by Tim LaHaye
Albie cut the engine but stayed aboard his scooter, straddling the seat and pushing it along with his feet through the narrow alleyways. Amid the sleeping drunks were also crazy men, women of ill repute, men and women with all kinds of wares for sale. All beckoned to the leather-clad, smallish man walking the quiet scooter.
Albie looked neither right nor left, catching no one’s eye. He knew where he was going and wanted it to appear so. He couldn’t avoid a modicum of pride that his business had never sunk this low. What he had done for years was illegal, of course, and no circumstance justified it. But compared to this, he had had class.
He had run an airstrip—that was his front. And his clientele had been made up as much of wealthy businessmen and pilots as it was lowlifes and crooks.
But he knew this world and its language. He needed a bad guy, someone who knew someone. Someone who had an inside track at the palace and knew where the meetings were to be held in Al Hillah. Someone who might even know where the largest ever cache of nuclear warheads was stored. Someone who, before Carpathia and his minions arrived, could get into the meeting room and bug the place, transmitting everything to a frequency accessed by only one person in the world. Only Albie and his people knew that would be Chang in Petra.
Had he more than a day to get this done, Albie might have been able to do it himself with his own contacts, people less risky, less
volatile. But there were times in a man’s life when he had to weigh his options and throw the dice. And while that analogy was foreign to his new life, this was one of those times.
________
“Please sit at the table while the door is opened briefly, Chloe,”
Jock said. The smell of the breakfasts overwhelmed her, and she sat with her back to the door.
“Right over here, Nigel, if you would.”
Jock sat facing her. He tossed her a cloth napkin and made a show of tucking his over his tie and spreading it to cover the expanse of his chest and belly. Chloe opened her napkin and laid it in her lap as Nigel set the heaping tray between them.
Nigel put a stack of pancakes in front of Jock. A pitcher of syrup. A plate of toast with butter and jelly. A large coffee cup, into which he poured steaming black coffee, and he left the pot there too. A massive plate of scrambled eggs with bacon and sausage links. He set Jock’s silver on either side of his main plate, then put knife, fork, and spoon in front of Chloe. And there she sat, only silver before her and napkin in her lap. Nigel removed the tray and left, locking the door.
Jock rubbed his hands together, grinning. “Does this look great or what? I hardly know where to begin.” He pulled each plate a little closer, then picked up his knife and fork and began manipulating the eggs into a huge first bite.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Where are my manners? Did you want to say grace? Ask a blessing? No? I will then. Thank you, Excellency, for what I am about to enjoy.”
Jock shoveled the bite of eggs into his mouth, stored it in his right cheek, followed it with half a link of sausage, and spoke with his mouth full. “Nigel must have forgot yours, eh, Chloe? Oh,
that’s right. You haven’t been a cooperative prisoner yet, have you? Well, that’s your call.”
The big man sat there, knifing, forking, spooning, smacking his lips, chugging coffee, and grinning. “Sure you don’t want some?
Huh? It’s good. I mean it. ’Sup to you. Otherwise, Nigel will keep an eye on you and that energy bar will be delivered to your cell, oh, I’d say about an hour, maybe two, after you’ve given up on it.
And energy may not be the right word. It’s designed to keep you alive until we can put you to death. There’s nutrition, but not energy per se. You’ll get to love it though, look forward to it. I mean, come on, it’s not bacon and eggs, but it’s going to be your only treat.”
________
Albie rolled up in front of a tiny structure that appeared to be a mass of incongruously faded yellow boards wired and nailed together. The padlock was conspicuous on the door, which was guarded by a tall, thin rasp of a man Albie recognized from years before. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, the name was Sahib and he was Mainyu’s former brother-in-law. Former because he was the brother of the wife Mainyu had murdered. Talk about loyalty.
Albie stepped off the scooter and thrust out a hand. Sahib ignored it and squinted at him in the darkness. “Looking to sell that bike? You came to the right place.”
“No. I want to see Mainyu, Sahib.”
That provoked a double take. “Albie?”
And now the man shook his hand. He held up a finger,
unlocked the door, and disappeared. Albie heard a low, intense conversation. A stranger emerged, hard and cold eyes darting before he hurried off.
Sahib came out, shutting the door behind him. “Two minutes, Albie,” he said, and made a motion indicating Mainyu was on the phone. “Fifty Nicks to guard your bike.”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Deal. And if it is not as I left it, I split your skull.”
“I know, Albie. Pay in advance.”
“Ten now, fifteen later.”
“Fifteen now.”
Albie peeled off the Nicks. The negotiation, even the threats, was expected. A throat clearing from behind the door spurred Sahib to usher Albie in, but as Albie followed, he saw a small woman striding their way from a similar cubbyhole a hundred feet away. “Wait,” he said. “Sahib. Watch the bike.”
“I said I would. Oh, this is just a guest who will be joining you.”
The young woman, robed head to toe, big eyed and severe looking with a 42 on her forehead, carried a satchel. Sahib pulled her in as he slid out, locking the door.
Mainyu, illuminated by a battery-powered lamp, sat behind a flimsy wood desk, a mug of something before him, his smile exhibiting surprisingly white teeth. “Albie, my friend, how are you?” he said, reaching with both hands.
“I am well, Mainyu. But I must insist that my business with you is private.”
“As usual, of course. Please, sit.”
Albie sat in a rusted metal folding chair while the woman went around the desk and pulled a wood box from a corner and sat on it, opening her satchel. Albie looked into Mainyu’s eyes and cocked his head at the woman.
“Her?” Mainyu said dismissively. “Tattoo artist. She has neither ears nor tongue.”
The woman smiled as she removed her instruments and reached in front of Mainyu to direct the lamp more squarely toward him. He lifted his chin, and she swabbed a small area on his neck where a tattoo would even the number on both sides.
“You know what they say about my tattoos, do you not, old friend?”
Albie smiled. “Everybody knows what they say.”
“So, true or not, it is effective, no?”
“Effective. Is it true, Mainyu?”
“Of course.”
“Who was your latest victim?”
“You mean who will be?”
“Sorry?”
“Sometimes I get the tattoo in advance.”
________
In spite of himself, Rayford had been dozing. And as the Gulfstream rocketed toward the States, he began digging through his bags.
“What’s up, Ray?” Mac said.
“What time is it in New Babylon?”
“Coming up on ten o’clock in the evening.”
“That makes it late morning in San Diego, and still no word.
Buck promised to call even if they just found out where she was.
You remember the main number at the palace?”
“Never knew it. Did you?”
“Once upon a time.”
“Should be easy enough to get. But no one is still there, Ray.
Need someone at Petra?”
“No. Now do you remember what David or Chang said about making these phones impossible to trace?”
“That I do remember.” He told Rayford the combination of symbols and numbers that made the satellite ph
ones appear to be coming from anywhere.
Rayford punched in the number for an international operator.
“The Global Community Palace in New Babylon, please,” he said.
“I’m ringing it for you,” the operator said, “but they have no light there just now, and you may encounter delays.”
“Thank you.”
“You have reached the Global Community Headquarters
Palace in New Babylon. Please bear with us as technical difficulties may make it impossible to answer your call immediately.”
And there came “Hail Carpathia” by the big choir again.
“Agh!”
“Global Community, how may I direct your call?”
“Krystall, please.”
“In the potentate’s office?”
“Of course.”
“Sir, it’s after hours here. Those offices are closed.”
“I know that. Her quarters, please.”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“I’ll tell her.”
“I need to know, sir, or I won’t ring someone at this time of the night.”
“If you have to know, it’s her uncle Gregory.”
“One moment.”
Mac shot Rayford a look. “Uncle Gregory?”
“Long story.”
“Long flight. I’ll look forward to it.”
“Uncle Gregory?” Krystall said, her voice thick from sleep.
“Is this line secure?” Rayford said.
“I think so. I don’t know. This isn’t my uncle, is it?”
“You know who it is.”
“You never told me.”
“You know I’m a friend.”
“I’ll know for sure if you can really help my uncle. I passed along your message.”
“You did? Is he following up?”
“I think he is.”
“Believe me, if he makes contact, our people will get him everything he needs.”
“I’m grateful, but why are you call—”
“A favor.”
“I knew it. I can’t—”
“Hear me out. I had no idea I would need anything when I talked to you. I just need information that only you can give me.”
“I can’t be giving you inf—”
“I’m not asking for much, but I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Oh, what’s the difference?” she said. “Being in trouble is no worse than being in his good graces around here.”
“I need to know if there’s been any talk of an important arrest in the United North American States. It would be a young wom—”
“Yes! Yes! Late in the day, a couple of hours after quitting time—we were still working because of the move tomorrow afternoon—Mr. Akbar came in excited about some break in San Diego. Local GC there arrested someone connected with the Judah-ites.”
“Any idea whether they are planning to—”
“That’s all I know. Really.”
“I appreciate this more than I can say, Krystall. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“What could you possibly do for me?”
“I just wish—”
“If you can’t send me a pair of eyes, I can’t think of a thing.”
SIX
THE TATtoo artist snapped on her rubber gloves and asked Mainyu Mazda in an Indian accent if he wanted anesthetic. He pulled back and looked at her.
“You never do,” she said. “Head back, chin up.”
Albie did not expect a meeting with this man in this part of this town to be other than bizarre, but neither did he dream he would have to compete with a dermatological procedure.
“Go ahead, my friend,” Mainyu said, gesturing. “You come to me why?”
Albie leaned forward, forearms on the desk, and told MM of his urgent need in Al Hillah. The woman’s battery-powered applicator emitted a loud, rapid clicking as she worked. Mainyu winced but managed to encourage Albie with “Uh-huhs” and
“Hmms.” Finally he said, “A moment, Kashmir.” The woman pulled away and busied herself with the needle in the glow of the lamp.
“It is no secret that you are not a friend of the potentate,” MM
said.
Albie smiled. “I hope it is a secret in some places.”
“Why do you not let me have Kashmir give you a loyalty mark? Any number you wish.”
“You know I cannot do that, Mainyu.”
“Oh yes. You are now a Judah-ite and believe in the evil spirits.”
“The evil sp—?”
Mainyu waved with the back of his hand. “Don’t you people believe that anyone who takes the mark of Carpathia goes to hell, something like that?”
“More important is where our loyalty lies.”
MM looked at Kashmir, then leaned back and grinned at Albie.
He laughed loudly. “You are not going to start in on me now, are you, old friend? I wondered.”
“No, you have made your choice. I am curious as to why you have a 72 and not a 216, though.”
“You think I am a friend of the international regime?”
“Well, I wond—”
“You think my mark is real? You know me better than that.”
He spat.
“But the penalty for a fake mark is worse than death,” Albie said.
“Public torture, I know,” Mainyu said. “But the GC is not interested in me except in how I can benefit them. If I were to bear the mark of the one to whom I am loyal, it would have to be the number 1. What is it our Mexican friends say, Albie? ‘Look out for número uno!’ And if I was not a benefit to the GC, I would be assigned to the Plain of Jezreel like so many millions of others.
What kind of business could I do there?”
“How do you benefit the GC?”
Kashmir dabbed at a tiny stream of blood on Mainyu’s neck.
“I am a businessman, Albie. I look for the biggest profit for the smallest expense, and right now that is bounty money.”
“You—”
“Deliver the disloyal to the Peacekeepers. Of course I do. Tell me, what is the cost of doing that kind of business? Twenty thousand Nicks a head, same price dead or alive. I find the dead more manageable. Once the victim is still, there is no danger, no escape attempt, nothing messy. With the right size plastic bag, even the car stays clean. Follow?”
“So, you are a supplier—”
“To the GC, yes, of course. If low overhead and high profit is the businessman’s mantra, what better business is there than something for nothing? They are willing to pay for something I can provide.”
Albie wondered how many unmarked victims of Mainyu’s
were Judah-ites. “My request, then,” Albie said, “does it constitute a conflict of interest for you?”
“Of course not, my friend! Not if you brought the money. I am not a friend of the GC. I am merely a business associate. My interest is profit.”
“I wasn’t sure what such services would cost.”
“Oh yes, you were. You are not out of the business that long.
And surely you didn’t expect me to commit to this without all the money up front, not when it has to be done almost immediately.”
“You have the people, the hardware, the—?”
“You know I have everything. It will be done. Provided you have the money.”
“Such a job would have cost twenty thousand Nicks a few years ago,” Albie said.
“So I assume you brought more, due to inflation and the urgent nature of the request.”
Albie hesitated.
“Sure you did, and you will not make the mistake of holding out on me, because you know how easy it would be for me to find out how much you have with you.”
“Of course. I brought thirty thousand Nicks.”
“Hmm.”
“Surely that’s enough. Fifty percent more than before has to cover inflation and the rush.”
“It’s not enough,” Mainyu said. “It’s twenty thousand short.”
/>
Albie assumed the deal was about to go down. They were in the haggling stage, and anything other than a vigorous argument
from both sides would show disrespect. “Thirty thousand is all I brought, and all I am willing to pay.”
“Uh-huh. And is it all on your person or did you leave some on your bike?”
“You know better than that, Mainyu. Who leaves cash in the alley here?”
Mainyu laughed. “Sahib!”
The tall man unlocked the door and entered.
“How much is our friend paying you to watch his bike?”
“Twenty-five.”
“How much does he owe?”
“Ten.”
Mainyu turned to Albie. “Do you have thirty thousand plus the ten you owe Sahib?”
“Yes.”
“Any more?”
“Spare change for the trip home.”
“Let me see the thirty thousand.”
Albie reached inside his jacket and produced a brick of bills wrapped in cellophane.
“Now the ten you owe Sahib.”
Albie slapped a ten on the table.
“Now your spare change.”
From his left pocket Albie produced a wad of bills and coins.
“Maybe another fifteen-plus,” he said.
Mainyu pressed his lips together and cocked his head, arching his eyebrows at Albie. “We are still twenty thousand apart,” he said.
“I said thirty thousand is all I’m willing to pay.”
“Then we have a problem. What are we going to do about the other twenty?”
Albie fought a grin. Mainyu had always driven a hard bargain.
“You’re serious,” Albie said. “You won’t do it for thirty? You want me to take my business elsewhere?”
“Oh no! And pass up what’s before me? No!”
“It’ll be done, then?”
“It’s already done, my friend. Something for nothing. Fifty thousand and change for virtually no overhead.”
“Fifty?”
“Kashmir, call the palace for me, will you? Get Mr. Akbar.
Sahib? Remember what I have been teaching you about the business? Creative solutions for getting to where a deal makes sense?”
