Faust Among Equals (3 page)

The fugitive craned his neck slightly to look at the sea. ‘Expensive pieces of kit, these modern warplanes, I expect.'

‘Very.'

‘Waterproof ?'

‘I assume so.'

‘That's all right, then.'

 

Lundqvist strode into the tiny branch sheriff's office in Las Monedas and banged the bell until it broke. Then he shouted.

The deputy on duty doubled as the postmaster, the trading standards officer, the funeral director, one of the town's two chartered accountants and the blacksmith's assistant. It was therefore several minutes before he was able to answer.

‘The reward on these two,' snapped Lundqvist. ‘In cash. And I want a receipt.'

The deputy looked up at the two severed heads and quickly ran a mental scan through his various portfolios to ascertain which one was relevant. It was easy enough to narrow the field down to two alternatives; and relatives bringing loved ones to the Las Monedas funeral parlour generally tended to have rather more of the bits.

‘Hold on,' he said. From under the desk he produced a receipt book and a blue cap with red facings marked
FEDERALES
. It was entirely the wrong uniform, of course, but this was the sticks. You had to make do with what you could get.

‘Vampires,' said Lundqvist, patiently (by his standards, at least). ‘This one's Vlad the Indefinitely Respawned, and this one' - he broke off and glanced at the label hanging from the left ear - ‘this one here is Count Bors Vilassanyi. I've got the ISBN
¹
details somewhere, if that's any help.'

‘Just a moment,' replied the deputy, thumbing through a loose-leaf binder. ‘Vlad, Vlad - there's a lot of Vlads isn't there? - ah, right, here you go. Vlad the Indefinitely Respawned. Hey, Category Three, not bad. What did you say the other one was?'

‘Count Bors Vilassanyi. Two ‘s's in Vilassanyi.'

‘Sorry, doesn't seem to be here.'

‘Try the supplement.'

‘Yes, right. No, not in here either.'

‘Okay, try looking under zombies.'

‘Right - yes, here we are. Category Four A.' The deputy frowned. ‘Sorry,' he said, ‘but we don't keep that much cash in the office.'

‘Bank's still open.'

‘Or the country, come to that. You could try America, just up the road and turn left; they might be able to help.'

Lundqvist sighed. ‘Fuck that,' he said. ‘I guess I'll just have to take a cheque.'

‘I'll need to see your licence and some proof of identity.'

Lundqvist growled ominously. ‘Here's the licence.'

‘Thanks, that all seems to be in order. How about this proof of identity?'

With no apparent exertion whatsoever, Lundqvist picked the deputy up one-handed by the lapels, held him about two inches from the tip of his nose and treated him to a long, special stare.

‘Is that okay?'

‘That'll do nicely, Mr Lundqvist.'

There was a brief interval while the deputy laboriously wrote out a cheque, during which time Lundqvist amused himself by shuffling through the file of Wanted posters on the desk. Since they were a trifle behind the times at Las Monedas, the file read more like Lundqvist's curriculum vitae. Sorry. Curriculum mortis.

Theodore ‘Fangs' Lupo - March 1992, Guatemala. Trouble getting his pelt over the border, Lundqvist recalled, because of the endangered species by-products regulations. Ironic, since it was largely due to his efforts that werewolves were endangered in the first place.

Rameses IV - July 1992, Cairo. One of the few contracts that had given any real degree of job satisfaction. Amazing what these new hi-tech wallpaper pastes could do with three-thousand-year-old papyrus bandages.

Aldazor, Lord High Marshal of the Infernal Hosts - August 1992, Akron, Ohio. A miserable job, that, and he was still getting letters from the Vatican legal department about infringement of copyright. Copyright bullshit. Show me a priest who uses bell, book and 20mm recoilless rifle, and then sue me.

With a sigh, Lundqvist flicked through the rest of the file. Nothing but the commonplace, the routine, the uninspiring, the run-of-the-mill. For a man who had got into this line of work purely for the adrenaline rush of living on the edge, he was spending far too much time pottering about in the epicentre.

And then . . .

He stopped.

He turned back.

‘Hey,' he said. ‘How long's this one been out? Don't remember seeing it before.'

The deputy looked up over the rims of his spectacles. They had belonged to his great-grandfather, and it was a moot point as to whether the myopia that ran in his family was cause or effect.

‘Oh, that one,' he replied. ‘That's new. A man delivered it specially.'

‘When?'

The deputy thought for a moment. ‘Three days ago,' he said. ‘Maybe four. It was the day Little Pepe's mule cast a shoe and Miguel sent the telegram to San Felipe.'

‘Thanks.' With a swift movement, Lundqvist snapped open the file, removed the flyer, and snapped the file shut. ‘I think I'll just borrow this for a while,' he said. ‘You don't mind, do you?'

Before the deputy could answer, Lundqvist had folded the flyer away, snatched his cheque and hurried out.

In the cantina, over a triple hot chilli and a jug of coarse red, Lundqvist studied the flyer in detail.

and then a space; and in big, old-fashioned letters:

(they keep that typeface specially for wanted posters); and then a blurred photograph; but the face was already familiar. More than that; it had been an unshiftable grape-pip behind the dental plate of Lundqvist's professional pride for more years than he cared to remember. And then the name, and the aliases. The Most Wanted Man in History.

And then the reward. There were so many noughts it looked like the string of bubbles left behind by a swimming otter.

Lundqvist nodded gravely, finished his chilli and lit a cigar. Yes, the challenge. Yes, the adrenaline rush. Yes, the chance to settle a really big old score.

And yes - yes, indeed - the money.

‘
T
hat's fine,' said the fugitive. ‘You can drop me here.'

The pilot looked at him.

‘Thanks,' added the fugitive significantly, ‘for the lift. I'll be seeing you. Goodbye.'

The airliner obligingly stopped. Around its wingtips, the wind howled. Below, the sea groped for the plane's belly with ephemeral talons of spray. Two seagulls flew straight into the tailplane and knocked themselves out cold.

‘It was a pleasure,' replied the pilot. ‘See you around.'

The cabin door opened - it shouldn't have; it was pressurised, and if it opened under pressure the entire contents of the cabin would be sucked up and spat out - and the fugitive picked up his rucksack, waved politely, and walked down a flight of nothing into thin air.

The fugitive watched the airliner fade into a dot on the horizon, then strolled across the wavetops to the fishing boat which he'd selected as the best way to make an inconspicuous entry into Holland.

‘Hi,' he said in fluent Dutch as two fishermen came running with lifebelts. ‘If we crack on a bit we can be home by nightfall.'

You can feel a right fool, frozen in the act of throwing a life-belt to a perfectly dry stranger in chinos, sleeveless shirt and straw hat. The fishermen paused, searching their sparse but functional vocabulary for something appropriate.

‘We haven't finished fishing yet.'

The fugitive smiled. ‘Don't you believe it,' he said.

He clicked his fingers, and the mechanical net-winders began to purr. As the nets cleared the water, there was a distressing sound of groaning hemp. A couple of rivets popped in the crane.

‘That ought to do for one day,' the fugitive went on, indicating the painfully overladen nets. ‘Right then. Chop chop, busy busy.'

The elder fisherman, who had seen some pretty weird things in his time and been told about a hell of a lot more, removed his cap, turned it round and put it back on his head. It was the first time he'd removed it in thirty-two years, funerals included.

‘How did you do that?' he asked.

‘Entropy.'

The fisherman's old, shrewd eyes met the fugitive's and for a moment there was a flicker of recognition; not of the man, but of the phenomenon. Forty years at sea and you learn the wisdom of taking the other man's word for it.

‘Fair enough,' he said. ‘Thanks. Where do you want to go?'

‘Amsterdam.'

‘I can take you to Ijmuiden,' replied the fisherman, ‘and then you can get the bus.'

‘That's fine.'

The fugitive wandered astern, lay down on a coil of rope, tilted his hat over his eyes and went to sleep.

The younger fisherman turned to his colleague.

‘Dad,' he said.

‘Yes,' replied his father. ‘I know. Don't worry about it.'

‘But you don't know what I was going to—'

‘I can guess, son.' The elder fisherman prodded a heaving net with the toe of his boot. He was old, even for a fisherman, but not so old that he could remember the last time a Vollendam trawler had come home laden down to the bows with a record catch of coelacanth.

Coelacanth. An extinct species. You could name your own price. In fact, given the quantity now slopping about on the deck wondering where all the water had suddenly gone, you could cut out the middleman and open an international chain of Vollendam Fried Coelacanth restaurants.

 

According to the latest edition of the
Red Guide to Hell
, finding suitable accommodation during your stay should not present a problem.

For business travellers and those tourists who can afford the prices, the Hell Sheraton, the Inn on the Pit and the Hellton all offer the usual five-star facilities and enjoy a convenient central location. Tourists of more modest means can expect a warm welcome and high standards of cleanliness and service at the Mephisto, the Casa 666 and the Elysium Palace. Students and others on a fixed budget are recommended to try one of the many friendly, family-run
auberges
and guest-houses outside the old town of Los Diablos, particularly in the suburbs of Beverley Hells and Hellywood.

There is, however, one thing that all these fine establishments have in common. To put it as nicely as possible, they don't provide you with a late key. Or an early key, for that matter.

Getting out of Hell is a bit like successfully defrauding the Revenue; many people will tell you they know someone who's managed it, but the name somehow eludes them. In practice, it's never happened.

Until . . .

‘It's amazing,' said the Finance Director.

‘Yes,' replied the Head of Security. ‘Clever little sod,' he added.

They were standing in the doorway of a room on the third floor of the Hotel Dante. It was empty, except for a bed with no sheets, a hacksaw and the Visitors' Book.

‘Where he got the hacksaw from,' the Head of Security said, ‘I have no idea.'

He picked up the instrument in question, which promptly sniggered at him and vanished. At the same time, the rope of sheets hanging from the stump of the severed bar in the window frame retracted itself, shrugged off its knots and slipped back on to the bed. The Finance Director examined them.

‘Ironed, too,' he observed. ‘I call that class, don't you?'

The Head of Security scratched the back of his head. ‘I still don't get it,' he remarked. ‘I mean, hacksaws don't just appear, and sheets don't just tie themselves into knots. I think they called it physics when I was at school.'

The Finance Director sighed. ‘If you look at the file,' he said patiently, ‘you'll see he was in here for sorcery, necromancy and dabbling in the Black Arts.'

‘Was he? Well I—'

‘In which case,' continued the Finance Director remorselessly, ‘perhaps it wasn't the most sensible idea in the history of the cosmos to set him to work in the machine shop.'

‘But—'

‘Bearing in mind,' the Finance Director concluded, ‘that in the machine shop he'd have access to pentangles, tetragrammata, Vernier mandalas . . . '

‘They're under strict orders to keep all that stuff locked away—'

‘. . . Eccentric-drive sabbats, adjustable familiars, coven wrenches and all the string he could possibly want. Let's face it, we goofed.' He closed his eyes, sighed again and thought for a while. Two of the principal skills of the high-class manager are damage limitation and positive thinking.