said the first speaker again. Roger needed no prompting to scrunch his eyes closed. If the features matched the voice, the Raging Women were ugliness personified. “We serve justice. You defile it. Your plans have been altered.”
“A human hides behind you,” declared a third sister. Fingers of fear ran down Roger’s spine.
“My servant,” said the Crouching One. “He worships and serves me in the modern world. Surely you would not deny me one disciple?”
“We do not kill without reason,” said the first sister. “That would be cruel, and we are never cruel.”
“I remember,” said the Crouching One, chuckling. “You are the Kindly Ones. If that is the case, be so kind as to leave me and my servant in peace.”
“As you wish,” said the first. “Have a nice day.”
Then they were gone. However, five minutes had passed before the Crouching One told Roger he could o
pen his eyes.
“We must return to the hotel at once,” said the demigod. “The terrible sisters said something about changing my plans. As unstoppable avengers, their presence in Las Vegas bodes ill for tomorrow’s auction.”
“Who were they?” asked Roger, not sure he wanted the truth.
“Busybody contemporaries of mine from Greece,” said the Crouching One. “Insufferable moralists, all the immortals hate them. Though not true gods, they control powers that can threaten even one such as I. Forget them.”
“They’re forgotten,” said Roger.
Hurrying behind the Crouching One to the resort, Roger cheerfully concluded that events were progressing from bad to worse. Which was fine with him. The more confusion, the better. Hopefully, Jack Collins was close at hand and had some mischief plotted for tomorrow night. It actually didn’t matter much. Whatever occurred at the auction, Roger was ready. Long hours of secret deliberations at his computer terminal had finally paid off. The answer to his problems was carefully transcribed on a sheaf of papers in his pocket. He was going to be in charge again. And this time, no one could stop him.
21
“W ho the blazes,” asked Hugo, thirty minutes later in their suite, “is The Man?”
“He’s the ultimate modern-day evil authority figure,” said Jack wearily as he pulled off his shoes. “Over the past three decades, poor people living in the inner city have constantly blamed their troubles on him. Sometimes they mean the government, sometimes the police, sometimes the local crime lords. But they all believe that this unseen power broker is the real force behind many of society’s ills.”
Jack paused to pull off his socks. “Enough human beings believing in The Man gave him life. In a sense, they brought their worst nightmare to life. When you birds told me that Hasan al-Sabbah owed money to some fearful, unnamed figure in the loan shark business, I immediately guessed it had to be him. Merlin verified my deduction. He’s heard stories about The Man for years. None of them good. You know the rest.”
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