“Where did they go?” asked Jack. “What happened to them?”
“I do not understand,” said the Old Man of the Mountain, his tone apprehensive. “They have strict orders to allow no one other than myself onto this level. This elevator offers the only access to the floor. A surprise attack is out of the question.”
“But,” added Jack, unnecessarily, “they’re gone.”
“The whole floor is quiet,” said al-Sabbah. The level was silent as a tomb. “With thirty of my men stationed here, there should be some noise. Something is wrong.”
Face contorted with worry, the Old Man of the Mountain barked out a string of commands in Arabic to the Afreet. Instantaneously, the genie transformed into a cloud of red smoke, its empty clothes crumpling to the floor. Mistlike, the entity seeped through the narrow opening separating the glass portals.
“I am very sorry,” said the Old Man of the Mountain, turning to Jack, “but I am afraid you will have to leave us for the moment. Something quite unusual has taken place here. I sent my assistant to investigate, but I fear that I cannot guarantee your safety if you remain. Explaining your demise while in my company to The Man could prove to be embarrassing. Would you mind returning to the casino?”
“Not at all,” said Jack, hoping he did not look as green as he felt. “I was sent to observe, not interfere.”
“Thank you,” said al-Sabbah. “I appreciate your understanding,” The Old Man of the Mountain paused. “Perhaps you would care to sample the delights of Paradise? It is designed for relaxation and delight. A visit there might erase die ugly memories of this unfortunate episode.”
“I have heard a number of interesting stories about your heaven on Earth,” said Jack.
“You would honor my establishment if you accept my invitation,” said al-Sabbah. “A small party of special guests depart at twelve noon. Meet them at the elevator behind the statue of the Bronze God. A visit lasts three hours. You will return long before the auction. That, for your information, is scheduled to take place tomorrow at ten in the room directly above this chamber.”
“See you then,” said Jack, stepping back into the lift and pressing the button for the ground floor. He felt as if he were leaving the scene of a real-life Stephen King movie. The entire time spent in the reception office he had been waiting for Jason to jump out from behind the desk swinging a chainsaw-butcher knife. Saving the world was difficult enough without having to traffic in blood and gore. Jack preferred his fantasy much lighter. Without genies, assassins, or inexplicable disappearances.
20
Roger groaned in frustration. Of all the resorts in the world, why did they have to stay in one that contained a replica of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon? Though it was long after midnight, the Crouching One showed no signs of leaving the elaborate arboretum. Instead, the Ancient One insisted on wandering to and fro along the maze of pathways, reminiscing about old times. Roger, who had heard most of the demigod’s stories dozens of times before, was bored to tears. And though he prided himself on how little sleep he needed, he was tired and ready to call it a night.
The Crouching One, unfortunately, required no rest al all. Gods never slept. Normally he treated Roger’s request for rest as an annoying but necessary habit. Tonight, captivated by his surroundings, the Lord of the Lions wanted company. Which meant Roger.
“I am amazed at the accuracy displayed throughout this reconstruction,” said the Crouching One, bending over to smell a black orchid, a rare breed that opened only in darkness. “According to those encyclopedias I read, a complete description of the Hanging Gardens no longer exists. I wonder how the Old Man of the Mountain managed to find one?”
Roger almost answered, then thought better of it. In a brief exchange with al-Sabbah earlier in the day, the Lord of the Assassins mentioned that Gilgamesh, the immortal Babylonian hero, designed the entire resort. It was a name best kept hidden from the Lord of the Lions. He and Gilgamesh had clashed in the past.
The Hanging Gardens consisted of a square tract of land four hundred feet on each side. Built as a series of low-rising terraces, there were hundreds of varieties of plants and trees contained in its confines. Dozens of winding trails and narrow paths cut through the vegetation, preserving the natural beauty of the grounds. In the one concession to modern agriculture and Nevada heat, the entire four acres were watered by a vast system of automatic sprinklers.
“Nebuchadnezzar built these gardens to please his wife Amyitis,” said the Crouching One, strolling up the winding path leading to the fifth level. They had started at the bottom of the gardens hours ago and Roger estimated it would take them hours more to reach the top at the demigod’s leisurely pace. “She disliked the flat plains of Babylon and yearned for her home in the Median Hills.
“It took ten thousand slaves working day and night fifteen years to complete the project. Located at the peak of the gardens was a huge reservoir that fed the streams and ponds that dotted the landscape. Whenever the water level dropped below a certain mark, hundreds of huge vats filled with liquid were rolled up the terraces to replenish the tank.”
Roger yawned. His interest in gardening began and ended with lettuce in salads. To him, the fabled hanging gardens were nothing more than a haven for annoying insects.
“If you study the plant formations very carefully,” continued the demigod, “you will notice that the darker foliage forms a series of wedge-shaped patterns and letters. That is the lost secret of the hanging gardens. Viewed from the windows of the king’s palace, the entire tableau creates a cuneiform love poem to Nebuchadnezzar’s fickle wife.”
The demigod laughed, a disconcerting sound. “Beware of demanding women, my disciple. They are like a cancer eating at your vitals. Nebuchadnezzar was Babylon’s greatest king. He practically rebuilt the city, revitalized his nation, and erected the Hanging Gardens. Yet Amyitis was never happy. Her whining drove her husband to drink. Many were the times I advised him to throw the nag to the lions. But he would rather face an army of Persians blindfolded than confront his wife.”
The Crouching One paused. His eyes narrowed and his hairless brow crinkled in concentration. “It cannot be them, but it must,” he declared, sounding shocked. “The Raging Women.
“Behind me,” commanded the demigod, jerking a hand at Roger. “Quickly. Close your eyes and keep them closed no matter what you hear. Hurry. The horrors approach.”
Roger had no idea what the demigod was talking about, but he also understood that now was not the time to ask questions. He did exactly as he was told. Whoever or whatever sparked such a reaction from the Crouching One was serious business.
Their smell preceded them. Roger hated animals and avoided zoos, but having been raised in the Far West, he recognized the smell of snakes. And the hissing noise they made.
“Remain silent and do not open your eyes,” warned the Crouching One. “Otherwise, you are a dead man. The Raging Women are extremely vain and extremely ugly. If you see their features and speak of it, it will go hard on you.”
“Nergal,” said a new voice, female but definitely not human. “We heard you returned from limbo. How appropriate to encounter you here in these re-created gardens.”
“Sisters,” said the Crouching One, his voice polite. “This meeting is as unexpected as it is a pleasure,” Then his tone turned harsh. “Your prey…?”
“Is human this night,” said another voice, equally inhuman. “Was human. You have nothing to fear from us. Our mission here is complete. We were exiting this place when we caught a whiff of your scent. My sisters and I thought it only appropriate to say hello after these many centuries.”