“Dale Carnegie they’re not,” Jack murmured in agreement. “Anything more about Quinn?”
“Roger was the human present during the conversation between the Old Man of the Mountain and the Crouching One I told you about on your arrival in Las Vegas,” said Hugo. “He was the guy who said they shouldn’t underestimate you, and referred to Dietrich von Bern. I got the impression he worked for Nergal.”
“If that’s the case,” said Jack, “it plays havoc with my earlier theory that he sent the postcard as a warning. Unless Mr. Quinn is playing both ends against the middle. We better keep a close watch on him this evening.”
Jack shook his head in amazement. In most of the fantasy novels he had read in the past decade, the mortals involved with faeries and demons were always liberal arts majors. Numerous series’ books featured rock musicians, artists, and poets. Nobody wrote about scientists or engineers encountering the supernatural. Yet here in the real world, the two human agents working for the forces of light and darkness both specialized in mathematics.
In an odd fashion, it genuinely reflected an important truth. Just because artists and musicians dealt with emotions and feelings didn’t mean they would accept without question the existence of supernatural beings. In fact, most artistic people of Jack’s acquaintance, faced with the bitter realities of contemporary existence, were hard-headed cynics. Heartache and suffering had burned the dreams out of them. In their minds, they understood the world perfectly and refused to let themselves be contradicted by facts.
He doubted if any of them would adjust easily to the notion that magical entities shared man’s world.
Mathematicians, however, dealt with abstractions. Accepted beliefs meant nothing to them. Abstractions governed the universe. Prove a statement true and it was true. Thus, when Merlin originally demonstrated that magic worked, Jack accepted it as truth. He merely adjusted his frame of reference. As would any mathematician. It was all, he reflected, perfectly logical.
Hasan al-Sabbah interrupted Jack’s thoughts by clapping his hands together sharply three times. Immediately, all conversation in the room ceased. “My friends,” announced the Old Man of the Mountain, “we are ready to begin. Please be seated. The proceedings will commence in a few moments.”
“Wait,” said the Crouching One, raising one gnarled hand in protest. The demigod spoke with a surprisingly mild voice. “Before we start the bidding, I want to personally thank the representatives from the Brotherhood of Holy Destruction for rescuing Professor Karsnov from certain death in Russia. If it was not for their swift action, none of us would be here tonight They are true heroes.”
Smith and Wesson appeared astonished. Jack couldn’t blame them. According to Hugo, the demigod had been livid with rage over the fact that the terrorists double-crossed him and delivered the scientist to the Old Man of the Mountain. The Crouching One did not strike Jack as a God who forgave and forgot.
“A commendable attitude,” said Hasan al-Sabbah, his voice betraying his own bewilderment at the demigod’s unexpected shift in opinion.
“Come,” said the Lord of Lions, stepping over to the two fanatics, “let me congratulate you both,” The demigod thrust forward its hand. “Gentlemen, I salute your courage.”
Hesitantly, Smith reached out and grasped Nergal’s outstretched hand. When nothing unusual occurred, the tall man grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowing, broken teeth. Moments later, his companion also accepted the demigod’s commendatory handshake.
“Wonderful,” said Hasan al-Sabbah. “Let bygones be bygones. Now may we begin?”
Only Jack noted that Roger Quinn’s face had turned a sickly shade of green. He wondered what was behind Nergal’s actions. Somehow he suspected it wouldn’t be a lengthy wait before he found out.
36
Jack sat at the end of the semicircle of chairs farthest from the table. Gently, he laid his bag outside the ring of furniture. Bending over, he pulled open the zipper and examined the bottle inside. It looked fine. Carefully, he stood it erect so that the mouth of the container stuck out the top of the canvas grip.
“You understand the plan,” he subvocalized to Hugo, sitting invisible on his shoulder.
“I know what I’m supposed to do when you give the signal,” the bird muttered in his ear, “but I sure the hell don’t understand why. I ain’t complaining, mind you. The All-Father sent us on plenty of missions without explaining the reasons. That was his style— brooding, mysterious, incomprehensible. I’m just kinda curious how you’re gonna trap the genie, destroy the virus and save the world using a bottle with a funny neck.”
“I’ll explain after it happens,” promised Jack. “I was hoping Mongo would take care of the notes during the confusion, but since he’s not here, we’ll have to improvise.”
“He’ll be back,” said Hugo. “With the cavalry.”
“I hope so,” said Jack. “The odds are definitely stacked against us tonight.”
Cassandra sat next to Jack. The Amazon was relaxed and loose.
Her hands rested on her lap, close to the knives in her boots and throwing stars in her belt. She was ready and anxious for battle.
Beyond the Amazon were Loki and his two frost giants. The Master of Lies, sitting between his massive bodyguards, studiously avoiding meeting Jack’s gaze. Loki desperately wanted the plague virus. But, more important, the Sly One wished to be on the winning side.
Positioned directly past the farther frost giant was Boris Bronsky. The big Russian sat with his arms folded across his chest, his eyes closed and head bent as if in deep thought. Or in deep sleep. With Bronsky, it was hard telling.
To the right of the Russian were Smith and Wesson. The two terrorists chatted in low, guttural voices while they waited. Like all of the guests, they were anxious for the auction to start.
Roger Quinn sat slumped in the chair next to the fanatics. His right hand was thrust deep in his jeans pocket, as if clutching a life preserver. There was a frightened yet determined look on his face.
At the other end of the ring waited the Crouching One. The Babylonian demigod appeared remarkably cheerful. It sat cross-legged on the chair, supporting its head with its hands. Every few seconds, its gaze shifted from the vial of plague germs to the Muslim extremists. Blue sparks flickered across the Lord of the Lion’s fingertips, sputtering in the silence.
“I will now state the rules of the auction,” declared Hasan al-Sabbah, perched like a vulture on his obsidian throne. “If there are any questions or remarks, please save them until I am finished.”
The Old Man of the Mountain glared meaningfully at Nergal, but the Crouching One didn’t make a sound. Jack snatched a quick peek at his watch. It was ten-thirty. Even if the plane carrying his mysterious guest arrived right on time, the trip from the airport would take at least thirty minutes. He had to stay alive for an hour or more. He hoped Hasan had a lot of explaining to do.
“Since there are only four parties involved in this event, we will keep formal procedures to a minimum,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “I see no reason why we should spend the entire night involved in this business. To the victor belongs the spoils. For the rest of you, I have arranged magnificent entertainment in appreciation of your participation.”
“Faugh,” said Mr. Wesson, “Get on with it, already. The sooner we depart this salacious den of iniquity and sin, the better.”
Hasan’s narrow, bony fingers curled into fists. Master of his domain, the Lord of Assassins was clearly growing weary of the terrorists’ insults. “The joys of Paradise are available for those of you who care to indulge in such pleasures,” The Old Man of the Mountain’s thin lips narrowed into pencil lines. “For those who prefer to mate with camels, that too can be arranged.”
There was no mistaking the animosity in Hasan’s tone. Wesson’s jaw dropped as the full implication of the veiled threat hit home. His mouth slammed shut and remained tightly closed as me Old Man of the Mountain continued.
“The biddi
ng will start at ten million dollars. As the Lord of the Lions bears prime responsibility for discovering this treasure, he will be given the honor of starting the proceedings. We will continue in the semicircle, excluding of course my guests, Mr. Green and Ms. Jones. To expedite matters, minimum raises will be ten percent of the previous bid. Thus, if Loki bids twenty million, Nergal will either respond with twenty-two million or drop out. Bidding will continue until all bidders but one have passed. That final participant will be the winner.”
“The exact prize?” asked Loki.
“Karsnov’s notes on the development of the virus,” said Hasan, pointing to the stack of papers on the table. “Using those, any capable scientist should be able to duplicate his formula. Not that it matters. In the vial is an actual sample of the plague serum. If used properly, there is enough material in that container to kill several hundred thousand people.”
“What assurances do we have that you didn’t photocopy the notes and plan to sell them to the losing participants in the weeks to come?” asked Smith.
“My word,” said Hasan curtly. “That is guarantee enough. Are you implying otherwise?”
“Of course not,” said Smith hastily. “I was merely checking. No offense intended.”
“Good,” said Hasan viciously, obviously no longer in absolute control of his temper. “My female camels are extremely lonely. They are starved for affection.”
The Old Man of the Mountain laughed nastily. “Any other questions? Or comments?”
“What about delivery?” asked the Crouching One.
“At your convenience, to wherever you wish,” said Hasan.
“Arranged by the winner and my Afreet. No safer method of transportation exists.”
“What about payment?” asked Loki. “When do you need the money?”
“Within the week if not sooner,” said Hasan. “Payable in cash. Large bills are fine, but no checks.”
He bowed his head slightly in Jack’s direction. “My note to Mr. Green’s employer comes due in seven days. I am anxious to be free of that obligation.”
The Old Man of the Mountain rose to his feet. “If there are no more—”
“I have a comment,” said Boris Bronsky, unexpectedly. “May I speak a few words before the auction commences?”
“Go ahead,” said Hasan. “But please keep it short.”
“Idt is not much to say,” declared the Russian, “so it will not take long.”
Bronsky climbed to his feet. His mild voice rang with surprising authority. “This stuff is very evil. I am filled with great disgust that some of you plan to make use of idt. The virus should be destroyed. My government intends to do just that if we win this auction.”
Boris paused. Loki yawned. Smith and Wesson sneered.
“This plague virus was developt on Russian soil by a Russian scientist. Thus, idt belongs to the Russian people. If you buy it here, you are receiving stolen property and will be liable to criminal prosecution,” The Russian hesitated for a second, frowning at the smiles forming on several of his listeners’ faces. “Laugh at me if you like. Karsnov, that traitor, thought he was above the law, too. He paidt the price for his arrogance. Maybe I’m not so threatening. But I got some friends who aren’t as nice. Dey think poorly of those who betray a trust.”
“Enough lecturing,” said the Lord of the Lions. “I am a God. My purposes are my own. I refuse to be bullied by a mere mortal. Bring on the Kindly Ones. Once I control the plague virus, the Three Sisters will be helpless against me,” The Crouching One extended a clawlike hand. Dramatically, he jerked his fingers closed. “I will crush them to dust if they dare interfere.”
“We are not afraid of anyone associated with the rotting carcass of your depraved Communist empire,” declared Wesson. He spat on the floor then rubbed a shoe in the wetness. “We spit on the bankrupt running dogs of the Great Satan.”
Loki shrugged. “I’m simply acting as a middle man for other parties,” he stated lazily. “Talk to them if you want. They live pretty close to your borders.”
Hasan al-Sabbah raised his hands in mock astonishment. “It appears that you are the lone altruist at this auction, Mr. Bronsky. Why am I not shocked? Please take your seat. If the Russian government wants the plague virus returned, bid for it.”
Hasan clapped his hands together twice. Instantly, the Afreet, stationed behind the table, swelled to twice its size. The suit it had been wearing fell in shreds at its feet. The genie, glowing neon red, nude and sexless, glared at its audience. “I guard this treasure!” the creature bellowed in a voice that crackled like thunder. It flexed its immense, octopus arms. “Touch it without permission and die.”
“Impressive,” murmured Jack. “What do you think, Hugo?”
“He’s fast but I’m faster,” replied the bird. “I can steal the vial right out of his hands. Keeping it more than a few seconds is what worries me.”
“I’ll handle that,” said Jack confidently. He glanced at the blue bottle at his feet. “Mathematically.”
37
The Old Man of the Mountain lifted the vial of anthrax spores over his head. As if drawn forward by a magnet, everyone present leaned forward. It was the scene, Jack realized, observed in the crystal ball by Sylvester the Cat. The start of Hasan al-Sabbah’s auction.
“Sergei Karsnov’s legacy,” declared the Lord of Assassins in a sonorous voice. “Silent, invisible, painful death. What am I bid for this marvelous toy?”
“I offer ten million dollars,” answered the Crouching One. The auction had begun. Jack glanced again at his watch. He dared not make his move yet. There was too much time left. He needed a distraction to delay the auction. Mentally, he crossed his fingers and prayed for a miracle. It materialized sooner than he expected.
“The Brotherhood of Holy Destruction,” announced Mr. Smith, arrogantly surveying the room, “financed by the deep pockets of certain exceedingly wealthy, devotedly faithful Islamic nations, laughs at the parsimonious bid from the so-called God of the thrice-cursed Babylonians. We raise the amount to twenty million.”
“Thank you,” said Hasan, returning the vial to the tabletop. “It would be greatly appreciated if in future rounds, you keep the insults to a minimum and merely state your bid.”
“The Russian people,” declared Boris Bronsky, “though officially on record as protesting that this auction is illegal and immoral, offer thirty million U.S. dollars in the interest of international peace and brotherhood.”
“Thirty-three million,” said Loki, a faint smile crossing his lips. “My clients hired me to obtain the virus at the best possible price. No ten-million-dollar raises for me.”
“Nergal,” said Hasan al-Sabbah, “the bid returns to you.”
“I find this bargaining repulsive,” responded the demigod. “I am Lord of the Lions, Master of Death and Destruction. The plague should be mine by right.”
“Does this mean you are dropping out?” asked Hasan, patiently.
“Forty million,” answered the Crouching One. Blue sparks circled its forehead.
Smith laughed. “An insignificant raise from an insignificant god. Your days are past, forgotten one. Return to the dust from which you arose. The Brotherhood of Holy Destruction bids fifty million dollars.”
“Sixty million,” said Boris Bronsky immediately.
“Impossible,” said Wesson, turning to face the Russian. “The Russian pig is lying. His country’s economy is in shambles. They can barely manage to feed their stupid peasants. Their foreign debt is staggering. This bid is a sham.”
Hasan al-Sabbah scowled. “My apologies, Mr. Bronsky, but the point is well taken. Russia’s problems are well publicized. How do you intend to pay?”
Boris smiled. “With foreign aid, of course. Matching America’s defense spending the past few decades ruined my nation’s economy. Faced with complete collapse of our government, we turned to those most responsible for our plight. And as the world’s only remaining superpower, they responded. The U
nited States has pledged billions to help rebuild my country. A few tens of millions diverted from the total will never be missed. Redirecting funds has always been a KGB specialty. Idt is satisfactory answer?”
The Old Man of the Mountain nodded. “Quite satisfactory. Loki, the bidding continues with you.”
“Sixty-six million,” said the Norse deity. He paused for a second, then continued speaking. “Might not the same query be raised for the Lord of the Lions? He is not financed by an independent nation. What is his source of funds?”
“They’re starling to aim for the jugular,” whispered Hugo in Jack’s ear. “Watch for the fireworks. Nergal ain’t the type of God who takes insults well.”
“Mr. Quinn’s business enterprises are worth in excess of one hundred and fifty million dollars,” snarled the Crouching One through clenched teeth, “And I have access to the secret treasure vaults of the kings of Babylon, filled with riches beyond measure.”
“Such wealth, if it even exists,” declared Wesson sanctimoniously, “no longer belongs to you, O creation of diseased minds. It is the property of the revolutionary councils that govern those lands today.”
“Seventy-five million,” said the Lord of the Lions. “And mastery of the state of Nevada when I regain my powers. California,” it added, “is already promised to my faithful assistant.”
“Nonsense,” said Smith. “I protest. We are not ignorant children, to be bribed by the sugarcoated promises of this disgusting old pile of horse shit.”
Cassandra leaned close to Jack, “Smith and Wesson are overplaying their roles. They’re acting too obnoxious. It has to be a ruse. Be ready for trouble.”
Jack nodded. The terrorists had deliberately attacked the Crouching One’s every statement. They wanted to enrage the ancient demigod. And had succeeded.
Slowly, deliberately, the Crouching One rose to its feet. The demigod trembled with fury. Blue sparks sizzled along its fingertips. Dramatically, the Lord of the Lions lifted an arm and pointed at Smith and Wesson.
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