“It wouldn’t be much of a battle, I’m afraid,” said Jack’s aunt, sighing, “These desert types fold under pressure. We’d have to tie one hand behind our backs to make it a fair fight. That would take too much time. Remember, we’ve got a performance scheduled at midnight.”
Gretta turned to Jack. “Nephew, what’s your pleasure? After all, you were the one threatened by these thugs. You decide. What should we do with them?”
“Let them go,” said Jack, without hesitation. “The ghuls at least. I’ll deal with Hasan and the Crouching One later.”
“Let them go?” repeated his aunt. “Even though they tried to murder you and your friends?”
“They’re merely the hired hands,” said Jack. “Why punish them for obeying the Old Man of the Mountain’s commands?”
“Whatever you wish,” said Gretta. His aunt had the same disappointed look he’d often seen on Cassandra’s face. She would have preferred a battle to the death. “I’ll go over and inform the snake of your generosity.”
“Is goodt decision,” said Boris Bronsky when the Valkyrie left to speak with the Old Man of the Mountain. “Enough fighting for one night. We won, no?”
“No,” answered Cassandra, before Jack could reply. “Hasan al-Sabbah’s immortal and close to invulnerable. The Old Man of the Mountain is a deadly foe and he won’t forget this defeat. Nor will the Crouching One. You’ve foiled its plans twice now. Until we eliminate those two fiends, your life will be in constant danger.”
Jack merely smiled. “Don’t fret,” he said to Cassandra. “The evening’s not over. Why not say hello to the Valkyries? I’m sure they’d be happy to see you. Help them supervise the ghuls’ evacuation. And listen for a phone call.”
“A phone call?” repeated Boris Bronsky, as a perplexed Cassandra wandered off. “You’re expecting an important message?”
“A friend I never met,” said Jack, “is going to solve one of my problems in a most unexpected manner.”
41
It took twenty minutes to clear the throne room of ghuls. Their departure left Jack, Cassandra, the birds, and Boris, along with the Valkyries and their pets, facing the Old Man of the Mountain and the Crouching One. To no one’s surprise, Loki and the frost giants had made a quick exit immediately after the arrival of the Valkyrior. The Sly One was no favorite of the warrior maidens and he knew it.
“You win this round, Collins,” snarled Hasan al-Sabbah, “but there will be other games. And you won’t be able to hide behind the skirts of these women forever.”
“My, he’s a spiteful character,” said Jack’s aunt Hannah. It was difficult remembering the names and faces of six newly acquired relatives, but Jack was adjusting quickly. Plus, Hugo supplied the correct identity when necessary. “Maybe we should tie him in a sack and bury the bag in the Gobi Desert for a few years. That would teach the old goat some manners, I bet.”
“It might not be a had idea,” declared Aunt Siglunda. “What do you say, nephew?”
“I’m afraid it would be an exercise in futility,” said Jack. “Hasan al-Sabbah’s pretty indestructible and is a master schemer. Sooner or later, he’d escape from whatever prison we employed and come after me again. There’s a simpler and better means to vanquish him.”
“Nonsense,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “I am implacable, vindictive, and without mercy. You will never master me, Collins. You’re not ruthless enough.”
As if in response to Hasan’s bragging, the phone in the corner rang. Jack grinned. Perfect timing.
“Better get it,” he said to al-Sabbah. “It’s for you.”
“Who calls at this hour?” asked the Old Man of the Mountain, puzzled. He walked over to the telephone and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
The Old Man’s face clouded in annoyance. “Can’t he wait until the morning? I am busy at the moment,” He paused, listening intently. “He said what? Repeat that—at once.”
Hasan al-Sabbah’s features turned from white to ashen gray. His harsh voice sank to a shocked whisper. “Yes, I heard you perfectly. Send him up. Immediately. I will wait here.”
A shriveled husk of a man staggered back to the obsidian throne. The Old Man of the Mountain collapsed in his chair, his blazing eyes transformed to burned-out cinders.
“You,” he muttered, barely able to turn and stare at Jack, “orchestrated this disaster. The one who approaches comes at your bidding.”
“Merlin arranged the details,” said Jack, “but I called the shots. Your history betrayed you,” Jack pursed his lips, as if in deep contemplation. “Perhaps I’m more ruthless than you thought.”
The elevator door slid open. Out of the lift stepped Megan, Big John, and a short, squat Asian man dressed in a conservative three-piece suit carrying a brown attaché case. Spotting the group clustered around the throne, they walked forward.
“We should be going, nephew,” whispered Aunt Gretta, “but this is too good to miss. The show must go on—but a little later than usual tonight.”
Megan, catching sight of Jack, rushed over and threw her arms around his neck. The following few moments blurred as his sweetheart kissed him with the intensity of an atomic explosion. When he recovered his equilibrium, Jack noted that his six aunts were all beaming with pride.
“Nice girl,” declared Boris Bronsky. “Friend of yours?”
“My fiancée,” said Jack. “Megan, this is Boris Bronsky, a friend and ally from Russia. And if you haven’t already guessed, the Six-Gun Sweethearts are my mother’s sisters, the Choosers of the Slain from Norse mythology.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Megan cheerfully. “Sorry we were a bit delayed. Toshura’s plane didn’t arrive until eleven-fifteen. We rushed over here as quick as possible. Big John broke nearly every traffic law on the books. I was worried we would arrive too late.”
“No problem,” said Jack. “I’ll tell you all about it later,” The oriental visitor had reached the obsidian throne. “I want to hear what our friend has to say.”
“It was nice seeing him again,” whispered Megan. “We met in Japan last year when Dad was working on the big Godzilla oxygenation project.”
“Shhh,” said Jack as the Japanese businessman began to speak.
“Mr. Hasan al-Sabbah, I presume?” he asked rhetorically. “I am Toshura Miyamoto, senior partner of Akasaka Holdings International. My company represents a number of Japanese Firms interested in investing funds in valuable real estate in the United States of America. For several years, we have been anxious to acquire a casino in Las Vegas. Many of our wealthy tourists visit this city expressly to gamble. A resort catering to their special needs, operated and owned by their countrymen, would no doubt be a tremendous success.”
“No doubt,” said Hasan al-Sabbah, dryly.
“My friend and associate, Mr. Ambrose, contacted me the other day and informed me of the possibility of acquiring the Seven Wonders of the World Resort. Aware of the constantly shifting circumstances, Akasaka Holdings acted with all possible speed. With the cooperation of Ambrose Associates, my firm was able to purchase in the past day the outstanding stock, notes, and debts on the property. We completed the last transaction, with a gentleman known as The Man, only a few hours ago.”
Miyamoto bowed. “I regret to inform you that this hotel no longer belongs to Hashashin Enterprises. It is now part of Akasaka Holdings International. That is why I am here—to facilitate the transfer of ownership of the property as smoothly and quickly as possible. The necessary documents are in my briefcase.”
Hasan al-Sabbah drew in a deep breath. “Of course. I understand your concern, Mr. Miyamoto, and will do everything in my power to assure a swift and orderly transition,” The Old Man of the Mountain hesitated for a second. “By some small chance, were any of your ancestors Mongols?”
Miyamoto stared at al-Sabbah with a curious expression on his face. “How intriguing. My friend, Mr. Ambrose, asked the exact same question the other day. My great-great-grandmother came from M
ongolia, According to family tradition, she traced her ancestry back to the great khans.”
“She didn’t exaggerate,” declared the Old Man of the Mountain sadly. “The resemblance is quite remarkable.”
Hasan al-Sabbah didn’t elaborate and Mr. Miyamoto was too polite to ask what he meant. The Old Man of the Mountain sluggishly raised himself from his throne. “Come,” he said wearily, stepping to the floor, “I will introduce you to my senior staff.”
A broken Hasan al-Sabbah stopped in front of Jack. “I salute you, Collins. Defeating me by purely economic means is both diabolical and depraved. It is a scheme worthy of the most heinous masterminds.”
A tear trickled down the Old Man of the Mountain’s cheek. “I hate starting over. A man my age shouldn’t have to work so hard. Finding capable new recruits is such a pain. And convincing them that paradise exists in these modern times is growing increasingly difficult.”
“You could retire,” suggested Jack.
“Lamentably, I cannot,” said Hasan al-Sabbah. “Mankind’s dreams define me, I am what I am. And that is all that I ever can be.”
The Old Man of the Mountain gestured to the elevator. “Come, Mr. Miyamoto. Time for us to leave.”
“Care to explain to us what that was about?” asked Megan as Hasan al-Sabbah and Toshura Miyamoto disappeared in the lift.
“The Order of Assassins was destroyed in the year 1256,” said Jack. “Shortly before then, the Old Man of the Mountain made a terrible mistake. Secure in his mountain fortress, he executed two foreign envoys sent under a flag of truce. That treacherous deed incensed the lord who had dispatched the ambassadors. The Old Man had insulted the wrong man. Hulagu Kha Khan, leader of the Mongol horde, swore revenge. A million men overwhelmed the Hashashin. Alamut was torn apart, stone by stone. And the Order of Assassins was annihilated.”
Jack shrugged his shoulders modestly. “I merely updated the scenario. Instead of a Mongol horde razing Alamut, Hasan’s original headquarters, a Japanese corporation seized control of the Old Man’s new base through a forced buyout. Different titles, different times, same results.”
Megan hugged Jack. “My hero. Defeating the nasty Old Man of the Mountain without working up a sweat. Brains beats brawn again,” She grinned her wicked grin. “I’ve a nice reward for you. When we’re home alone, just the two of us.”
To the vast amusement of his six aunts. Jack turned beet red.
42
The Valkyries left a few minutes later. “Are you confident you’ll manage all right?” asked Gretta as she prepared to depart. His aunt pointed a finger at the Crouching One, standing alone and ignored in a corner of the room. “That one can’t be trusted.”
“On his own, he’s relatively harmless,” said Jack, “as long as you don’t shake hands with him. Nergal works through agents. Don't worry about me. In a few minutes, I intend to let him withdraw also. First, though, I want to put a plan of mine into operation.”
“In that case, nephew,” said Gretta, leaning off her horse and pinching him on the cheek, “take care. Say hello to your mother for us. Maybe sometime in the near future, we’ll come east for a visit. Or a wedding!”
“Sure,” said Jack, his mind boggling with the thought of a reception hall filled with Valkyries, gnomes, witches, and elves. He wondered if Megan might consider eloping.
With a roar of wind, the six white horses bearing the Choosers of the Slain leapt up into the air and sailed gracefully out the roof of the throne room. It was an exhilarating, magical sight. Even with them dressed in cowgirl outfits and shouting “Yahoo!” as they rode off into the night.
Strolling over to his travel bag. Jack pulled forth his tape recorder and pocket camera. Beckoning to his friends to stay away, he marched across the chamber to the Crouching One.
“Well,” said Jack, carefully stopping a safe distance from the ancient demigod, “I guess that leaves you as my last problem.”
“Don’t expect me to congratulate you on your great successes,” sneered the Crouching One. “You are a worthy opponent, Collins, but in the end, I will triumph.”
“Why is that?” asked Jack, casually switching on the tape recorder’s built-in microphone.
“Gods are patient,” said the Lord of the Lions. Like every supernatural entity, the demigod loved the sound of its own voice. “Immortal and indestructible, we can afford to take the long view of things. It doesn’t matter to me if this scheme fails, or the one following, or the one after that. I can wait. Centuries mean nothing to me. No matter how many battles you win, the last triumph shall be mine. And with one victory, the war will be over.”
“Why bother?” asked Jack.
“It is my destiny,” said the Crouching One proudly. “I am Nergal of Babylon, God of Death and Destruction, Pestilence and Plague. As it was in ancient times, so it shall be in these modern days. I am a God. And Gods rule mankind.”
“I thought you might say that,” declared Jack, pressing the off button on his tape recorder “Feel free to depart. There’s nothing I can do to stop you.”
“Thank you for realizing the obvious,” said the demigod. “I plan to stop at Hasan’s imitation Hell and rescue my foolish servant. Then the two of us will return to California. Roger is an idiot but he has his uses. I am sure you and I will meet again someday.”
“Perhaps,” said Jack mysteriously. He paused. “Would you mind if I asked one small favor? I know it may sound stupid, but in my numerous encounters with the supernatural, you’re the only real God I’ve met. Could I snap your photograph as a souvenir?”
Maybe if the Crouching One understood modern technology, he would never have agreed. Or if Roger Quinn had been there, his assistant would have suspected something amiss. But Roger was stuck on an island in the middle of a sea of burning lava. And Nergal was conceited as only a true demigod could be.
“Of course,” answered the Crouching One. “Take several. Would you prefer a normal pose? Or something more threatening, like the type used on cuneiform tablets?”
“How about both?” replied Jack, grabbing his pocket camera from his bag. “If you don’t mind.”
“My pleasure,” said the Crouching One.
The demigod spent five minutes mugging for the camera. Though pompous and overbearing by nature, Nergal possessed a keen sense of the absurd. The Crouching One seized the opportunity to strike the most outlandish poses possible. Which suited Jack, focusing and snapping his photos, just fine.
Afterward, with a polite nod to Cassandra and Megan, the Lord of the Lions exited the chamber. Jack, standing alone for a second, shook his head in admiration. The Crouching One was evil and dangerous, but for a demigod, the ancient entity had style.
“Want to explain to us dumb birdies what that was all about?” asked Hugo, alighting on Jack’s right shoulder.
“I don’t remember you collecting photos as a youth,” said Mongo, landing on Jack’s other shoulder.
“And why did you want a cheap pocket camera?” asked Cassandra. “If you wanted a crisp, clear picture of the Crouching One, I could have bought a top-of-the-line model. Considering the lighting with the roof blown out, these photos are going to be all fuzzy. They’re going to lack clarity and detail.”
“Exactly,” said Jack, cheerfully.
“Yous are definitely the most mysterious fellow I have the pleasure of meeting,” declared Boris Bronsky. He grabbed Jack and gave him a big bear hug. “Sorry, but I gots to be going. My government wants to know what happened here right away. I will give them a much-edited version of the events. Maybe they even award me a medal.”
“You deserve one, Boris,” said Jack, wheezing. His ribs felt as if they had been crushed in a vise. “Without your help. I don’t know if we would have survived. Thanks again.”
“We will meet again,” said the Russian. “I feel it in my bones.”
The Russian kissed Megan on the forehead, shook Cassandra’s hand, and winked at the ravens. And then he too was gone.
“Party’s over,” said Jack. “We should be going. Merlin deserves a phone call. Then sleep for all of us. Tomorrow, there’ll be time to relax and do some sight-seeing. After saving the world for the second time this summer, we deserve a short vacation. The bottle gets deposited in our suite and returns with us to Chicago when we leave. When we return home, we can sink it in a chest at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”
“You’re not going to reveal a clue about why you took those pictures, are you?” stated Megan, sounding frustrated.
“Nope,” said Jack. “Not yet. Wait a few weeks and I’ll tell all. I promise.”
And he refused to say another word about the subject. Despite some very intense coaxing by his fiancée.
43
“An amazing recovery, Mr. Quinn,” said Dr. Philips, two weeks later. “If I hadn’t examined the blemishes myself, I would swear they never existed.”
“Then they’re definitely gone?” asked Roger, his voice trembling with ill-concealed emotion.
“I can’t find a trace that they were there in the first place,” answered the doctor. “If I were a religious man, I’d say you’ve experienced a miracle,” Philips’s brows knotted in curiosity. “You haven’t been visiting faith healers or charlatans like that, have you?”
“Not in the least,” said Roger. “I woke up this morning and the marks were gone. That’s the whole story.”
“Your jaunt to Las Vegas?” suggested the physician.
“I’m not sure,” answered Roger truthfully. “Near the end of the trip, I experienced a major financial setback. Fortunately, everything was satisfactorily settled the same evening. Since returning home, I’ve led a rather quiet life.”
“Maybe,” said the doctor as Roger buttoned up his shirt, “the desert air agreed with you.”
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