'My…?'
'Your black belts, your thugs. They're coming up the stairs behind me. Call them off.'
The Frenchman hesitated. He felt at a disadvantage. When the swordsman had entered, he'd been examining a picture on his computer screen. It was a photograph of a naked woman trussed in a network of complex and imaginative leather restraints while another naked woman sodomized her with an equally imaginative contraption designed for the purpose. The Frenchman's careful study of this image had left him in a state that would have detracted from the effect had he attempted to rise and greet his guest with any sort of imposing dignity. Also he was dressed in a purple paisley shirt and white jeans that were supposed to make him look youthful but that he knew only made his gnome-like figure pathetic, further impeding any effort he might make to be intimidating.
So he stalled, hoping help would arrive from the dojo below. But the swordsman came straight at him. Stepped to the desk and casually laid the point of his weapon against the Frenchman's sagging gullet. The Frenchman could see the man's face now-bruised and reddened on one side-and he could see his eyes; he could see what sort of man he was. He knew the type well. You didn't try to bluff a man like this. You either killed him or you played along.
'Call them. The fuck off,' the swordsman repeated.
With that, the door flew open again. One of the Frenchman's treasured musclemen-a massive slab of black flesh in a white gi -charged in over the threshold. Behind him, out in the hall, the rest of the karate gang seemed jumbled together, as if they were all trying to crowd in at once.
The Frenchman thought fast, thought of every possible outcome. He felt the uncomfortable chill of the sword point beneath his Adam's apple. He lifted a hand, pressed the air down in front of him as if to say, Ssh-ssh- ssh.
'It's all right,' he said aloud. 'Never mind.'
The black slab looked from his boss to the swordsman, from the swordsman back to his boss. The enormous faces behind his shoulders glared wildly with big white eyes.
'Never mind,' the Frenchman repeated. 'Leave us alone now. It will be all right.'
Slowly, unhappily, the black man retreated, joining the general jumble of thugs. The group faded away down the hall as one, the black man pulling the door shut as they left.
The Frenchman looked up at the swordsman with what he hoped was an ingratiating smile on his damp lips. 'So. You see?' he said. 'All is well.'
After a moment the swordsman nodded. With a sharp movement that made the Frenchman gasp, he snapped the weapon away from the gunrunner's throat. He took a step back and relaxed into the steel tubular chair in front of the desk.
The Frenchman gave a Gallic shrug and let his right hand drift down toward the desk drawer in which he kept a Carpati. 32, a very accurate little gun.
'All is well,' he said again soothingly.
Bishop tossed his sword to the floor. It fell on the static-colored carpet with a muffled thud. His face hurt and his head hurt and he was out of breath from the fight downstairs, in no mood to fuck around. He glanced around quickly at the cramped, cluttered space, the catalogs and mail and garbage stacked along the walls, the high windows behind the scarred wooden desk, the pastel town houses of the Haight outside. Then his gaze settled on the Frenchman. What a gargoyle this guy was. And that comb-over-someone should've broken the good news to him about the buzz cut. On the other hand, judging by his looks, he was a man with no principles but money and fear. Which was exactly what Bishop was hoping for.
So he got his breath steady and he said, 'My name's Bishop. I'm here about a guy. A customer of yours.'
The Frenchman made a light gesture, a flutter of his left hand in the air. At the same time, his right hand casually pulled the desk drawer open, as if he was looking for some-thing-a handkerchief, maybe, to dry his lips with. 'I have many customers. I couldn't possibly…'
'Are you really gonna pull that thing?' Bishop interrupted in a tone of wonder. He massaged his face, trying to get the ache out of the place where the sword had hit him.
The Frenchman jutted his misshapen face at him as if to say, Eh?
'The gun in the drawer. Are you gonna pull it? Because if you are, I'm gonna shove it up your ass and blow your guts out, just so you know.'
The Frenchman's chin went up, went down. He shut the desk drawer. 'In that case, on consideration, perhaps I will not,' he said.
'Good. Jesus. What're you, some kind of idiot?'
'Well, one feels obligated to make the attempt, you know. Foolish, especially in a man my age, but there you are. The demands of custom and dignity are slow to die.'
'Adalian sent this guy,' said Bishop, who couldn't have given less of a shit.
'This…'
'The customer I'm here about. Adalian sent him to you. He's a specialist.'
The gargoyle knew the man at once. Bishop could see it in his eyes. Still, he put on a little show of ignorance. A couple of Frenchy gestures with his clawlike hands as if he were pulling the memory out of the air. Or Belgian gestures, or whatever they were. Then he started a whole point-of-honor routine. Which was a laugh.
'You have to understand, my friend,' he said. 'A business like mine depends very much on discretion. If my customers can't rely on me to keep their various purchases confidential…'
'I understand,' said Bishop. 'Forget it. I apologize for asking.'
'Truthfully?'
'No, I was kidding. If you don't talk to me, I'm gonna put you in the hospital.'
'Ah. Very witty.'
'Thanks. And listen, I don't envy you. It's a clear-cut choice, but it's not an easy one. You talk to me, this specialist guy will kill you for sure, if he finds out and if he lives. But he might not find out. And he might not live. On the other hand, if you don't talk to me, I probably won't kill you. But I will fuck you up in a seriously painful and permanent way. And I'm sitting here right now and there's no chance I'm leaving. So you decide.'
The Frenchman thought about it. He swiveled back and forth slightly in his tattered green chair. He thought about the man whom Adalian had sent, the ghost with the mannequin eyes. He thought about the way the man's features had been impossible to describe even to himself, impossible to retain in his memory. The ghost man could return tomorrow and the Frenchman would not recognize him. He could walk through the door or approach him on the street or deliver a package to his house, and he would not know who he was until it was too late. It was not a reassuring thought.
On the other hand, here was this man Bishop sitting here-sitting here, as he himself pointed out, right now. A lifetime of doing business with mercenaries, hit men, terrorists, and lunatics had given the Frenchman certain insights into their various characters. This Bishop, he thought, had a little bit of all of them in him. And when he said he would cause the Frenchman serious suffering, the Frenchman had no doubt he was telling the absolute truth.
In the end, though, one had to take one's chances. That was business. That was life. If Bishop and the ghost came face-to-face, the Frenchman judged it even odds which one would survive the meeting. That meant he had a 50 percent chance of being killed by the ghost if he spoke, and a 100 percent chance of being hurt badly by Bishop if he kept silent.
'He purchased three guns,' he said. 'Three?' said Bishop, surprised.
'A 9mm SIG P210 with a modified magazine release. A 1911-based compact. 45. And the Saracen.'
'The Saracen.' Bishop obviously knew the gun. He was quiet for a second. Then he said, 'That new Belgian thing, the little one?'
The Frenchman nodded with as much gravity as his purple paisley shirt would allow.
'That's a lot of firepower,' said Bishop. 'That's all for one job?'
'Ah,' said the Frenchman, with a wave of his hand. 'He didn't share with me the particulars, you know.'
'Sure. And he didn't say anything that might've given you a clue.'
'My friend, believe me when I tell you, my customers are very close-mouthed when it comes to their enterprises. And this one…'
The Frenchman didn't have to finish. 'Yeah, yeah, yeah,' Bishop said. He nodded. He sat thoughtfully awhile,
