A Calculated Magic

37

The Old Man of the Mountain lifted the vial of anthrax spores over his head. As if drawn forward by a magnet, everyone present leaned forward. It was the scene, Jack realized, observed in the crystal ball by Sylvester the Cat. The start of Hasan al-Sabbah’s auction.

“Sergei Karsnov’s legacy,” declared the Lord of Assassins in a sonorous voice. “Silent, invisible, painful death. What am I bid for this marvelous toy?”

“I offer ten million dollars,” answered the Crouching One. The auction had begun. Jack glanced again at his watch. He dared not make his move yet. There was too much time left. He needed a distraction to delay the auction. Mentally, he crossed his fingers and prayed for a miracle. It materialized sooner than he expected.

“The Brotherhood of Holy Destruction,” announced Mr. Smith, arrogantly surveying the room, “financed by the deep pockets of certain exceedingly wealthy, devotedly faithful Islamic nations, laughs at the parsimonious bid from the so-called God of the thrice-cursed Babylonians. We raise the amount to twenty million.”

“Thank you,” said Hasan, returning the vial to the tabletop. “It would be greatly appreciated if in future rounds, you keep the insults to a minimum and merely state your bid.”

“The Russian people,” declared Boris Bronsky, “though officially on record as protesting that this auction is illegal and immoral, offer thirty million U.S. dollars in the interest of international peace and brotherhood.”

“Thirty-three million,” said Loki, a faint smile crossing his lips. “My clients hired me to obtain the virus at the best possible price. No ten-million-dollar raises for me.”

“Nergal,” said Hasan al-Sabbah, “the bid returns to you.”

“I find this bargaining repulsive,” responded the demigod. “I am Lord of the Lions, Master of Death and Destruction. The plague should be mine by right.”

“Does this mean you are dropping out?” asked Hasan, patiently.

“Forty million,” answered the Crouching One. Blue sparks circled its forehead.

Smith laughed. “An insignificant raise from an insignificant god. Your days are past, forgotten one. Return to the dust from which you arose. The Brotherhood of Holy Destruction bids fifty million dollars.”

“Sixty million,” said Boris Bronsky immediately.

“Impossible,” said Wesson, turning to face the Russian. “The Russian pig is lying. His country’s economy is in shambles. They can barely manage to feed their stupid peasants. Their foreign debt is staggering. This bid is a sham.”

Hasan al-Sabbah scowled. “My apologies, Mr. Bronsky, but the point is well taken. Russia’s problems are well publicized. How do you intend to pay?”

Boris smiled. “With foreign aid, of course. Matching America’s defense spending the past few decades ruined my nation’s economy. Faced with complete collapse of our government, we turned to those most responsible for our plight. And as the world’s only remaining superpower, they responded. The United States has pledged billions to help rebuild my country. A few tens of millions diverted from the total will never be missed. Redirecting funds has always been a KGB specialty. Idt is satisfactory answer?”

The Old Man of the Mountain nodded. “Quite satisfactory. Loki, the bidding continues with you.”

“Sixty-six million,” said the Norse deity. He paused for a second, then continued speaking. “Might not the same query be raised for the Lord of the Lions? He is not financed by an independent nation. What is his source of funds?”

“They’re starling to aim for the jugular,” whispered Hugo in Jack’s ear. “Watch for the fireworks. Nergal ain’t the type of God who takes insults well.”

“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.”