A Calculated Magic lm-2

by Robert Weinberg

  “Enough,” declared Jack. “My brain is overloading,” The more he learned about the supernatural community, the more he realized how little he truly knew. “I notice that Hasan didn’t say a word about your outfit.”

  “The Old Man of the Mountain strikes me as the type of man not interested in women,” said Cassandra. “Like most brilliant but evil masterminds, he considers females as sexual playthings and nothing more. He’s a typical male chauvinist megalomaniac, albeit a polite one.”

  Jack shook his head. It was hard to conceive anyone not being stunned by Cassandra’s latest costume. The Amazon wore a black bodysuit made of cotton and Spandex, with a skin-baring scalloped neckline. Over it she had on a quilted crop-length jacket in a bright tie-dyed polyester print. Black stretch cotton denim jeans, a pair of calf-high cowgirl boots, and a wide leather belt with silver decorations completed the picture. If looks could kill, Cassandra was lethal tonight. As was her clothing.

  Tucked in the lining of her boots were a pair of switchblade knives. The metal decorations on her belt were miniature throwing stars, small but absolutely deadly in the hands of a professional. A dozen poison darts formed the bracelets she wore on her wrists.

  Concealed within her jacket were two pair of thin brass knuckles. And the length of dark ribbon knotted in an exotic pattern through her hair was steel wire that doubled as a strangler’s cord. The Amazon had come prepared for war.

  Jack, who was well aware of his limitations as a fighter, was armed with a padded airline bag containing his blue bottle. Nestled in one corner were the pocket camera and tape recorder Cassandra had purchased that afternoon. Those few items and his quick wit were his only weapons against a horde of supernatural foes. He hoped they would be enough.

  Sitting transparently on his left shoulder, unusually quiet thus far, was Hugo. Mongo had flown off immediately after they reached their suite, on his secret mission. He swore to return before the evening’s events were concluded.

  “A big guy’s coming over,” warned the bird. “Somebody I never saw before. Damned if he don’t remind me of a bear.”

  The newcomer did resemble a huge, furry circus bear. He stood well over six feet tall and weighed nearly 350 pounds. He was dressed in a dark brown suit whose seams were pushed to the limit by his massive barrel chest. A thick tangle of brown hair covered his head and peered out of his collar and sleeves. His face was clean shaven, with a wide bulb nose and bright red cheeks. Beneath big bushy eyebrows, his dark black eyes, piercing and direct, stared at Jack and Cassandra with undisguised curiosity. Remembering Big John’s story. Jack concluded that he was about to encounter the mysterious Boris Bronsky.

  “Goodt evening,” said the stranger pleasantly, in a rumbling voice that furthered his bear comparison. His accent was as thick as molasses. He extended a huge hand in greeting. “My name is Boris Bronsky, of the Russian KGB. I’m pleased to meet yous.”

  “Jack Green,” said Jack, remembering at the last instant not to use his real name. “My lady friend is Saman’ta Jones.”

  Cassandra dipped her head slightly, acknowledging the stranger. Then she frowned, as if confronted by an unpleasant memory.

  Wondering what was bothering his companion, Jack shook hands with the newcomer. Bronsky had a firm, unyielding grip. Though the Russian looked soft and flabby, Jack surmised that he labored hard to maintain that image. There was a core of steel beneath the outer layer of paunch.

  “I have heardt of you from our host, Mr. al-Sabbah,” continued Boris. “He tells me that you are here merely as observers. I gather he owes you a lot of money?”

  “Not us,” said Jack. “Our employer. Are you here to bid in the auction, Mr. Bronsky, or also merely to watch?”

  “Call me Bear,” said Bronsky. “Everyone does. It is a goodt nickname. As to why I am in attendance, I am most definitely anxious to place bids in this auction. When my government learned of this event, they flew me here on a special jet to represent our interests. Russia wants Professor Karsnov’s formula destroyed, my friends. And we are willing to pay lots and lots of money to assure that happens.”

  “You’re the one,” said Cassandra unexpectedly, “who hired the Eumenides to eliminate Karsnov.”

  Bronsky tilted his head and stared at the Amazon in astonishment. “The Unseen Three? That is their title? The Eumenides? In twenty-five years, they never once mentioned it.”

  “You’ve dealt with the Furies for a quarter century,” said Jack, astonished, “and didn’t know their proper identities?”

  The Russian shrugged. “It hardly seemt important. Year after year, I was given termination assignments from my superiors. Every one of them I passed on to the mysterious trio for completion. They never failed. Their payment came from a secret KGB slush fund controlled by my office. Since no one other than me knew of their existence, I received full credit for the kills. It made for an easy life. Until this Karsnov business arose. What a mess.”

  “The Furies killed the scientist but they didn’t destroy his sample virus or notes,” said Jack, guessing the Russian’s plight.

  “You comprehended the situation perfectly,” said Bronsky. “I sent the Unseen Three out on their mission of vengeance several weeks ago. Since nobody suspected the possibility of a new batch of plague virus, I gave no orders to my agents to destroy it. When I learned a few days ago of this auction, I realized immediately that even if the Unseen Three succeeded in eliminating Karsnov, the danger would still exist. That’s when I made arrangements to fly to Las Vegas. Whether the traitor was alive or dead, I had to attend this event to make sure his legacy did not survive. When I arrived, I learned that the Unseen Three had done their job. Now I got to do mine. Is a lot of extra work, but that’s life.

  “My country wants to make absolutely sure that all traces of the infernal plague are destroyed. That is why I am here. My instructions are to spend whatever is necessary to obtain the items.”

  The Russian paused. He stared at Cassandra. “How did you divine my association with the Three? I had hardly mentioned my assignment before you spoke.”

  “The smell,” said the Amazon, wrinkling her nose. “The Eumenides possess a distinct odor. A trace of it clings to you.”

  Boris sniffed, then shook his head. “You have a strong nose,” he declared. “It was nice talking widt you. I think before the bidding starts I will grab me another drink. All this excitement, it makes me thirsty.”

  The Russian shuffled off in the direction of the punch bowl. Jack turned to Cassandra, smiling faintly. “What do you think?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “A possible ally?”

  “Perhaps,” said Cassandra. “I’ve encountered men like our friend Boris before. They give the impression of being stuck in situations far beyond their capabilities. Yet somehow they always come out on top. Ineptness is a perfect disguise. Oh, damn.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jack, swinging his head in the direction of Cassandra’s vision. He immediately spotted her cause for concern. Loki, trailed by his two ice giants, was approaching.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” murmured the Norse deity. “Freda Valkyior’s son, Jack, and his darkling companion. I didn’t expect to run into the pair of you at this gathering. But I should have known better,” Loki laughed nastily. “After all, you are the Logical Magician.”

  Jack didn’t bother denying his identity. A master of treachery and deceit, Loki wasn’t fooled by the simple disguises they employed. Remembering his mother’s evaluation of the trickster’s character. Jack instead went on the offensive.

  “Hasan al-Sabbah told me you were scheduled to attend the proceedings,” he said casually. “I’m glad to see you here.”

  “You are?” said Loki, confused. “Why is that?”

  “I want the Old Man of the Mountain’s downfall tonight reported far and wide,” said Jack. “His fate is meant to serve as an object lesson to others considering plotting against me. Obviously, if Cassandra tells the tale, certain supernaturals would doubt it
s validity. But none will question its truth if you’re the witness.”

  Jack tried imitating Cassandra’s nastiest smile. “Watch closely, Loki. You’ll learn quite a bit before the evening ends. You might even discover how a demigod can be returned to the outer darkness.”

  The Norse deity licked his bloodless lips. His jet black eyes flickered uneasily. “You… you … are lying. The means do not exist.”

  “Maybe not before,” said Jack, confidently. He knew he had the trickster frightened. “But I’ve developed a technique I’m confident will do the job. If you don’t believe me, look into my soul. Go ahead, I won’t stop you.”

  “No,” said Loki. Anxiously, he gestured for the two frost giants to close around him. “As the prince of lies, I can easily tell when a mortal is bluffing. You’re not.”

  Loki’s eyes narrowed. His voice turned mellow. “Please recall that despite our differences, I’ve done nothing to meddle in your affairs. My position has been one of strict neutrality. Any disagreements you have are with Hasan al-Sabbah and the Crouching One. I see no reason why our truce should not continue through the evening.”

  “Precisely my feelings,” said Jack. “I’m glad we see things eye to eye. Otherwise, the results could be exceedingly unpleasant.”

  “I think,” said Loki, nervously, “that I need another drink before the auction starts.”

  Cassandra chuckled as Loki, trailed by his two frost giants, headed for the punch bowl. “Too bad Hasan isn’t serving spiked drinks,” She glanced at Jack. “Your remarks scared Loki out of his wits. Have you actually solved our impossible riddle? Can you vanquish a God?”

  “Perhaps,” said Jack. “Unfortunately, it’s a method that will take weeks to work. Which means we have to survive tonight’s festivities to learn if I guessed right.”

  “Elevator’s coming up,” said Hugo in Jack’s ear. The raven’s sense of hearing was incredible. “The show’s about to get on the road.”

  34

  “Finally,” said the Crouching One, as the elevator stopped at the third floor. “Vengeance is mine.”

  “Where did you pick up that line?” asked Roger, astonished. “Reading the Bible?”

  “No,” said the demigod, “Mickey Spillane. You had several paperbacks by him in your library. I found his work eminently entertaining.”

  The elevator door slid open. Slowly, dramatically, the Crouching One shuffled out of the lift into the throne room. Roger sighed. The Lord of the Lions was capable of walking at a brisk pace when necessary. Tonight, it was deliberately slowing down to a crawl. The demigod had an overwhelming passion for the melodramatic. It enjoyed making everyone else wait.

  “Ah, my honored guest,” said Hasan al-Sabbah, the annoyance in his eyes belaying his pleasant greetings. “We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. The auction is scheduled to begin in minutes.”

  “Very good,” said the Crouching One, smugly. “I’m glad we are not late.”

  Rub it in, thought Roger.

  As his mentor and the Old Man of the Mountain sparred verbally, he visually swept the room, trying to place the other participants in the auction. Roger disliked the unexpected. His master spell was aimed at the supernaturals in the chamber. He wanted a good distance between himself and any mortals present. Once the magical beings had been put in their place, the gun in his pocket would ensure the obedience of his fellow humans. If they were all in his line of fire.

  The first group he spotted was Loki and his two frost giants standing in front of the punch bowl. The dark-haired Norse deity looked nervous. Roger wasn’t very surprised. According to the Crouching One, Loki put up a brave front but was a coward at heart. He was acting as an agent for an Eastern European nation that wanted the plague virus for “ethnic cleansing,” Among mortals, Loki commanded fear and respect. In the presence of Hasan al-Sabbah and Nergal, Ruler of the Underworld, the Sly One shrank to insignificance. The frost giants were immense but had the brains of snowmen. Roger dismissed Loki and his icy companions as unimportant.

  Close by the trickster, a massive middle-aged man dressed in a suit several sizes too small waited passively, arms folded across his barrel chest. He looked bored. Roger guessed that this was the Russian emissary, Boris Bronsky. He didn’t know much about the new player in the game, but it seemed very unlikely that Bronsky could do much to affect the outcome of the evening’s events. He was too late on the scene to have any major influence on the scenario Roger had carefully constructed. The sight of a gun would probably turn him into a quivering lump of Jell-O. Besides, big and fat, the man resembled a ponderous old bear. Roger, no fan of animals, discharged Bronsky as a minor annoyance.

  Roger’s gaze drifted to the center of the chamber. Located next to Hasan al-Sabbah's gigantic obsidian throne was a small folding table. It was covered with a jet black tablecloth. Displayed there was a small glass vial and a stack of papers bound by several rubber bands. The infamous legacy of Sergei Karsnov. Behind the table stood al-Sabbah’s neon red Afreet. The ferocious guard watched the two treasures with unwavering eyes. The genie’s presence at the auction supposedly guaranteed the integrity of the affair. Patting the folded paper in his pocket, Roger thought otherwise.

  Actually, the Afreet was the only supernatural entity present who worried him. The genie moved incredibly fast. Roger’s spell froze all magical beings in place after the first two lines were read aloud. He planned to distance himself far enough away from the Old Man of the Mountain and the Crouching One so that neither of them could reach him before he uttered the necessary words. But the genie could.

  Working in Roger’s favor was the fact that the genie possessed the intellect of a stone. It never acted without orders. Unless al-Sabbah commanded him to stop Roger, the Afreet wouldn’t act. Roger counted on the notion not striking the Old Man of the Mountain until it was too late.

  Loitering not far from the display were the two representatives from the Brotherhood of Holy Destruction. Preferring anonymity, they hid their identities behind the ludicrous aliases of Smith and Wesson. The Old Man of the Mountain had introduced them to Roger earlier in the evening. He had not been impressed. Typical fanatics, they acted as if the world revolved around their mission. Sneering, they had called him “a bloated, capitalist warmonger,” Roger didn’t mind. He had been called worse by business rivals. Once he controlled the plague virus, their tune would change quickly enough.

  The final pair of guests at the auction he had never seen before. These were the representatives of The Man, the villainous loan shark who frightened even the Old Man of the Mountain. Roger studied the mismatched duo with growing comprehension. A tall, slender young man and a stunning black woman, their appearance confirmed his earlier suspicions. Hasan might think the two spoke for the crime boss, but Roger knew the truth. His postcard had done the trick. There was no doubt in his mind that he was looking at Jack Collins and Cassandra Cole. They were attending the auction as honored guests of their most dangerous foe.

  Roger drew in a deep breath. As expected, Collins hadn’t disappointed him. But the Logical Magician’s presence at the event no longer mattered. Roger had complete control of the situation. He chuckled and tilted his head slightly in Collins’s direction.

  “You find this occasion amusing?” asked the Crouching One, as al-Sabbah departed to inform his other guests that the auction was about to begin. “That is the first time I have heard you laugh in weeks.”

  “I’m just relieved that the Old Man of the Mountain isn’t forcing everyone to sit on cushions,” said Roger. “My back still aches from our previous visit.”

  “Hasan wants his guests comfortable,” said the Crouching One. “As if it matters.”

  Roger grinned. For a change, he was in complete agreement with the Lord of the Lions. It didn’t matter what Hasan wanted. It didn’t matter at all.

  35

  Jack stared at the demigod talking to the Old Man of the Mountain. Nergal, Lord of the Lions, Master of Death and Destruction,
resembled a short, elderly man, crippled by age. Barely five feet tall, die Lord of the Lions had a back arched so badly that its hands nearly touched the floor. Looking like a vulture hovering over its prey, the ancient entity truly was the Crouching One.

  Completely hairless, lacking even eyebrows, the demigod had skin the color and texture of aged parchment. In deference to its surroundings, Nergal wore a dark blue pinstripe suit. The Lord of the Lions seemed nothing more than a wizened old business executive—except for its eyes. They glowed with an inner yellow fire, harsh and unblinking, cruel and utterly inhuman. Glimpsing those orbs, Jack knew for sure he finally faced his ultimate foe.

  Behind the demigod, shifting about impatiently, was a tall, slender man with thinning hair and a scraggly beard. He was dressed in a pair of old jeans and a faded black sweatshirt. The stranger seemed unperturbed by the company he kept, leading Jack to suspect that here was the person responsible for Nergal’s reappearance in the modern world.

  The man’s gaze methodically circled the room and came to rest on Jack. A brief smile lighted up the newcomer’s face and he nodded imperceptibly to Jack. The man laughed, drawing a comment from the Lord of the Lions.

  “Our mysterious postcard person?” asked Cassandra quietly.

  “Probably,” said Jack. “Who is he, Hugo?”

  “Hasan al-Sabbah called him Roger Quinn,” the bird whispered in Jack’s ear. “Earlier this afternoon, while you and Cassandra were out buying pet supplies, Mongo and I visited a few old friends in the city. Returning, I stopped in the casino and eavesdropped on the Old Man of the Mountain as he escorted Smith and Wesson through the casino. It must have been shortly after your confrontation with the pair. The fanatics were still pretty steamed about Cassandra’s remarks. Hasan tried to distract them by introducing Quinn. According to the Old Man of the Mountain, Roger owns a major computer consulting firm in California. Smith and Wesson weren’t impressed. That pair learned diplomacy from Attila the Hun.”