Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

“Let them stare,” she said. Whirling about on one toe, she lashed out with her other foot in a deadly karate kick. The air seemed to vibrate from the force of her blow. “Dressed like this, I can fight.”

Out of her boots came the Amazon’s stilettos. In a continuous fluid motion, she flipped the two blades into the nearby wall. “There won’t be any plague if the Russian suffers a fatal accident,” she declared, pointing at the twin knives gleaming in the lamplight. “I specialize in causing necessary accidents.”

“The same thought occurred to me,” said Jack, “but only as a last resort. There are two more pressing problems. First, I require an invitation to this auction. Not attending would be a disaster. Even if you eliminated Karsnov, we have no guarantee al-Sabbah doesn’t already own a sample of the plague virus and would put that up for bid instead.

“Second, if Megan is being held prisoner in the Old Man’s version of Paradise, I need to discover its location. The sooner we find and extricate her from his minions, the better I’ll feel. If we make an attempt on the Russian’s life with her in al-Sabbah’s power, she’ll suffer. I can’t allow that to happen.”

“You have a plan, I assume,” said Cassandra.

“The solution to both problems,” said Jack, “is to attract the Lord of the Assassins’ personal attention. I’ve been thinking about the conversation the ravens heard this afternoon. While he never mentioned the source of his loans, he did refer to a flourishing supernatural criminal underworld. Merlin confirmed my own suspicions as to the figure in charge. Based on what I’ve discovered, I think using the right approach with our buddy, Hasan, will work miracles.”

“And if you’re wrong?” asked Cassandra.

“I mastered the process of thinking quick under pressure during my years on the college debate team,” said Jack. “If I draw a blank with al-Sabbah, I’ll switch to another story. I know it’s not the best approach, but it’s the only one we’ve got. With the auction tomorrow evening, we’re running out of time.”

Cassandra scowled. The Amazon preferred the direct approach. Given the chance, she’d opt for an old-fashioned fight to the death over subterfuge and deception. However, she was intelligent enough to recognize that Jack’s proposal was their only viable scheme.

“How are you going to gain admittance to Hasan’s presence?” she asked. “I doubt if he’s very accessible. Especially for a complete unknown.”

“We’ll do it the old-fashioned way,” said Jack. He pointed to the two ravens, trying to open the door of the suite’s refrigerator using their beaks. “With the unseen coaching of our feathered friends, I’m going to win a small fortune gambling. Once the stakes hit the stratosphere, al-Sabbah will come running.”

“Did you mention gambling?” asked Hugo, its beak wedged beneath the door handle of the icebox. Mongo stood beside him, trying to force open the lock. “I love gambling.”

“Me too,” said Mongo, its voice muffled by metal. “In Valhalla, we rolled the bones endlessly.”

“Used real bones, I bet,” muttered Jack, pulling out a new outfit for the night’s adventure. Like Cassandra, he needed to dress properly for the role he intended to play.

Groaning in protest, the door of the refrigerator clicked open. Instantly, both blackbirds darted inside. “Hell,” echoed Hugo’s voice, “there’s no chocolate bars in here.”

“I’ll buy a box of them for you later at the souvenir shop,” said Jack, as he tucked a solid black shirt into charcoal gray pinstripe pants. Next came a thin white tie, the suit coat, and a pair of sparkling black shoes. “After we complete our sting.”

Nodding in approval, Cassandra reached into the flower basket and pulled out a white carnation. She stuck it into the jacket’s lapel. “Perfect,” she declared. “You look like you stepped right out of an old gangster movie.”

“Spiffy,” commented Hugo. “You wanna tell us how we’re going to help run this scam.”

“Simple,” Jack said, and outlined his ideas to the attentive ravens. For a change, they listened quietly, then, when he was finished, made several useful suggestions. In ten minutes, they had everything arranged.

“I love it,” said Hugo, transparent on Jack’s right shoulder as they headed for the main casino. “This reminds me of the time we tricked Surt, the fire giant, into thinking he was haunted by the spirit of his first wife. What a laugh! He was afraid to eat for a week. Too bad that story never made it into the Elder Edda. It’s a lot funnier than that hokey tale about Thor’s visit to the frost giants.”

“Pipe down,” said Jack, glancing around to make sure no one was staring at him. “I can’t use that ventriloquism line a second time. Speak so only I can hear you. Is Mongo nearby?”

“Right over your head,” announced the other bird from a spot directly above Jack’s left ear. “Once you find a seat at the poker table, I’ll fly around to the other players as needed.”

“Okay,” murmured Jack as he walked into the atrium. Cassandra kept pace several steps to the rear, seemingly relaxed and at ease. Appearances were deceptive. The Amazon was primed and ready for battle.

“Hugo’s right,” continued Mongo softly. “Our adventures with Surt were much funnier than that stupid story about Thor.”

“Tell me another time,” said Jack, searching the room for the high-stakes poker game. He finally located it, directly in front of an all-purpose cash station. Though it was nearly midnight, the table was crowded with people.

“There’s a minor-class sorcerer stationed on the floor,” said Cassandra as they strolled over to the game. “Checking to make sure no one is using magic to alter the odds or fix the cards. Since the birds aren’t directly influencing the deck, you’re fine.”

Like most mathematicians, Jack had played cards throughout college. He started with hearts as a freshman, progressed to double-deck pinochle in his sophomore year, and finally succumbed to duplicate bridge for the rest of his undergraduate stay. In graduate school, the game changed to poker. Possessing a near-photographic memory and excellent card sense. Jack played to win. Cards were not a social event but war, and he believed in taking no prisoners. He rarely lost, but he had never played against professional cardsharps before. Nor had he ever gambled for thousands of dollars on each hand.

Before entering the game, Jack studied the flow of the cards for ten minutes. The table consisted of a big man, a young attractive blonde woman, and a middle-aged male dealer playing five-card stud. A small crowd of people stood behind them, watching the action.

The woman, good looking and flashy with diamonds, sat to the dealer’s left. In draw poker, it was the worst position, but she seemed not to care. Her card playing left a great deal to be desired. Quick to fold, she was too easily bluffed. She squinted at the cards like they were her enemies. The blonde had too much money and not enough brains for no-limits draw poker. Five red and five blue chips sat in front of her. Stationed directly behind her were two dangerous-looking young men, dressed in dark suits and wearing sunglasses.

The big man, who referred to himself constantly in third person as “Tex Wilson,” sat directly across from the dealer. A hearty, red-faced individual, he was dressed in a cowboy shirt open almost to his waist and smoked a big cigar. He talked much too loud and placed big bets. However, Jack noted that Wilson knew exactly when to drop out when things looked bad, and that he rarely lost a hand in which he wagered heavily. The drink at his side. Jack suspected, was more likely ginger ale than whiskey. Ten red and eight blue chips made up Tex’s bankroll. Huddled close behind him, several well-endowed women dressed in attire that made Cassandra’s outfits look like schoolmarm stuff squealed with pleasure each time the red-faced man won.