“What assurances do we have that you didn’t photocopy the notes and plan to sell them to the losing participants in the weeks to come?” asked Smith.
“My word,” said Hasan curtly. “That is guarantee enough. Are you implying otherwise?”
“Of course not,” said Smith hastily. “I was merely checking. No offense intended.”
“Good,” said Hasan viciously, obviously no longer in absolute control of his temper. “My female camels are extremely lonely. They are starved for affection.”
The Old Man of the Mountain laughed nastily. “Any other questions? Or comments?”
“What about delivery?” asked the Crouching One.
“At your convenience, to wherever you wish,” said Hasan.
“Arranged by the winner and my Afreet. No safer method of transportation exists.”
“What about payment?” asked Loki. “When do you need the money?”
“Within the week if not sooner,” said Hasan. “Payable in cash. Large bills are fine, but no checks.”
He bowed his head slightly in Jack’s direction. “My note to Mr. Green’s employer comes due in seven days. I am anxious to be free of that obligation.”
The Old Man of the Mountain rose to his feet. “If there are no more—”
“I have a comment,” said Boris Bronsky, unexpectedly. “May I speak a few words before the auction commences?”
“Go ahead,” said Hasan. “But please keep it short.”
“Idt is not much to say,” declared the Russian, “so it will not take long.”
Bronsky climbed to his feet. His mild voice rang with surprising authority. “This stuff is very evil. I am filled with great disgust that some of you plan to make use of idt. The virus should be destroyed. My government intends to do just that if we win this auction.”
Boris paused. Loki yawned. Smith and Wesson sneered.
“This plague virus was developt on Russian soil by a Russian scientist. Thus, idt belongs to the Russian people. If you buy it here, you are receiving stolen property and will be liable to criminal prosecution,” The Russian hesitated for a second, frowning at the smiles forming on several of his listeners’ faces. “Laugh at me if you like. Karsnov, that traitor, thought he was above the law, too. He paidt the price for his arrogance. Maybe I’m not so threatening. But I got some friends who aren’t as nice. Dey think poorly of those who betray a trust.”
“Enough lecturing,” said the Lord of the Lions. “I am a God. My purposes are my own. I refuse to be bullied by a mere mortal. Bring on the Kindly Ones. Once I control the plague virus, the Three Sisters will be helpless against me,” The Crouching One extended a clawlike hand. Dramatically, he jerked his fingers closed. “I will crush them to dust if they dare interfere.”
“We are not afraid of anyone associated with the rotting carcass of your depraved Communist empire,” declared Wesson. He spat on the floor then rubbed a shoe in the wetness. “We spit on the bankrupt running dogs of the Great Satan.”
Loki shrugged. “I’m simply acting as a middle man for other parties,” he stated lazily. “Talk to them if you want. They live pretty close to your borders.”
Hasan al-Sabbah raised his hands in mock astonishment. “It appears that you are the lone altruist at this auction, Mr. Bronsky. Why am I not shocked? Please take your seat. If the Russian government wants the plague virus returned, bid for it.”
Hasan clapped his hands together twice. Instantly, the Afreet, stationed behind the table, swelled to twice its size. The suit it had been wearing fell in shreds at its feet. The genie, glowing neon red, nude and sexless, glared at its audience. “I guard this treasure!” the creature bellowed in a voice that crackled like thunder. It flexed its immense, octopus arms. “Touch it without permission and die.”
“Impressive,” murmured Jack. “What do you think, Hugo?”
“He’s fast but I’m faster,” replied the bird. “I can steal the vial right out of his hands. Keeping it more than a few seconds is what worries me.”
“I’ll handle that,” said Jack confidently. He glanced at the blue bottle at his feet. “Mathematically.”
37
The Old Man of the Mountain lifted the vial of anthrax spores over his head. As if drawn forward by a magnet, everyone present leaned forward. It was the scene, Jack realized, observed in the crystal ball by Sylvester the Cat. The start of Hasan al-Sabbah’s auction.
“Sergei Karsnov’s legacy,” declared the Lord of Assassins in a sonorous voice. “Silent, invisible, painful death. What am I bid for this marvelous toy?”
“I offer ten million dollars,” answered the Crouching One. The auction had begun. Jack glanced again at his watch. He dared not make his move yet. There was too much time left. He needed a distraction to delay the auction. Mentally, he crossed his fingers and prayed for a miracle. It materialized sooner than he expected.
“The Brotherhood of Holy Destruction,” announced Mr. Smith, arrogantly surveying the room, “financed by the deep pockets of certain exceedingly wealthy, devotedly faithful Islamic nations, laughs at the parsimonious bid from the so-called God of the thrice-cursed Babylonians. We raise the amount to twenty million.”
“Thank you,” said Hasan, returning the vial to the tabletop. “It would be greatly appreciated if in future rounds, you keep the insults to a minimum and merely state your bid.”
“The Russian people,” declared Boris Bronsky, “though officially on record as protesting that this auction is illegal and immoral, offer thirty million U.S. dollars in the interest of international peace and brotherhood.”
“Thirty-three million,” said Loki, a faint smile crossing his lips. “My clients hired me to obtain the virus at the best possible price. No ten-million-dollar raises for me.”
“Nergal,” said Hasan al-Sabbah, “the bid returns to you.”
“I find this bargaining repulsive,” responded the demigod. “I am Lord of the Lions, Master of Death and Destruction. The plague should be mine by right.”
“Does this mean you are dropping out?” asked Hasan, patiently.
“Forty million,” answered the Crouching One. Blue sparks circled its forehead.
Smith laughed. “An insignificant raise from an insignificant god. Your days are past, forgotten one. Return to the dust from which you arose. The Brotherhood of Holy Destruction bids fifty million dollars.”
“Sixty million,” said Boris Bronsky immediately.
“Impossible,” said Wesson, turning to face the Russian. “The Russian pig is lying. His country’s economy is in shambles. They can barely manage to feed their stupid peasants. Their foreign debt is staggering. This bid is a sham.”
Hasan al-Sabbah scowled. “My apologies, Mr. Bronsky, but the point is well taken. Russia’s problems are well publicized. How do you intend to pay?”
Boris smiled. “With foreign aid, of course. Matching America’s defense spending the past few decades ruined my nation’s economy. Faced with complete collapse of our government, we turned to those most responsible for our plight. And as the world’s only remaining superpower, they responded. The United States has pledged billions to help rebuild my country. A few tens of millions diverted from the total will never be missed. Redirecting funds has always been a KGB specialty. Idt is satisfactory answer?”
The Old Man of the Mountain nodded. “Quite satisfactory. Loki, the bidding continues with you.”
“Sixty-six million,” said the Norse deity. He paused for a second, then continued speaking. “Might not the same query be raised for the Lord of the Lions? He is not financed by an independent nation. What is his source of funds?”