Compact with the Devil: A Novel (38 page)

“It’s Jane,” said Jenny, handing Nikki her cell phone.

“Go,” said Nikki bluntly, taking the phone.

“I got the elevators and power back up, but I ran into a slight problem,” answered Jane. “Well, first there was some girl named Angela.”

“She’s the tour manager. I hope you beat the crap out of her.”

“Well, I kind of did, actually,” said Jane, sounding slightly embarrassed. “And then I locked her in a supply closet. But she’s not the problem.”

Cano was starting to move and Nikki kicked him.

“What’s the problem?” said Nikki to Jane. “Will someone call an ambulance?” she said to the band, covering her phone speaker.

“Nikki, you’re not listening,” protested Jane.

“I’m listening, Jane,” she said, turning her back on the gabbling voices. “What’s the problem?”

“I found the bomb.”

“Shit,” said Nikki, glancing around at the band. “Call Ellen, get her to your location. I’ll call you back. ’Kay? Bye.” She flipped off the phone and shot a glance at Jenny, then looked back at Cano. Jenny nodded. Grabbing him by the collar, they dragged him behind a pillar.

“Talk to us about the bomb, Antonio,” said Nikki.

Cano smiled. “The world is finally going to remember me,” he said. Ellen’s bullet had gone through his shoulder, and Nikki
shoved her finger into the wound. Cano gasped in pain. Out of the corner of her eye Nikki saw Jenny shift nervously.

“I don’t really care about you, Antonio,” said Nikki. “I care about a whole building full of innocent people.”

“Innocent?” spat Cano. “I see no innocents here. All I see are willing participants in a bankrupt culture that ignores its obligations. That culture of globalization—a culture of homogenized, pasteurized slaves—is creating a world of dead souls. People need to remember—”

“Remember what?” snapped Nikki, wiping her finger on his tie. “That evil men can kill their children? Pretty sure they already know. Are you going to tell me about the bomb or am I going to shoot you?”

“Carrie Mae doesn’t kill,” said Cano, smiling smugly.

“You’ve been in prison for a while, so I’ll forgive your ignorance, but guess what? Times have changed.” She leveled the gun at him and waited.

“Nikki,” said Jenny sotto voce. “Not really sure this is a good idea.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Cano. “I’m prepared to die for my beliefs. You kill me or the bomb kills me—it is all the same to me. My manifesto is already on its way to the news service. I will be heard, even if I die.”

“Nikki!” hissed Jenny again. Nikki relaxed her hand.

“Jenny, what’s the number for that reporter you dated a while ago? The one with the British AP news.”

“Toni?” repeated Jenny, looking confused. “What for?”

“I’m going to call Toni and I’m going to let the world know that there is a bomb in the Paris opera house that will strike a blow for al-Qaeda.”

Cano struggled to sit upright, rage coloring his face.

“He won’t give me what I want, so I’m going to make damn sure he doesn’t get what he wants,” said Nikki, smiling. “Kit!” she yelled, looking around the pillar. “Give me your phone!” Kit tossed it over without looking up from Duncan.

“They won’t believe you,” said Cano, glaring.

“Sure they will. What sounds more realistic? A relic of the Basque separatist movement killing a bunch of Parisians or al-Qaeda doing what it’s been doing for years?” She dialed Jane and waited for her to pick up.

“Looks like Toni’s number is still in my phone,” said Jenny. “I’m dialing now.”

“How do I defuse the bomb, Cano?” asked Nikki, poking at his shoulder wound. “Talk to me, Jane,” she said as Jane picked up.

“Um …,” said Jane.

“You’re all going to die,” Cano spit out, thrashing in the handcuffs.

“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be today. If you go back to prison there’s still a chance you can make your statement. If you let this thing ride, it may be that we can stop the bomb or maybe we can’t, but either way you are not getting credit for it.”

Cano ground his teeth.

“It’s ringing,” said Jenny.

“Jane?” demanded Nikki.

“Uh, best guess says it’s either the green wire or the red wire. I was hoping you would have more information?” Jane said, ending on an optimistic note.

“Hey, Toni,” said Jenny cheerfully. “Guess who? Yeah, it’s been a while, but I’ve got a story you might be interested in.”

“Green or red, Cano?” asked Nikki, and Cano swallowed hard. “I speak six languages; I can be a very convincing Muslim terrorist over the phone. No one is going to read your manifesto, let alone believe it, by the time I’m done.”

“Green,” he said at last with a violent shrug.

“Red wire,” said Nikki to Jane, and Cano jerked forward in fury. There was silence over the phone and Jenny watched her with wide eyes.

“Problem solved,” said Jane cheerfully. “Thanks, Nikki. Gendarmes and paramedics are on their way; should I call anyone else?”

Nikki sighed. “Probably ought to alert the Paris branch; they’re going to be pissed as hell, but we’re going to need their help.”

“Got it,” said Jane, and hung up.

“I’m going to kill you,” said Cano. “I’m going to kill both of you and your families and anyone you ever loved.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Nikki, pushing her way off the floor.

“How’d you know he was going to lie about the wire?” asked Jenny.

“I would have if I were him,” said Nikki. “We hadn’t told anyone about the al-Qaeda thing yet; clip the green wire, the bomb blows, he wins.”

“What if you’d been wrong?” asked Jenny, looking horrified. Nikki shrugged; she didn’t want to think about that right now. They dragged Cano back around the pole to where the band was still arguing about Kit’s family situation. Camille had bandaged Duncan’s shoulder, and she and Kit looked up at Nikki with twin expressions of concern.

“He needs a doctor,” Kit said.

“The paramedics are on their way,” said Nikki.

“Um, I say,” said Richie, interrupting. “We just want to be clear. Your mum is a spy and your father was IRA? And your bodyguard is your uncle?”

“Declan was quitting,” said Duncan and Camille at the same time, then exchanged rueful glances.

The director had recovered enough to crawl toward his headset, which was making little tiny yelling noises.

“Mum is with the security department of Carrie Mae. Duncan is my uncle and used to be with the IRA. He’s been masquerading as my bodyguard to protect me.”

“Holy shit,” said Hammond, mopping sweat off his brow. “I’m going to have a bestseller.”

“I need to stop smoking hash,” said Richie.

“Kit’s mom’s kind of hot,” said Burg.

“Shut up, Burg,” said Holly, and smacked him in the back of the head.

“Great!” interjected the director, clawing his way up a table leg and onto his feet. “That’s all taken care of then. You”—he grabbed Burg out of the middle of the group and threw him toward the stage—“out onstage.”

Burg went with the shove, tumbling in a somersault out onto the stage. There was a burst of applause.

“I don’t think the instruments are plugged in,” said Ewart, coming out from under a table.

“You two next.” Richie and Hammond went flying out after Burg.

“I can’t play,” said Kit. “I have to go to the hospital with Duncan.” He stopped and turned to Nikki. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t play. Everything’s different.” He shook his head, clearly confused.

“You’ve got to play,” said Duncan, opening his eyes. “That’s what we did all this for, wasn’t it? So you could play?”

“Well, that’s a bloody stupid reason,” answered Kit, looking shocked. “Forget about it. I’ll go with you.”

The director was reaching for Holly.

“You want to spend some time on the floor again?” she demanded.

“Right, right, whatever, just move!” hissed the director. Holly looked at Kit with a shrug and walked onto the stage under her own power. Kit looked around the room, at Duncan and Camille, at the pleading director, and finally at Nikki.

“We’ll be here when you get done,” said Duncan.

“We’ll be at the hospital,” corrected Camille.

“What they said,” said the director, and began to push Kit toward the stage.

“Mr. Masters,” said Ewart, interjecting hurriedly. “Maybe you don’t remember me …”

“Sure, you’re Ewart, you handle the mechanical stage,” said Kit numbly, still leaning against the pushing hands of the director. Ewart blinked; he hadn’t been prepared to have his name remembered.

“Yes, only Mr. Dettling fired me, because of that little snafu the other night. And I swear that wasn’t my fault! But Nikki said that if I came here I could talk to you and maybe—”

“Now?” screamed the director. “You’re asking about your job now? My entire career is on the line and you are worried about your job!”

Kit looked at the director and Ewart and then at Nikki.

“What do I do?” he asked.

“Whatever you want,” she said. “Same as always.”

“Damn free will,” Kit said. Then he nodded and walked away from the director so abruptly that he nearly fell over.

“The instruments still aren’t set up,” said Ewart, pointing to the disconnected cables that ran from the sound system to the instruments.

“Well, go fix them!” screamed the director.

“You’d better go,” said Nikki as Ewart looked to her for further instruction. “You wanted your job back, and the band can’t play without instruments.”

“Right,” said Ewart with a startled nod. “The show must go on.” Crouching over, he ran out onto the stage; he was going to save the day.

Kit walked out onto the stage to a smatter of applause. The audience had been confused by the stage fight, uncertain if it was real or part of the entertainment. Kit looked at his band; they stared back in pie-eyed panic. The crowd was murmuring restlessly. Kit looked back at Nikki, who grinned encouragingly.

“Well,” said Kit, walking to the mic and adjusting the height. “Needless to say, this isn’t going like it did in rehearsal.” That got a nervous laugh from the audience. Ewart ran out onstage and dove under the drum kit to fiddle with some cords. “Um …” Kit looked back at Burg, who shook his head and shrugged. “Sorry about this, but things got a bit screwy backstage. I think someone just tried to kill me.”

He hadn’t intended it to be, but his deadpan delivery and cockeyed confusion made the line funny, and there was a wave of snickers from the audience. A squirt of white noise came from the speakers.

“Almost there,” muttered Ewart, running by.

“So,” said Kit, turning to the audience again and smiling brilliantly. “I’ve been on the road with these guys for about half a tour now, and some for more than that, and we still don’t have a band name. Richie over there”—he pointed to Richie, who strummed a soft chord on his guitar; the speakers picked up halfway through and Richie turned his test chord into a melodic riff—“thinks we should be the Purple Weasels.”

The audience cheered. The band began to test their instruments. Ewart was running back and forth like a chicken with its head cut off, and the next instrument to be heard distinctly was the keyboard.

“Hammond, our resident socialist, thinks we should be the
Communist Synthesizers.” Hammond’s fingers ran down the keyboard in a waterfall of notes and settled into a funk rhythm to the cheers and hoots of the audience.

“The eternally lovely Holly, our bass player and backbone, thinks we should be the Rhythm Method.” Holly worked the strings in a
bumpa-bumpa-bumpa
funk that moved up down and then settled down to match Hammond. The crowd roared their approval.

“And Burg … What were you shooting for? Dead Mimes?”

“The Egregious Philibins!” yelled Burg, and hit the skins with a flourish.

“So we’ve got the Purple Weasels”—cheers and a screaming riff—“the Communist Synthesizers”—louder cheers, and Hammond let fly with hands like Jerry Lee Lewis—“the Rhythm Method”—the crowd went wild as Holly ran and slid to center stage on her knees, rocking the bass line—“and the Egregious Philibins!” Burg nearly drowned out the cheers with a thunderous fusillade on the drums. The band had clicked in now, music had filled in the holes dug by fear, and they had started to jam.

“But I bet you want to know what I want. Do ya?” Kit was leaning out over the crowd now. “You want to know what I want?” He almost sang the words over Holly’s bass line, and the crowd screamed. “Do you want to know what I want?” He reached out to the crowd, and they reached back.

“We are the Devil’s Horde!” Kit threw his fist up in the air and struck a pose as the Horde rocked into “Devil May Care.” The crowd was on their feet and screaming.

“Did anybody clock that?” asked Nikki, looking around. “That was complete disaster to absolute miracle in like two point six minutes.”

“I want his children,” said the director fervently.

“You do find the sexiest guys,” said Jenny, shaking her head.

Kit was rocking into his second song when the paramedics arrived, with Jane and Angela following close behind. Jane had a metal briefcase in one hand and was dragging Angela by the elbow.

“Where’s Ellen?” asked Jane breathlessly.

“Hopefully, she’s hunting down Brandt,” said Nikki. She eyed Cano for signs of suspicious movement, but he had lapsed into sullen silence. “Where’s the bomb?”

Jane raised the heavy-looking briefcase in response. “The police and the Paris branch are both on their way. I brought her along; didn’t know what to do with her.”

“Sit her next to Cano,” said Nikki, “and can you call down to security and make sure that the police are expected?”

“I should have known you’d be behind all this,” snarled Angela.

“Isn’t that my line?” asked Nikki, confused. She shoved Angela down next to Cano.

“This is your fault!” screeched Angela. “Brandt is going to destroy you.”

“Apparently she didn’t know about the bomb,” said Jane, watching Angela with a skeptical expression.

“Bomb?” repeated Angela, looking at Cano and at the rest of the bodies. “Brandt said it was just supposed to be Kit—to save Faustus.”

“Brandt is a moron,” said Cano, and Angela made an angry squeak.