A Calculated Magic lm-2 Page 10

  Jack shook his head in disbelief. He had never considered that songs might generate enough belief to bring their characters to life. Evidently, they did.

  Big John handled their four heavy bags as if they were weightless. He guided them outside, to a huge white stretch limo. “Make yourself comfortable. The Seven Wonders is on the other side of the city. It’s about a half-hour ride. There’s a full stocked bar if you care for a drink. And a TV set.”

  Jack settled into a plush seat and poured himself a Coke. Adjusting to the good life wasn’t very difficult. Next to him, Cassandra wrenched off her boots with a grunt of relief.

  “I thought John Henry died of a broken heart after battling a steel-driving machine?” said Jack, as they cruised along the highway. It seemed unlikely that the hero of a folk song could be evil, and Jack was curious about the being’s origins.

  The driver chuckled. “Rose-colored contact lenses, huh? I heard they existed but never met anyone wearing them. Pretty neat.” He paused for an instant, then continued, “You got me mixed up with the wrong character. My namesake perished just as you stated. I’m the hero of that Jimmy Dean song, popular in the late 1950s. He never actually killed me, and in a sequel song, an old girlfriend rode into town and rescued me. So many people believed it was a true story, I came to life.”

  Big John sighed. “The Delta Queen left years ago. She abandoned me to pursue a career as a backup singer for Motown. With the mines shutting down all over the country, I moved to Vegas for the sun. Hacked a cab for years. Finally I earned enough money to buy a limo and start my own business. Type of people that come to this town enjoy traveling first class. At least the ones heading to the hotels. Returning to the airport, they take a cab.

  “It’s a pleasant existence. Nobody messes with a man my size. And it sure beats the hell out of being buried at the bottom of a cave-in.”

  They chatted about life in the gambling capital for the next twenty minutes. Big John knew nothing about other supernaturals in the city. An easygoing giant, he was content earning a living and sampling the world’s basic pleasures. That he had been created by a hit song becoming part of modern urban folklore set Jack’s mind reeling.

  If Big John existed, what other modern folk legends might also walk the Earth? There were numerous books detailing common urban myths. It was quite possible that many of the unusual characters they described had been given life by mankind’s collective subconscious. Jack found the concept both exciting and disturbing.

  The lobby of the Seven Wonders of the World Resort was the size of a naval shipyard—a large naval shipyard. As they deposited their luggage with a bellman, Big John warned, “Don’t forget to get a map of the hotel when you check in. People have been lost for days searching for their room. Good luck. Win big.”

  “Holy Athena,” whispered Cassandra as they slowly strolled past row after row of slot machines that lined the path to the front desk. She nodded her head at a huge white marble statue in the southwest corner of the immense atrium. “That’s a perfect copy of the statue of Jupiter by Phidias. I saw it at Olympia two thousand years ago.”

  “Whoever built this palace didn’t spare any expense,” replied Jack softly. “I wonder who he used to design the exhibits.”

  Taking Cassandra firmly by one elbow, he steered her to the registration center. Standing still and gawking at the scenery established them as tourists, not high rollers. While there were several thousand people in the lobby, not one of them was paying any attention to the incredible decorations. Pips, grapes, cherries, oranges, and dollar signs were the only things that interested them.

  “That’s a re-creation of the Great Lighthouse of Alexandria,” murmured Cassandra as they continued past a hundred-foot-tall refreshment center. “In the northeast, on a direct diagonal from Jupiter, stands the Colossus of Rhodes.”

  “No need to question where they put the rest of the sights,” said Jack, as they stepped up to a vacant window at the registration desk. Behind the check-in center was a huge map of the entire complex. It listed each of the seven wonders and prominently displayed their location.

  Quite properly, the Tomb of Mausolus, King of Caria, was one level beneath their feet. Instead of serving as an elaborate mausoleum, the floor contained dozens of boutiques, shops, and video game arcades. It was a mini-shopping mall for the entire resort complex.

  Restaurants were located at the fabulous Temple of Diana at the rear of the casino. A sign posted at the desk proclaimed it served “food fit for a God at prices designed for mere mortals.”

  The outer buildings containing all of the guest chambers were designed in the shape of pyramids. The higher one’s elevation in the structure, the more expensive the room. Jack was not particularly surprised to learn their quarters were at the apex of Khufu’s Tomb, an exact replica of the Great Pyramid of Giza.

  “The Hanging Gardens of Babylon are to the rear of the hotel,” their bellman informed them twenty minutes later, as he turned on the lights of their suits. Big John hadn’t lied about the size of the complex. Without a guide, they would never have found the room. The resort was the only hotel Jack had ever visited that featured moving sidewalks. And needed them.

  “That’s also where the golf range and tennis courts are located,” continued the bellman as he deposited their luggage on racks in the huge bedroom. “At night, they feature a big fireworks display there that you can see from this window.”

  “Incredible,” said Jack, examining the well-stocked refrigerator in the parlor. After the long walk from the lobby, he needed a Coke, Reaching into his wallet, he pulled out a fifty and handed it to the bellman. “This place exceeds my wildest dreams.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” said the bellman, grinning, as he made the bill disappear. He glanced at Cassandra and rolled his eyes. “Not that you’re in need of any other physical delights, sir. However, in case you desire to sample a truly unique experience, you might make confidential inquiries at the desk about the Eighth Wonder of the World. It’s only available to the highest rollers. From what I’ve heard, it’s like visiting paradise.”

  “Thanks,” said Jack, his heart thumping like a trip-hammer. “Maybe I will,” He ushered the bellman out of the room. “I appreciate the thought.”

  Once the man had left the room, Jack turned to Cassandra. “Paradise on Earth? I believe we’ve just confirmed that the Old Man of the Mountain makes his headquarters in this hotel. Now the fun really starts.”

  14

  Stretched out on several wide cushions strewn across the floor, Roger reflected on how much he disliked sitting on cushions on the floor. However, he wisely refrained from expressing his opinions. The two entities present with him in the chamber were not in any mood to discuss his discomforts. In life, there was a time to speak and a time to remain silent. This was definitely one of the silent periods.

  They were in a huge throne room, fifty feet square, forty feet high, decorated lavishly in ivory and gold, on the top of the Seven Wonders of the World Resort. The ceiling consisted of a gigantic mosaic of colored glass, effectively filtering the sunlight into a rainbow that ended on the only chair in the chamber—a massive obsidian throne, decorated with leering white skulls. Seated on the chair was the master of the complex, the Old Man of the Mountain. Pacing back and forth in front of him was Roger’s boss, the Lord of the Lions. The two were in the middle of a particularly heated disagreement.

  Neither figure’s voice was raised in anger. Instead, they spoke softly, almost in whispers. It was all a matter of style, Roger concluded. The Old Man of the Mountain and the Lion Lord were very similar in nature. When their tempers rose, their voices dropped. Only the icy coldness of their tones indicated their true feelings. And the flurry of blue sparks that cascaded off the Crouching One’s forehead as he walked.

  “Explain to me again,” said the Lord of the Lions, his catlike features twisted with rage, “the purpose of this… auction.”

  “I’ve delineated the reasons b
ehind my decision several times already,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. Thin almost to the point of emaciation, he wore a simple white robe belted by a black drawstring at the waist. His face resembled that of a skeleton, with dark, brooding eyes sunk so deep into his skull that they were barely visible. His thin, bloodless lips barely moved as he spoke. The menace in his voice was unmistakable. “Business is business. We had no contract.”

  “Contract?” said the Crouching One. “Gods do not enter into covenants with murderers and assassins. We select our servants with great care and much deliberation.”

  The Old Man of the Mountain laughed and glanced at Roger. “An impressive choice,” he declared sarcastically. “Obviously, this specimen possesses numerous talents not readily apparent to my humble, untrained eyes.”

  “Mock me at your peril,” said the Lord of the Lions. “My wrath makes nations tremble.”

  “Made nations tremble,” corrected the Old Man of the Mountain. “You controlled great powers forty centuries ago. Death and destruction bowed to you then, not now.”

  “They will kneel at my feet again,” said the Crouching One. “As will the entire world. Others, in the past, have underestimated me. Do you dare risk my displeasure?”

  A flicker of indecision crossed the Old Man’s features. Rising from his throne, he walked silently across the room to a solitary wood table holding the only modern convenience in the entire chamber—a telephone. Lifting the receiver, he asked a single question.

  “Any word from the fat one?”

  The Old Man of the Mountain paused, intent on the reply. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Call me if there is any message,” he commanded, “no matter when.”

  Replacing the receiver, he turned to the Crouching One. “As I explained earlier, this resort cost several billion dollars to build. When the Chinese forced me to flee Tibet, I had to leave most of my riches behind. Unable to finance the necessary special features of this new mountain hideaway through normal channels, I then had to deal with the American supernatural underworld. Most of the money I borrowed came from a source that made even me shudder. This loan shark was a monster created by today’s fears and frustrations and was ruthless beyond measure. I hated dealing with him, but I had to have a new base of operations to survive.

  “Normally, my assassination ring generates enough income to pay off any debt without much trouble. However, over the past few years, terrorist organizations have glutted the marketplace with cheap killers. Quality work no longer matters. Dictators and despots instead prefer bargain rates over craftsmanship. Thus, I find myself in financial difficulties.”

  Roger groaned. He had heard this story three times in the past hour. While he sympathized with the Old Man of the Mountain, the Lord of the Lions was right. A deal was a deal.

  He shifted his shoulders as if trying to dislodge an imaginary weight. It felt as if some sort of bird stood close to his neck, its talons digging into the muscles of his chest. But nothing was there. Roger attributed the discomfort to muscle cramps brought on by lying on the cushions.

  “The notes come due next week. I need a great amount of cash in a very short time. My underworld contact is not very patient. Holding this auction is the answer. With the number of parties interested in obtaining the Russian’s services, I should easily raise enough money to satisfy my creditor.”

  “You kidnapped Karsnov at my command,” said the Crouching One. His narrow fingers curled into fists. Blue sparks circled his forehead. Roger steeled himself for a new outburst. “I was the one who informed you of his plague virus.”

  “Agreed,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “However, the Brotherhood of Holy Destruction provided the necessary manpower to effect the rescue. My Afreet and my magic carpet transported him out of Russia. And Loki’s network spirited him from Europe to America.”

  The Old Man of the Mountain smiled. To Roger, the Assassin lord looked like a snake about to swallow a rabbit. “Each of you has a legitimate claim to the Russian. Whoever is willing to pay the highest price will have him.”

  “Have you no respect for the ancient God of your people?” said the Crouching One, a note of desperation in its voice. “I reigned in Babylon for a millennium. Surely that must mean something to you?”

  “Not a thing,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “As a true member of the faith, I have no God hut Allah. I owe no loyalty, none whatsoever, to the Ancient Ones.”

  Regaining his throne, the Old Man of the Mountain spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture. “Please do not misunderstand me. I am only trying to be fair to all the parties concerned.”

  “And make yourself a tidy sum in the meantime,” retorted the Lord of the Lions.

  The Old Man of the Mountain shrugged. “I am an honorable man,” he declared, “but I am in business to make a profit. The auction stands as stated. If you want the Russian, you must bid for his services.”

  The Crouching One sputtered in impotent rage. Roger could sense the demigod’s frustration. Four thousand years ago it would have blasted the Old Man of the Mountain to dust for his impudence. But it was nearly powerless in the modern world. There was nothing it could do but complain.

  It might be a good time to change the topic, Roger decided. When frustrated, the demigod spent hours bitterly whining about the lack of respect it commanded. After suffering on the cushions, Roger was in no mood to endure the ranting and ravings of his tedious master.

  “You have Karsnov well guarded?” he asked. “And what about Jack Collins? Don’t underestimate him just because he’s a human being.”

  “The Russian is safe in a private gambling room above the casino,” answered the Old Man of the Mountain. “He loves to play cards. I have kept him entertained with blackjack and poker since his arrival. Nearly two dozen of my best men stand guard, inside and outside the chamber. No one, mortal or otherwise, can reach him. He is absolutely secure.”

  The Old Man of the Mountain sneered. “As to Mr. Collins, I have effectively neutralized him. My Afreet has stolen his lady love and she is our prisoner in Paradise. There she stays until after the auction. He dares not interfere or she will suffer the consequences. My agents in Chicago report on his every movement. And even if he wanted to strike against me, he has no idea where to begin searching.”

  Leaning back on the throne, the Old Man of the Mountain folded his hands across his stomach. “Collins thinks that events come to a climax at week’s end. He has no idea that the auction takes place tomorrow evening. By the time the fool learns otherwise, it will be too late.”

  The Old Man of the Mountain yelped in sudden pain and swatted the air in front of his face with his hands. “By the Prophet’s beard,” he swore. “It felt as if something pecked me on the nose.”

  Muttering to himself, the Old Man of the Mountain gently rubbed the tip of his proboscis. The skin beneath his fingers was bright red.

  “Probably a bug,” said Roger, stifling a laugh. Neither the Old Man of the Mountain nor the Crouching One knew of his postcard to the Logical Magician. Nor of his own scheme. Learning the correct pronunciation of al-Sabbah’s name provided the last bit of information to complete his formula. The two overconfident entities were destined for several rude shocks very shortly. Roger felt brazen enough to register one more warning, positive it would be ignored. “Von Bern constantly misjudged Collins. He was a dangerous opponent. With a number of powerful allies.”

  “Von Bern was a fool,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “He deserved his fate.”

  The Old Man of the Mountain clapped his hands three times. As if by magic, a dozen scantily clad women appeared from unseen doors, each carrying a tray full of food. Soft music, from an unseen band, filtered through the throne room. Roger groaned. It was the start of another one of the Old Man’s interminable banquets. More cushion time. His sore muscles shrieked in protest.

  “Hasan al-Sabbah is the master of cunning and deceit,” the Old Man of the Mountain declared, reaching for a piece of fruit.
“No one thwarts my wishes. No one. Not even a Logical Magician.”

  15

  Sprawled across the immense king-size bed that dominated the master bedroom, Jack watched Cassandra unpack and examine her weapons. The Amazon had refused to travel completely unarmed. A half dozen razor-sharp miniature Lucite throwing stars had been concealed in her boots, and her broad belt held a handful of curare-tipped darts. However, her real arsenal made the trip in their bags.

  With practiced hands, Cassandra pulled apart a folding steel luggage cart. In seconds, she disassembled it into a pair of needle-thin stilettos and a garrote. Extending the legs of a seemingly innocent camera tripod to their full length, the Amazon screwed the pieces together to form her favorite weapon—a silver-tipped fighter’s staff. Other than their clothing, everything in the suitcases bore a dual purpose, usually connected with death and destruction.

  “I should have most of my equipment ready shortly,” the Amazon announced, trying on a pair of brass knuckles. “When do you want to start exploring the premises?”

  “Not until Hugo and Mongo find us,” said Jack. “I promised the ravens I’d wait for them to show up.”

  “Like this?” asked Hugo, appearing as if by magic on Jack’s right shoulder.

  “Or this?” said Mongo, popping out of thin air on Jack’s left shoulder.

  “Very neat,” said Jack, mentally trying to force his heart to stop skipping beats. He noted that Cassandra clenched a dagger in either hand. The ravens had caught her by surprise as well. “How do you manage this trick?”

  “Simple,” said Hugo, flapping his wings as he spoke. “We control the power to make ourselves transparent. It’s like turning yourself invisible but better. We can see each other, but nobody else can.”

  “Working as spies for Odin, we needed the talent,” said Mongo, staring at Jack’s head. “Would you mind if I whisper this stuff in your ear? It would really bring back memories of the good old days.”