by Carl Sargent
“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 nOg, 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 .. .
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 yo
u 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'll 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 medicai 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.”
27
The cab carrying Serrin and Tom curb-crawled Grenzs-trasse twice before Gunther chose to reveal himself, motioning for them to get out of the auto. They paid the driver, pulled up the collars of their coats, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Serrin didn't like the weight and feel of the credsticks in his pockets, and he was desperate to hear from Kristen about how Michael was doing.
“Your friends are a bit thin on the ground, man,” the ork said to Tom as he led them across the street.
“One of them just got hit in the back after buying weapons for you guys—if you’re taking the job,” Tom replied. “He’s in intensive.”
“You bulldrekkin’ me?”
“Sure. I come here with tens in sticks and bills and we’re bulldrekking you. We even shot up our own man, right? You want us to take you to the hospital so you can see for yourself?” Serrin snapped angrily.
“All right, all right,” Gunther said. He ducked into a back alley and motioned them to follow as he rapped on a slogan-splashed door. It opened and he disappeared into the gloomy interior.
Following him in, Serrin wished that orks were more prone to using deodorant. The six samurai and the woman, the Cat shaman Tom had mentioned, were waiting with a variety of unimpressive pistols leveled at them as they entered. Their dirty jeans and frayed jackets confirmed for the eyes that they gave jack squat about personal hygiene.
“Now you tell us everything,” the shamam said. “You lie and I’ll know it. You’re masking,” she said to Serrin, “that might cover you. But I can read him just fine. Now give it ail to me.”
“Two things first,” Serrin surrendered, knowing he really didn’t have much choice. “One, we had a friend shot up real bad about thirty minutes ago and I need to make a call to find out how he is. You can enter the code, verify that it’s legit. Second, well . . He paused and ran his fingers through his hair. “This is going to be one long crazy story. You probably won’t believe half of it. All I can say is that we can pay you a hell of a lot of money to come with us and scan it for yourselves. Meaning you,” he said, meeting the shaman’s intense gaze. “You can assense the place when we get there. It’s just outside Regensburg. We want to make the hit at dawn.”
“That can be done if we start out before midnight,” the shaman said casually, turning to Tom. “We’ve got time to hear you out. Now talk, troll, and make it good.”
* * *
“You can only see him for a minute,” the nurse told her. “He’s asleep now, resting. He’s very poorly still. Please try not to disturb him.” She scowled suspiciously at the marriage registration. This scrap of a girl certainly didn’t look like a suitable match for the wealthy man who’d purchased the best coverage money could buy. His clothes, and the money inside them, didn’t speak of someone likely to marry this African waif. But the girl had the ID and the doctor had agreed to let her see the man.
Kristen was scared. The police had spoken to her only briefly here at the hospital, but they were obviously puzzled that Michael had not been robbed, which eliminated the obvious motive for the crime. She hoped desperately they weren’t going to tail her when she left.
“How is he? Is he going to be all right?” she ventured.
“Doctor Kohler can tell you that. He’ll talk to you afterward.” The nurse ushered Kristen into the room. “Take care not to disturb him. He needs to rest.”
Michael’s appearance was shocking, even though she was glad to see he was alive at all. Tubes were sticking out of his nostrils and arm, with a drip rig and the electronic technology of intensive care providing the usual dehumanizing stage for the patient. His body was wreathed in a semi-transparent plastic cocoon, a light pink fluid filtering through it. She thought she could see a couple of places where it was hooked into him, processing body fluids, oxygenating him, calibrating the serum levels of painkillers and keeping the level constant, though of course Kristen had never seen anything even remotely like this before and had no idea exactly what it did.
His eyes opened. She couldn’t hold his hand, sealed away from her as it was. She kissed him on the forehead and brushed away the hair stuck damply to his brow.
“Hi,” he said, his voice little more than a croak as she lowered her ear to his mouth to hear. “Listen, it’s vital. Record it.” She dug into her bag for the little portable disc player and recorder that he’d bought her. A ghost of a grin passed over his face at the sight of it.
Then Michael told her when to expect the call and told her Walter’s name. “Serrin take all the money to the samurai?” he managed to ask. She told him no, most of it was still there.
“If Serrin can’t call himself, you’ll have to make the meet. Take the marriage ID.” Another painful smile played over his lips. “You know where the money is?” She nodded and told him to be quiet, to rest now. The nurse was hovering in the doorway.
“Hey, kid, if I die you’re going to be a wealthy wo
man,” he said, and coughed.
“Don’t you dare say that!” She wanted so much to hug him, to throw her arms around him and make everything right. But the most she could do was touch his lips with her fingertips before the nurse ordered her to go.
Kristen stood alone in the corridor outside, smelling the eternal disinfectant reek of the hospital all around her, holding on to her bag, refusing to cry.
“Frau Sutherland?” She turned to look at the doctor, a dapper man with a fashionable haircut and something that in a different age might have been a dueling scar on his right cheek. Not on the chin, she was glad to see, remembering Serrin’s description of the man who had tried to kidnap him. He looked like the kind of doctor who probably paid more attention to pretty young nurses than to patients.
“How is he? What’s going to happen?” she blurted, feeling so helpless.
“He is stable, Frau Sutherland, that much I can say. Your husband’s injuries are not fatal unless there are unforeseen complications. He will undergo exploratory surgery tomorrow and we have a trace on a donor for a kidney transplant. The spleen damage is more serious, but his insurance covers a prosthetic implant that should fulfill almost all the functions of that organ.”
Kohler looked very pleased with himself, but only for a moment. “Unfortunately, we aren’t sure whether he’s taken spina! damage. Fragments of the bullet have lodged very close to the spine. Some we may not be able to remove even with microsurgery because it’s simply too dangerous. We won’t know until after the surgery tomorrow morning.”
“Will he be—” She didn't want to say the words. Paralyzed. Crippled. Confined to a wheelchair.
