"Robert Weinberg - Logical Magician 02 - A Calculated Magician" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weinberg Robert)

“Quit babying the bozo, Johnnie,” said Hugo, flapping up to the startled prisoner’s shoulder, “Let
me poke out one of his eyeballs. That will get us some answers.”
“Game’s over and we lost this round,” said the prisoner. “But my reward’s earned. I’m outa
here. I’m off to paradise.”
The instant the man completed the phrase, he slumped lifelessly in Cassandra’s arms.
“Hell,” said the Amazon, releasing her grip on the prisoner. His body dropped like a sack of
cement to the ground. “A poison stick-it note.”
“A what?” asked Jack, his gaze still captivated by the dead man. A few seconds ago, the
prisoner had been a living, talking being. Now he was lifeless clay. Jack swallowed hard, trying to keep
his breakfast down. Despite weeks of heroics, he was not cut out for life-and-death situations.
“A poison stick-it note,” repeated Cassandra, grimacing. “It’s a recent development in the
espionage field. All those spy novels and movies the past few decades rendered the
hollow-tooth-with-poison suicide gambit worthless. An easily inserted plastic mouthpiece prevented a
captured operator from taking the easy way out.
“Since modern interrogation methods could break even the most hardened or fanatic agent, a
new suicide method had to be developed. That’s the poison stick-it note. It’s a deadly pellet placed
directly in the skull. Merely thinking the proper phrase sends the necessary electrical impulses to the brain
and releases the toxic chemical. So far, the method has proven to be a hundred percent effective. The
only way to stop someone from suicide is to keep him unconscious. Which makes questioning your
captive awfully difficult.”
Jack rose to his feet. “Great. It was bad enough when I was dealing with a power-hungry
demigod determined to conquer the world and turn it into a vast wasteland. Now, for some unknown
reason, secret agents willing to commit suicide rather than be questioned by us are looking to kill me.
What else can go wrong?”
Hugo glided up onto Jack’s right shoulder and settled uncomfortably close to his ear. The
blackbird was surprisingly light for its size.
“Your mother wants to see you, Johnnie,” it stated. “She’s waiting for you downtown in Merlin’s
office.”
“Mother,” said Jack, inhaling a deep breath. He had almost forgotten about her. “She’s in
Chicago. Not in New Jersey.”
“You catch on quick,” said the raven sarcastically. “Freda arrived in the city this morning on a
business trip. After hearing about your encounter with magic, she wanted to talk to you. Not to mention
meet your fiancée. So she sent me to find you. I arrived overhead just in time to spot those mugs
creeping through the woods. When I saw the firepower they were carrying, I thought a warning was in
order.”
“My mother,” said Jack again. “In Chicago. At Merlin’s office,” He paused for an instant. “How
did she learn about Merlin? And my experiences with magic? I never said a word on the phone about
any of that.”
“A little bird told her,” cawed the raven. Jack swore the bird was laughing at him. Spreading its
wings, Hugo darted skyward. “See you two downtown.”
Cassandra’s gaze followed the raven until it was out of sight. “Your mother is an animal trainer?”
“Not that I ever knew,” replied Jack. “Though I guess it’s possible. I recall my father once stating
he first met her at a circus.”
 “A lot of supernaturals gravitated to circuses and traveling shows,” said Cassandra. “They
provided wonderful camouflage for beings with unusual powers.”
“Mom rarely talks about her days as a performer,” said Jack with a shrug. “I gather some of her
relatives were disturbed when she left the act to get married. Dad just grins whenever I ask and mumbles
something about seven sisters being too many for any one family.”
Jack scratched his head, trying to sort out his thoughts. “Ever since I realized Mom was the
supernatural member of the family, I’ve been trying, without success, to place her in some mythology. It’s