Djinn Rummy by Tom Holt Page B

the diabolical plans of that crazed megalomaniac wizard over there. Kiss, empty the ashtrays and do the washing-up. I dunno. Women!
    He rolled the hairs between his palms, spat on them and threw them up into the air. For a moment they hung between the earth and the stars; then they fell and, as they did so, changed into so many full-sized replicas of himself, each with a mop and a bucket of ice. Each replica pulled out a handful of its own hair and repeated the process.
    â€˜Ready?’ asked the original Kiss. The replicas nodded.
    â€˜What did your last servant die of?’ they chorused.
    â€˜That’s enough out of you lot. Get to it!’
    Â 
    In the Oval Office, Kowalski and the President faced each other over the big desk.
    â€˜To begin with, Viv,’ said the President, ‘I was worried. For a moment there, I was beginning to think you’d maybe overreacted.’
    Kowalski squirmed slightly, but not enough for the President to notice. ‘You did say -’ he began.
    â€˜Sure.’ The President smiled. ‘I should have had more faith in you and your guys. But next time -’
    â€˜I surely hope there won’t be a next time,’ Kowalski said, with conviction.

    â€˜Me too,’ agreed the President. ‘Still, it won’t have done the polls any harm. Nothing the voters like more, when the chips are down, than a little display of All-American true grit. And the way your guys handled the evacuations was first class.’
    Kowalski nodded. What the President didn’t know, and with luck would never find out, was that the really big emergencies were the easy ones. For a really big emergency, like evacuating America, all he had to do was phone the insurance people and let them handle it. Which they had done.
    â€˜And the, uh, mopping-up operations afterwards,’ the President continued. ‘I guess I take my hat off to you there, Viv.’
    Kowalski’s eyes narrowed. ‘You aren’t wearing a hat, Mr President.’
    â€˜I was speaking figuratively, Viv.’
    â€˜Ah.’ Kowalski left the semi-smug expression on his face, but inside he was still confused. The insurance people hadn’t said anything about mopping up the floods. Leave it, they’d said, it’ll go down of its own accord in a year or two. If it’s still bad in eighteen months, send out a dove.
    So who had done the business with the mops and the dry ice? He wished he knew.
    Of course! How could he have been so stupid? The genie, of course, Philly whatever-his-name-was. Who else could it have been?
    â€˜No problem,’ he said. ‘We’ve got guys on the payroll for every contingency, Mr President, like I keep saying. ‘
    â€˜That’s good to know, Viv.’ The President smiled. ‘Just like magic, huh?’
    â€˜There you go again,’ replied Kowalski uncomfortably. ‘You and your figurative speaking.’

    Philly Nine sat on the peak of Everest and counted up to ten.
    Don’t get mad, he told himself, get even.
    You bastards are going to pay for this.
    As for the details - well, they’d look after themselves. They always did. Sooner or later some other idiot of a human being would give him an opening, and he’d be back. What was forty years or so to an immortal?
    Provided, of course, that no interfering little toerag of a Force Twelve saw fit to stick his oar in, saving the planet with a twitch of his little finger before zooming away into the sunset. Some people, he reflected bitterly, don’t know the meaning of the word solidarity.
    Yes, indeed. He broke off the summit of the mountain, brushed it clear of flags and ate it. Kiss would have to go, or he might as well stay in bed.
    But how? Force Twelves can’t just be brushed lightly aside. Or even heavily aside, or aside with overwhelming force. It would be like trying to knock down a pterodactyl with a fly-swatter.
    There are, however, ways and means. And of