The Man of Bronze (26 page)

“Why did you need the statuette?” I asked. “Didn’t you already know where you’d scattered the bronze pieces?”

“I knew where I’d dumped them ten thousand years ago. I had no idea where they’d gone after that. Do you think I’d bother to keep track of them down through the centuries?” He wrinkled his nose in disdain. “I’m a lover, not an antique collector. But once I learned Bronze was almost restored, I decided I’d better send Mr. Urdmann to recover the last few pieces. Now that I have them, I’ll have to find someplace safe to keep them.” Silver sighed like a beleaguered saint. “But Bronze is still too whole for my liking. That’s what I want to discuss with you, mademoiselle: how we can do each other a favor.”

I resisted snapping back some retort. Better to let the scene play out. Let Silver make his proposition—I could guess what it would be—but on the slim chance he might surprise me, I’d see what he had to say. “What kind of favor?” I asked.

“You work for the Order of Bronze, mademoiselle. Return to their headquarters in Poland. Take with you a device I’ve made. A bomb. Eliminate my enemy.”

“Why do you need me?” I asked. “If you know Bronze is in Poland, why don’t you deal with him yourself? Send in your own assault team.”

Silver shook his head. “There’s no point trying a straightforward attack. I told you, mademoiselle, Bronze is a clever fellow . . . in his plodding uninspired way. That monastery of his has cameras in the woods and sophisticated weapon defenses. He’d see an assault team coming and blast it to pieces. But you, mademoiselle, would be welcomed as a friend. You’d be admitted freely through the gates and straight into Bronze’s inner sanctum.”

“And I’d be carrying a bomb.”

“Yes!”

I shook my head. “It would never work. Bronze’s inner sanctum, as you call it, has top-notch bomb detectors. Bronze told me so himself. The bomb that killed Reuben got past the front gate but not much farther. It would have been noticed long before it came close to Bronze himself.”

“Possibly,” Silver admitted. “But that was a crude radio-activated device. Since then, I’ve developed something much better.” He smiled smugly. “I beg you to remember, mademoiselle, Bronze and I come from the same place. We both have knowledge far beyond anything you can imagine. His knowledge deals with sniffing out danger and capturing malefactors. But mine . . .” Silver smiled broadly. “I modestly claim expertise in not getting caught. I’ve sneaked through many a window that jealous husbands believed were perfectly secure. I’ve purloined many a pretty bauble right under the watchful gaze of plodders like Bronze. In other words, mademoiselle, Bronze may believe his cold stone chapel is entirely safe behind its firewall of bomb detectors . . . but every armor has chinks. I have produced a masterpiece, mademoiselle: a bomb undetectable by anything Bronze may devise. It produces no radio signals of any kind. It contains no metal. X-ray scans will reveal nothing of interest. It’s so perfectly sealed that none of the explosive chemicals within can leak out and be detected. And the trigger mechanism, mademoiselle! That is the best of all. It senses . . . oh, you might call it a sort of aura, a radiance, an emanation that our kind emits. As soon as Bronze gets close . . . kaboom!”

“And if I’m there, I go kaboom, too?”

“No, no,” Silver said, patting my cheek. His hand was soft and warm, not metallic at all . . . but I gritted my teeth to keep from punching him in the face; it would just bruise my knuckles. “I wouldn’t want you injured,” Silver assured me. “Besides, it takes more than physical force to damage creatures like Bronze and me. It takes ethereal energies.”

“You mean magic?”

Silver made a face. “Such an imprecise word. Humans use it for so many different things—some real, some imaginary. Let’s just say Bronze is held together by several types of bonds, some of which are stronger than others. A conventional bomb, no matter how powerful, cannot affect Bronze’s fundamental structure. It might blow off his fingers and toes, which are only loosely affixed . . . but even a nuclear blast couldn’t detach his head. To truly rip Bronze apart, you need a device that adds special disruptive energies to an ordinary explosion. The energies weaken the cohesion between Bronze’s component parts. The explosion then does the rest.”

He patted my cheek again. “It doesn’t have to be a large explosion, mademoiselle. Just enough to break bonds that have been made fragile by the accompanying emanations. You could easily survive such a blast if you were, oh, several meters away and behind some cover.”

“That’s what you say.” I glowered. “But wouldn’t it be convenient if I were killed in the same explosion that got Bronze?”

“Not convenient at all!” Silver said. “I want you to survive . . . if only to prevent Bronze’s allies from reassembling his pieces immediately after the blast. I would, of course, have forces standing by to help you. They’d have to stay back far enough not to be detected by Bronze’s sensors, but they’d rush in as soon as the bomb exploded. You’d just have to stave off the Order of Bronze for a minute until reinforcements arrived. After that . . . I’d shower you with my gratitude.”

Speaking of showers, I’d need one after this was finished—to wash off the feel of his touch. “So basically,” I said, “you want me to turn traitor in exchange for cash.”

“Money could be supplied,” Silver said, “but you already possess a fortune. I doubt if you hunger for wealth the way many others do. Surely though, you hunger for other things. Adventure? Romance? If you chose to work for me, those could be supplied. In abundance.”

He waited for me to say yes. I didn’t. “All right, mademoiselle,” he said with a shrug, “let us ponder what else you might care for. The greatest archaeological treasures of all time? How about those?”

“What treasures?” I asked.

“Almost anything you name. I’ve lived on this world ten thousand years. I’ve been god to many peoples, king to many more. I can tell you the locations of a hundred undiscovered tombs. Do you want to know the location of Excalibur? The ring of the Nibelung? The lost gold of the Inca? Once Bronze is out of the way, I’d share everything I know.”

He waited again. I said nothing. Finally he sighed. “I’d hoped to avoid crude threats, but I
do
hold your friends prisoner. If you want them released, you’ll cooperate. And it occurs to me, I can offer one more inducement. Do what I ask, and I’ll let you kill Lancaster Urdmann.”

“Just like that?” I said. “You’d turn him over to me?”

“Willingly,” Silver replied. “I would even allow you the use of facilities I have in my basement: facilities where you could spend as long as you like in ending Mr. Urdmann’s life.”

“In other words, you have a torture chamber on the premises.”

He nodded. “Its resources would be at your disposal.”

“To kill your ‘trusted’ business partner?”

“Mr. Urdmann has been useful,” Silver replied, “but he’s not irreplaceable. You’d be a much more satisfactory associate, mademoiselle. You’re more intelligent, more controlled, and more lethal than Mr. Urdmann will ever be. You’re also exceedingly more beautiful . . . and I am a man who appreciates beauty intensely.”

“You’re not a man at all,” I said. “You’re a monster.” I took a deep breath. “You say you’ll let me kill Urdmann; and I do want to kill him, the way I’d kill a rabid dog. But if Urdmann is a dog,
you’re
his master. You’re the one who’s truly responsible for Reuben’s death . . . and for the deaths of Lord Horatio’s men too. Do you think Urdmann’s death would satisfy me so thoroughly that I wouldn’t want to kill you? And do you think I’m so witless I’d work for a creature who betrayed his lieutenant on a whim?”

“Not a whim,” Silver protested. “Destroying Bronze is more important to me than anything else in the world. But if you remove Bronze’s threat hanging over my head, I would have no reason to betray
you.
I would be safe . . . and grateful. Very, very—”

“Oh shut up,” I said. “You’re a lying pig who’ll say anything. All you’ve accomplished with this talk is to make me think better of Bronze. I used to doubt the wisdom of reassembling a supernatural RoboCop; but if he’s here to drag your sorry carcass back to some android lockup, hallelujah and how do I help? You’re a worthless, conscienceless parasite who’s caused nothing but trouble since the day you came to Earth. I assume it’s the fault of your programming—you’re
supposed
to be a shallow wastrel—but that doesn’t mitigate the damage you’ve done. The sooner Bronze catches you, the better. I just hope I’m there to see it.”

For a moment, Silver stared as if he couldn’t believe I’d resisted his charms. A real man might have seethed at my rejection; but after a few seconds, Silver just shrugged. He wasn’t programmed for furious outbursts—a pleasure bot, even a totally amoral one, would be designed to have an even temper.

He’d also be long on patience—seducers have to be. Silver would always give a woman a chance to change her mind. I was counting on that.

“Guards,” he said . . . not raising his voice, just speaking as if they were in the room with us. Half a second later, they were: running in from the corridor and through two side doors. Eight men—three with Uzis, two with Tasers, two with tranq guns, and one with handcuffs and leg irons. Only the last ventured within arm’s reach of me; the rest stayed well back, weapons ready, until I was thoroughly manacled.

Silver came forward and caressed my chin. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I shall not take no as your final answer. Once you have thought this over—especially the danger to your friends if you do not cooperate—I’m sure you will choose more prudently. In the meantime . . .” He gave a dramatic sigh. “I allowed you to wake in a lovely bedroom to show you my generosity. But as I have mentioned, this house has less amiable accommodations.”

He turned to the guards. “Take her to the dungeon. Do your best to make her uncomfortable.”

14

LOCATION UNKNOWN: THE CELL

They didn’t actually torture me. They just disarmed me, marched me to the cellar, removed my chains, and locked me in a holding cell where I could contemplate my fate. Hours or days or weeks later, when Silver thought I’d be more pliable, he’d begin the next phase of “persuasion”—probably torturing Teresa, Ilya, or Lord Horatio right before my eyes.

It was all entirely predictable . . . which is why I’d refused Silver’s offer. If I’d said yes, he would have whipped me onto a private jet and flown me straight to St. Bernward’s Monastery. Mercenaries would have flown with me, partly to attack the Order of Bronze after I’d set off the bomb and partly to make sure I didn’t try any funny business. Meanwhile, my friends would be held prisoner here, wherever “here” was, to be tortured or killed if I disobeyed orders.

A bad situation no matter how you looked at it. Better to let myself be thrown into the dungeon. That way, I remained close to my friends. I also might find a way to escape. If worse came to worst, I could always say yes to Silver later . . . but only after I’d exhausted other alternatives.

Besides, there was a chance Bronze would arrive on his own. Silver had slipped up: in the Sargasso Sea, he and Urdmann had communicated using an encryption method unknown to current technology. It must have been some coding technique Silver learned back “home.” Bronze had recognized the code as soon as we asked him to translate the message—that’s why the metal “detective” had been so excited. Now Bronze would focus his resources on Lancaster Urdmann, trying to find out how Urdmann had learned the code. The RoboCop android would track Urdmann’s every movement, calling in favors from law-enforcement agencies all around the world. It was only a matter of time before someone found a lead that connected Urdmann to Silver . . . and more time before someone sifted through enough data files to locate Silver’s hideout.

Silver wouldn’t keep a low profile. I’d only just met him, but I knew his type. He’d spend money like water, leaving an audit trail that Bronze could eventually follow. Soon enough, an armed task force would arrive to catch Silver once and for all.

Not that I intended to wait for rescue like a damsel in distress. I allowed myself a moment to daydream: imagining myself breaking out of the cell, sneaking upstairs, finding the bomb Silver wanted to use on Bronze, blowing Silver to pieces using his own “ethereal energies.”

Yes. That would be nice. I set about making the dream a reality.

My cell was spartan: stone block walls, a stout wooden ceiling with eight-by-eight beams running across it, a bare cement floor with an open drain in the back, and a single door made from iron bars. I’d seen similar setups in castles dating to the 1500s.

There was, however, a modern touch: the lock on the door was electronic, controlled by a swipe-card and keypad arrangement on the opposite wall. Even if I somehow got hold of a security card, the swipe receptacle was too far away for me to reach from the cell. I also didn’t know the numeric key code. When I’d been locked in, a guard stood directly in front of the keypad as he entered the code, making it impossible for me to see what numbers he punched in.

I could see no security cameras spying on me. The room outside my door was almost as barren as my cell; blank walls, another cell—empty—and a solid steel door leading away. I’d seen what lay beyond that door when I was escorted down here: a wine cellar filled with racks of dusty bottles, plus a staircase ascending to the main floor. If there really was a torture chamber down here, I hadn’t seen it . . . but then, the wine cellar’s racks had blocked my view of much of the basement.

With nothing else to do, I began a careful investigation of my cell—on the off chance I’d find some vulnerability to exploit. I was still searching when the door to the outer room opened.

“Lara. Fancy meeting you here.”

It was Urdmann. He had a gun.

The gun was a gawky-looking thing: an LEI Mark 2 pistol, similar to a Ruger Mark 2 but with an extended barrel. I happened to know the barrel served as an excellent silencer. The pistol had an international reputation as an assassin’s weapon; its caliber was small—it only shot .22s—but it was very quiet and acceptably lethal when fired point-blank into the heart or skull. No sensible killer would use the LEI Mark 2 at long range or against a moving target—it just didn’t have the stopping power. But for shooting an unarmed victim locked in a tiny cell? The gun was perfect.

“Hello, Lancaster,” I said. “Here for a visit?”

“No. This is business.”

He closed the door behind him. Just the two of us together. Old chums having a chat.

“What kind of business?” I asked.

He gave me a nasty smile. “I took the liberty of eavesdropping on your conversation with my employer. I heard what he offered you.” Urdmann checked the pistol to make sure there was a bullet in the chamber. “Silver is a double-crossing bastard: always has been, always will be. I expected he’d invite you to take my place. He’s told me plenty about his past; and in the stories, his second in command is always a beautiful woman. I should feel honored to be an exception—my skills and connections are so good, he hired me even though I’m a man. But Silver can never resist a pretty face. I’ve already killed four women he was grooming to replace me. You’ll be the fifth.”

“And Silver keeps you on, even though you execute his women?”

“I get him other women,” Urdmann said. “Ones without brains but with all the physical charms Silver could desire. In other words, women who don’t threaten my position. Silver has such a short attention span, he can’t hold grudges. If I kill one of his favorites but find him somebody else, he forgets there was ever a problem.”

“He might not be forgiving this time.” I’d moved to the back of my cell, but was uncomfortably aware that wouldn’t be good enough. I had no room to dodge, and Urdmann was standing far enough from the door that I couldn’t reach him. I didn’t even have anything to throw; the guards had divested me of everything except the improvised clothing I wore. “The other women you killed,” I told Urdmann, “weren’t as valuable as I am. I have connections with the Order of Bronze. Silver cares more about neutralizing his bronze enemy than anything else in the world.”

“I’ll say I was only protecting him.” Urdmann gave me a look. “No one really believes you’ll join Silver’s team. You’re too much the hero—too noble by half, defending the realm and its outdated virtues. Few people ever
believed
in those virtues, Lara . . . certainly not the people who built the British Empire by killing every wog who got in the way. But there were always a handful of blue-blooded toffs so out of touch with reality, they insisted on acting
honorably:
like knights of the bleedin’ Round Table.”

Urdmann raised his gun and sighted at me along the barrel. “That’s you, Lara: a deluded knight. You’ll never sign up with Silver—not really. You might make a show of playing along, but you’ll double-cross us as soon as you can. Even Silver knows that. He just hopes if he keeps you alive, you’ll give him a shag to pretend you’re on his side.” Urdmann rolled his eyes. “Look at it this way, Lara. If I kill you now, I’m saving you from that indignity.”

“A better way to do that would be setting me free.” I looked Urdmann in the eye. “Onetime offer, Lancaster. Let me out right now, and I won’t kill you. You’re scum, and you deserve to be put down like a dog . . . but it’s obvious Silver is the greater evil. Whatever role you had in Reuben’s death, I’m willing to let you off the hook because Silver was the one in charge. Just this once, I promise not to hunt you down if you’ll open this door.”

He looked at me a long moment . . . then laughed. “I admire your audacity, Lara, but your bargaining position is nonexistent. In a moment, your life will be too. Good-bye.”

Urdmann pulled the trigger.

Though I had almost no room, I tried to dodge anyway. The pistol gave a
pock
sound and something burned into my upper arm. At least it didn’t pierce my brain or aorta. I was preparing to dodge again when the door to the wine cellar flew open.

Urdmann half turned to face the door. A gun went off outside, far louder than the silenced pistol. Urdmann jerked as if hit by a heavy impact and tried to lift his gun. Another shot rang out from the wine cellar. Scarlet splashed across Urdmann’s stomach. He grunted and opened his mouth in surprise. A third shot caught him right in the chest. More scarlet spilled onto his shirt. He fell.

Three guards entered, Uzis drawn. The one at the front of the formation pointed to Urdmann’s body and told the other two, “Get him out.” The two guards scowled but grabbed Urdmann’s arms and dragged him away.

“He tried his trick once too often,” the remaining guard said, more to himself than to me. “That arrogant son of a bitch
always
guns down Silver’s women. This time, the boss posted us to keep watch.”

I said, “Wish you’d watched . . . a little better . . .” I toppled over, smacking the floor hard.

Here’s what the guard must have seen: I was down on the ground, on my side, unmoving, clutching a bloodstained hand to my chest.

Here’s what I hoped the guard didn’t see: the blood had come from my arm. Since I was lying on the injured side, the wound wouldn’t be visible. I definitely could feel it—yes, indeed, I felt it as it pressed the hard cement—but as a connoisseur of Grievous Bodily Harm, I could tell this gunshot was as mild as they come . . . “just a graze,” as they say in Hollywood Westerns. I couldn’t even feel a bullet embedded in my flesh. It had only brushed past me and flattened itself against the cell wall.

But the guard didn’t know that. He’d come through the door after Urdmann fired. All he saw was my blood-damp hand pressed against my heart.

“Damn!” he shouted. He fumbled with the security system: the swipe card and keypad. The electronic lock on my cell door went
click
. . . but I didn’t move until the guard rushed in and turned me over on my back to see how badly I was hurt.

Never let it be said I’m an ingrate. The guard had apparently stopped Urdmann from killing me. He even showed concern I might die . . . though that may have been more on his own behalf than mine. Silver had commanded this guard to keep me safe; there’d be serious punishment if I gave up the ghost. But even if the guard was mostly worried for his own skin, I bore him no ill will.

So I put him down gently. As he bent to check my wound, I lifted my legs and locked my calves around his neck: an application of the sleeper hold once popular in wrestling. The essence of the technique is to block the carotid arteries so blood stops flowing to the brain. Squeeze too long, and the effect is fatal . . . but if you time it right, you can knock someone out in under ten seconds.

Not surprisingly, the guard went for his Uzi. My hands were free; I grabbed him and we tussled over the gun. It wasn’t much of a fight—my blood choke leg hold soon made him dizzy. Then it made him unconscious. I relaxed my grip as the man slumped out cold on top of me.

Usually, I disdain the cliché of dressing in a guard’s uniform during a prison break. It seldom fools anyone, and you almost never get the right size shoes. Other apparel can be made to fit, approximately, with enough tucking or loosening of seams; but shoes have to be a decent match for your feet or they’re just more trouble than they’re worth.

This time, however, I made an exception. The clothes I had on—my assemblage of hastily altered frocks—had ripped and split shamefully just in my light scuffle with the guard. They’d never stand up to the sort of action I might encounter later. Better to dress myself in the guard’s kit, no matter how badly it fit. Besides, the unconscious man wasn’t
grotesquely
larger than me; his outfit bagged around my body, and I had to roll up his trouser cuffs more than six inches, but it could have been worse. And the boots were only a few sizes too big. I stuffed them with scraps of my former clothing—swatches ripped off the little black dress—until my feet stopped slopping about in the boots’ cavernous interiors.

Clothes weren’t all I removed from the guard’s body. I also took his Uzi, a ring of keys, and his security swipe card. The card wouldn’t help much on its own—the security system needed both a card and a keyed-in code—but people have a silly habit of writing down codes in places they think no one will ever look. If I was lucky, I’d find one. If I was even luckier, I wouldn’t need it.

I left the guard in my cell. The door automatically locked when I shut it. When the guard woke up he might holler for help, but I deemed the cell area adequately soundproof. Eventually some patrol or jail keeper would come down here and find I was missing, but by the time they raised an alarm, I hoped my friends and I would be long gone.

The wine cellar was empty. No blood on the floor where the guards had dragged Urdmann away. Perhaps Urdmann hadn’t been fatally wounded; but at that moment, I didn’t especially care whether he was dead or alive. Silver was more of a blight than Lancaster Urdmann could ever be: ten thousand years of villainy. I’d have to find a way to put the android down.

But not immediately. Though Silver wouldn’t hesitate to lie, I believed what he’d said about his metal body being difficult to damage. I couldn’t hurt Silver with any weapons that might come easily to hand; so rather than waste effort, now was the time to run. I’d get Teresa, Ilya, and Lord H. to safety. Then I’d go back to Bronze and see if he could arm me with something that would take the sparkle out of Silver’s day.

Quietly, I climbed the cellar steps. No one was visible when I reached the main floor. For the benefit of watching security cameras, I put on a confident guardlike stride and walked down the corridor toward the stairs that led to the bedrooms.

The door to Silver’s art studio, at the base of the stairs, was still open. I couldn’t help glancing inside as I passed. The room was empty—Silver must have given up painting for the night. On a sudden impulse, I entered the room.

People say art reflects the artist’s soul. I wanted to know my enemy. Not that the pictures told me much. As I’ve said, they were all female nudes—painted with an odd combination of precision and excess. Every portrait conveyed a photographic degree of accuracy, yet none of the pictures struck me as quite believable. The women all seemed to be
gushing
toward the viewer . . . as if Silver painted paramours who all wordlessly gave the message
I want you, I need you, I love you!
All these women were “gagging for it,” as the cruder girls at Gordonstoun used to say. I suspected that was more Silver’s fantasy than the unvarnished truth.