City of the Snakes (33 page)

“I’ll manage somehow.”

She kisses me quickly. I want to make something more of the kiss, but keep my hands by my sides. “Take care, Al,” she says. “The coup’s gone like a dream but you’re bound to hit a glitch somewhere. Don’t trust any of these bastards.”

“I won’t.”

“Keep me in touch with what’s going on, and call when you need me.”

“You think I can’t get by on my own?”

“You’re a man,” she chuckles. “Of course you can’t.”

I laugh, watching her go, wishing I could keep her.

I run into the glitch quicker than Ama could have anticipated. In the early hours of Saturday I grab some much-needed sleep. I’m stiff when I wake and spend twenty minutes exercising on the floor beside my bed, limbering up. After checking with my Cobras—all’s well—I indulge in a leisurely breakfast. After that I take to the streets with my bodyguards. Many who left at the height of the riots are returning and I ensure they don’t feel threatened. I also arrange meetings with some of the looters who’ve been stripping shops and apartments bare, and ask them to return the goods they stole. I don’t come down heavy—I have to keep these people on my side—merely ask that they consider the long-term profits over short-term, and vow to bear it in mind if they do me this favor. Most cooperate, and by afternoon news cameras are focusing on the incredible sight of thieves returning their plunder to its rightful owners.

It’s evening when the glitch hits. I’m watching a news program, enjoying the positive coverage, when the anchorman cuts in with a report of violence in the center of the city. Although it hasn’t been confirmed, it appears that several of the Snakes attacked a group of diners leaving a restaurant, killing eight people. At least three of the eight were Kluxers.

As my brain races, a radio reporter makes an excited announcement—the lobby of Party Central has been firebombed by the Snakes. The death toll hasn’t been established, but several Troops perished, along with a number of civilians.

“Sard!” I bellow, startling the Snakes in the van. Sard’s a Cobra. Although they’re not supposed to reveal their names, I made them tell me, so I could address them directly without having to remember and repeat their triumvirate numbers all the time. Sard responds to my call immediately, poking his head into the van. “What the fuck are the Snakes doing at Party Central?” I roar.

“Sapa Inca?” he frowns.

“I just heard on the radio that we’ve attacked Party Central. And there was a report on TV that we’re killing Kluxers too.”

“But Sapa Inca,
you
authorized the strikes.”

My eyes narrow. “Get out,” I snarl at the Snakes. They obey without question, clearing the way for Sard. I tell him to close the door, then grab him by the lapels of his leather jacket and jerk him forward. “When did I tell you?”

“Early this morning, before dawn.”

While I was sleeping. The priests must have sent the real Paucar Wami to issue fresh orders to the Cobras. Those sons of…

“What did I say?” I growl.

“You sent the phalanxes of the fourth triumvirate to take the battle to our enemies,” Sard answers proudly. “I’m not sure what their targets were—only the Cobra of the fourth knows that—but you said we’d hit fast and hard, where it hurt, and warned us to be ready for a backlash.”

“Did anybody question the logic of attacking the two most powerful forces in the city at the same time?” I bark. “We haven’t even consolidated our position here!”

The Cobra shrugs. “You’re the Sapa Inca. We don’t question your orders.”

“Brainless fucking…” I mutter vile curses beneath my breath, but they won’t change anything, so I snap out of my rage and consider this mess from a cold, unemotional standpoint. “Recall them,” I tell Sard. “I was mistaken. The thrill of victory rushed to my head. I want them back before they do more damage.”

“I can’t,” Sard says, staring at me oddly. “You told them to leave their radios and phones behind. They’re incommunicado.”

“Fuck!” I kick a stand stacked high with TV sets, then kick it again, smashing the glass of the set lowest down. “Find them. Send your men and…”

I stop when I see him shaking his head. “I don’t know where they are. We could search, but those of the fourth have been trained to lie low and cover their tracks, the same as the rest of us. The odds—”

“Screw the odds. Take a phalanx, split it into pairs, and hunt them
down. Look everywhere. Don’t stop to draw breath. When your men flag, replace them.”

“As you wish, Sapa Inca,” he says, bowing his head.

“Sard!” I shout as he backs toward the exit. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Of course, Sapa Inca.”

“Start using your brain.” He blinks uncomprehendingly. “I’m not a god. I’m prone to error like everyone else. The next time I issue an order that makes no sense, that strikes you as the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever heard, tell me.”

“But we’ve been taught that to question the Sapa Inca is to invite death.”

“Are you afraid of death?” I ask quietly.

The Cobra snaps erect. “No, Sapa Inca!”

“Then use your initiative in future. Tell the other Cobras to do the same. I need people to challenge me when I make a bad call. Are you prepared to risk my wrath, even at the cost of your life?”

He nods solidly. “I am.”

I smile fleetingly, then point to the door. “Now go find those fools and pray they haven’t fucked everything up for the rest of us.”

As evening turns to night, reports of attacks by the Snakes increase. The three phalanxes are covering a lot of ground, hitting Tasso’s and Davern’s forces at random. Suddenly the news crews don’t care about thieves returning stolen goods. They want to know why the Snakes have overshot their boundaries, where we’ll hit next. In the space of a few hours we’ve gone from being saviors of the east to would-be conquerors of the north, south and west. And nobody likes it.

I tell my media-friendly front men to issue blanket denials—we know nothing of the attacks, they’re the work of a splinter organization, we don’t condone them—then get busy trying to prevent the catastrophe poised to engulf us.

I send messengers to track down the
villacs,
so that I can talk about this with them, but the few who speak English can’t be located and the others merely babble meaninglessly in response to my call for answers.

As the airwaves fill with the news that a highly ranked Troop was butchered at home, along with his wife, three kids and visiting mother-in-law (comics will have a field day with that in the coming weeks), I dial Ford Tasso’s number and hope that he’s still in Party Central, not on his way over in a retaliatory strike.

The phone clicks and Tasso snarls before I have a chance to say anything. “You better have a great fucking explanation for this, Algiers.”

“It isn’t my doing.”

“You lead the Snakes, don’t you?”

“They’re following Paucar Wami’s instructions, not mine. The first I knew of this was when the story broke on TV. I’m doing all I can to call them off.”

“What do you expect me to do in the meantime? Sit here, twiddle my thumbs and wait for you to sort this shit out? Do you know how many people I have urging me to stamp you out like the arrogant little upstart you are?”

“I can imagine,” I chuckle humorlessly.

“I’ve held them off because I wanted to check with you first, make sure you weren’t being set up by some sneaky bastards disguised as Snakes.”

“I’m definitely being set up,” I groan, “but by sneaky bastards on the inside. The priests are behind this. I don’t know what they’re up to, but they seem to want you and Davern to attack the east—which should be reason enough
not
to.”

He sighs heavily. “You’re asking a lot.”

“I know. But if you send the Troops in, you’ll play into the
villacs’
hands. Stall your men. Give me time. Please.”

He’s silent for five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Finally, “I want to send someone to discuss this with you.”

“Who?”

“Frank.”

“When can he be here?”

“He’s in the field. It’ll be midnight before he’s back. By the time I brief him… How does three a.m. sound?”

“Perfect. Send him in by Blesster Street. I’ll have an escort waiting.”

“You’d better,” he growls, hanging up.

I dial the number Eugene Davern gave me. He answers on the second ring with a curt “Yeah?”

“It’s Al Jeery. I want to talk.”

“The time for talking’s past. You had your chance. I’ve got nothing to say except see you on the street, nigger.”

“Don’t be a fuckhead!” I snap. “Negotiate with me now and we might walk away from this stronger than ever. Cut me off and we’re both going down.”

He pauses suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”

“All I want is to make my home turf safe. I have no wish to go to war with you or the Troops. Even if I did, would I start one while I’m still trying to secure the east?”

“You might,” he mutters. “Nobody was expecting an attack.”

“Because it’s suicide. The bastards behind this only want chaos. They don’t give a fuck about any of us. I’m meeting a representative of Ford Tasso’s at three a.m. Send one of your men along. I’ll have him met at Blesster Street. Hear what I have to say. Hold your forces in check until then.”

“I don’t know…”

“A few hours, Davern, that’s all I’m asking.”

He considers. Davern’s new to this game, not as seasoned as Tasso. He’s smart but itchy, afraid of being made the fall guy. He could swing either way.

“OK,” he says abruptly. “I’ll send Wornton—if you can win
him
around, you’ll earn a fucking cease-fire. Otherwise…”

I hang up before he can change his mind, dial Sard’s number and discover he’s had no luck tracking down the rogue Snakes. I tell him to keep trying and suggest detailing another two phalanxes to the search. He advises against it—the fewer people we send, the less conspicuous they’ll be. I bow to his assessment—a leader has to trust his aides—then sit back and chew my fingernails, counting off the seconds of the most nerve-racking hours of my life.

Hyde Wornton arrives first, wearing his trademark white fur coat, blond hair as immaculately combed as before. He casts an eye around the deserted
police station I’ve appropriated for the meeting, taking in the charred rafters and gaping holes in the roof. “Don’t think much of your choice of HQ,” he sneers.

“It’s as good a place as any.” I nod to one of three chairs I’ve laid out in a triangle. He ignores me and eyes the exposed rafters suspiciously.

“You’re sure we’re safe?” he asks.

“You’ve no enemies here,” I tell him—a ludicrous lie that brings a smile to his lips.

“I should live to see the day,” he chortles, but relaxes and takes a chair. “Who are we waiting for?” he asks, digging out a knife to pare his nails.

“Frank Weld.”

He whistles. “Should be interesting.” Checks his watch. “I left two of my men at Blesster Street. If they haven’t heard from me by five, they’ll call Eugene and—”

“All I’m waiting for is Frank. It wouldn’t be polite to start without him.”

Wornton lapses into silence and concentrates on his nails. He’s less nervous than I am, which irritates me, but I can’t help it. I’m playing a new game, in which maybe hundreds of lives are at stake. Wornton cares only about himself, as I used to. I’ve let myself start to worry about others, which is a weakness I must hide from Wornton and Frank. They seize on weaknesses, like sharks.

Frank turns up at 03:21, drawn and ill-tempered. He stops in the doorway when he spies Hyde Wornton. “What the fuck’s he doing here?” he bellows.

“The Snakes attacked Davern’s men too,” I explain. “I need to clear the air with him as well.”

Frank glares at Wornton, who smiles back innocently, then levels his gaze on me. “I thought this was supposed to be one on one. I have no intention of discussing private affairs in front of that son of a bitch.”

“Watch your mouth,” Wornton snarls. “It’s not just niggers we string up.”

Frank laughs monotonously. “That’s the sort of scum you hope to strike a deal with?”

“I don’t like it, but I’d rather talk with him than fight him. If you want,
I can see you one at a time, but I’ve got the same thing to say to both of you. It’d be a lot quicker if I took you together.”

Frank hovers uncertainly.

“For fuck’s sake, sit!” Wornton snaps. “The nigger’s right—if we don’t talk today, we’ll be at war tomorrow. I’ll face that if I have to, but I’d rather not.”

“OK.” Frank takes the third chair, moving it a couple of feet farther away from Wornton. “Impress me, Al.”

“First I want to make one thing clear.” I gaze steadily at Hyde Wornton. “Call me a nigger again and I’ll gut you, regardless of the consequences.”

Wornton opens his mouth to jeer, sees the real intent in my eyes, and closes it. “Touchy, aren’t you?” he pouts.

I face Frank. “Fifty-five Snakes are responsible for the attacks. They’ve been sent on a hit-and-run mission by the real Paucar Wami. I’m assuming he was put up to it by—”

“Hold on,” Wornton interrupts. “What do you mean, the
real
Paucar Wami?”