Fiddleback Trilogy 1 - A Gathering Evil

by Stackpole, Michael A.

  Jytte pointed out that this strategy was a modification of 20th-century Yakuza tactics employed against megacorporations in Japan. There it only had to go so far as disrupting stockholder meetings. Because the Japanese could not stand open conflict, they would pay the Yakuza off to keep them out. In the United States, causing a disruption of business was necessary to shake anything loose, and the tactic had been applied by other companies in Chicago, New York and Miami with apparent effectiveness.

  It did not take her long to cross-correlate employment records of Build-more's staff with places where this tactic had been used to come up with a candidate for employing it here. Barney Kourvik had worked with all the companies who had employed the tactic and had, most recently, been employed as a consultant by Build-more to school them in how to defeat that sort of thing. Build-more officials apparently feared that Lorica would start using strong-arm tactics to increase their power in Phoenix.

  His star pupil and liaison with the company was Sinclair MacNeal, one of four sons of Build-more's tyrannical founder Darius MacNeal. Sinclair had managed to be disowned once already and had spent time in Japan working for a corporation whose interests clearly conflicted with those of his father's company. He rejoined the company three years ago as a security specialist and had finally risen to the number-two spot in that department. It seemed very apparent that Sinclair was our man.

  "We'll have to have a talk with Mr. MacNeal, I think," I commented as the phone rang.

  Jytte answered, listened for a moment, said, "I will inform him," and hung up again. She turned to me and said, "Alejandro says Estefan Ramierez has delivered the painting. He has a few people coming over for a private viewing tonight, but thought you might like to see it this afternoon before anyone else gets a chance to look at it."

  "I would. Marit? Bat? Jytte?"

  Marit shook her head. "I'm going shopping with Dottie in a half hour, so I'll pass. I'll see what she can tell me about Sinclair MacNeal since her husband works at Build-more."

  Bat nodded.

  Jytte looked from Marit to Bat and then to me. "I cannot leave here." She headed back into her dark sanctuary, then stopped halfway through the door and turned back. "Thank you for asking."

  The three of us piled into the new Ariel Marit had rented and drove to City Center. The valet who accepted custody of the car looked a bit askance at Bat, but held his tongue and drove away without squealing the tires. Marit and I waved to Dottie up on the Level Nine, then I kissed Marit and left her at the elevator while Bat and I trekked across the mezzanine. On the other side we found the escalator that went up one level and deposited us near the Mercado.

  I noticed Bat looked around a great deal and seemed to study everything with intensity. "Have you not been here before?"

  He shook his head. "Not in public."

  "But you have been in City Center before?"

  "Once, the Bookbinder Building. Rich fan of pit fights offered me $10,000 dolmarks to fight a Thai fighter he'd flown in. Had a ring in his penthouse suite."

  "What happened?" I smiled. "I know you won."

  "Fight left the ring. I tossed the Thai through a window. Broke some other stuff, too."

  "What?"

  "Ming vase. Revere silver service. Rodin bronze." Bat furrowed his brow. "Oh, and an all-pro linebacker for the Cardinals."

  Bat cracked a bit of a smile, and I laughed openly. "So they never asked you back?"

  "You got the picture." He pointed to a cantina that was part of the Mercado. "Fought in that place down in Acapulco."

  As we followed the nearly deserted, winding street around the restaurant, Alejandro's Gallery came into view. "There it is." I gave Bat a wry grin. "You'd best try not to break anything."

  Suddenly fire blossomed in the windows and doorway of the gallery. Flames and black shot through the bars on the windows, spitting shards of glass and chunks of wooden window framing into the air. The ground shook with the thunderous detonation and one of the two doors danced madly across the cobblestone street. It smashed against the restaurant's wall as the force of the blast knocked the both of us down and shattered windows throughout the Mercado.

  Because Bat and I had been in the street and a bit back from the explosion, the only damage done to us came when we fell down. Behind us people ran from the bar in a blind panic. Clothing hung tattered on those who had been closest to the windows, with blood quickly soaking it.

  Bat got up first and pulled me to my feet. We both ran toward the gallery, but the fire raging inside burned so hot we could not approach closer than five feet from the door. Roaring flames licked up and out of the windows and doors, blackening pastel colors and making the window bars glow red-hot. I tried to look inside, but I could see nothing in the smoke and flames.

  Bat pulled me back as firefighters arrived and started spraying chemical foam in through the door. I sat down on a bench, and he stood beside me. "God in heaven, Bat, I never thought . . ."

  "They'll rule it accidental, electrical, and blame it on paint stored in the back." I saw muscles twitch at his jaw. "It was the Witch."

  "How do you know?"

  "It was you who said she had no taste in art. This gets the spider painting and gets Alejandro for bringing the other one to auction. It was her."

  I pursed my lips and nodded slowly. "Okay, you know it, and I know it. We can't prove it."

  "Don't need proof, I know it. Proof is for your friend and Nero Loring."

  "Okay, what now?"

  "I want you to meet a friend of mine." Bat grinned. "You'll like him. He sells guns."

  Bat took me to what looked like a small pawnshop nestled in the shadow of City Center. The thick coat of dust over the whole place made me feel I was walking into a museum more than any sort of viable commercial establishment. Old and tarnished musical instruments lined the left wall and a plethora of rifles the right, like soldiers preparing to battle over the battered televisions, radios and toaster ovens huddled in the middle. The glass cases ringing the walls had some pistols and a number of interesting jewelry items, but nothing like what we would require to bust Lorica open and take the Witch.

  Bat walked through the dimly lit shop like it did not exist. The teenager sitting in the cashier's cage glanced at him and buzzed him through the gateway into the back, then returned to reading an old science-fiction paperback. He paid me no attention at all.

  A left turn, then a right put us in front of a thick steel door. A periscope built above the door surveyed us, then a buzz sounded. The door unlocked with a click and Bat ushered me into a narrow spiral stairwell that led down. He had to duck his head to avoid scraping it against the low ceiling, and his broad shoulders brushed against the hole's edge as he went down.

  "Bat, I thought the ground in Phoenix was too hard to make underground construction common."

  "It is. These are old tunnels. This was once in Phoenix's Chinatown district. Opium dens."

  Bat remained half-hunched as we came out into a place that appeared, to me, to be a bunker more than any sort of shop. The walls had been covered with pegboard so they could hold up the inventory of weapons but, other than that, they were as unfinished as the ceiling. Old boards covered the floor and plywood sheets had been laid down where the original flooring had rotted away. The flooring had completely collapsed beneath a Chrysler Combat Exoskeleton in the corner. I had no idea how they'd gotten it into this hole. The former opium den had electricity and phones, but all the wiring remained exposed on thick wooden beams.

  A dwarf came waddling out from behind a counter. "Dzien dobry, Chwalibog."

  "Dzien dobry, Bronislaw." Bat's huge hand swallowed the smaller man's normally-sized one, then Bat looked over at me. "Tycho Caine, this is Bronislaw Joniak."

  I offered the dwarf my hand, and he shook it. I found his grip strong and his hand rough with calluses. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Joniak. Bat thinks you can meet our needs for some weaponry."

  The little man smoothed back brown hair and folded hi
s arms. "I deal in quality weapons, Mr. Caine. If you're looking to take down a Circle K or a 7-Eleven I have what you need upstairs."

  I shook my head. "I am a bit more ambitious than that. I need to outfit an expeditionary force of eight individuals. We will be looking at a substantial purchase—fully automatic weapons, personal side arms, ammunition, communications devices and sundry explosives. I can pay cash or gold, your choice."

  A smile slowly crept across the man's face and had taken up residence there before I mentioned money. "I like seeing someone who knows what he wants." He walked back around the counter and clambered up onto a high stool. Pulling a steno pad into his lap, he flipped to a new page and picked up a pencil. "Shall we start at the beginning?"

  I nodded. "I will need eight portable radio units with earpiece microphones, complete with batteries."

  Bronislaw scribbled. "Possible, though I may have to buy Japanese."

  "Whatever. I will need two kilos of Semitek or C-4 with 12 radio detonators, 24 unburned PROMs and the equipment needed to burn them with a voice command for detonation. I'll return any chips I don't use, as well as the burner."

  The little man looked up at me with dark eyes. "Next?"

  "Assault rifles, eight." I looked at the section of pegboard to which he pointed. On it he had mounted two dozens different models. "Bat, does Natch shoot?"

  The big man nodded. "We all do."

  "Good, let's make it easy, then. Give me eight Colt AR-15 A2 carbines. I want six full 20-shot clips loaded with duplex shells. I'll want another 2000 rounds of loose ammo for the guns, duplex as well. Possible?"

  The dwarf shrugged. "Duplex rounds are a bit difficult, but I can do it. You'll want them full-auto, correct?"

  "I'd prefer a selector that allows for single, trey-burst and full auto."

  "Done. Next?"

  "Personal side arms." I pointed to Bat. "You probably know our compatriots' tastes."

  Bat turned to study a pegboard section of the wall when the phone started to ring. Bronislaw and Bat both ignored it, which struck me as odd. What struck me as odder still was that I had an overwhelming desire to answer it. Without thinking, I snatched up the heavy receiver and held it to my ear. "Caine here."

  "It's me, El Espectro. I need to see you immediately." I recognized his voice, then a mental picture of where he was blasted into my brain, just as I had seen Loring's location in my dream. "Hurry."

  "Give me a half hour."

  "This is important."

  "So is this."

  "Very well. Hurry."

  "Later." I returned the receiver to the blocky black base. I looked up and saw both men staring at me strangely. "Well, neither of you made a move toward it."

  Bronislaw slowly shook his head. "It didn't ring."

  "Sure it did." I looked over at Bat. "It was for me."

  Bat narrowed his eyes. "Never should have gone to Sedona."

  I frowned at the phone. "Maybe I got it before it rang."

  Bat grunted. Bronislaw consulted his list. "That's two Colt .45s, four Beretta 9s and a Desert Eagle .44 Magnum for you, Bat." The dwarf turned to me. "What would you like?"

  I started to tell him that I thought my Kraits would be enough, but the image of Leich having survived as much as he had stopped me. "I want a gun that shoots a heavy cartridge that will bore a big hole. What I really want is an automatic pistol that can handle a rifle cartridge. The .44 Mag is probably the best I can do, right?"

  Bronislaw slid off the stool wearing a grin that meant the phone incident had all but been forgotten. He wandered deeper into the armory, dug around behind the Chrysler Exoskeleton, then returned bearing a rosewood box like it was a gift of the Magi. He set it up on the counter, resumed his seat, then opened it reverently.

  "This, my friend, is the answer to your desire. It is a Wildey Wolf with a 10-inch barrel. It shoots a .475 Wildey Magnum shell which is a wildcat round mating a 250-grain bullet to a rebated-rim .284 Winchester cartridge. You get seven in a magazine. The pistol, because it's gas operated and weighs just over four pounds, has less recoil than Bat's Desert Eagle. Muzzle velocity is 1750 feet per second with foot-pounds of energy coming in at 1725. If it can die, this will kill it."

  "And if it can't?"

  "One of these rounds through it, and it'll hurt enough that it will wish it could."

  I picked up the Wolf and smiled. The grip and weight felt good in my hand. Double action, ribbed barrel in a brushed-steel finish, it felt and looked like a rifle in pistol-clothing. "Sold." I returned it to the box and closed the lid.

  "Anything else?"

  "Only if you can supply close air support."

  The dwarf smiled. "Not in Eclipse." He ran down the list, checking items off as he went. "I have everything you need in stock or available for immediate delivery. You can have the complete kit tomorrow."

  "Good, I'll arrange payment . . ."

  The little man held his hand up, cutting me off. "You pay Bat. He brought you, he trusts you and, more importantly, I owe him."

  "I will do that, Mr. Joniak." I shook his hand again. "A pleasure doing business with you." I slapped Bat on the shoulder. "See you back in the conference room this evening—two hours. See if Jytte can get everyone there. We have some planning to do."

  The building on the northeast corner of 12th Street and Roosevelt looked very out of place for a number of reasons. It sat nestled in a little box canyon carved out of City Center. Unlike the area near it, this building had somehow avoided decoration by graffiti artists. Likewise the urban decay in evidence all around it had somehow passed it by. Dirt and grime and litter stained the neighborhood and even the walls of City Center, but left this place inviolate.

  The two-story building had been constructed of brick, with a plantation-style front including a double-deck porch with thick pillars. The pitched roof looked unusual amid a bed of squat, mushroom-colored houses with flat roofs, and the building very much gave the impression of having been transplanted here from another place and another time.

  I opened the gate in the wrought-iron fence and traversed the circular walkway to the front steps. I mounted them and crossed the porch, but before I could knock on the glass-paneled door, it opened for me. I stepped into a small foyer, and the door closed behind me, leaving me alone with two animals that looked like Doberman pinschers but possessed the bulk and height of Irish wolfhounds. Their sheer size combined with their low growls and an ugly red glow in their eyes to make me wish I'd not left the Wildey Wolf behind.

  "Kara, Amhas," I heard El Espectro's voice call from elsewhere, "Bring Mr. Caine to me."

  One of the dogs approached and took my left hand gently in its mouth while the other circled around behind me and leaned against the back of my legs. Given a choice between moving forward or becoming kibble and bits, I went with the animals. The lead dog, Kara, let go of my hand and mounted the stairs on the right side of a narrow hallway leading back into the house. I followed up the steep stairs and found the dog waiting in the doorway of a darkened room.

  An antique four-poster bed dominated the slant-ceilinged room. A man I took for El Espectro lay on the bed in a dressing gown with his left arm in a sling. He had been propped up on a whole stack of pillows, and the light on the nightstand beside his bed sank half his face into impenetrable shadow. A thick book with yellowed pages lay open on his lap and reading glasses sat perched on the end of his nose.

  I noticed two peculiar things about him that surprised me very much. The first was that he wore pearl-gray gloves. That was odd, but I'd heard of people who had an obsession with cleanliness—which, combined with the dogs, went a long way toward explaining the immaculate conditions outside his house. That was a personal quirk and nothing I couldn't live with.

  The second and far more startling thing, to me, was his age. When I had seen El Espectro in my dreams and in the Draoling dimension, he had only been a black silhouette, but it was a silhouette of a much younger man. The El Espectro lying on the bed had w
hite hair on his head and in his goatee and moustache. His green eyes still had plenty of fire in them, but his body had thickened, and dark bags underscored his eyes.

  He gestured toward a chair at a small writing desk in the corner, and it slid across the hardwood floor toward the foot of the bed. "Please, be seated."

  I accepted his offer, and the two dogs flanked me. They laid down, but I had no doubt that at a single command they would rise up and tear me to pieces. "I'm here."

  "So you are." He smiled at me in a most curious manner, then removed his glasses and set them on the night table. "Permit me to introduce myself."