A Calculated Magic

34

“Finally,” said the Crouching One, as the elevator stopped at the third floor. “Vengeance is mine.”

“Where did you pick up that line?” asked Roger, astonished. “Reading the Bible?”

“No,” said the demigod, “Mickey Spillane. You had several paperbacks by him in your library. I found his work eminently entertaining.”

The elevator door slid open. Slowly, dramatically, the Crouching One shuffled out of the lift into the throne room. Roger sighed. The Lord of the Lions was capable of walking at a brisk pace when necessary. Tonight, it was deliberately slowing down to a crawl. The demigod had an overwhelming passion for the melodramatic. It enjoyed making everyone else wait.

“Ah, my honored guest,” said Hasan al-Sabbah, the annoyance in his eyes belaying his pleasant greetings. “We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. The auction is scheduled to begin in minutes.”

“Very good,” said the Crouching One, smugly. “I’m glad we are not late.”

Rub it in, thought Roger.

As his mentor and the Old Man of the Mountain sparred verbally, he visually swept the room, trying to place the other participants in the auction. Roger disliked the unexpected. His master spell was aimed at the supernaturals in the chamber. He wanted a good distance between himself and any mortals present. Once the magical beings had been put in their place, the gun in his pocket would ensure the obedience of his fellow humans. If they were all in his line of fire.

The first group he spotted was Loki and his two frost giants standing in front of the punch bowl. The dark-haired Norse deity looked nervous. Roger wasn’t very surprised. According to the Crouching One, Loki put up a brave front but was a coward at heart. He was acting as an agent for an Eastern European nation that wanted the plague virus for “ethnic cleansing,” Among mortals, Loki commanded fear and respect. In the presence of Hasan al-Sabbah and Nergal, Ruler of the Underworld, the Sly One shrank to insignificance. The frost giants were immense but had the brains of snowmen. Roger dismissed Loki and his icy companions as unimportant.

Close by the trickster, a massive middle-aged man dressed in a suit several sizes too small waited passively, arms folded across his barrel chest. He looked bored. Roger guessed that this was the Russian emissary, Boris Bronsky. He didn’t know much about the new player in the game, but it seemed very unlikely that Bronsky could do much to affect the outcome of the evening’s events. He was too late on the scene to have any major influence on the scenario Roger had carefully constructed. The sight of a gun would probably turn him into a quivering lump of Jell-O. Besides, big and fat, the man resembled a ponderous old bear. Roger, no fan of animals, discharged Bronsky as a minor annoyance.

Roger’s gaze drifted to the center of the chamber. Located next to Hasan al-Sabbah's gigantic obsidian throne was a small folding table. It was covered with a jet black tablecloth. Displayed there was a small glass vial and a stack of papers bound by several rubber bands. The infamous legacy of Sergei Karsnov. Behind the table stood al-Sabbah’s neon red Afreet. The ferocious guard watched the two treasures with unwavering eyes. The genie’s presence at the auction supposedly guaranteed the integrity of the affair. Patting the folded paper in his pocket, Roger thought otherwise.

Actually, the Afreet was the only supernatural entity present who worried him. The genie moved incredibly fast. Roger’s spell froze all magical beings in place after the first two lines were read aloud. He planned to distance himself far enough away from the Old Man of the Mountain and the Crouching One so that neither of them could reach him before he uttered the necessary words. But the genie could.

Working in Roger’s favor was the fact that the genie possessed the intellect of a stone. It never acted without orders. Unless al-Sabbah commanded him to stop Roger, the Afreet wouldn’t act. Roger counted on the notion not striking the Old Man of the Mountain until it was too late.

Loitering not far from the display were the two representatives from the Brotherhood of Holy Destruction. Preferring anonymity, they hid their identities behind the ludicrous aliases of Smith and Wesson. The Old Man of the Mountain had introduced them to Roger earlier in the evening. He had not been impressed. Typical fanatics, they acted as if the world revolved around their mission. Sneering, they had called him “a bloated, capitalist warmonger,” Roger didn’t mind. He had been called worse by business rivals. Once he controlled the plague virus, their tune would change quickly enough.

The final pair of guests at the auction he had never seen before. These were the representatives of The Man, the villainous loan shark who frightened even the Old Man of the Mountain. Roger studied the mismatched duo with growing comprehension. A tall, slender young man and a stunning black woman, their appearance confirmed his earlier suspicions. Hasan might think the two spoke for the crime boss, but Roger knew the truth. His postcard had done the trick. There was no doubt in his mind that he was looking at Jack Collins and Cassandra Cole. They were attending the auction as honored guests of their most dangerous foe.

Roger drew in a deep breath. As expected, Collins hadn’t disappointed him. But the Logical Magician’s presence at the event no longer mattered. Roger had complete control of the situation. He chuckled and tilted his head slightly in Collins’s direction.

“You find this occasion amusing?” asked the Crouching One, as al-Sabbah departed to inform his other guests that the auction was about to begin. “That is the first time I have heard you laugh in weeks.”

“I’m just relieved that the Old Man of the Mountain isn’t forcing everyone to sit on cushions,” said Roger. “My back still aches from our previous visit.”

“Hasan wants his guests comfortable,” said the Crouching One. “As if it matters.”

Roger grinned. For a change, he was in complete agreement with the Lord of the Lions. It didn’t matter what Hasan wanted. It didn’t matter at all.