by S. C. Stokes
“Alright. All of you around front. Let's get this lady back to the zoo before she wakes up,” Murdoch called, more for the benefit of the police than for our own edification.
The team raced around to the front of the cage and proceeded to act as the brake, ensuring that the cage didn't careen down the ramp like a runaway train. There were some things Manhattan simply wasn't ready for. A runaway cage with three hundred pounds of lioness was one of them.
With Murdoch and me bringing up the rear, we tipped the cage onto the steel runners and proceeded to roll it down to street level. As we pushed the cage toward the truck, a pair of officers approached. Erring on the side of caution, I dispatched Murdoch to deal with them, while we pushed the cage to the back of the truck.
“Hold on there. Where are you headed?” the first officer, a wiry looking fellow with a patchy beard, called out.
Murdoch bounded over to him, rocking a thousand-kilowatt smile. “Hey officer, we have to get this pretty lady back to the zoo where she belongs. We've hit her with a little juice to keep her down, but when she wakes up, it isn't going to be pretty. Best she get back where she belongs so that her first meal isn't tearing the bollocks off one of these good folk. It's a miracle none of them got eaten inside.”
The officer grimaced as his eyes followed the cage. Without skipping a beat, the team pushed it onto the truck’s lift mechanism, and raised it into the back.
“But how did she get here in the first place?”
Murdoch shrugged. “That's a great question. As far as I can tell she simply disappeared from the zoo during feeding time. The keepers there think it was some kind of prank. Who knows, maybe one of those wizards were on a tear, decided to have some fun.”
At the mention of magic, the officer backed away and crossed himself. “I hope not. We've had more than enough of that in these parts.”
“Ain't that the truth,” Murdoch replied. “I saw some weird things in the service, but most of it doesn't hold a candle to what's been going on here the last few years.”
“You were in the military?” the officer asked.
“Yes, sir. I flew for the crown during the Iraq war. Met a lot of your boys over there and they convinced me I was living on the wrong side of the Atlantic. Been working here since I got out.”
“Well, thank you for your service,” the officer said, “and thanks for dealing with her. Not sure what we were going to do about that one. Might have had to put her down.”
“Happy to help. You have a good day, officer.” Murdoch called patting the side of the truck, “We’ll get her back to the zoo.” The crew tossed the last of the steel runners into the truck and clambered into the back.
Closing the doors, I made my way around to the cab and climbed up into the passenger seat. Murdoch joined me, as the police parted the cordon and waved us through.
Murdoch stepped on the gas and eased the truck back into New York traffic.
“Now, Seth,” Murdoch began, “what do you plan on doing about the CIA?”
4
The truck lumbered through New York City traffic as we tried to put as much distance between ourselves and the museum as possible. As far as fleeing the scene of a crime goes, it was more of a wounded hobble than a true flight, but that was part of the plan. A breakneck chase through Manhattan would draw too much attention. Instead, we needed to play the stealth card and get clear of the city.
My original scheme had been to ditch the truck in a local parking structure, disband the crew, and after a quick change, stash the mask at my New York storage facility, with the rest of my more illicit artifacts. I could hardly take it home without giving up the game.
All that meant little now, and my mind raced to reassess our options. My identity was out, and the authorities knew who I truly was. My crew were safe for the time being, but everything connected to me in New York City would end up locked down.
Angering the CIA had not been on my bucket list this morning.
“Earth to Seth? Are you with us, captain?” Murdoch interrupted. “I said would you mind filling us in on what the hell happened in there?”
I let out a slow breath to calm my racing heart. “Can they hear us in the back?”
Murdoch shook his head. “Only Dizzy if she's kept her earpiece.”
“Well,” I began, pulling the cap off my head, “it would appear that we just robbed the CIA.”
“And people say I'm crazy,” Murdoch whispered, his fingers tightening a little around the wheel. “What on earth would possess you to do something that reckless? I thought you said it was a museum.”
“It was. Or at least I thought it was.”
“This is Rome all over again,” Murdoch replied.
I cringed. “We’re a far cry from Rome. The CIA still have their scruples, and they’re mortal.”
“Oh good. I’ve always preferred lead poisoning to being disemboweled by a demon. But I’m old fashioned that way.”
“I don’t know how I missed it, Murdoch.” I leaned heavily on my hand. “Lara is with them, Murdoch. She's with the CIA.”
“Women, there's always something.” Murdoch snuck a sideways glance at me. “That's why I live alone. Less people looking to punch me in the face.”
I ran my hand over my cheek and could feel the angry bruise forming there. Lara had not been gentle.
“Is it that bad?”
“It's going to be a shiner,” Murdoch said. “Guess that's what happens when you're caught with your hand in the cookie jar.”
“Hey, you're meant to be on my side.” I checked the truck’s mirrors, making sure we weren’t being followed. “Besides, it's not like she's without fault. She's running a CIA outpost and doing covert research on magical artifacts. She didn’t manage to tell me any of that while we were dating.”
Murdoch bit his lip.
“What is it?” I asked, scanning the traffic ahead for signs of danger.
Murdoch shook his head. “As far as apologies go, that's bloody awful. I hope you plan to work on it before you run into her again.”
Run into her again. The thought was as exciting as it was terrifying. Lara had softened a little as we'd talked, but how much of that was understanding and how much of it was a covert operative playing on my emotions, it was impossible to tell. She’d fooled me once. I could hardly trust my judgment where she was concerned.
“You know it was my only choice,” I said. “I'd have preferred to buy it in the first place, but they weren't interested. If it was any other artifact, I could have let it be.”
“You remind me of every addict I've ever known. Just one more, and then I'll have enough.” Murdoch rolled to a stop at a red light. “You’ve never seen a relic you didn’t want.”
He had a point. Over the years, he and I had passed through a number of death-defying schemes in my pursuit of the arcane. It was an occupational hazard for an arcanologist. Those who possessed relics seldom wished to part with them, but often the world at large was better off for it. After all, what world wanted a dictator on whom good luck always shone? Or a serial killer with a shroud of invisibility? Whether it was in the interest of the public good, or a part of my life’s quest to cure the Caldwell Curse, there was always a price to be paid. Be it in blood or suffering, the arcane was a fickle mistress and arcanologists had the life expectancy of a goldfish in a shoal of piranhas.
We were an insurance actuary’s worst nightmare.
On most days, Murdoch would be right, but today was different. The mask was not a relic I wanted; it was one that I needed. There was a difference.
“It's not Rome, Murdoch. This mask once belonged to my ancestors. It holds the key to the bane that has plagued our house for four centuries. It could save my life. Heck, if we're quick, it might even save my father.”
Murdoch's face lifted. “How so? I thought his illness was incurable?”
“We all thought that. It's why he is such a miserable old bastard all the time. It's hard to live when you have been robbed
of hope.”
“You could do worse than your old man.”
My father was the last person I wanted to talk about. No matter how much time passed, his words never would. The thought of him made me anxious, and I brushed at some lint on the pants of my disguise.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Murdoch waved me off. “When I came back from my tour, there wasn't anyone willing to give me the time of day. A veteran discharged on psychological grounds? People wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole. Your father took me in, and gave me a job. He gave me a life. You two might have your issues, but don't speak ill of him to me. The man saved my life.”
“And made you my babysitter,” I countered. “Hell of a reward for a life of service.”
Murdoch chuckled. “Not all bad though, is it now? There are a few rays of sunshine between the clouds of looming death, so it’s still a rung or two higher than a padded cell. I'll take it.”
“Don’t get too excited. There may yet be a cell in our future, albeit one with fewer amenities and considerably less hospitable staff. We need to get out of the city, now. Thoughts?”
“Well, we're only a block or two from the parking garage. We need to drop off the crew and change vehicles anyway. We were the only ones in and out of the museum, so they'll come hunting for this one soon enough. I took the liberty of arranging fresh transport, so we should have a few hours’ head start. We need to leave town immediately.”
“Leave town? I think we need to leave the country, Murdoch. Get somewhere out of our new friend's reach while we sort things out. Is the jet still at Teterboro?”
“Certainly is,” Murdoch replied. “You're not worried they'll track it?”
“Good luck to them. It's owned by a shell company with no connections to the Caldwell Group. It will take them days to find it and by then we'll be long gone.”
The real question was, just how vast were Section 9's resources?
My extracurricular acquisitions had agitated more than a few organizations over the years, but I'd never gone to war with a government. That particular brand of suicide required a recklessness that I did my utmost to avoid. Would my Texan frenemy have the full weight of the CIA behind him? Or was Section 9 some fringe arm of the CIA? The existence of magic was a new revelation to most people, and there were plenty of folks who still thought it was a government hoax, designed to cover up the truth about the attack on New York City.
I let out a sigh. What did it matter? I could only plan for the former while hoping for the latter. Reaching into my pocket, I took out the burner phone and started punching numbers. It couldn't hurt to take out a little extra insurance.
“Who are you calling?” Murdoch asked.
“A friend in the news,” I replied as the line rang.
Murdoch raised an eyebrow, as he flicked on his blinker.
The line opened.
“Northern News Corp, this is Alexei,” a throaty Russian voice answered.
“Alexei, this is Seth,” I said, trying to feel out his mood.
There was a pause. “Seth, I don't know any Seths. I'm afraid you must have the wrong number. Good—”
“Don't give me that, Alexei. I need your help.”
“What part of you’re dead to me, don't you understand?” Alexei grumbled. “The last time I helped you, an oligarch burned down my server farm. I was out of business for eight weeks.”
“You're not still upset about Moscow, are you?” I asked. “That was three years ago, and I made good on the farm. Tell me the free upgrade hasn't boosted business since?”
“Svolach,” he muttered.
I had a working knowledge of a handful of languages, but the Slavic tongues were something of a weakness. That said, his dripping tone and demeanor conveyed his feelings as clearly as a billboard.
“What if I doubled your fee?” I asked, hoping his usual greed might bring him back to the negotiating table.
“No, can do. It's getting late,” he said. “Maybe next time.”
If there is a next time.
It couldn't be later than 9:00 pm in Moscow, and the cantankerous programmer barely slept anyway. Making a run for the jet was one thing, but I'd feel a good deal safer if I knew Alexei was hard at work deploying his customary smokescreen. When it came to creating a distraction, Alexei and his crew at Northern News Corp were the best in the business, using the internet to generate a spider web of misinformation that would confuse pursuers and dilute their resources.
In essence, Alexei had weaponized fake news.
“That's a shame. I had really hoped you might help. I guess I'll have to find someone else to take these Matryoshkas off my hands. Such a shame because I thought they would have gone well with the ones in your study.”
The Matryoshkas, also known as Russian nesting dolls, were popular among collectors. The finer pieces, while not in the same value range as the famed Faberge eggs, were nonetheless sought after by collectors who gathered the different themed sets with gusto. Fortunately, Alexei had a superfluous amount of love for the handcrafted art pieces.
There was a pause on the line, and I let it ride. He hadn't hung up, so it wasn't strictly a no. It was now a negotiation. The longer the silence, the better my chances.
After a few seconds that felt like hours, there was a groan. “Tell me about the Matryoshkas.”
“Are you sure, Alexei? I don't want to keep you up,” I teased.
“Now,” Alexei replied. The sound of a tankard hitting a table carried through the line. “Before I hang up.”
“Fine. Fine. Have it your way. It’s a ten-piece set. Peasant girls, in a Zvyozdochkin original style but with one notable distinction.”
I set the hook and let it linger.
“What distinction?” Alexei barked.
“The set is made of solid gold. I'd never seen anything like them. Naturally, I thought of you, my friend.”
“Seth, my friends never call me at work. It's nights like this I wish you were one of them.”
I grinned into the phone. “Not a problem. Alexei. There was a broker in Paris who was desperate for them anyway. I'll have her take them off my hands.”
“Svoloch. I'll take the dolls. What do you need?”
“I'm in New York and I need to leave. I’m after a distraction. What can you give me?”
Alexei grunted. “I presume you have your own travel arrangements.”
“They're sorted,” I said, not wanting to give any insights as to how we planned to leave. Alexei was a businessman at heart. He might want the dolls, but there was every chance he'd sell us out if the offer was good enough.
“Okay,” he said, “I have your dossier from your little visit to my country. Soon you will be everywhere. It should buy you a few hours. Courier the dolls to my warehouse.”
“Will do, Alexei. A pleasure as always.”
I killed the call.
In minutes there would be false flags occurring all over the city. Alexei utilized an extensive library of videos and images he'd compiled during my stay in Moscow to execute a series of deep fakes that even the most determined observer would have trouble seeing through.
Then utilizing a network of trolls and carefully cultivated social media accounts, the images and videos would be shared virally. One might show us carjacking someone by the central park, another would show us strolling down Madison Avenue in police uniform. Hundreds of images and videos, accompanied by false ticket purchases on planes, trains, busses, and ferries, all designed to muddy the water.
Alexei was an artist, and fake news was his canvas. Of course, Section 9 would see it for what it was, but the veritable avalanche of information would muddy the water, making it difficult, if not impossible to discern between it and any legitimate information they might turn up.
“Alexei still cranky about Moscow?” Murdoch asked as he pulled into the parking garage.
I shrugged. “He makes a show of it, but at the end of the day, Caldwells always pay. We'll have the cover w
e need. The CIA will be sifting through the dog pile for days.”
Murdoch eased the truck into a loading bay and cut the engine. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he dropped out of the cab. I scooped up the duffel, swinging it over my shoulder, and followed him around to the back of the truck.
The truck was open by the time I got there. The cage was empty, with Dizzy and the crew seated on bench seats along one wall of the vehicle.
“Alright, gentlemen, that will be all,” Murdoch called. “Payments have already been wired to your respective accounts. Make sure you burn your suits and keep your heads down for a few days. You've all performed admirably. Keep your mouths shut, and there will be more money in it for you next time.”
“Thanks, boss.” One of the scrawny crew unbuckled himself. The others followed suit and soon the truck was empty.
“You got that change of clothes, Murdoch?” I asked, climbing up into the truck.
“The cupboard in the bulkhead. I thought you might appreciate your other uniform.”
We both climbed into the truck and Murdoch pulled his phone with one hand and closed the doors over with the other.
Reaching for the bulkhead cabinet, I pulled down a bag and a set of brown leather work boots. Inside the bag was a set of thick spun khaki pants, a brown belt and a button-down shirt. It bore no logos, cost little, but brought me great comfort with its familiar feel. I was far more at home in it then the suit I’d worn earlier.
With no time to spare, I tore off the animal control uniform, pulled on the slacks and slipped into the shirt. Dropping onto the bench seat, I pulled on the boots. All I was missing was my hat, which was nowhere to be seen.
I knew who I looked like, and it was no accident. If you were going to spend your life hunting for real arcane relics, there was only one man you wanted to channel.
“Oh, Dr. Jones, it's good to have you back,” Dizzy teased.
The good-natured jibe made me smile. She had a way of keeping me on my toes, but her presence was one of the few constants in my life. It meant more than she could know. Whether she was making fun of me, or chaining herself to a tree to protect the habitat of an endangered species, Dizzy was all in, all the time.
