Black Trump by George R. R. Martin
Finn took a hand off the rignt pole and wiped away the trickle of dyed sweat. His cheek was a kind of greenish brown where the dye had run. "You had to, pant, to get the, pant, cheapest brand." Finn was a palomino no longer; now he was more a muddy brown, with black patches, and a few red highlights. He looked like a mess, actually, but the bathtub in their hotel suite looked a lot worse.
Jay shrugged. "Hey, I was buying in bulk, the guy cut me a deal," he said. They crested a hill and began to plunge downward, accelerating rapidly. "He even threw in that swell coolie hat for free. Listen, after you drop me off, find a pay phone and check in with Peter. Have him tell Jerry and Sascha to stand by for new orders. If Belew's turned up a lead, we may need - Jesus, slow down!" A gaggle of camera-laden tourists was crossing the street ahead. Middle-aged American women scattered, shrieking, in all directions. They were all wearing T-shirts covered with ideograms. Probably Chinese for I'm a stupid tourist and I paid way too much for this ugly shirt.
A pothole the size of Cleveland gaped in front of the rickshaw. With unseemly malice, Finn guided the right wheel into it, bouncing Jay down and up again and leaving him with his kidney somewhere near his tonsils.
"Real good," Jay said through clenched teeth. The map flapped against his thighs. He smoothed it out, turned it around, and frowned, glancing back up at the passing scenery for the street Belew's message had specified. The Chinese ideograms on the signs were impossible to decipher in the first place, and the bumpy ride didn't make it any easier. "Turn right at that corner, and look for a shop with ducks in the window."
"All the shops have ducks in the window," Finn bitched, but he turned right, taking the corner on one wheel so that Jay had to hang on for dear life. The map went sailing away and plastered itself across the windshield of a huge antique Rolls Royce, whose chauffeur honked at them. Finn shot him the finger.
"Cut that out," Jay said. "You're supposed to be a humble joker rickshaw boy, not a New York City cabbie."
Finn was too busy panting to answer. The street veered uphill again, and finally Finn began to slow. They climbed up and up and up some more, and finally Jay saw ducks. "Ducks," he shouted. "Ducks at nine o'clock. Stop!"
Finn stopped, his mane leaking brown fingers all over the back of his shirt, his chest heaving. Jay climbed out of the rickshaw on wobbly legs. "I hope you don't expect a tip," he told Finn. He walked off before the centaur could gather the breath for a reply.
Inside the duck shop was dim and quiet, and full of delicious smells. The food in Hong Kong was fabulous, Jay had discovered, but it was better not to ask what it was that tasted so good as you were scarfing it down. It usually turned out to be fried tripe or crispy goose bills or sweet-and-sour panda testicles, and then you had to taste it again as it came back up.
An elderly Chinese man emerged from behind a bamboo curtain, took one look at Jay, and nodded silently. Jay nodded silently in reply and went though the curtain, down a narrow flight of steps, to a cool basement vault where J. Bob Belew was smoking a pipe of opium with a monkey the size of Orson Welles.
The monkey took a deep drag from the long pipe, and said, "And this is the famous Popinjay. Often I have wished to meet you, Mr. Ackroyd. You would have been a great success in my profession." The monkey spoke English with an Oxford accent, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by his tail, which swayed sinuously behind him in rhythm with his words.
"What profession would that be?" Jay asked, looking around for a chair. The basement was crammed with fakey lacquer screens, Ming vases, and lifesize funerary soldiers, cheap Hong Kong knockoffs of priceless Chinese antiquities.
"Lord Tung is a smuggler," Belew said.
"Smuggling is such a harsh word," the monkey demurred. He offered the pipe to Belew, who accepted it gravely. "I am only a trader and, in my own small way, one who fights for economic freedom for all. What a man wishes to buy, I sell to him. What a man wishes to sell, I buy." He smiled at Jay, and bowed his head.
Jay took another look around. Okay, so maybe the stuff wasn't cheap, fakey Hong Kong knockoffs. He was a detective, not a museum curator, what the hell did he know. "I'm real happy for you," he told the fat monkey-man with the sleepy eyes, "but maybe we could get to the point? The meter's running in my rickshaw."
J. Bob Belew took a pull from the opium pipe, and held it for a long moment. Smoke curled up from his nostrils when he finally exhaled. He looked completely at his ease here, but then, Belew always looked completely at his ease, no matter where he was or who he was with. "Lord Tung has some information for us," J. Bob said calmly, like they had all the time in the world.
"My house supplies advanced Western laboratory equipment to a number of pharmaceutical manufacturers throughout Asia," Lord Tung said. "Of late, one such concern has been making a number of rather eccentric purchases."
"A scanning-tunneling microscope is well beyond the needs of most Golden Triangle drug cartels," Belew put in.
"I am prepared to supply full details," Lord Tung said.
"Real good," Jay said. "Enquiring minds want to know." He reached back for his wallet. "How much?"
"Please, Mister Ackroyd, put your billfold away," Lord Tung said. "I have no need of your money. We are all friends here, are we not?" He smiled at Jay and offered the opium pipe.
Jay glanced at Belew. J. Bob gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Jay took the pipe. He didn't know quite what to do with it. "Friends," he said. "Right. Whatever you say." Lord Tung was watching him. Jay put the stem in his mouth. The pipe was almost as long as his arm. He felt like an idiot. He sucked in, got a lungful of sweet smoke, and coughed violently. "Smooth," he choked out, between gasps. What the hell were you supposed to say? Jay didn't know the etiquette of opium dens. Maybe it was like wine tastings, he thought. "A nice mellow bouquet, with just a hint of presumption," he tried. "Yum yum."
Lord Tung laughed like a child. An especially large and hairy child, but a child nonetheless. "I like you, Mr. Ackioyd."
"And I want to marry you and have your children, Mr. Tung." Jay returned. He passed the pipe off to Belew quickly, before they made him take another puff.
"Lord Tung," Lord Tung corrected, with a hint of steel in the high, dreamy voice.
"Whatever," Jay said.
The huge monkey-joker folded his hands over his belly like a big, hairy Buddha and smiled, yellow eyes blinking slowly.
J. Hobert Belew spoke up. "It is pleasant to know I have had some small part in bringing such good men together, and to witness the beginning of this great friendship. A new friend is as new wine; when it is old, thou shau drink it with pleasure."
Jay was still trying to work that through and see if it came out as a compliment when Lord Tung said, "I would never think of taking money for the information I have to share with you. It is ever a great joy for a friend to help a friend."
That one didn't take much working through. Jay was getting the idea. "Yeah, I love that too," he said. He tried to look helpful. "Anything I can do for you, Lord Tung?"
"Perhaps ... no ... I hesitate to ask ... it would be a crime to sully the serenity of this golden moment by imposing on your kindness and good will."
"I know Jay would think it no imposition, Lord Tung," J. Robert Belew said. "Nothing gives our Popinjay more delight than being of service to a friend."
"Boy, howdy," Jay said in a flat voice. "Fiddle dee dum, fiddle dee dee, helping pals is all for me."
"Why, then," Lord Tung said, "I will ask for only the smallest of favors, as a token of your esteem and affection. I would never wish you to inconvenience yourself on my behalf, but this is such a little thing, you need only to lift a single finger ..."
Jay got his drift. He lifted the single finger in question. "This little piggy went to market," he said. "I don't know if J. Bob here clued you in, but I can only pop things to places I've been. I need to picture the destination in my head."
"I am fully aware of the extent and limits of your power, my friend," Lord Tung said smooth
"My offices," Jay said firmly. His wife was used to strange items popping up in the apartment, but the arrival of a midnight moving crew from Chinatown would probably throw even Hastet. He glanced around at all the lacquered screens, the Ming vases, the funerary soldiers. "So what do you want popped?"
"Why, all of it," Lord Tung said, with a huge smile that revealed a mouth full of yellow teeth. Then he laughed and laughed and laughed.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Gregg wasn't certain what he expected the Black Dog to look like, but somehow the reality wasn't a disappointment. Nothing about the Hound of Hell was ordinary. Part of it was the atmosphere of the catacombs, this silent maze buried unguessed, beneath the tempestuous, quarrelling warrens of Jerusalem. Part of it was the Dog himself. He radiated Presence, something beyond the image brought by the black robe and mask, the tall muscular presence. His charisma was tangible, pulsing and hypnotic and undeniable. Dangerous.
As dangerous as I was. Once.
No, replied the voice. As dangerous as you are NOW.
Gregg didn't answer. Even in the old days, at the full height of his power, he'd been afraid of aces and those whose power he didn't know. The Black Dog had something, and that made Gregg uneasy.
"Gregg Hartmann," the black Dog said. His English had a trace of some accent Gregg could not place, and a smirk rode in the words. He gestured to the chairs set around the wooden table in the room. An enameled decanter of strong coffee sat in the center, under siege by empty china cups and pinned in the glare of a spotlight. Gregg thought the decanter looked good enough to eat.
"So good to meet you at last, Senator, even under these circumstances." The Black Dog turned to Hannah, and the eyes behind the mask regarded her with an intensity that had been missing when he looked at Gregg. "Ms. Davis. Even Arabic garb can't hide your beauty."
Gregg could have told the Dog that tactic was a mistake. He felt the arc of Hannah's irritation jab from under her surface colors.
Hannah looked at Gregg and sighed. "We don't have time for this polite shit," Hannah said, turning back to the Black Dog. Her voice sounded harsh against the mellifluous, deep tones of the Fists' leader; it brought Gregg's puppet-like head around, startled. If Hannah felt the pull of the Dog's presence, then his unwanted compliment - after the events of the past weeks - had shredded its power. "You've been told what almost happened in England - it could still happen. Do you understand the importance of this? If you do, then we need your help. We must find the other two vials of Black Trump, or even your little subterranean stronghold won't save you."
The Black Dog almost sounded amused. "You have a lot to learn about this society," he told her. "There are certain ways that things must he said before they are heard."
"In other words, I'm just a woman and a nat, so shut the fuck up?"
The voice acquired an edging of frost. "I'm only saying that this is not the States, and that someone with your intelligence will realize that she cannot act as if it was."
"And I'm sure that the Black Dog has the intelligence to realize that we are from the States," Gregg said before Hannah could speak, "and will understand our directness and forgive it."
The Black Dog sniffed behind the mask. "That was almost smooth, Senator. I see that you didn't lose your political instincts when you became a joker." The Dog glanced at the silent woman behind him, then back to Hannah and Gregg. "I understand more of the importance of recent events than the two of you believe or know. Unfortunately, your arrival here was a bit ... late, even if your presence in England turned out to be fortuitous. You see, my sources are very good, in nearly every country of the world, and I've known about the Sharks and the vials for some time."
"Then why haven't you done anything about them?" Hannah asked. "That's the most criminal thing the Fists have ever done."
The Dog glared at her. "I've done what I needed to do, and what I could do," he told them. "We always suspected that Jersualem was one place they would try to release the virus, and we were certain the Nur was a Shark. However, we weren't sure where Rudo was. Your information tells me that he managed to slip through our intelligence net and get to the Nur finally, and I know where the Nur is. So the puzzle pieces have fallen in place, and now we can act."
"Where is the Nur?" Gregg asked.
The Black Dog only raised his hand, but the gesture was sufficient to make Gregg go silent, as if rebuked. "I have already made my plans," the Black Dog said. "I know what to do to get the rest of the information we need. And I know what to do once I have that information."
"I'll bet it has something to do with lots of people losing their lives," Hannah said. "That seems to be about the only thing the Fists are good at."
The Black Dog almost seemed amused. "Perhaps. Actually, what I have in mind doesn't involve violence, only a threat of it. We believe that the Nur and Rudo are planning to release the Black Trump virus in Jerusalem. We also believe that the Nur's reverence for the holy city would make it impossible for him to damage a single stone of its streets. If the Nur is going to threaten jokers, then we will threaten to destroy the Dome of the Rock."
"The Nur has a whole damn army to protect the Dome. All he has to do is say the word."
The Black Dog shrugged under his robe. "An army means nothing. You see, The Twisted Fists have a nuclear device."
He said the words the way Gregg might have said I have a loaf of bread.
"What?" Gregg's voice broke in a screech. Alongside him, he could sense Hannah's speechless outrage.
"I think what I said was clear enough," the Black Dog answered.
"That's total insanity. What is this, the ultimate five for one nonsense?" Gregg continued. "A nuke set off in Jerusalem will kill millions, not to mention destroying some of the most sacred relics of western religion."
"Certainly, that's a worst case scenario," the Black Dog replied patiently. Calmly. "Senator, we don't intend to set off the bomb - not here, anyway."
"Of course not," Hannah said. "You just borrowed it."
The Black Dog turned to Hannah, and his voice was all at once swift, cold steel. "Ms. Davis, you seem to think that the Twisted Fists are nothing but thugs and murderers."
"Judging by what I've seen so far," Hannah answered defiantly, "that's an excellent description. I'd love to be proved wrong."
The Black Dog inclined his head slightly to her. "I don't think the Fists have anything to prove to you, to Senator Hartmann, or to Father Squid and your other friends. I answer to my own conscience and no one else's." For a moment, the tension held in the room, then the Black Dog let go a breath, and it eased.
"Let me try to explain. This is what we've learned in the last few days. The Nur has set up a portable lab for Dr. Rudo. It could be located in any of Nur al-Allah's nomadic camps in Syria, and we suspect we know which one. Once we locate it, then we can destroy the Trump by ..." The Black Dog paused, and seemed to smile under the mask. "... more conventional methods."
"What about the bomb?" Gregg persisted.
The Black Dog shrugged. "Senator, as much as I appreciate your concern, I think you can see why we need the nuke until the Trump is destroyed - it will be a very effective tool for coercing the Nur to cooperate. If for any reason the Nur decides to call our bluff, or if we are unsuccessful in destroying the virus in the desert, well ..." The Dog shrugged. "Then an effective and powerful backup system is necessary."
"Couldn't you think of anything except a fucking nuke?"
"God knows I tried," the Black Dog said. He almost seemed to smile. "And now for your part. Our nuke is useless unless the Nur knows that we have it. You know the Nur. You've met him, and you know his power. I think you and Ms. Davis would make good messengers, don't you?"
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
"Burma," Jay Ackroyd bitched as he followed J. Bob Belew up th
"If we move fast and take them unawares, we have a chance," Belew said. "Casaday was always too impressed with his own cleverness. It makes him sloppy."
"That warms the cockles of my heart," Jay said.
Belew pushed through the bamboo curtain, with Jay right behind him. The old Chinese man was puttering around the shop. Belew stopped at the counter, gestured at the long row of hanging ducks, and said, "Two, please."
The little Chinese man bowed his head, climbed on a stool, unhooked two ducks, and began wrapping them in crisp white butcher paper cut from a roll. "What's that for?" Jay asked, baffled.
Belew brushed his mustache with his thumb. "Lunch." He accepted the package, bowed to the old man, and walked out into the sunlight. Jay came after him. The rickshaw was still sitting in front of the duck shop, but Finn was gone. Jay looked up and down the street. "Lose something?" Belew asked.
"Finn," Jay said. "I told him to find a pay phone and check in with my man in New York. I hope he didn't get lost."
"You would do well to lose the doctor permanently," Belew said. "Amateurs have no business in an operation like this."
"According to you, we're all amateurs," Jay said.
Belew smiled thinly. "True, but you and the rest of your operatives are amateurs with ace powers. Dr. Finn is not. He has no useful skills, he's conspicuous, he's too emotionally involved, and he argues when he should be taking orders."
Belew was right, but there was something about the way he made his pronouncements that pissed Jay off. "He's a doctor. We may need medical expertise somewhere along the line." He changed the subject quickly, before Belew could frame a reply. "Listen, how the hell are we going to do this? Casaday is going to have a small army guarding the camp, right?"
"Most likely," Belew admitted. "Give me forty-eight hours to contact certain persons in Yangon, and we can go in with a regiment of Burmese paratroops. It's not the way I normally do things, but under these circumstances I don't think we have much choice."