Гарри Гаррисон - Run from the Fire

"You can't go in there!" Heidi shrieked as the office door was suddenly thrown wide.

Mark Greenberg, deep in the tangled convolutions of a legal brief, looked up, startled at the interruption. His secretary came through the doorway, propelled by the two men who held her arms. Mark dropped the thick sheaf of papers, picked up the phone, and dialed the police.

"I want three minutes of your time," one of the men said, stepping forward. "Your girl would not let us in. It is important. I will pay. One hundred dollars a minute. Here is the money."

The bank notes were placed on the blotter, and the man stepped back. Mark finished dialing. The money was real enough. They released Heidi, who pushed their hands away. Beyond her was the empty outer office; there were no witnesses to the sudden intruders. The phone rang in his ears; then a deep voice spoke

"Police Department, Sergeant Vega."

Mark hung up the phone.

"Things have been very quiet around here. You have three minutes. There will also be a hundred-dollar fee for molesting my secretary."

If he had meant it as a joke, it was not taken that way. The man who had paid the money took another bill from the pocket of his dark suit and handed it to a startled Heidi, then waited in silence until she took it and left. They were a strange pair, Mark realized. The paymaster was draped in a rusty black suit, had a black patch over his right eye, and wore black gloves as well. A victim of some accident or other, for his face and neck were scarred, and one ear was missing. When he turned back, Mark realized that his hair was really a badly fitting wig. The remaining eye, lashless and browless, glared at him redly from its deepset socket, Mark glanced away from the burning stare to look at the other man, who seemed commonplace in every way. His akin had a shiny, waxy look; other than that and his unusual rigidity, he seemed normal enough.

"My name is Arinix, your name is Mark Greenberg," The scarred man bent over the card in his hand, reading quickly in a hoarse, emotionless voice. "You served in the United States Army as a captain in the adjutant general's office and as a military police officer. Is that correct?"

"Yes, but-"

The voice ground on, ignoring his interruption. "You were born in the state of Alabama and grew up in the city of Oneida, New York. You speak the language of the Iroquois, but you are not an Indian. Is that true?"

"It's pretty obvious. Is there any point to this questioning?"

"Yes. I paid for it. How is it that you speak this language?" He peered closely at the card as though looking for an answer that was not there.

"Simple enough. My father's store was right next to the Oneida reservation. Most of his customers were Indians, and I went to school with them. We were the only Jewish family in town, and they didn't seem to mind this, the way our Polish Catholic neighbors did. So we were friends; in minorities there is strength, you might say-"

"That is enough."

Arinix drew some crumpled bills from his side pocket, looked at them, and shoved them back. "Money," he said, turning to his silent companion. This man had a curious lizardlike quality for only his arm moved; the rest of his body was still, and his face fixed and-expressionless, as he took a thick bundle of bills from his side pocket and handed it over.

Arinix looked at it, top and bottom, then dropped it onto the desk.

"There is ten thousand dollars here. This is a fee for three days' work. I wish you to aid me. You will have to speak the Iroquois language. I can tell you no more."

"I'm afraid you will have to, Mr. Arinix. Or don't bother, it is the same to me. I am involved in a number of cases at the moment, and it would be difficult to take off the time. The offer is interesting, but I might lose that much in missed fees, Since your three minutes are up, I suggest you leave."

"Money," Arinix said again, receiving more and more bundies from his assistant, dropping them on Mark's desk. "Fifty thousand dollars. Good pay for three days. Now, come with us."

It was the man's calm arrogance that angered Mark, the complete lack of emotion, or even interest, in the large sums he was passing over.

"That's enough. Do you think money can buy everything?"

"Yes."

The answer was so sudden and humorless that Mark had to smile. "Well, you probably are right. If you keep raising the ante long enough, I suppose you will eventually reach a point where you can get anyone to listen. Would you pay me more than this?"

"Yes. How much?"

"You have enough here. Maybe Fm afraid to find out how high you will go. For a figure like this, I can take off three days. But you will have to tell me what is going to happen." Mark was intrigued, as much by the strange pair as by the money they offered.

"That is impossible. But I can tell you that within two hours you will know what you are to do. At that time you may refuse, and you will still keep the money. Is it agreed?"

A lawyer who is a bachelor tends to take on more cases than do his married associates-who like to see their families once in a while. Mark had a lot of work and a lot of money, far more than he had time to spend. It was the novelty of this encounter, not the unusual fee, that attracted him. And the memory of a solid two years of work without a single vacation. The combination proved irresistible.

"Agreed- Heidi," he called out, then handed her the money when she came into the office. "Deposit this in the number-two special account and then go home. A paid holiday. I'll see you on Monday."

She looked down at the thick bundle of bills, then up at the strangers as they waited while Mark took his overcoat from the closet. The three of them left together, and the door closed. That was the last time that she or anyone else ever saw Mark Greenberg.

It was a sunny January day, but an arctic wind that cut to the bone was blowing up from the direction of the Battery. As they walked west, it caught them at every cross street, wailing around the building corners. Although they wore only suit jackets, neither of the strange men seemed to notice it. Nor were they much on conversation. In cold and silent discomfort they walked west, a few blocks short of the river, where they entered an old warehouse building. The street door was unlocked, but Arinix now secured it behind them with a heavy bolt, then turned to the inner door at the end of the hall. It appeared to be made of thick steel plates riveted together like a ship's hull, and had a lock in each corner. Arinix took an unusual key from his pocket. It was made of dull, ridged metal, as thick as his finger and as long as a pencil. He inserted this in each of the four locks, giving it a sharp twist each time before removing it. When he was done, he stepped away, and his companion put his shoulder against the door and pushed hard. After a moment it slowly gave way and reluctantly swung open. Arinix waved Mark on, and he followed them into the room beyond.

It was completely commonplace. Walls, ceilings, and floor were painted the same drab tone of brown. Lighting came from a translucent strip in the ceiling; a metal bench was fixed to the far wall next to another door.

"Wait here," Arinix said, theo went out through the door.

The other man was a silent, unmoving presence. Mark looked at the bench, wondering if he should sit down, wondering too if he had been wise to get involved in this, when the door opened and Arinix returned.

"Here is what you must do" he said. "You will go out of here and will note this address, and then walk about the city. Return here at the end of an hour."

"No special place to go, nothing to do? Just walk around?"