In The House Of Secret Enemies m-9 Read online

  Somewhere in every man's mind are the fetid odors of rotted dreams, mercifully flushed into the sewers of the subconscious. Mueller had discovered chemicals that somehow interfered with the mechanism of suppression. He'd been playing games with my brother's sanity, not to mention my own. I owed him.

  I curled my legs up close to my body and waited in the dark.

  Several eternities later the lights came on, harsh and white-hot on the dilated pupils of my eyes. Now I could see the door, lined with rubber flaps to exclude any light, on the other side of the bare room, to my right. It opened. Immediately I cringed, curling my body up into a tight ball. I covered my face with my hands, leaving just enough space between my fingers to see through.

  Boise's gun was the first thing into the room, followed by Boise himself, then Mueller. Boise stopped inside the door, nudged Mueller and pointed at me. He was grinning.

  "Boo!" Boise said. That was almost funny enough to make me forget the other, real fears that were still buzzing around inside my head.

  I moaned and shrunk even closer to the wall. At the same time I dropped my right forearm and planted it in the angle between the wall and the floor. I would get only one shot at Boise and I wanted all the leverage I could get.

  "Hey, dwarf!" Boise barked, still grinning. "You want to die, dwarf?" He was enjoying himself, and that was a mistake.

  My sick terror was rapidly being displaced by red-cheeked, eminently healthy anger. I moaned a little bit, prompting Mueller to enter the conversation.

  "Boise, I don't see why you have to needle him like that."

  "You were the one who suggested doping him up."

  "Just to make him easier to handle, Boise. I don't see how we can just-"

  "I've already figured out what to do with him," Boise said, coming closer and looking for my eyes. His gun was still steady on me.

  "Please let me go home," I said in my best whine, at the same time trying not to ham it up too much. "I promise I won't bother you anymore. Please don't hurt me." I considered my next words, then figured, what the hell. The coup de grace : "Please let me call my mother."

  That broke Boise up-mentally. The room echoed with his loud, hoarse laughter. He reached out with the toe of his shoe to nudge me in the ribs, and that was what I had been waiting for. I broke him up again-physically.

  Shifting all my weight onto my right arm, I tensed and kicked out with my instep at the exposed side of his left knee. It popped with a metallic sound of breaking joints and tearing ligaments. Boise dropped like a felled tree, his gaping mouth wrapped around a long, meandering scream. The gun clattered to the floor and bounced in Mueller's direction. Mueller belatedly reached down for it and got me instead. I slapped him across the bridge of the nose. He sat down hard. I stood and placed the end of the gun in his ear. I pulled the hammer back, and Mueller made a retching sound.

  "Get up, Mueller, don't throw up," I said evenly. "You do and I'll kill you. Think about that."

  Mueller put his hand over his mouth and struggled to his feet. I glanced at Boise, who lay on his side holding his shattered knee. His eyes had the dull sheen of cheap pottery. I turned back to Mueller.

  "The drugs," I said. "I want samples of whatever it was you put into Garth and me."

  Mueller's head bounced up and down like a wooden block on a string. He led me out of the room, down a narrow corridor, and into a smaller office. He reached up onto a shelf and took down two small vials.

  "Which is which?"

  "This is what we gave you," he said, pointing to the vial on the left. I took the other vial and dropped it into my pocket; I felt as if I were pocketing Garth's mind, his sanity.

  There was something huge creeping up behind me. It was a green, multilegged insect that ate dwarfs. I resisted the impulse to turn and look for it. I knew there would be many such things waiting for me in the void of time ahead, at least until the contents of the other vial could be analyzed and a way found to neutralize its effects. Or perhaps the creatures would go away by themselves. In any case, I decided I wanted company.

  "Let's see how fast you can come up with two glasses of water." I waved the gun at him. He was very fast.

  I opened the vial in my hand and tapped a few crystals of the drug into each glass, then motioned for Mueller to pick them up. He didn't have to be told what to do next. We marched back to the closed room, and I waited while the cloudy water disappeared down the throats of the men. Then I left them alone-I shut off the lights and closed the door.

  I found a phone and dialed Garth's precinct. Then I backed up against the wall and held my gun out in front of me. The nameless forms sharing the room with me stayed hidden. At last MacGregor's welcome voice came on the line.

  "Listen to me closely," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "I can probably only get it straight once. Garth's insanity is a setup. I think he'll be all right if you do what I say. If you do a urinalysis and blood test soon enough, I think you'll still find traces of a very unusual drug in his system. I know you will in mine, and I can prove where it came from. In the meantime, send a car to pick me up. I'm at Zwayle Labs. I have a surprise package for you."

  MacGregor started to pump me for more information. I was in no shape to give it to him, and I cut him off. Boise was starting to scream. Soon, Mueller joined him.

  "Please hurry," I said softly, closing my eyes. "I'm afraid."

  Country for Sale

  I rolled over in the dark and swatted the button on the alarm clock. Nothing happened. The jangling continued, bouncing around inside my brain like marbles in a tin cup. The hands on the clock read 3:30. I picked up the telephone and the ringing finally stopped. I pulled the receiver down near the vicinity of my mouth and muttered something unintelligible.

  "Mongo? Is that you, Mongo?"

  I rummaged around inside my mind until I managed to match the voice to a seven-foot giant with a penchant for collecting sea shells. I hadn't seen Roscoe Blanchard in five years, not since I'd left the circus.

  "Roscoe?"

  "Yeah, it's Roscoe." The voice was strained, nervous. "Sorry if I woke you up. I know it's close to midnight."

  I looked at the clock again. It still read 3:30. "Roscoe, I think you need a new watch."

  "Huh?"

  "Where are you?"

  "San Marino."

  "California?"

  "No. San Marino."

  "I got that. But where's San Marino?"

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line.

  "San Marino's in San Marino," Roscoe said at last.

  I decided to leave the geography lesson for later. "Roscoe, what's the matter?" I asked him.

  "We've got trouble here and nobody knows what to do. I remembered Phil mentioning something about you being a private detective now. I got your number out of one of the books in the office."

  "Where's Phil?"

  "He's disappeared."

  That woke me up. Phil was Phil Statler, owner of the Statler Brothers Circus, where I'd spent eight of the most miserable years of my life. But there aren't that many things you can do when you're a dwarf. If you end up a circus performer, there's no better man to work for than Phil Statler.

  "How long has he been missing?"

  "Four days. And there are some other funny things going on. Just yesterday-" It ended in a bloody gargle and the muffled sound of something very large and heavy falling.

  "Roscoe! I was screaming at a dial tone; the line had been disconnected. I tasted blood and realized I had bitten into my lower lip. I lay frozen, my fingers locked around the receiver.

  I sat up on the edge of the bed and leaned forward to stop my knees from shaking. Somewhere at the opposite end of thousands of miles of wire a man was dead or dying, and all I had was the name of a place I'd never heard of. I dialed the operator.

  It took ten minutes to confirm that the call had come from a place called San Marino, and another ten to find out where it was: San Marino, a full-fledged United Nations member
, was a country which occupied the whole of a mountain top-Mount Titano-in Italy. That was all the information I was going to get; I couldn't get through to a police station, or anyone else for that matter, because the San Marinese phone system had suddenly broken down and the phone people couldn't tell me when it would be operational again. I would just have to live with the sound of Roscoe's dying.

  I brushed my teeth and packed a bag.

  * * *

  I met an Italian on the flight to Venice who filled me in on San Marino.

  San Marino seemed to be doing quite well despite the fact that I'd never heard of it. It was-well, a dwarf, the smallest and oldest republic in the world, sixty square kilometers with 19,000 people, about enough to fill the football stadium in a small college town. It had been around since a.d. 300, when a Christian stonecutter by the name of Marino hid out on Mount Titano to avoid being fed to the Roman lions.

  San Marino's geography consisted of nine towns and three castles, which a Hollywood movie company had helped renovate in the '40s. Its economic assets included heavy doses of authentic medieval atmosphere, huge bottles of cheap cognac, postage stamps, and a thriving tourist trade.

  It seemed a strange place to take a circus.

  I landed in Venice and rented a car. The drive to the coast town of Rimini took a little over an hour. By then it was noon. I was tired from the Atlantic crossing, and hungry. Most of all I was worried, but there didn't seem to be much sense in rushing at this point.

  I stopped in a ristorante to exercise my Italian and ordered some pasta and wine. Once my raven-haired waitress got over the fact that she had an Italian-speaking dwarf in her establishment, I received excellent attention. The food and wine were superb. I finished, then asked directions to San Marino. She took me over to a window and pointed east.

  Mount Titano was barely visible. I could make out San Marino's three castles sitting on the highest points of the mountain, silhouetted against the sky. It looked like something out of a Disney movie.

  I turned away from the window and caught the waitress staring at me. She giggled nervously and dropped her eyes.

  "I take it you don't get that many dwarfs around here," I said in Italian.

  "I didn't mean to stare."

  I introduced myself. Her name was Gabriela. I asked if I could use her phone, and she steered me into a back room. I got hold of an operator who informed me that the lines to San Marino were still out. I hung up and went back into the dining room, where Gabriela was waiting with a glass of cognac. I drank it in the name of international relations and thanked her. It tasted terrible.

  "San Marinese," Gabriela said. "I thought you might like to taste it. They sell it by the gallon up there."

  I disguised a belch with a noncommital grunt.

  "Did you reach your party?"

  "The phones up there are out of order."

  Gabriela absently stroked her hair. "That's odd. Come to think of it, nobody's been down off the mountain in two or three days."

  "Who usually comes down?"

  "Many San Marinese work in Rimini. They often stop in here for lunch or dinner. I have regulars, but I haven't seen them for three days. I guess there may be something to the rumors."

  "What rumors?"

  "It is said they have sickness. They are keeping themselves isolated until they find out what it is and how to cure it."

  "What kind of a police force do they have up there?"

  "Oh, they're all very nice."

  "That's great for public relations. How effective are they?"

  She gave me a puzzled look. I rephrased the question. "How good are they at catching crooks?"

  Gabriela laughed. "There is no crime in San Marino. Perhaps an occasional drunk or a traffic accident, but never anything serious. The San Marinese are very pleasant people. Very friendly. It will be a shame if you can't get in."

  Gabriela went back to the window and pointed up the highway. "The road branches off about two kilometers to the south. The right fork will take you to Mount Titano."

  I paid my bill, left Gabriela a few hundred lire, and returned to my car.

  There were two guards at the border. One of them stepped out into the middle of the road as I approached. He couldn't have been more than twenty, but the scattergun he held made him seem older. The other one stayed back, watching me through cold, mud-colored eyes. He was tall, swarthy, and looked decidedly unfriendly. I doubted that he'd ever directed traffic.

  The boyish one came around to my side of the car and cleared his throat.

  "I'm sorry, sir," he said in passable English. "The border is closed."

  "I didn't think that ever happened in San Marino."

  "There is sickness on the mountain." He dropped his eyes as he said it. "Very bad. We have closed ourselves off to protect others."

  "I understand it's only catching if you're a telephone."

  He gave me a sharp look, filled with warning.

  "I've had all my shots. I'd like to take my chances."

  "I'm sorry, sir. Perhaps in a few days."

  I backed my car around and drove back down the hill. I parked it at a service station at the foot of the mountain and gave the attendant some money to watch it for a few days. From what I'd seen, San Marino wasn't exactly impregnable; it was time to test its new border fortifications. I found a convenient vineyard and ducked off the road into it.

  I took the vineyard route three-quarters of the way up the mountain, past the guards, then turned left and walked until I hit the main highway. That was all it took to get into San Marino. Staying there might prove more difficult, but I'd worry about that when the time came.

  I found myself on the outskirts of a town that I recognized from the Italian's description as the country's capital, also named San Marino. The central thoroughfare was a narrow, cobblestone street lined on both sides with souvenir shops. There were also a number of restaurants and hotels, not to mention the famous three castles, each about a half kilometer from where I was standing.

  There was no sign of any circus.

  I went up the street and stopped in front of one of the souvenir shops. Its windows were filled with the same things the windows of all the other shops were filled with, plastic junk with a medieval theme: plastic helmets, swords and shields, all undoubtedly made in Japan. There were three revolving stands displaying glassine envelopes filled with San Marinese stamps. All of the usual postcards were already stamped, and there was a large wooden mailbox conveniently nailed to the side of each shop.

  Benches on each side of the entrance were loaded with glass jugs containing San Marinese cognac.

  The San Marinese didn't miss a trick.

  On the other hand, it didn't take much of an experienced eye to see that much of San Marino was authentically medieval. There was a church visible down a side street that had to be at least eight hundred years old, probably of great interest to historians. But the San Marinese had learned their lesson early and well; history doesn't make money, plastic souvenirs do.

  A woman emerged from behind the tinted glass and stood on the stoop watching me as though I might be a souvenir that had somehow escaped from her shop. She had been beautiful once, before she'd put away too many San Marinese delicacies. Her green eyes were perfectly complemented by almond-colored skin and dark hair.

  Finally she smiled and said, "American?" It was as perfect as English can be when laced with a Brooklyn accent.

  I extended my hand. "My name is Robert Frederickson."

  "I'm Molly Marinello," the woman said, taking my hand in a firm grip. Her eyes glittered with pleasure. "Please wait here a moment, Mr. Frederickson. My husband will want to meet you."

  She went back into the shop, and reappeared a few moments later with her husband in tow. He was a big, handsome man with the ruddy complexion and granite presence of a man who has spent most of his life out-of-doors, working with his hands.

  "I'm John Marinello," he said, pumping my hand. "Always glad to meet another A
merican."

  "Brooklyn?"

  "Yeah. Can't say enough about the United States."

  "Too much violence," his wife said gently. "Nobody's safe on the streets."

  John Marinello shook his head. I felt as if I'd stumbled into an argument that had been going on for years. It was a ritual, and they knew their lines by heart.

  "I earned good money there. I was a construction worker. Stonemason. I'd still be there if it wasn't for Molly. Great place, the United States."

  "Too much violence," Molly repeated. "Nobody's safe on the streets. Much better here."

  Her husband started to shake his head again.

  I cut in. "I take it that things are pretty quiet here."

  John Marinello's eyes grew big in mock wonder. "Quiet?! Let me tell you-"

  "Peaceful," Molly said quietly. "Nobody fights here. People here live like human beings."

  The man's head was starting to go again.

  "I guess we used to be neighbors," I said quickly. "I teach at the university in downtown Manhattan."

  Both of them looked surprised. "We thought you were from the circus," Molly said. She paused and flushed. "I'm sorry," she added quickly. "I just took it for granted."

  "It's all right. As a matter of fact, I used to work for the circus. The one that's here now. By the way, do you know where they're camped?"

  John pointed up the street. "There's a large field up there around the bend, to your right. It's down in a valley." He paused and studied me. "I'm surprised you haven't seen it."

  "I just got here."

  "I understood we were quarantined. How did you get up here?"

  "Do you believe the story about the epidemic?"

  John and Molly Marinello exchanged glances. They both seemed incredulous.

  "Believe?" John said. "Why shouldn't we believe it? The order came directly from Alberto Vaicona, one of the Regents."

  "He's the head of your government?"

  "One of the heads. There are two Regents."

  "Why are all the phones out of order?"

  "It is nothing," Molly assured me. "These things happen. Whatever is wrong will be repaired soon."