Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

“Mr. Quinn’s business enterprises are worth in excess of one hundred and fifty million dollars,” snarled the Crouching One through clenched teeth, “And I have access to the secret treasure vaults of the kings of Babylon, filled with riches beyond measure.”

“Such wealth, if it even exists,” declared Wesson sanctimoniously, “no longer belongs to you, O creation of diseased minds. It is the property of the revolutionary councils that govern those lands today.”

“Seventy-five million,” said the Lord of the Lions. “And mastery of the state of Nevada when I regain my powers. California,” it added, “is already promised to my faithful assistant.”

“Nonsense,” said Smith. “I protest. We are not ignorant children, to be bribed by the sugarcoated promises of this disgusting old pile of horse shit.”

Cassandra leaned close to Jack, “Smith and Wesson are overplaying their roles. They’re acting too obnoxious. It has to be a ruse. Be ready for trouble.”

Jack nodded. The terrorists had deliberately attacked the Crouching One’s every statement. They wanted to enrage the ancient demigod. And had succeeded.

Slowly, deliberately, the Crouching One rose to its feet. The demigod trembled with fury. Blue sparks sizzled along its fingertips. Dramatically, the Lord of the Lions lifted an arm and pointed at Smith and Wesson.

“It is time to put an end to the insults,” declared the Crouching One. “Forever.”

“Agreed,” cried Smith, leaping out of his chair. “But not the way you plan, spawn of the devil.”

With a flourish, the terrorist ripped a compact machine-gun pistol from inside his jacket. Laughing ruthlessly, Smith waved the gun in Nergal’s face. “Thank you for rising to the bait,” he declared. “We needed a short diversion to free our weapons. Your timing was perfect. Especially since I was running out of insults.”

Wesson, a sadistic grin on his face, was also on his feet. Back to back with his partner, he held two of the deadly weapons, One was aimed in the general direction of the other participants in the auction. The second he pointed directly at the shocked face of Hasan al-Sabbah.

“If anyone dares move a muscle, including that miserable genie,” said Smith, “we will shoot. At this distance, the bullets’ impact will rip your stupid heads right off.”

The terrorist grinned. “This farce has lasted much too long. The Brotherhood of Holy Destruction honors no pact with infidels. Our instructions were painstakingly clear. Promise them anything, we were told, but do not leave the auction without the plague germs. We intend on doing exactly that. Anyone foolish enough to try stopping us will be executed.”

“Gentlemen, I am very disappointed,” said the Old Man of the Mountain calmly. “Your leaders promised me their honest participation in this event.”

Wesson laughed. “They lied. Fool—did you actually think they would hand over any of our hard-earned terrorist dollars to a major competitor? You should know there is no honor among thieves, or assassins. Now, give me the vial and be quick about it. Or pay the price of disobedience.”

Out of the corner of an eye. Jack saw Cassandra reach to her boots and slip a switchblade knife into each hand. The Amazon had no intention of letting the two terrorists leave the room with the plague virus. Jack shook his head, nearly impaling an ear on Hugo’s beak.

“Sorry,” said the bird. “I was concentrating on Wesson’s hands. They look funny to you?”

Jack’s eyes widened. Hugo was right. The terrorist’s fingers had turned charcoal gray. Like water being absorbed by a blotter, the color gradually crept up the man’s hands, heading for his wrists.

“Damn,” said Hugo. “His skin is crumbling to powder.”

Wesson shrieked as he made the same discovery. His two guns dropped to the floor as the digits holding them vanished into a cloud of dust. Jack gasped in horror as a dribble of fine ash trickled out of the terrorist’s sleeves. The killer was melting away before their eyes.

“What is…?” began Smith, whose question likewise turned into a scream. His weapon followed the others to the floor. Sobbing in fright, he dropped onto his chair. Dropped and continued falling, as his body dissolved into a dark mist. In seconds, all that remained of the two terrorists were their empty clothes.

“They paid the price for insulting a god,” said Nergal. “My touch of death never fails.”

The demigod stared at Hasan al-Sabbah. “I warned you that pair could not be trusted.”

“I took a calculated risk,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “You win some and you lose some. They will not be missed.”

Al-Sabbah motioned to the genie. With a roar of noise, the dust and clothes disappeared. Seconds later, the Afreet returned to its position behind the table.

“Would anyone care for a drink?” asked the Old Man. “A short break is in order. Then, we will continue with the auction. The Crouching One retains the high bid, at seventy-five million dollars and the state of Nevada. It is Mr. Bronsky’s turn to make an offer.”

“Remind me,” murmured Jack to Cassandra, as they walked over to the refreshment table for cups of punch, “never to shake hands with the Lord of the Lions.”

“These people,” said Boris Bronsky quietly, “isd not very pleasant.”

“Considering their background,” replied Jack, “that’s not particularly shocking. The Crouching One is an ancient demon God of Death and Destruction. Hasan al-Sabbah, the Old Man of the Mountain, is the immortal leader of a cult of assassins. And Loki is the evil trickster from Norse mythology. None of them qualify for good citizenship awards.”

The two of them were alone at the end of the refreshment table. Loki, backed by his frost giants, was examining Karsnov’s notes. Al-Sabbah and Nergal, standing in front of the Old Man’s throne, were discussing the pros and cons of dissolving enemies into powder. Cassandra paced the floor like a caged tiger. Patience was not one of her virtues. Roger Quinn, his face tinged green, had wandered off in search of a bathroom.

“I was thinking,” said the Russian, “dat if any of them buy plague formula, it will lead to a big disaster. Maybe for the whole human race. We should not let that happen.”

“We?” asked Jack. “What exactly are you proposing, Boris?”

“Yous and me join forces. Working as a team, we stop the others. And destroy the virus and the notes tonight.”

“I have certain responsibilities…,” began Jack, not wanting to step out of character.

“My government will pay your boss the money lost,” interjected Boris. “You godt responsibilities to your human race, too.”

Jack grinned. There was no arguing with the Russian. “My real boss would be glad to hear you say that.”

The Russian’s eyes widened immeasurably. “Your real boss?”

“We’re fighting on the same side for a change,” said Jack, feeling very James Bond-ish. “I’ve a surprise planned near midnight. So take plenty of time bidding. Stretch out the auction for as long as possible. Then, when I make my move for the vial, you grab the notes. In the confusion, destroy them. Okay?”

“I will follow your orders to the letter,” said Boris. “Dis is very exciting. And very dangerous, too.”

“All in a day’s work,” declared Jack, stoically. On his shoulder, Hugo shook with silent gales of laughter.

They returned to their chairs a few minutes later. Quickly, Jack informed Cassandra of his conversation with the Russian. “He evidently thinks I’m with the CIA or FBI,” said Jack. “I saw no reason to persuade him otherwise.”

“Good move,” said the Amazon, “Why confuse him with the truth.”