I’ve seen a lot in my day, so it wasn’t like I was worried I was going to throw up or anything, but I definitely wasn’t feeling quite as lighthearted as I had when I came in. I knew from Gustibus and the Amazons that these guys were killers, so that was no surprise, but the positive pleasure von Reinmann took in showing me the execution put him in the next class down: sadists and crazies.
Not much of a surprise, I thought, These are the kind of people the Highest made Hell for in the first place.
I did my best to look unmoved, but I didn’t open the box, either, just left it sitting there like a little spaceship from the planet Decapitron that had landed in the middle of the desk. “Okay, if you’re done with your little presentation, I need answers. You said we could work together. What is it that you think we have in common?”
He smiled an empty smile. “The Horn, Mr. Dollar. You know it as well as I do, so I will not insult your intelligence. The Horn of Abigor.”
Bingo. At least we weren’t going to waste any more time. “Abigor? You mean Eligor?”
He waved his hand again. “Abigor, Eligor, Eligos—these immortal beings have as many names as they have men who worship them or pray for their mercy. You have shown a rare ability to obtain artifacts others can only dream of. The Horn of Abigor would be of particular use to us. Whatever you are being paid, I have been authorized by our leader to pay you one hundred and fifty percent.”
“Your leader? I thought you were the leader.”
He smiled, but this time it was a little tighter. “No, no. The Black Sun is an old and august society, and although I have been lucky enough to make my way into the upper ranks of our faction, we all give our allegiance to the master—the Imperator, all praise him.” Timon and Pumbaa repeated the words in a murmur, like a catechism.
“We are a far greater force than you can know, Mr. Dollar—a powerful movement, an army. We can offer you much besides our friendship, but our friendship alone is a very good thing to have.”
“I’m sure.” I said. “And what will you do with the horn if you get it?”
He shook his head, still smiling. “Come, we cannot answer all questions. Besides, it will be for our master to decide. But you need not worry. Only good will come of it. We are not some nihilistic sect, some anarchist cell intent on tearing down all civilization. We are builders, Mr. Dollar!”
“Yeah, I’m sure. But it didn’t take long for the Soviet tanks to bring down all that Nazi architecture in Berlin, did it?”
For a moment I saw something not just angry, but insanely so, a glint in his green eyes. I braced myself to get hit, but he only sat back in his chair and wagged his finger at me like an annoyed schoolmaster. “You will not see me rise to such bait, Mr. Dollar. We have a certain connection to some of the older Volkisch movements, but Hitler was a fool and an amateur—and a racist!” He said it like I might be surprised to hear it. “He wasted far too much time worrying about the Jews when the real enemies were closer, far closer.”
“And those real enemies are?”
“We have spent too much time on this already, Mr. Dollar.” He stood, unfolding his long, lean frame from the chair. “Now, do we make our agreement to cooperate? It will mean better money for you, and in the long run it will mean much more. You will find yourself part of a very, very influential movement, and we will only gain power in the years ahead.”
“And what if I say no? Because I’m kind of used to working alone.”
“But that is precisely the problem,” said BvW. “Because it leads to misunderstandings. Like this.” He indicated the box on the desk. “No, I think you will say yes. After all, what else can you say?”
“So I say yes, and then I walk out?”
“More or less,” he said. He reached down and pushed a button on his phone and a side door opened. Three more men entered, all similar in age and appearance to the two missionaries (as I still thought of them). All wore the kind of jackets that were good for concealed carry, and this time I was pretty sure they were packing more than just pepper spray. “Some of my associates will go with you, of course, to pick up anything you might need before you move in here with us. We have extensive dormitories in the upper rooms, and many rooms to choose from. Surely you will like that better than, pardon me, the ghetto where you have been living.” So they apparently didn’t know I’d moved out of Tierra Green, or where I’d moved to. I was happy to hear that.
With the three new guys in the room, the odds had just become dramatically worse if I’d planned to fight my way out—but I hadn’t. Still, I decided it was time to get the party started, before any more neo-Nazis appeared, so I stood and moved a careful step closer to the desk. As I expected, von R. shifted so that he was still between me and my weapons. He wasn’t just big, he was smart. I reminded myself not to let the master-race bullshit make me careless.
“Oh, one thing I wanted to ask you,” I said, pausing in front of the desk. “Why Baldur von Reinmann?”
He seemed caught off balance. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Baldur, the Norse god of light? Reinmann—‘pure man’? Isn’t that a bit like calling yourself Jesus von Superman? I mean, doesn’t anybody in your organization just start laughing sometimes?”
His long pale face went very cold. “Ah. I was told you had an odd sense of humor.”
“No, really. I’ve been doing some research.” I turned to Timon, Pumbaa, and the new guys. “Do you fellas all know this? I mean, your boss here has had a shit-ton of names. First he was plain old Morten Egge, son of an Oslo dentist and big into Star Wars. Then he was something else for a while—Svein Hvitkriger or something, when he started hanging out with the black metal crazies. Hey, did you guys play in one of his bands? Anyway, what came next?” I turned to von Reinmann, who was getting paler by the second. “Oh, yeah, the black metal thing was going so well he changed his name to ‘Uruk’ and became a movement spokesman—death metal church-burners and cough-syrup drinkers just love those Tolkien names. And now he’s Baldur von Reinmann, uberleutnant of the Black Sun Faction.” I shook my head. “Opportunist—or just kind of teenage? ‘Help me, I don’t know who I am!’ Are you going to be a hippie next and name yourself Barley or Sunflower or something?”
Von Reinmann was distinctly not amused. “Hurt him,” he told his men.
“Yeah,” I said. “You can try.” I threw a mocking Nazi salute. “Sieg heil, baby!” And then I stamped my right heel on the floor as hard as I could.
If my trick didn’t work, I was going to be in a world of trouble. Give me a gun, a few sharp objects, a good night’s sleep, and a lot of cover, and with my angel advantages I might—just might—be able to take five or six guys, but I’m not promising anything. In the middle of my enemies’ turf in an upper floor office, with nothing in my hands but sweat, I was more likely to wind up shot to ribbons. That was why I had stayed up late the previous night.
You may not know this, but you can make a pretty damn good ninja flash-bang that also smokes like a motherfucker with mostly household stuff. I’d added a few touches of my own to make the smoke cloud grow bigger and faster—and no, I’m not going to tell you about how to do that—but you can put together something a bit less oomphy with just potassium nitrate, sugar, and the pebbly stuff out of those little snap blasters you find all over during Chinese New Year, the ones you throw down that explode with a little pop.
I’d also glued a small metal plate into the upper side of the hole I’d hollowed into the heel of my shoe, so if I miscalculated there’d be less chance I’d blow my own foot off. I’m an angel and it would probably grow back eventually, but that still wouldn’t make it fun.
Anyway, I stomped down as hard as I could and the charge went off. Wow, did it go off. Because I had only covered the hole with some black putty, all the force went backward (it still felt like someone had shot me in the sole of the foot), directly at Timon and Pumbaa. The BANG was loud enough to stagger everybody in the room who wasn’t expecting it, strong enough nearly to knock me off my pins, and the amount of smoke that billowed out was very satisfying. Within a second and a half, before anyone could do more than paw at their holsters, the cloud was head high and swirling all around me. Baldur von Rightwing screamed something, then people were lurching all around, trying to find your humble narrator.