Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

Oddly out of place in the Arabian Nights setting was a butler’s folding table in the far corner of the chamber. On it was a plain black telephone. It was the Old Man of the Mountain’s lone link to the outside world, and seeing it gave Jack a boost. The phone increased his chances of survival a thousand percent. Or so he thought at the time.

“Mr. Green, Ms. Jones,” exclaimed Hasan al-Sabbah, rushing over to greet them. The Old Man of the Mountain wore a simple white robe belted around the waist by a black sash. The simple outfit suited his ascetic features perfectly. Hasan glowed with the force of his personality.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he declared, inclining his head in a bow of respect. Carefully looking around to make sure none of his other guests were nearby, he lowered his voice before continuing. “My sincerest apologies for the crude behavior of those camel-scum members of the Brotherhood of Holy Destruction. In more civilized days I would have ordered their tongues ripped out for uttering such insults to my honored company.”

“The gentlemen had other neckties in their luggage?” asked Cassandra primly.

The Old Man of the Mountain smiled. “An impressive display,” he declared. “I wondered if your presence here with Mr. Green reflected more than mere decoration. Your demonstration proved my suspicions well grounded.”

“ The Man prides himself in using his personnel to their best advantage,” said Cassandra, smiling in return. Jack couldn’t decide which of the two had a more threatening expression.

“If you ever find yourself interested in changing jobs,” said al-Sabbah, “please think of me. I could use a woman of your skills in my organization,” He paused. “Are you truly an expert in the death of a thousand cuts? It always has been my favorite torture.”

“I learned it from Dr. Fu Manchu in Limehouse during the 1920s,” said Cassandra. “He was an excellent teacher.”

“The recognized master in the field,” said Hasan al-Sabbah, nodding. He turned to Jack. “Your companion is a rare gem. Mr. Green. I commend you for your good taste.”

He sighed heavily. “Please excuse me. I must circulate among my other guests, lest they feel slighted. We are impatiently waiting the arrival of Nergal, the Lord of the Lions, Master of Death and Destruction, and chief pain in the ass. These demigods are always late. They relish making a grand entrance. Once he is here, we will begin the auction.”

Bowing again, the Old Man of the Mountain returned to the hors d’oeuvres table. Jack, not anxious to socialize with the other attendees, especially Loki and his frost giants, steered Cassandra in the other direction.

“You met Dr. Fu Manchu?” he asked the Amazon as they walked. “I thought he existed only in novels.”

“Enough people read those books and believed them true,” said Cassandra, “to give him life. Talk about a melodramatic character. Though created with a brilliant mind, the poor doctor spoke mostly in clichés. He had a terribly difficult time adjusting to postwar England. The last I heard, he was operating a Chinese restaurant in Soho called the House of Si-Fan.”

“What about Sherlock Holmes?” asked Jack, overwhelmed by what he was hearing. “Millions of fans assumed he actually existed.”

“Never met him,” said Cassandra. “But Jack the Ripper told me years ago that the great detective was writing mystery novels. I forgot what pen name he was using.”

“Enough,” declared Jack. “My brain is overloading,” The more he learned about the supernatural community, the more he realized how little he truly knew. “I notice that Hasan didn’t say a word about your outfit.”

“The Old Man of the Mountain strikes me as the type of man not interested in women,” said Cassandra. “Like most brilliant but evil masterminds, he considers females as sexual playthings and nothing more. He’s a typical male chauvinist megalomaniac, albeit a polite one.”

Jack shook his head. It was hard to conceive anyone not being stunned by Cassandra’s latest costume. The Amazon wore a black bodysuit made of cotton and Spandex, with a skin-baring scalloped neckline. Over it she had on a quilted crop-length jacket in a bright tie-dyed polyester print. Black stretch cotton denim jeans, a pair of calf-high cowgirl boots, and a wide leather belt with silver decorations completed the picture. If looks could kill, Cassandra was lethal tonight. As was her clothing.

Tucked in the lining of her boots were a pair of switchblade knives. The metal decorations on her belt were miniature throwing stars, small but absolutely deadly in the hands of a professional. A dozen poison darts formed the bracelets she wore on her wrists.

Concealed within her jacket were two pair of thin brass knuckles. And the length of dark ribbon knotted in an exotic pattern through her hair was steel wire that doubled as a strangler’s cord. The Amazon had come prepared for war.

Jack, who was well aware of his limitations as a fighter, was armed with a padded airline bag containing his blue bottle. Nestled in one corner were the pocket camera and tape recorder Cassandra had purchased that afternoon. Those few items and his quick wit were his only weapons against a horde of supernatural foes. He hoped they would be enough.

Sitting transparently on his left shoulder, unusually quiet thus far, was Hugo. Mongo had flown off immediately after they reached their suite, on his secret mission. He swore to return before the evening’s events were concluded.

“A big guy’s coming over,” warned the bird. “Somebody I never saw before. Damned if he don’t remind me of a bear.”

The newcomer did resemble a huge, furry circus bear. He stood well over six feet tall and weighed nearly 350 pounds. He was dressed in a dark brown suit whose seams were pushed to the limit by his massive barrel chest. A thick tangle of brown hair covered his head and peered out of his collar and sleeves. His face was clean shaven, with a wide bulb nose and bright red cheeks. Beneath big bushy eyebrows, his dark black eyes, piercing and direct, stared at Jack and Cassandra with undisguised curiosity. Remembering Big John’s story. Jack concluded that he was about to encounter the mysterious Boris Bronsky.

“Goodt evening,” said the stranger pleasantly, in a rumbling voice that furthered his bear comparison. His accent was as thick as molasses. He extended a huge hand in greeting. “My name is Boris Bronsky, of the Russian KGB. I’m pleased to meet yous.”

“Jack Green,” said Jack, remembering at the last instant not to use his real name. “My lady friend is Saman’ta Jones.”

Cassandra dipped her head slightly, acknowledging the stranger. Then she frowned, as if confronted by an unpleasant memory.

Wondering what was bothering his companion, Jack shook hands with the newcomer. Bronsky had a firm, unyielding grip. Though the Russian looked soft and flabby, Jack surmised that he labored hard to maintain that image. There was a core of steel beneath the outer layer of paunch.

“I have heardt of you from our host, Mr. al-Sabbah,” continued Boris. “He tells me that you are here merely as observers. I gather he owes you a lot of money?”

“Not us,” said Jack. “Our employer. Are you here to bid in the auction, Mr. Bronsky, or also merely to watch?”

“Call me Bear,” said Bronsky. “Everyone does. It is a goodt nickname. As to why I am in attendance, I am most definitely anxious to place bids in this auction. When my government learned of this event, they flew me here on a special jet to represent our interests. Russia wants Professor Karsnov’s formula destroyed, my friends. And we are willing to pay lots and lots of money to assure that happens.”

“You’re the one,” said Cassandra unexpectedly, “who hired the Eumenides to eliminate Karsnov.”