“And now you want him dead,” said the Retaliator. “You want justice for those who died.”
“Of course,” said Bronsky, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground. The assassins demanded motivation as well as money. In a strange manner, they were highly moral killers. “The blood of their mother, of Mother Russia, demands revenge.”
“The rules of the state must be obeyed,” said the third killer, who had remained silent until now. Her voice was cold and remote. She was called “the Endless.”
“That is the law,” said the Retaliator in agreement.
“That is the law,” repeated the Rager.
Sighing deeply, Boris nodded. By those words, he knew that the three had taken the assignment. Karsnov was as good as dead.
“You said he fled,” continued the Retaliator. “Where did he go?”
“To America, we think,” said Boris. “Karsnov has two passions. A protégé of hard-liners in the Kremlin, he hates the United States with an all-consuming mania. He has spent most of his adult life perfecting weapons to he used against the Americans. With the cold war over and peace between our two nations, we suspect he plans to use the anthrax plague to fulfill his own twisted agenda.”
“His other passion?” asked the Endless.
“Karsnov loves to gamble. He plays cards compulsively, for hours, sometimes days on end. The desire to win at any cost engulfs him and sweeps him away. That is why we think he is in America. My colleagues in the Secret Service believe he is in Las Vegas, Nevada. Gambling,” he added unnecessarily, “is legal there.”
“You have warned the Americans?” asked the Rager.
“Of course not,” said Boris. “They would never believe that Karsnov has turned rogue and is working on his own. Like my superiors, they see a plot under every rock. Comrade Yeltsin is in the midst of delicate negotiations for more aid from the United States. One mention of the anthrax plague would destroy any hopes of that mission.”
“How did the scientist escape your own KGB?” asked the Retaliator. “Usually they are quite capable of dealing with traitors.”
“We are not sure,” said Boris. “According to several reliable though not official sources, Karsnov is being aided by an ultrasecret group of Islamic terrorists based in the United States. The group’s plans are not known to us, but evidently they want revenge against the United States for the humiliation suffered by Iraq in that war of a few years ago. What better way than to unleash a plague virus on the unsuspecting citizens of a major American city?”
“We have dealt with fanatics before,” said the Endless.
“Those same unnamed sources,” said Boris slowly, “reported that members of this group, The Brotherhood of Holy Destruction, wielded seemingly supernatural powers. According to unconfirmed reports, they smuggled Karsnov out of Russia on a magic carpet. I knew it sounded incredible, but I thought it only proper I should mention the story to you.”
“We have dealt with sorcery before as well,” said the Endless, her voice unchanged. “It exists, but it can be stopped. We shall not fail.”
“I’m not worried,” said Boris, thinking of the previous sixty-three assignments. The meeting was drawing to a close. There were only a few things left to be done. He reached into the attaché case at his feet. “I brought along Karsnov’s files for you.”
“And a personal effect?” asked the Rager.
“Of course,” said Boris, reaching again into the case. “Karsnov wore this pocket watch for years. In his haste to escape, he left it behind.”
Boris put the files and the watch onto the table. Carefully, he pushed them forward into the darkness. Someone picked up the file and then the watch. He could hear it being passed around. Bronsky shuddered in anticipation, knowing what came next. His every encounter with the three mysterious hunters ended the same way.
“Labe, labe, labe,” chanted the three assassins in unison, their horrifying voices blending into a monstrous chorus of sound. “Phradzou!”
An instant later, an unseen door opened and closed and they were gone. The hunters were off on their mission to seek and destroy.
Boris rose to his feet, scratching his head in bewilderment. Dull and unimaginative, he still wished he understood the purpose of that final burst of noise.
Years before, he had smuggled into the meeting a compact tape machine and had recorded the mysterious words. A KGB language specialist had identified the phrase as ancient Greek and translated it for him as “Seize him, seize him, seize him; mark him!”
The translation left Boris as much in the dark as before. He had no idea what the statement signified or why the three assassins pronounced it at the end of each meeting.
A plain, simple man, not educated in the classics, Boris had never studied the famous Greek playwrights. He had never heard of Aeschylus or his most famous play. Which, all things considered, was probably for the best.
1
Stretching both arms high over his head. Jack Collins inhaled deeply, pulling lungfuls of fresh air into his chest. He smiled. It felt good lolling in bed with no thoughts of rushing off to an early-morning class. After attending college nine years straight, a little laziness never hurt anyone.
Idly, Jack checked the clock by the side of his bed. It was a few minutes after nine in the morning. Under normal circumstances, he would have shaved, dressed, and breakfasted an hour and a half ago. Right about now, he would be greeting the shuffling, half-asleep zombies who constituted his first mathematics lecture class of the day. But times and circumstances were anything but normal.
Jack Collins, graduate teaching assistant in mathematics and logic at the local university, no longer existed. Vanished along with that persona were his dreams of obtaining his doctoral degree and becoming a full-time professor. Instead, in a dramatic change of fortunes, Jack had joined the investment firm of Ambrose and Associates, Ltd., and become a hero. Through his efforts, aided and abetted by a group of unlikely friends and allies, he had saved the world from the forces of everlasting night. And in the course of his quest, met and romanced the most beautiful girl in the world.
The thought of Megan Ambrose, daughter of his boss, Merlin the Magician, made Jack smile. Extremely bright and visually stunning, Megan was everything any man could ask for. That she cared for him was one of those mysteries Jack was willing to accept with no questions asked. After his adventures dealing with Dietrich von Bern, the Lord of the Wild Hunt, master of the monstrous Gabble Ratchets, Jack felt he deserved a few breaks.
Besides, like himself, Megan was a halfling—a child of a supernatural being and a human parent. As such, they were able to communicate with each other in their dreams. It was a talent that had saved Jack’s life more than once during the past month, and it had forged unbreakable bonds between him and Megan. Bonds that had led to their engagement and plans to be married in the reasonably near future.
Jack rubbed his eyes, banishing the last remnants of sleep from them. He yawned and blinked several times, trying to focus his vision. Even though it was several weeks since his adventures had first begun, he still had not completely adjusted to seeing the world through a pink haze. The rose-colored contact lenses he wore enabled him to distinguish between normal people and supernatural beings. Humans had auras, clearly visible with the magical eyewear. All other beings, which included trolls, faeries, goblins, witches, familiars, vampires, and hundreds of others, did not.
Mankind shared the Earth with the creations of its own collective subconscious. According to Merlin the Magician, who had spent centuries puzzling out the explanation, this cosmic overmind had the power to turn dreams into reality. When enough people believed that a supernatural being or legendary beast truly existed, it physically came into being. The myths and stories about the creature defined it, from its appearance to the way it thought and acted. Once alive, these creations remained, unaffected by the ravages of age, unless disbelieved out of existence. Which rarely ever occurred. By and large, they were merely forgotten.