A Calculated Magic lm-2

by Robert Weinberg

  “It is time to put an end to the insults,” declared the Crouching One. “Forever.”

  “Agreed,” cried Smith, leaping out of his chair. “But not the way you plan, spawn of the devil.”

  With a flourish, the terrorist ripped a compact machine-gun pistol from inside his jacket. Laughing ruthlessly, Smith waved the gun in Nergal’s face. “Thank you for rising to the bait,” he declared. “We needed a short diversion to free our weapons. Your timing was perfect. Especially since I was running out of insults.”

  Wesson, a sadistic grin on his face, was also on his feet. Back to back with his partner, he held two of the deadly weapons, One was aimed in the general direction of the other participants in the auction. The second he pointed directly at the shocked face of Hasan al-Sabbah.

  “If anyone dares move a muscle, including that miserable genie,” said Smith, “we will shoot. At this distance, the bullets’ impact will rip your stupid heads right off.”

  The terrorist grinned. “This farce has lasted much too long. The Brotherhood of Holy Destruction honors no pact with infidels. Our instructions were painstakingly clear. Promise them anything, we were told, but do not leave the auction without the plague germs. We intend on doing exactly that. Anyone foolish enough to try stopping us will be executed.”

  “Gentlemen, I am very disappointed,” said the Old Man of the Mountain calmly. “Your leaders promised me their honest participation in this event.”

  Wesson laughed. “They lied. Fool—did you actually think they would hand over any of our hard-earned terrorist dollars to a major competitor? You should know there is no honor among thieves, or assassins. Now, give me the vial and be quick about it. Or pay the price of disobedience.”

  Out of the corner of an eye. Jack saw Cassandra reach to her boots and slip a switchblade knife into each hand. The Amazon had no intention of letting the two terrorists leave the room with the plague virus. Jack shook his head, nearly impaling an ear on Hugo’s beak.

  “Sorry,” said the bird. “I was concentrating on Wesson’s hands. They look funny to you?”

  Jack’s eyes widened. Hugo was right. The terrorist’s fingers had turned charcoal gray. Like water being absorbed by a blotter, the color gradually crept up the man’s hands, heading for his wrists.

  “Damn,” said Hugo. “His skin is crumbling to powder.”

  Wesson shrieked as he made the same discovery. His two guns dropped to the floor as the digits holding them vanished into a cloud of dust. Jack gasped in horror as a dribble of fine ash trickled out of the terrorist’s sleeves. The killer was melting away before their eyes.

  “What is…?” began Smith, whose question likewise turned into a scream. His weapon followed the others to the floor. Sobbing in fright, he dropped onto his chair. Dropped and continued falling, as his body dissolved into a dark mist. In seconds, all that remained of the two terrorists were their empty clothes.

  “They paid the price for insulting a god,” said Nergal. “My touch of death never fails.”

  The demigod stared at Hasan al-Sabbah. “I warned you that pair could not be trusted.”

  “I took a calculated risk,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “You win some and you lose some. They will not be missed.”

  Al-Sabbah motioned to the genie. With a roar of noise, the dust and clothes disappeared. Seconds later, the Afreet returned to its position behind the table.

  “Would anyone care for a drink?” asked the Old Man. “A short break is in order. Then, we will continue with the auction. The Crouching One retains the high bid, at seventy-five million dollars and the state of Nevada. It is Mr. Bronsky’s turn to make an offer.”

  “Remind me,” murmured Jack to Cassandra, as they walked over to the refreshment table for cups of punch, “never to shake hands with the Lord of the Lions.”

  38

  “These people,” said Boris Bronsky quietly, “isd not very pleasant.”

  “Considering their background,” replied Jack, “that’s not particularly shocking. The Crouching One is an ancient demon God of Death and Destruction. Hasan al-Sabbah, the Old Man of the Mountain, is the immortal leader of a cult of assassins. And Loki is the evil trickster from Norse mythology. None of them qualify for good citizenship awards.”

  The two of them were alone at the end of the refreshment table. Loki, backed by his frost giants, was examining Karsnov’s notes. Al-Sabbah and Nergal, standing in front of the Old Man’s throne, were discussing the pros and cons of dissolving enemies into powder. Cassandra paced the floor like a caged tiger. Patience was not one of her virtues. Roger Quinn, his face tinged green, had wandered off in search of a bathroom.

  “I was thinking,” said the Russian, “dat if any of them buy plague formula, it will lead to a big disaster. Maybe for the whole human race. We should not let that happen.”

  “We?” asked Jack. “What exactly are you proposing, Boris?”

  “Yous and me join forces. Working as a team, we stop the others. And destroy the virus and the notes tonight.”

  “I have certain responsibilities…,” began Jack, not wanting to step out of character.

  “My government will pay your boss the money lost,” interjected Boris. “You godt responsibilities to your human race, too.”

  Jack grinned. There was no arguing with the Russian. “My real boss would be glad to hear you say that.”

  The Russian’s eyes widened immeasurably. “Your real boss?”

  “We’re fighting on the same side for a change,” said Jack, feeling very James Bond-ish. “I’ve a surprise planned near midnight. So take plenty of time bidding. Stretch out the auction for as long as possible. Then, when I make my move for the vial, you grab the notes. In the confusion, destroy them. Okay?”

  “I will follow your orders to the letter,” said Boris. “Dis is very exciting. And very dangerous, too.”

  “All in a day’s work,” declared Jack, stoically. On his shoulder, Hugo shook with silent gales of laughter.

  They returned to their chairs a few minutes later. Quickly, Jack informed Cassandra of his conversation with the Russian. “He evidently thinks I’m with the CIA or FBI,” said Jack. “I saw no reason to persuade him otherwise.”

  “Good move,” said the Amazon, “Why confuse him with the truth.”

  Frowning, Cassandra surveyed the room. “Did you notice that Roger Quinn is still missing? I wonder what’s keeping him?”

  “Here he comes now,” muttered Hugo. “Over there, by the elevator. He’s unfolding a piece of paper.”

  “Mr. Quinn,” called Hasan al-Sabbah from in front of his throne, “please be seated. We are about to continue the auction.”

  “One second,” Roger said, and staring down at the document in his hands, began reading in a loud voice.

  “O spirits of darkness, who are wicked and disobedient, hear my commands and obey. Let those who are named Nergal, Master of Destruction; Hasan al-Sabbah; Loki, the Sly Trickster; and any others present of lesser rank but supernatural origin, heed my words and obey. The Curse of the Chains binds you to me forever and aye. By the glorious and incomprehensible names of the true God and creator of all things, by the irresistible power of those same names, I curse thee into the bottom of the Bottomless Pit. There thou shall remain until the Day of Judgment unless thou heed my each and every command and do my will.”

  “Oh, brother,” murmured Hugo in Jack’s ear as Quinn paused for a breath. “The Curse of the Chains. I haven’t heard that clinker in centuries. I wonder if he’s mastered the correct pronunciation of the holy names. That’s the section that separates the magicians from the apprentices.”

  Jack quickly scanned the room. Loki, Hasan al-Sabbah, and Nergal appeared frozen in place. The Afreet hovered above the table with the plague vial, looking puzzled. As did Boris Bronsky. Cassandra, standing absolutely motionless, winked.

  “Obey me now,” continued Roger, sweat dripping down his forehead, “in the mighty names of Adonai, Zebaoth, Amioram, Tetra
grammaton, Anexhexeton, and Primematum. Obey me always in the names of Baralamensis, Baldachiensis, Paumachie, Apolorosedes, and Liachide. Obey me, now and forever, amen.”

  No one moved. No one spoke. For an instant, time stopped. Reaching into his pocket, Roger pulled out a revolver. “Now, I’m in charge,” he declared, cheerfully.

  “Not really,” said Loki, shaking his head. He applauded politely. “But you did recite that spell nicely.”

  “An excellent job,” agreed Hasan al-Sabbah. “One rarely hears that many sacred names invoked with the proper accents. It must have taken many hours of study.”

  “But… but,” stuttered Roger, sounding confused, “you’re bound by the Curse of the Chains. You can’t move or talk without my permission. I uttered the spell perfectly. It had to work. You’re my slaves.”

  “These fools never learn,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. He clapped his hands. “Guards, take charge of this idiot before he accidentally does some real damage with that toy gun.”

  Mentally, Jack groaned when three gigantic ghuls emerged from a sliding door in the wall. He had hoped Hasan employed cult members in his chambers. Cassandra could hold off a horde of ordinary humans for hours if necessary. She was no match for dozens of ghuls. Timing remained critical if they hoped to survive.

  “Don’t kill him,” said Nergal, shaking its head in disgust. “Despite Roger’s faults, he normally performs his tasks adequately. He can’t help being greedy. Training a new assistant would be tiresome.”

  “But why didn’t the spell work?” demanded Quinn, struggling helplessly in the arms of his captors. “The summoning spell I originally used to raise you from the outer darkness functioned perfectly. All the spells I recited summoning demons ran smoothly. What went wrong with the Curse of Chains?”

  Supernaturals couldn’t resist a question, no matter who asked it. They loved to talk. It was part of their nature.

  “The answer is obvious,” said Loki. “We supernaturals have been closely involved with the publishing industry since its beginnings. Didn’t you ever hear the phrase, ‘printers’ devil’? While we see nothing wrong with issuing books containing summoning spells, we are not foolish enough to permit any binding spells to be published intact. That would be suicidal. You pronounced the incantations perfectly, foolish mortal. However, the spell itself, as written, is gibberish. As are all magical charms and enchantments of that category available to the general public. Your attempted rebellion was doomed from the start.”

  “Take him below,” commanded Hasan al-Sabbah, waving a hand in dismissal. “He can share the rock with the sphinx and Collins’s girlfriend. They will welcome the company.”

  The ghuls, dragging a befuddled Roger Quinn, disappeared into the elevator “Now,” said the Old Man of the Mountain, “we can continue the auction in peace.”

  Reaching over, Jack unzipped his bag completely, revealing the blue bottle within. He lifted it out and placed it on the floor between his and Cassandra’s chairs. The bag containing the camera and tape recorder he pushed off to the side. No one paid him any attention.

  Casually, he peeked at his watch. It was exactly eleven, If the airlines could be trusted, his secret weapon was now in Las Vegas. In approximately thirty minutes, Hasan al-Sabbah was going to receive a highly unwelcome phone call. At that precise moment, Jack planned to steal the plague virus. And all hell would break loose.

  It did, but not in the manner Jack had imagined.

  39

  “I am confused about the last bid,” said Boris Bronsky, as the auction resumed. “My government authorized me to spend lots of U.S. dollars on Karsnov’s secret. However, I cannot offer control of a section of my country as part of the deal. Maybe we could discuss some land in Siberia, but no people. Under the old system, you could probably get terms. But we are a democracy now. Trading people for merchandise is forbidden.”

  The Old Man of the Mountain sighed heavily. He was starting to look older than his centuries. It had been a tiresome evening for the Lord of Assassins. “A strictly monetary bid will suffice for now. We can discuss extra incentives later. What is your bid, Mr. Bronsky?”

  “Uh,” said the Russian, “I forget where we are. It is a high of seventy miltions?”

  “No,” said Loki. “I bid sixty-six, then Nergal raised the ante to seventy-five. You’re at eighty-three.”

  The Russian frowned. “What happened to eighty-two million, five hundred thousand? Five hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money to round off. I offer eighty-two, five. No people.”

  For the first time since his arrival in al-Sabbah’s throne room. Jack relaxed. With Bronsky slowing the action to a crawl, the auction could drag on for hours. Which meant that his scheme would proceed like clockwork. All was good with the world. For about fifteen seconds.

  That was when the phone in the far corner of the room rang. Startled, Jack checked his timepiece. It was only five minutes past the hour. It could not be his call.

  “Use that spectacular hearing of yours to eavesdrop on this conversation,” he whispered to Hugo as Hasan al-Sabbah hurried over to the telephone.

  “Yes,” said the Old Man of the Mountain curtly. His sunken eyes shrank to the size of pinpoints as he listened. “What? They’re what? They will pay for that mistake—pay dearly. Yes, you did right to continue. The girl is missing? How can that be? What does the sphinx say?” Hasan’s voice had risen with each question until he was nearly screaming. “Well, tell the dolt to forget the puzzle and answer you!”

  “The guards escorting Roger to Hell found the other ghuls unconscious,” whispered Hugo. “Instead of reviving them, they rushed over to Hell. They’re calling from the phone in the sphinx’s home. You can fill in the rest.”

  “Son of a bitch,” said Jack, disgusted by the unexpected turn of events. “Toss my schedule out the window. It’s history.”

  He tapped Cassandra lightly on the arm. “Ready for action? We’re changing plans. Hasan’s discovered Megan’s missing. We can’t risk the possibility that he’ll stop the auction. When the Old Man hangs up the receiver, Hugo, that’s your signal. The plan starts right then.”

  Cassandra grinned and reached for her knives. The Amazon never looked happier. She loved impossible odds.

  “The dog can’t talk, you idiots!” Hasan screamed into the phone. His white features were bloodred. If the Old Man of the Mountain wasn’t immortal, he would have died centuries ago from high blood pressure. Even his eyes were tinged with crimson. “Awaken the incompetents in the guard room. Set their feet on fire if necessary. Call me when you have some explanations!”

  Hasan slammed down the receiver. Instantly, Jack’s left shoulder went numb. Hugo had launched himself at the vial. Everyone’s gaze was fixed on the Old Man of the Mountain as he stormed back to his throne. Thus, only Jack saw the raven materialize as if out of nowhere directly on top of the plague vial. But the bird didn’t remain unnoticed long.

  “Hey, stupid,” cawed Hugo, flapping his black wings in the Afreet’s face. “I’ve got your dumb vial. And you can’t catch me.”

  “Stop it!” shrieked Hasan. “Save the virus.”

  No one saw the race. Both supernatural entities moved at speeds faster than the eye could follow. In a larger room, they would have broken the sound barrier.

  In the space of a heartbeat, Hugo rocketed across the room to Jack’s mysterious bottle. The Afreet, a red blur, was less than a microsecond behind. But that barely measurable tick of the clock was all the time the raven required. It dropped the vial into the mouth of the light blue container and then vanished through the chamber wall. With an odd popping noise, the tiny vessel tumbled into the heart of the twisted glass figure.

  The genie didn’t hesitate. It never disobeyed direct commands. The raven wasn’t important. The virus was what mattered. Air whooshed as the neon red figure shrank into a swirling red cloud. With the same popping noise, the Afreet followed the vial into the bottle.

  Immediately, the entire
container glowed bright crimson. It rattled violently for a few seconds then stopped. Fritz Grondark built bottles to last for an eternity. It became even more difficult to look at without getting a headache. The genie did not reappear. Nor did the vial.

  “That’s that,” said Jack, cheerfully, after trying fruitlessly to stare into the mouth of the container. He knew better but couldn’t resist the temptation of attempting the impossible. “Scratch one Afreet and one plague virus. They’re prisoners of the fourth dimension.”

  “Explain yourself, mortal,” demanded Hasan al-Sabbah angrily. The Old Man of the Mountain glared at Jack from the safety of his obsidian throne. Behind him stood the Crouching One, and behind them both were Loki and his front giants. Boris Bronsky sat balanced on the edge of the small table where Karsnov’s manuscript, momentarily forgotten, resided. “What nonsense are you babbling?”

  Jack smiled at Cassandra. The Amazon smiled in return. She was the reason the others maintained their distance from Jack and the blue bottle. The Amazon gripped a knife in her right hand and a handful of throwing stars in her left. Stuck point first in the floor at her feet were her other knife and a half dozen poison darts.

  Cassandra was ready, willing, and anxious for a melee. None of the immortals she faced appeared anxious to challenge her.

  “It’s a Klein bottle,” declared Jack, dipping his head as a signal to Boris Bronsky. The Russian nodded in response. “Supposedly, it can’t exist in our physical universe. But, then, neither can immortal demigods, genies, and sphinxes. So I asked a few friends with magical powers to see if they could construct one. And they did.”

  Faced with a puzzle they did not understand, the supernaturals acted exactly as Jack expected. Like legendary rogues and villains throughout history, they stopped reacting to the situation and instead started asking questions. They couldn’t do anything else. It was part of their basic nature.