Nosferatu

26

Serrin was hugely relieved when they reached the hotel, where Michael had booked them a four-bedroom suite. The trid screen on the wall of the salon was the biggest he'd ever seen.

"This is class," he admitted reluctantly while Michael burrowed into the fake mahogany bar for beers. "I think we've got three options," the Englishman said, forcing the top off a bottle and taking a long drink.

"One: we find the most efficient-looking mercenaries money can buy before midnight. We've got to move that fast. Taking any longer will give people more time to start checking us out more closely. Not a complication we want. I can spread enough money around to buy us quality, but let's face it, you can't pay anyone enough to risk his life against a nosferatu."

"A nosferatu mage," Serrin said.

"We don't know that for sure," Michael replied. Serrin's look told him to take some things on trust.

"But mercenaries might cut and run," Michael continued. "Which wouldn't be very convenient for us. That leaves us two other possibilities. One I've already discounted, but I'd like to mention it so you can follow my thinking."

He's back in form, Serrin thought. He has that hypo-manic glint in his eye, and I think he actually believes his line that Englishmen are almost bulletproof.

"Forgive me for this one, but it's Humanis."

Tom was half-out of his chair when Michael, genuinely afraid that the troll might deck him with a watermelon-sized fist, waved him back.

"I said I'd discounted that. It's just that the master race would die willingly to deal with the problem we've got. We might not even have to pay them. Come on, be fair, you have to admit they'd be motivated."

"I've put about maybe a dozen of those guys into the ground over the years and I'm not ashamed to say I've never lost a minute's sleep over it," Tom growled.

"That leaves us a third possibility. There's the Ork Liberation Army. I should say the Ork Anarchic Commune, the Wardogs, half a dozen of 'em, but it's the same thing. Orks are a quarter of the population here. The real activists divide into two groups. One bunch, the ones I've mentioned, are hard guys, but they protect what they've got and work to get a bigger slice. They're organized, so there's a general ork policlub. The other bunch are the ones to avoid. The Horde. They just like killing anything that doesn't look like a big, bad ork. The trick is to recruit from the former and not from the latter."

"Can we do that?" Serrin wondered.

"There's a bar, the Meld In, in Grenzstrasse. Ironically enough, it's a hangout for Berliners who actually want to improve relations between metatypes. Won't find any Horde members there. But we'll find everyone else. Now this is a tricky one. We need types smart enough to be enraged by the idea of what Luther's doing, while avoiding the ones so over-motivated that they'll want to rip our heads off first."

"Why orks, specifically?" Tom asked.

"Just because they're the most numerous and best-equipped muscle available here. But, slot, if there are

dwarfs, trolls, or anyone else willing to come along and help us out, the more the better. The other good thing about orks is that they'll keep it to themselves."

"And what about me?" Serrin asked. "We're going to ask them to blow away a megalomaniacal elven racist, and here's an elf asking them to do it. Isn't that going to look rather suspicious?"

"No," Michael said slowly. "Not if they see you're really there with Kristen." Avoiding Serrin's uncomfortable look, he continued. "Look, let's do a quick inventory on ourselves. One troll. One elf. One white man. One black woman. Are we a plausible group for furthering some kind of racist plot?"

"Probably not," Serrin agreed.

"No. We're actually not an unlikely collection of folks to oppose that very thing."

"Maybe it would be better if Serrin didn't actually go along to meet the orks. Your logic is right," Tom told Michael, "but life isn't logical."

"More's the pity," Michael said dryly. "No. I don't want to deceive them, even by omission. We go in on this together. That's what we'll be asking them to do."

"What about a compromise? Maybe I arrive a little later at this Meld place? Without me around, it might be easier for you to prepare the ground," Serrin offered.

"Good idea. Now, let's start making a shopping list of what we're going to need in the way of hardware. Sadly, not even in Berlin can we lay our hands on a tacnuke not in the time we have available to us but apart from that we've got enough money to get what we want."

Michael began to unpack his cyberdeck from its travel case. "I think I should also investigate some places less well-known than Meld In. Shouldn't take more than half an hour.

"While I'm doing that, maybe Tom could hit the place and just kick back, have a drink, be seen. Then, when we go back, it will look like we've sent someone to scope matters out and that we like what we heard. When the time comes to parlay, it might get us some respect, like we know what we're doing."

"Makes sense," the troll said, getting to his feet. "Where is this place again?"

Michael gave him the exact address. "Hang around for half an hour maybe. Try not to look obvious, like you're checking everyone out."

"Look, chummer, I may not be smart, but I'm not dumb either," Tom retorted.

"Sorry," Michael said sheepishly. "I'm just a bit twitchy, that's all."

When Tom had gone, Serrin questioned Michael as he was rigging up the Fuchi. "Look, why should you go along on this? You're no samurai."

"I'm a damn good shot with the Predator, though. Come on, I live in New York. It's basic survival instinct, old boy. Anyway, I intend to stay behind the front line. Isn't that the same deal you made with Kristen?"

Serrin looked ruefully at the Englishman. Once again, he'd proven to be one step ahead in his guesswork. It would be nice if he would only guess wrong now and again.

Michael readied himself to jack in. "Now, let's find ourselves somewhere to buy things that make pleasingly big explosions."

Despite some initial qualms, Tom immediately felt at home in the bar. He'd hardly gotten through the door before various people had forced at least a half dozen pamphlets into his hands, each espousing the virtues of racial co-existence in all its many-faceted glory. He judged that the capabilities of the eager, but innocuous-looking, clientele probably didn't match the grandiose ambitions in the pamphlets. Somehow it seemed wrong to sit in a German beer cellar with a mineral water, so he ordered a stein of the alcohol-free variety. Back in UCAS, alcohol-free beer tasted like devil rat piss, but surely that couldn't be true in Germany.

The troll's eyes widened as he took a gulp, then studied the half-empty stein. It was excellent. Yeast and hops, barley and something indefinable hit his taste buds. He was just pondering ordering another when all hell suddenly broke loose in the doorway. Shock waves rippled through the bar and Tom was hurled off his chair. He hit the ground hard, dazedly taking in the faces and metal and fire sprouting around the door, the screaming in German and the hefting guns ready to follow up the concussion-grenade hit. Broken glass and shards of furniture flew around him. He dimly felt one or two cuts on his arms, but nothing hit him in the face.

The Roomsweeper wasn't the right weapon under the circumstances. He should have had a pistol for standing outside and dumping heat inside rather than the other way around, but he rolled with it, took aim and emptied the clip in the direction of the doorway. He could only hope that everyone originally within it had been blown far enough by the shock wave to be out of the arc of fire.

Smoke obscured his view by the time the clip was empty. Gunfire chattered all around, echoing off the walls, deafening everyone. Half a dozen bleeding bodies lay, some at horribly unnatural angles, on the floor. Looking up, Tom saw a female ork swaying and muttering as she cast a spell. Then a bolt of fire ripped through the doorway and hurtled into the street outside. The effects weren't visible through the smoke, but the screams were audible even over the yelling and shooting inside the bar.

Welcome to Berlin, Tom thought. He'd been told it was anarchy. Michael wasn't kidding.

Someone had managed to slam the bar door shut and was drawing metal bolts the thickness of a troll's arm across. Noting that the door was lined with metal on the inside, Tom guessed that they must be used to raids here. Unfortunately, there was a distinct lack of communication among the beseiged, because while the elf was busy bolting the door, a hefty ork with an SMG had just smashed a window and was pouring machine-gun fire into the street outside.

Managing to get onto all fours, Tom looked up again, breathing heavily. He found the female ork watching him. That she was a Cat shaman was immediately obvious. Tom had no need to do any assensing. Her black eyes widened as she looked at him, and then she started to shout. He could barely hear her, still mostly deafened, but what difference did it make? She was probably speaking German, so he wouldn't have understood a word of it anyway.

Grabbing him by the braid, she yanked him upright. She started to shout to him, but when he mumbled, "Sorry, don't understand," and looked at her helplessly, she simply pointed to the back of the room. Two orks had already opened a trap door in the floor, and most of the bar's clientele was pouring through it and down the stairs. Tom got up and followed them.

Michael sat quietly in the Tarantel, sipping his Gewurtztraminer, looking around for a plausible candidate to approach. This unassuming little bar was rumored to be the principal hangout for arms dealers from all over

Europe. Among those present, the Brits and Arabs would be the major players, here to make deals in the millions. The South Americans looked like their probable customers. Wearing suits as classy as his, they were hardly what he was looking for. He had deliberately dressed to look like one of the big boys, thinking it would permit him to make the approach rather than having to field a lot of queries. But that wasn't the way it worked out.

"Is it possible I might be able to interest you in something?" a lazy voice came from behind him. The voice might have been taken for German by some, but Michael guessed the man was more likely an Austrian. Maybe Czech. Whatever. All that mattered was what he had for sale.

"Possibly. I am not interested in items on such a scale as you might imagine," he said coolly.

The man sat down next to him at the nondescript bar. The plain wooden tables and chairs revealed nothing particularly unusual about the place, but the six troll security guards inside and outside the door gave a better indication of the Tarantel's selectivity.

"Well, perhaps that is to the good. I prefer not to deal with suppliers of bulk commodities," the man smiled. His beard hid most of his face, and his eyes were invisible behind shades that Michael judged a little too ostentatious even for this group. His paunch said that he shouldn't wear trousers quite so close-fitting, but the silk shirt was understated and his tie a plain dark blue under the well-cut blazer.

"I'm interested in obtaining basic supplies for a number of people," Michael said, sipping again. "And one or two less basic items."

"Sounds as if I might be able to help you," the man said. "You can call me Walter."

"And you can call me James," Michael replied. "I would like to deal with the unusual items first, unless you'd prefer otherwise. I'm not exactly sure how many of the basics I shall need, but I could firm up any arrangement a little later this evening. Do you have the basics really available?"

"Mr. James," the man replied, "I have an excellent

range of off-the-rack basic items suitable for most occasions."

Michael grinned and began to contemplate his shopping list. He didn't see the red-haired elf in the shadows, and wouldn't have known who he was if he had. He'd never seen Magellan before.

The elf sat very quietly, stunned by the unbelievable good luck of it. His eyes never left the Englishman's back.

Tom did not, by and large, enjoy sewers. He'd investigated a few of Seattle's at closer proximity than he'd cared for and they weren't to his liking. Those in Berlin weren't much different.

The Cat shaman had stayed fairly close by, keeping an eye on him. Various clumps of people had disappeared in various directions, and Tom noticed that the groups were divided, for the most part, by race. So much for improving relations and integration, he thought glumly. That put him in the middle of a group of a dozen or so orks. The Cat shaman turned to the ork who'd enjoyed himself machine-gunning the street.

"Gunther, we have a visitor, if you hadn't noticed," the shaman said in delicately accented English. The ork looked Tom over with some dislike.

"Rather dangerous using that thing," she said, pointing to Tom's pistol. "You could have killed some of us."

"You'd all been blown away from the door," Tom replied. "It wasn't that dangerous. What, you wanted me to stop and take a body count first?"

She looked at him warily. He guessed she'd already assensed him, but couldn't guess what her reaction might have been. Cat shamans weren't predictable that way.

"What were you doing at Meld In?" she asked. "You seemed to be looking the place over. Why?"

"That's a long story," he said carefully. "Who were the people who attacked you?"

"Kreutzritters. How you say, religious fanatics. Disposing of heretics," she sneered. "They usually prey on people like you, though. They haven't dared strike at us

before. They're going to pay for it, and sooner than they think.

"But, tell me, who are you and why were you in the bar?"

Tom told her his name and wondered how to begin the tale. "Look, this is tough. I came to see if I could buy heat for something very, very important. The money's no problem."

From the sneer on her face, Tom realized that his appearance wasn't that of someone who had a few hundred grand to spend.

"I have friends. I came alone to see what I could see. If I saw good things, we'd all come back and do some talking. Believe me, we've got the money," he said.

"Who you after?"

"A racist. A madman. He's got to be stopped," Tom said rather lamely.

She looked dismissive. "Berlin's full of them. You just met one bunch. What's so special about yours?"

"What's special is that he doesn't come armed with guns and grenades. He's cooked up a virus. A plague. A plague that leaves his race alive and destroys the rest."

"We hear stories like that all the time," the ork shaman said. "Another bunch of bulldrek. Why listen to this one?"

"Because my friends have a six-figure offer that says you ought to consider the job."

Gunther gave Tom a long, hard look. Tom guessed that they wanted to believe him. Who wouldn't?

"All I ask is that you meet my friends. We can talk," Tom pleaded. "The money comes up front too."

"We can talk," the shaman said slowly. "Head down Grenzstrasse to the end. Gunther will be there. The polizei will be gone if we wait a while. Say, in an hour and a half?"

"Should be fine," Tom agreed. "Now, how do I get out of here?"

When he got off the plane in Munich, Niall bought a large-scale map of Bavaria, hired a car, then began trying to navigate city traffic. The latter was an experience he

wasn't enjoying at all. It had been a long time since he'd done any driving outside of rural Tir na n6g, and the sheer number of autos and trucks all around him made him sweat. He kept to twenty miles an hour while looking desperately around for signs telling him how to get to the autobahn for Regensburg. Then, poring over the map at a conveniently red traffic light, he realized there wasn't one.

I should have flown to Nuremburg, he thought miserably. Now it looks like I head for Ingolstadt, and take the road from there. That looks the fastest route.

His wristwatch told him it was half an hour later than he'd hoped. Then a blaring horn told him he ought to get the car in gear and move.

He just missed crashing into the Westwind as it braked in front of him, his mind too full of how to disguise any final approach, how to use the cauldron's stored power, what elementals or spirits should be conjured and summoned, how to discover what guards and barriers Luther had amp;

But if Niall was going to try to get anywhere in one piece, he'd have to stop thinking and start paying attention. All the planning in the world wouldn't do him any good if he became a strawberry stain on the road. Carefully, he crawled the vehicle through the choked traffic jams of Munich, following the signs for Ingolstadt.

"Fine," Michael said quietly. "The patches are good, which makes me like the deal. Pity about the respirators, though. I would have gone high for that."

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Anti-viral I can't do. No one has that kind of thing to hand. Give me a week and it could be done, but that's very specialist. What you're getting will filter out gases and bacteria, and that usually only comes with the big money deals."

"Okay. We agree to sixty-five for the specialist requirements. You can have them for us by ten tonight?" The man nodded agreement. "You've got my number. Call me at nine-thirty to arrange a pick-up point. Now, the small matter of the deposit."

"Fifty per cent," Walter said flatly.

"High for a sixty-five-grand deal," Michael retorted.

"If I reneged on deals and took off with the money, I wouldn't be sitting here," the man said. "I'd be a dead man. In my business, cheating people doesn't pay. Rip them off now and then, sure, but not cheating. I work on percentages. No percentage in that."

Michael grinned. "Well, look, say a deposit of thirty in round numbers. I got credsticks charged in tens. That square with you?"

"That'll do. A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. James. When I call, you let me know what numbers of basics you need, the pistols and armor, and we'll agree on a final price, right? I only need thirty minutes to round those up. Like I said, it's a pleasure doing business with you."

The man finished his drink, picked up the folded newspaper in which Michael had discreetly placed the credsticks, and left without another word. Michael paid the bill, then collected his cashmere coat, and also headed for the door, intending to hail a cab.

Unfortunately, he never got that far.

As he fell, dimly aware of what was happening to him, he clutched at his coat pocket and squeezed the little metal card inside it. The last phone call he'd made from New York had been worth every last cent. Behind him, the elf vanished into the shadows of the back alley, fleeing from the shouts and screams, desperate for a door to get through, any damn door in sight.

He found one.

Tom was prowling up and down in the suite at the Metroplitan, waiting for Michael's return. Time was beginning to get short. The printer connected to the Fuchi began to chatter. Serrin looked at the troll and waited for the paper feed to deliver the pre-scripted message to him.

Hi there. I'm afraid something nasty has happened to me. If this is triggered, it means the BuMoNa medical service has picked me up. Getting insured was the right move. You 'II have to contact BuMoNa to find out where I am and whether I'm still alive or not. If I'm dead, it was

nice knowing you all. By the way, all the money is in bills and credsticks in the laminated suitcase.

Disbelievingly, Serrin tapped in the number of the German medical service. After an initial inquiry, he was reduced to a string of mumbled yes's and no's. Finally, he hit the Disconnect key and stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to do.

"What's going on?" Tom growled. Serrin still hadn't told him what the printed message had said.

"Michael's in intensive at a hospital downtown. Shot in the back, kidney rupture, the bullet went through the spleen. Systemic shock. Spinal damage a possibility. Hit on the sidewalk outside the Tarantel."

"Fragging hell," the troll muttered.

"They want his next of kin," Serrin said quietly. Their eyes turned to Kristen. She sat uncertainly, biting on her lower lip.

"Kristen, I think you've got to go to him. If he can speak at all, maybe we can find out what happened. Tom, you and I will have to make the meet," Serrin said, his voice steely. "If we don't meet your ork, it'll hose everything. Kristen, can you manage this? Yes?"

She nodded and got slowly to her feet. "I'll do what I have to," she told him.

"So will we." Serrin felt alone, even with the others there. Until now Michael had been the planner, the one always on top of it all, and now that task had fallen to him. He also felt keenly that the Englishman might well die because of him. But Serrin didn't feel guilty. All he felt was icy anger.

"Let's get a cab," he said to Tom as he headed for the money in Michael's case, "and then let's hire every last fragging gun we can get our hands on."