Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

“Six p.m.,” said Cassandra, glancing at the clock. It was nearly four. “That’s going to be cutting it close. Which reminds me. There’s a message on our telephone answering machine from our buddy, Hasan. It’s about the auction tonight.”

“I gather, then, the event’s not canceled,” said Jack, studying the complex phone system on the endtable. Like most modern hotels, their suite featured a message center for missed calls. The orange light signaling a recording was flashing orange. After carefully reading the small print several times, Jack finally discovered the correct button to push.

“Mr. Green,” Heard over the telephone, Hasan’s voice was definitely not human. “I regret to inform you of the untimely passing of Professor Karsnov. We found the body of our late guest in the rear chamber of the security floor. His remains were not a pretty sight and I thought it best to cremate them at once.”

The blood drained from Jack’s face. Incidents like this murder helped remind him that they were not engaged in a game. The principals engaged in this auction meant business. And their business was death and destruction.

“In any event, I call to assure you that the auction is still scheduled for tonight at ten o’clock. While the dear doctor is no longer with us, I was wise enough to keep a set of his notes on the virus in my personal safe. Along with those papers, I have a vial filled with a small sample of the actual plague virus. Together, the two items should fetch a tidy sum. Karsnov’s execution is a minor inconvenience. Nothing more. I will see you tonight. Have a nice day.”

Jack grimaced. “A minor inconvenience.”

He stood up. “That package from Merlin arrive?”

“Right here,” said Cassandra, patting a padded airline bag at her feet. “It came about an hour ago by special messenger. Merlin reeled in a few favors to get it here today,” The Amazon lifted the bag to her lap. “I didn’t look inside. It’s not very heavy.”

“It shouldn’t be,” said Jack, unzipping the bag. “Where are the ravens? I thought they’d be swarming over me to see what’s inside.”

“They left a short time ago,” said the Amazon. “Hugo mentioned something about visiting some old friends that are in town for the weekend. It was while you were taking a shower. They didn’t say when they would return, but I’m sure they’ll be back in time for tonight’s festivities.”

“I’m not worried,” said Jack. “They probably stopped off somewhere looking for chocolate bars,” For some reason, the mention of chocolate brought a smile to his lips. He had no idea why.

Carefully, Jack removed a glass bottle from the travel bag. Less than a foot long, it was made of light blue glass that glistened in the artificial light. The neck of the container twisted at a very unusual angle. After staring at it for a few seconds, Cassandra shook her head and turned away.

“I can’t look at that thing,” she declared. “It gives me a headache.”

“It should,” said Jack, grinning. Gently, he lowered the vessel back into the bag. Though he had instructed Fritz to use the strongest glass possible. Jack was taking no chances. “This bottle combines mathematics and magic in a unique manner. I think King Solomon would have approved.”

“That’s for tonight,” said Cassandra. “But what are we going to do about this afternoon? Notably, concerning the rescue of a young lady in distress. The sphinx is a deadly opponent. As is Cerberus. That trio of heads on him think independently, making him the equivalent of three enemies. Only Hercules ever defeated the hellhound. I’m afraid I’m not in his class.”

“His heads act on their own,” said Jack, his brow creased in thought. “Talk about a split personality. I think we should be able to exploit that disorder to our advantage.”

He extracted a Coke from the refrigerator. Other than a minor, unexplainable ache in his hips, Jack felt terrific. It was amazing, he concluded, what a good nap accomplished.

“You have the card Big John left us?” he asked Cassandra, sipping his drink.

“It’s here on the dresser,” said the Amazon. “You want me to give him a call?”

“Right away,” said Jack. “Keep your fingers crossed that he’s free. We require someone familiar with Las Vegas to drive us to a big pet store. Our visit to Paradise necessitates the purchase of a few special items. And in the meantime I’m aiming to persuade him to assist us once we extricate Megan. We could use his help.”

“He struck me as the type who doesn’t like getting involved,” said Cassandra as she dialed the chauffeur’s answering service.

“His ingrained character, as defined by his song, forces him to assume that attitude,” said Jack. “Basically, he’s a good man. He won’t refuse a lady in distress.”

The relay service contacted Big John just as he was dropping off a passenger at the Empress Casino. “He’s less than a mile from our hotel,” said Cassandra, after a brief conversation. “I told him we’d meet him at the lobby door in fifteen minutes—if nobody gives me a hard time in the elevators.”

Jack sighed. Most guests at the resort studiously ignored the Amazon’s outrageous outfits. A few loudmouths spewed forth lewd remarks that, to Jack’s immense relief, Cassandra shrugged off with a nasty laugh. However, one obnoxious drunk made the mistake of trying to fondle the Amazon while in the elevator returning from her morning exercise routine.

The unfortunate soul was resting peaceably in the Las Vegas hospital, nursing two handfuls of broken fingers, several bruised ribs, and a minor concussion. After examining the drunk’s injuries, the police labeled the beating a professional job and concluded the man had been lucky to escape with his life. No one connected the thrashing with Mr. Green’s beautiful companion, Ms. Saman’ta Jones.

At present, Cassandra wore a pair of white twill stretch cotton pants that laced up the sides of both legs from her ankles to her waist. Matching it was a white cotton Lycra top with molded cups that left most of her back, chest, and stomach bare. Few women possessed the figure and posture to do the outfit justice. Oddly enough, Cassandra Cole, Amazon warrior, was one of them. To Jack, it didn’t make sense.

“I thought Amazons were repulsive,” he remarked, writing a note for the ravens. He didn’t want the birds worried if they returned to find nobody about. “Most mythology books describe them as hideous, scarred women with haglike features. In fact the only trait you share in common with the legends is your love of battle.”

“You’re confusing fantasy with reality, Jack,” said the Amazon, laughing. “Maybe there were real Amazons once, as described in The Iliad, but I’m not them. Humanity’s shared subconscious mind brought me to life. I’m the creation of many thousands of mortals’ dreams. The real Amazons may have been gruesome crones, but not the imaginary species. Men fancied taming our cold, imperious loveliness. Women thought of us as the embodiment of female power. They wanted us strong but desirable. We were shaped by both sexes. My companions and I were always beautiful.”

“That’s why supernaturals talk so dramatically,” said Jack, nodding in comprehension. “And act with such flair.”

“Definitely,” said Cassandra. “People dream in Technicolor, not in black and white. That’s why the good guys are so good and the bad guys are so bad. We’re created with panache. Hugo wasn’t kidding when he quoted Shakespeare and Bogart, Jack. We are the stuff dreams are made of.”

The elevator trip to the lobby of the hotel proved uneventful. However, as they were crossing the atrium, heading for the entrance, they were waylaid by Hasan al-Sabbah. The Old Man of the Mountain, the Afreet in attendance, was escorting a pair of visitors through the casino.