I rolled up my sleeves and got back to work but not immediately: after taking one look at what Nero Insanetti had done to my office, I had to go to the bar first. I ordered a double scotch on the rocks: normally I drink my whisky neat but they had just run out of single malt and I drink blended whiskies only for medicinal purposes. Marek, my big blond friend behind the bar, eyed me curiously as I gulped the whisky down and asked for another. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You look green."
"I'm fine now," I replied after downing my second whisky. "Had a small shock. Did you know Nero Insanetti?"
Marek made a sour face. "He came in here once with a journalist. They ordered some tea, but before the water had even boiled, Nero was screaming like a maniac and they were rolling around on the floor and Nero was trying to strangle the other guy." Marek brought out a huge cosh from beneath the counter and brandished it at me. "I had to knock Nero out with this before he let go of the journalist's throat."
"What was his problem?"
Marek shrugged. "Well, the journalist was trying to interview Nero about the university but Nero started screaming that he wasn't a reporter at all but a spy and that it was Nero's job to execute spies. That's all I heard because the guy wanted to leave the building before Nero regained consciousness. I wonder what kind of story he wrote about the university."
"What magazine was he from?" I had an uneasy foreboding that I already knew.
"Let me think... The Sociologist? Is that really the name of a magazine? Doesn’t sound as sexy as Playtoy or Renthouse."
"They like to think they're different."
"So anyway, be careful around Nero."
It's all right. We just got rid of him."
"About time," Marek replied, shaking his head. "He was getting on everyone's nerves. He would just sit for hours in that corner holding his head in his hands, moaning loudly. Then all of a sudden he would sit up and scream loudly, `Why me, O Lord?' I was going to speak to that nice old Lord Hades about it."
"I don't think Nero was talking to that nice old Lord Hades, Marek. I think he was talking to God. He was a good Katholic."
"Oh, yeah?" Marek sniggered. "Does a good Katholic pretend to faint in the elevator so that he can look up a girl's skirt? Ask Annichka about it. He even sent her a memo threatening to complain to the management if she didn't wear wider skirts so that he could get a better view."
"Nero did that?" I gasped angrily. "To cute innocent little Annichka?"
"She's not that little anymore. Or that innocent," Marek said, winking. "But she sure is cute."
"Oh, come on, Marek. Annichka's not even sixteen yet. She likes to play with crayons."
"She's just getting ready for bigger things. Besides, she turned sixteen while you were away. Her cheekbones are beginning to show through the babyfat. She's past her prime. I wouldn't touch her with a pitchfork. Who's going to the Superbowl this year?"
"You'd love to touch Annichka with your pitchfork. You're just being perverse. It must be Nero's influence." I groaned and got up reluctantly. "I'd love to stay and talk about chicks and football, Marek, but I have to clean up the mess Nero made."
"Here." Marek offered me a pair of bright yellow heavy duty rubber gloves. "Who knows what diseases he had?"
"Thanks. I'll bring these back tonight."
"Anytime, pal. Glad you're back." Marek smirked. "You know who else will be glad? Annichka."
"Oh, stop it."
"No, really. She's been dying to play with your... crayon."
Smiling, I escaped before Marek could wing any more lewd insinuations my way but the smile died on my lips as I stood in the doorway of my office, contemplating the revolting task before me. It was worse than mucking out a pigsty because pigs are at least careful to keep their feed apart from their muck. Nero, on the other hand, had eaten, drunk, slept, defecated, and, possibly, worked in the same squalid space: crumpled papers, potato chips, rosaries, files, half-eaten sandwiches, computer diskettes, used teabags, academic journals, beer bottles, crucifixes, pillows, turds, a sleeping bag, pools of urine, prayer books, tweed jackets, clumps of dried vomit, old school ties... all lay strewn on the floor before me, impartially intermingled, like some primeval scene of inhuman devastation. I felt sick to my stomach and I leaned against the doorway and held my hand over my mouth and swallowed hard to stop myself from retching.
I dimly heard a door open. I looked up. Otto Hell was standing next to me, leaning on his stick, impassively contemplating the disaster zone. At length he sighed. "I blame myself," he said heavily. "Should have kept an eye on him. Fellow just cracked up. He wasn't always like this."
"What happened to him, Otto?"
Hell cocked a beady brown eye at the stains on the ceiling. "Must have started after he went to Albania. Sent me a wild memo from Tirana saying that Albania was like a combination of North Korea and Bangladesh and that he finally understood Xox. Acted strange ever since."
"Why did Nero go to Albania?"
"The X-O-X Foundation is about to open an office there. The Amerikan attache in Tirana asked for some information."
"Was the attache's name Steele Remington?"
"Sounds right." Hell glanced at me. "Know him?"
"We went to school together."
Hell surveyed the wreckage again and shook his head. "Can't clean this up with just a pair of rubber gloves. Blow out that wall and flush the muck out. Share Delilah's office in the meantime. Notice the inscriptions on the ceiling?"
I looked up. "I thought it was just damp coming through. But that shade of brown... Gosh, you're right, Otto! Those are words. And they look like they were written in blood."
Hell nodded. "Can you decipher the words?"
"No," I confessed. "Can you?"
"'Course I can," Hell said gruffly. "Cracked German codes during the war, didn't I? Just as well that you can't read them," he said grimly. "They're curses. In Latin. Aimed at you."
My mouth dropped open. "Why me?"
"He told you," Hell replied drily. "You're the Antichrist, ain't you?"
"I don't understand why Nero took such an immediate dislike to me." I pouted. "It's not like I look weird or anything." I rubbed the pointy little horns on my head as a thought struck me. "He must have written these curses before he even met me! And look, there's a little voodoo doll with all these pins stuck in it. It doesn't look in the least bit like me?"
"Got any enemies?"
"Me?" I stared at Hell. "I spread sweetness and light wherever I go. Why would I have any enemies?"
"Stole Anastasia away from Axel, didn't you?"
"It wasn't my fault," I whimpered. "She seduced me. Besides, he's got her back now."
"What about Killjoy-Yuck? Think he might be upset at you for killing his men in Berlin?"
"Godfrey said Terence didn't mind," I protested. "They were working for Rasputin on the side. The British have privatised everything… But what does Terence have to do with Nero's curses? You said Nero was working for Ugh and Hohenstaufen. Are they in cahoots with the British secret service as well?"
"Ask Killjoy-Yuck. Invite him to Prague for Xox's formal announcement about the University's endowment."
"You think he'll talk?"
"After I've interrogated him, he damn well better."
"Otto, why did Terence send me here? He knew I was incompetent."
"Maybe because he knew you were incompetent."
I grimaced. "This is too complicated for me."
"An incompetent spy is easily found out," Hell explained patiently. "If you were blown then Xox's security apparatus would relax their guard. They wouldn't dig deeper."
"Who's the real spy, then?"
"Told you not to ask questions," Hell growled, shuffling away on his stick. "Do I have to train you all over again? You were being set up. Why do you think I let Masaryk fire you over that absurd murder charge?"
"You said that I was bad for the university's reputation!" I cried in outrage. "You mean you knew I was being set up for something even worse so you wanted to get me out of the way?" I realized too late that I had just asked another question so I coughed and nodded and smiled. "Of course you know exactly what's going on. But you aren't going to tell me!"
"You'll find out soon enough," Hell replied equably. "Now close that door and get to work. There's a lot to do."
"Right away, Otto." I saluted and set off in search of a demolition crew.
An hour later, as dusk fell, I watched happily from a safe distance as an enormous tank rolled up the street. The gun turret turned slowly around and up. The 120mm howitzer stood fixed for a moment and then fired, an unearthly sound, as if God were ripping his robes to shreds in a rage. A soft white cloud rose from the side of the university building and a large mound of debris crashed onto the sidewalk. The smoke cleared, showing a gaping black hole where Nero's office had once been. I cheered loudly. I felt like Yeltsin.
A grinning blond giant leaped from the tank and strode up towards me. "Is all?" he asked, gesturing at the polished facade of the university building. "Just one?"
I looked longingly at the brightly-lit windows of Professor Masaryk's office. Professor Flysenko's office was immediately below. They were both working late. The neat rectangle of light was such a tempting target. I sighed. "No, that's all... for the moment," I said regretfully, handing the demolition man a fat wad of cash. "Can I reach you in an emergency?"
The giant gave me his business card. "Satisfaction guaranteed!"
"What kind of guarantee?"
"Tactical battlefield nuclear weapons," the blond man beamed. "Just got shipment from Uzbekistan. Can launch from shoulder." He kissed his hand theatrically. "Beautiful!"
"Where are you from, Mister..." I glanced at his card. "Darko Darkovich?"
"Ex-Yugoslavia, of course," Darkovich replied, a trifle impatiently. "Everyone in arms trade is from ex-Yugoslavia these days."
"I'll be in touch," I promised and went back to the building to make some phone calls. I was full of righteous indignation. My personal inadequacies had been abused by clever vicious men weaving intricate plots. I felt like taking revenge. Should I ask Hell some more questions first? I shrugged. Why not? Fools ask questions that wise men won't answer.
"I'm fine now," I replied after downing my second whisky. "Had a small shock. Did you know Nero Insanetti?"
Marek made a sour face. "He came in here once with a journalist. They ordered some tea, but before the water had even boiled, Nero was screaming like a maniac and they were rolling around on the floor and Nero was trying to strangle the other guy." Marek brought out a huge cosh from beneath the counter and brandished it at me. "I had to knock Nero out with this before he let go of the journalist's throat."
"What was his problem?"
Marek shrugged. "Well, the journalist was trying to interview Nero about the university but Nero started screaming that he wasn't a reporter at all but a spy and that it was Nero's job to execute spies. That's all I heard because the guy wanted to leave the building before Nero regained consciousness. I wonder what kind of story he wrote about the university."
"What magazine was he from?" I had an uneasy foreboding that I already knew.
"Let me think... The Sociologist? Is that really the name of a magazine? Doesn’t sound as sexy as Playtoy or Renthouse."
"They like to think they're different."
"So anyway, be careful around Nero."
It's all right. We just got rid of him."
"About time," Marek replied, shaking his head. "He was getting on everyone's nerves. He would just sit for hours in that corner holding his head in his hands, moaning loudly. Then all of a sudden he would sit up and scream loudly, `Why me, O Lord?' I was going to speak to that nice old Lord Hades about it."
"I don't think Nero was talking to that nice old Lord Hades, Marek. I think he was talking to God. He was a good Katholic."
"Oh, yeah?" Marek sniggered. "Does a good Katholic pretend to faint in the elevator so that he can look up a girl's skirt? Ask Annichka about it. He even sent her a memo threatening to complain to the management if she didn't wear wider skirts so that he could get a better view."
"Nero did that?" I gasped angrily. "To cute innocent little Annichka?"
"She's not that little anymore. Or that innocent," Marek said, winking. "But she sure is cute."
"Oh, come on, Marek. Annichka's not even sixteen yet. She likes to play with crayons."
"She's just getting ready for bigger things. Besides, she turned sixteen while you were away. Her cheekbones are beginning to show through the babyfat. She's past her prime. I wouldn't touch her with a pitchfork. Who's going to the Superbowl this year?"
"You'd love to touch Annichka with your pitchfork. You're just being perverse. It must be Nero's influence." I groaned and got up reluctantly. "I'd love to stay and talk about chicks and football, Marek, but I have to clean up the mess Nero made."
"Here." Marek offered me a pair of bright yellow heavy duty rubber gloves. "Who knows what diseases he had?"
"Thanks. I'll bring these back tonight."
"Anytime, pal. Glad you're back." Marek smirked. "You know who else will be glad? Annichka."
"Oh, stop it."
"No, really. She's been dying to play with your... crayon."
Smiling, I escaped before Marek could wing any more lewd insinuations my way but the smile died on my lips as I stood in the doorway of my office, contemplating the revolting task before me. It was worse than mucking out a pigsty because pigs are at least careful to keep their feed apart from their muck. Nero, on the other hand, had eaten, drunk, slept, defecated, and, possibly, worked in the same squalid space: crumpled papers, potato chips, rosaries, files, half-eaten sandwiches, computer diskettes, used teabags, academic journals, beer bottles, crucifixes, pillows, turds, a sleeping bag, pools of urine, prayer books, tweed jackets, clumps of dried vomit, old school ties... all lay strewn on the floor before me, impartially intermingled, like some primeval scene of inhuman devastation. I felt sick to my stomach and I leaned against the doorway and held my hand over my mouth and swallowed hard to stop myself from retching.
I dimly heard a door open. I looked up. Otto Hell was standing next to me, leaning on his stick, impassively contemplating the disaster zone. At length he sighed. "I blame myself," he said heavily. "Should have kept an eye on him. Fellow just cracked up. He wasn't always like this."
"What happened to him, Otto?"
Hell cocked a beady brown eye at the stains on the ceiling. "Must have started after he went to Albania. Sent me a wild memo from Tirana saying that Albania was like a combination of North Korea and Bangladesh and that he finally understood Xox. Acted strange ever since."
"Why did Nero go to Albania?"
"The X-O-X Foundation is about to open an office there. The Amerikan attache in Tirana asked for some information."
"Was the attache's name Steele Remington?"
"Sounds right." Hell glanced at me. "Know him?"
"We went to school together."
Hell surveyed the wreckage again and shook his head. "Can't clean this up with just a pair of rubber gloves. Blow out that wall and flush the muck out. Share Delilah's office in the meantime. Notice the inscriptions on the ceiling?"
I looked up. "I thought it was just damp coming through. But that shade of brown... Gosh, you're right, Otto! Those are words. And they look like they were written in blood."
Hell nodded. "Can you decipher the words?"
"No," I confessed. "Can you?"
"'Course I can," Hell said gruffly. "Cracked German codes during the war, didn't I? Just as well that you can't read them," he said grimly. "They're curses. In Latin. Aimed at you."
My mouth dropped open. "Why me?"
"He told you," Hell replied drily. "You're the Antichrist, ain't you?"
"I don't understand why Nero took such an immediate dislike to me." I pouted. "It's not like I look weird or anything." I rubbed the pointy little horns on my head as a thought struck me. "He must have written these curses before he even met me! And look, there's a little voodoo doll with all these pins stuck in it. It doesn't look in the least bit like me?"
"Got any enemies?"
"Me?" I stared at Hell. "I spread sweetness and light wherever I go. Why would I have any enemies?"
"Stole Anastasia away from Axel, didn't you?"
"It wasn't my fault," I whimpered. "She seduced me. Besides, he's got her back now."
"What about Killjoy-Yuck? Think he might be upset at you for killing his men in Berlin?"
"Godfrey said Terence didn't mind," I protested. "They were working for Rasputin on the side. The British have privatised everything… But what does Terence have to do with Nero's curses? You said Nero was working for Ugh and Hohenstaufen. Are they in cahoots with the British secret service as well?"
"Ask Killjoy-Yuck. Invite him to Prague for Xox's formal announcement about the University's endowment."
"You think he'll talk?"
"After I've interrogated him, he damn well better."
"Otto, why did Terence send me here? He knew I was incompetent."
"Maybe because he knew you were incompetent."
I grimaced. "This is too complicated for me."
"An incompetent spy is easily found out," Hell explained patiently. "If you were blown then Xox's security apparatus would relax their guard. They wouldn't dig deeper."
"Who's the real spy, then?"
"Told you not to ask questions," Hell growled, shuffling away on his stick. "Do I have to train you all over again? You were being set up. Why do you think I let Masaryk fire you over that absurd murder charge?"
"You said that I was bad for the university's reputation!" I cried in outrage. "You mean you knew I was being set up for something even worse so you wanted to get me out of the way?" I realized too late that I had just asked another question so I coughed and nodded and smiled. "Of course you know exactly what's going on. But you aren't going to tell me!"
"You'll find out soon enough," Hell replied equably. "Now close that door and get to work. There's a lot to do."
"Right away, Otto." I saluted and set off in search of a demolition crew.
An hour later, as dusk fell, I watched happily from a safe distance as an enormous tank rolled up the street. The gun turret turned slowly around and up. The 120mm howitzer stood fixed for a moment and then fired, an unearthly sound, as if God were ripping his robes to shreds in a rage. A soft white cloud rose from the side of the university building and a large mound of debris crashed onto the sidewalk. The smoke cleared, showing a gaping black hole where Nero's office had once been. I cheered loudly. I felt like Yeltsin.
A grinning blond giant leaped from the tank and strode up towards me. "Is all?" he asked, gesturing at the polished facade of the university building. "Just one?"
I looked longingly at the brightly-lit windows of Professor Masaryk's office. Professor Flysenko's office was immediately below. They were both working late. The neat rectangle of light was such a tempting target. I sighed. "No, that's all... for the moment," I said regretfully, handing the demolition man a fat wad of cash. "Can I reach you in an emergency?"
The giant gave me his business card. "Satisfaction guaranteed!"
"What kind of guarantee?"
"Tactical battlefield nuclear weapons," the blond man beamed. "Just got shipment from Uzbekistan. Can launch from shoulder." He kissed his hand theatrically. "Beautiful!"
"Where are you from, Mister..." I glanced at his card. "Darko Darkovich?"
"Ex-Yugoslavia, of course," Darkovich replied, a trifle impatiently. "Everyone in arms trade is from ex-Yugoslavia these days."
"I'll be in touch," I promised and went back to the building to make some phone calls. I was full of righteous indignation. My personal inadequacies had been abused by clever vicious men weaving intricate plots. I felt like taking revenge. Should I ask Hell some more questions first? I shrugged. Why not? Fools ask questions that wise men won't answer.
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