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rain, but otherwise, black marketers and their henchmen (one always standing
guard outside) held court inside, meeting with people who wanted some-thing,
anything, and were willing to pay a lot to get it.
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 jus-tified 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
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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 over-whelmed 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 for-mer 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 fin-ger, 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."
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"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 fol-lowed, 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 combina-tion of symbols and numbers
that made the satellite phones appear to be coming from anywhere.
Rayford punched in the number for an international operator. "The Global [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]