Sympathy for the Devil (32 page)

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb - you know what I mean. Do you drag me back to Hell as soon as the job's done?"

"I told you, Peters - I don't have any instructions about that."

"You also told me that if you did, you'd lie about it."

"Yeah, I did say that, didn't I?" She went over to the bed and flopped down on her back. "Let's assume, for the sake of discussion, that I really don't have any orders about what happens after."

"Okay - for the sake of discussion."

"But I might be able to make some educated guesses."

"Fine, let's hear those."

"I think Astaroth is going to have a lot on his plate, once certain high-level demons, including My Lord Satan Himself, see that Sargatanas is back in Hell, instead of in the White House, getting ready to blow up the world."

Peters nodded. "Yeah, there are factions, aren't there? That's what Astaroth said when he gave me my orders. I gather he represents the 'This is a really bad idea' faction."

"And he's got some powerful demons who agree with him. But by no means all. So, there's likely to be, shall we say, something of a fuss once Sargatanas gets back and explains how his mission was terminated, along with Senator Stark."

"How big a fuss are you talking about? Civil war? In Hell?"

"Why not? It happened once before, in -" She pointed up toward the ceiling. "You know."

Peters placed one arm on the back of his chair, and rested his chin on it. "Shit."

"There's no way to know for sure how it's all going to shake out, of course. But it's not an unreasonable scenario, what I just described."

"Astaroth might forget about us?"

"Let's face it, Peters, you and I are pretty small potatoes, in the grand scheme of things. There's no shortage of damned souls in Hell. Or of mid-rank demons, either."

"We'll become small potatoes - once we kill Stark and send Sargatanas back."

"Uh-huh. We wouldn't be ignored indefinitely, I expect. Astaroth - assuming his side wins this civil war that might not ever happen - would get around to us, eventually."

"Define 'eventually.'"

She held up her hands in the universal 'Beats the shit out of me' gesture. "A year. Ten years. A hundred years. Maybe a thousand."

"Get the fuck outta here."

"You, of all people, should know that time has a different meaning in Hell. When you're talking about eternity, what's a thousand years, more or less?"

"Or, your theory could be full of shit, and we might both find ourselves back in Hell within forty-eight hours from now, as they reckon time on this side."

"Entirely possible. Maybe even probable."

"Well, damn."

"My point exactly," Ashley said. She got up, went to the nightstand, and picked up the immense telephone directory that was kept in the bottom. She plopped it into her lap, opened it, and began turning pages quickly.

"What're you looking up?"

She raised her head to look at him, and there was an expression on her face he'd never seen there before. In a human, he might have called it melancholy. "As you said, we don't know what's going to happen to us, a couple of days from now." Then the mischievous grin he was familiar with reappeared. "It's our last night in Washington, and I've decided you deserve the treat I promised you." She went back to turning yellow pages and said, without looking up, "So I'm calling the Elegant Evenings escort service. What's your preference - blonde, brunette, or redhead?"

Chapter 30

This time Stark's suite was at the Berkeley Hotel in Richmond. Mary Margaret Doyle came into the living room in a robe, her damp hair wrapped in a towel. Sargatanas sat on the couch, tapping the keys of his laptop and scowling.

"What're you doing?" she asked as she sat down in an armchair and added hastily, "If you don't mind my asking."

"Working on the draft of my new stump speech. Carney gave it to me this afternoon, and, as usual, it's a piece of shit. I don't know why Garrett hired that fool."

"He's supposed to be one of the best."

"Then let us hope that I never have to employ the services of the worst. I wonder what that would entail - first drafts scrawled in crayon on a paper bag?"

"You'll make it better, you always do. Your speeches have been getting favorable news coverage, for both substance and delivery. And it's coming from more than Fox news and the
Wall Street Journal
, this time."

"Yes, I've seen some of it. Several of the media nitwits seem to have noticed that Senator Stark's public speaking began to improve about six months ago."

She smiled at him. "Goodness, whatever could have caused that?"

"Goodness, as you know well, had nothing to do with it. And speaking of nitwits, what about this man Greene? Do you think he has the balls to carry out his latest assignment?"

Mary Margaret Doyle nodded judiciously. "I think so. I've frightened him pretty well. Of course, there are so many factors we can't control - such as whether Greene finds someone suitable and doesn't end up trying to hire a killer who's really an undercover cop. And if he does find an assassin, a real professional, there's the question of whether he'll be able to get the job done."

"You told Greene that there is a time factor."

"I told him to get it done within two weeks. But if it takes a little longer, I suppose we can live with that."

"As long as Leffingwell doesn't."

"Indeed. Even if he were to live, you might well win the nomination, you know. It's your time, now. You're peaking."

"That's true. But the less we leave to chance, the better. There is a great deal riding on this campaign."

"Only everything."

"Once he hires the assassin, Greene's usefulness to us has reached an end. He ceases to be an asset and becomes a liability, given all that he knows."

"I've been thinking about that. We'll have to come up with a suitable way to dispose of him."

"If it should prove feasible, would you like to do it?"

"Well, I hadn't, um -"

"Perhaps you could deal with him as you did that fucking priest. You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?"

"I really don't know if I -"

"The smell of burned flesh as you run the blowtorch slowly along his body, mingling with the odor of shit and piss as he loses control of his sphincter muscles. The screaming, the begging for mercy, the calls for his mother..."

Her face was beet red. "You're... you're trying to turn me into a monster."

"Not at all, my dear. You were already a monster when we met. I'm simply giving you a chance to exercise your innate monstrosity without restraint - at least, occasionally."

"What do you mean, I was a monster?" she said, with some degree of indignation. "I had never done anything like that before."

"Oh, come, now. You willingly betrayed a man you had served with devotion for... how many years?"

"Eighteen," she said, the indignation fading. "Eighteen years."

"For eighteen years - a long time, as humans view such things. And you delivered him to me like a steer to a slaughterhouse."

"As you said, there are greater things at stake."

"Oh, indeed. The destruction of most of the human race, with you as Queen to rule over the rest with absolute power. Handing over a man you had known, perhaps even loved, for eighteen years seems a small price to pay, don't you think?"

"All right, all right, you win," she said, resting her head against the back of her chair to stare at the ceiling. "I'm a monster."

Several minutes went by. The only sounds in the room were the tapping of keys on Sargatanas's laptop and Mary Margaret Doyle's quiet crying.

Then he said, "I told you to find out where Masterson went while he was on leave."

She cleared her throat a couple of times, then said, in her brisk, businesslike voice, "Yes, I followed your directions and hacked into the major airlines' databases. It seems Agent Masterson flew nonstop to Austin, Texas, returning the next day."

"Is that where his mother lives?"

"I don't know - he's never said, at least where I could hear it. Do you want me to find out?"

Sargatanas thought briefly. "No, let it go. Even if he lied about visiting Mommy, it probably just means he went to Austin to get his rocks off. Unless he did both in the same place, and I understand that kind of behavior is more characteristic of the Southeastern United States than the Southwest."

"That's the stereotype, anyway. Do you know how they define a virgin in Mississippi?"

"I assume this is an attempt at humor. Tell me."

"It's a girl who can run faster than her brothers."

"An attitude of which I approve. But whether Masterson is a motherfucker in the literal sense of the term is of little consequence to us. If he'd made a flight to the Vatican, that might be cause for concern. But I don't see what harm can come to us from his trip to Austin."

"I expect you're right."

"Of course I am. Now get out of here, so I can focus on my speech without being distracted by your stupid crying."

She flinched as if he had slapped her, then got up without a word and walked swiftly toward her bedroom.

"And don't bother to get dressed," Sargatanas said. "I'll be using your body, later."

The Crowne Plaza bellman, whose name tag said his name was Bruce, let Peters and Ashley into Room 1408 and pulled the baggage cart in behind him. As he unloaded their bags, he carried on a well-practiced monologue about the number of channels available on the room's TV, the hours of the hotel bar, and the number to call if they needed extra towels.

As Bruce picked up the long, steel case and looked for a place to put it, Peters said, "Go easy with that, okay? Bust my guitar, and I'm out of a job."

"I'll be very careful, sir." Bruce finally settled for gently depositing the case on the floor in front of the chest of drawers.

As Peters reached for his wallet to get Bruce's tip, Ashley said, "I need a shower. I hope you've got good water pressure here, Bruce."

"I think you'll find it's nice and strong, ma'am. No guest has ever complained about it, far as I know."

"Great," Ashley said, and pulled her sky-blue knit top over her head and tossed it aside. As usual, she neither wore nor needed a bra. She kicked off her shoes, then reached for the zipper of her gray woolen skirt. The garment fell away, revealing that Ashley wore a red thong underneath. A moment later, it joined the skirt on the carpet. There was nothing coquettish about Ashley's manner. She might have been alone in the room.

Stepping free of the thong, Ashley walked to the bathroom and closed the door without a backward glance. Peters pulled a twenty from his wallet and gave it to Bruce, who was blinking rapidly with the struggle to keep his face impassive.

"Uh, thank you, uh, sir. Hope you and uh, the lady have a real pleasant stay with us." Bruce grabbed the empty baggage cart and got out of there, doubtless in a hurry to tell his co-workers about the visual treat he'd just been given. Peters wondered if they'd believe him.

The door closed behind Bruce, and a moment later, Peters heard the sound of the shower. The bathroom door opened to reveal Ashley, hands on hips, in all her nude glory. "Care to join me?"

"Don't mind if I do," Peters said and started unbuttoning his shirt.

As he approached the shower curtain, Ashley's voice said, "You might want to grab another cake of soap, sweetie. These little things are barely big enough for one person."

Peters unwrapped a bar of soap and joined Ashley. As he tried to get enough water on him to lather up he said, "What was the strip tease about? Were you messing with Bruce, just for fun?"

"What's wrong with fun?" she said, rubbing soap over her breasts. "But I did have an ulterior motive."

"Which was?" Peters washed under his arms.

"Your little story about the guitar wasn't bad, but it called attention to the case, which made it
more
likely he'd remember it, not less, if the FBI should ask him later."

"Hmm. Hadn't thought of that."

"So I, making the immense sacrifice of baring my fair body to a total stranger, have guaranteed that's the only thing he will remember." In a perfect imitation of Bruce's voice, she said, "'Yeah, there was this guy with her, I guess, and they had a bunch of luggage, but dude, you should have seen the ass on that blonde!'"

"That was a good idea. And he's right, too - about your ass, I mean."

"Why thank you, kind sir," she said, and turned to face him. A few moments later he said, "What are you doing?"

She gave the low chuckle that never failed to give him goosebumps. "Assuming that's not a rhetorical question, I'm thanking you for the compliment by helping you wash up. Or would you rather wash this part yourself?"

"Uh, no, you go ahead, you're doing fine."

Later, when they were dried and dressed, Ashley noticed Peters studying the frame of one of the windows.

"Checking for termites?" she said.

"Looking to see if this window will open. It won't, of course, I was just being an optimist. They don't do this in Europe - at least, they didn't used to - but the windows in American hotels don't open. That was true thirty years ago, too. You're supposed to use the air conditioner if you want to cool off."

She thought for a second. "Jumpers."

"You got it. If you're going to practice defenestration, the management would rather you do it someplace else. Even if there aren't liability issues, it would probably upset the other guests to see some guy splattered all over the sidewalk."

"And the hotels' caution makes it hard to shoot somebody from your room, too," Ashley said. "How inconsiderate of them."

She went to the window and tapped the glass with a knuckle. "We could break it."

He shook his head. "Too much noise, plus broken glass on the sidewalk."

"Not if you use the burglar's technique. Get some masking tape -"

"I know what you're talking about. I used it myself a few times, when I was with the Company. Tape the glass thoroughly, then break it and remove the shards by hand."

"Exactly."