Free Faust Among Equals by Tom Holt Page A

first thing George did after replacing the receiver was to turn round, very slowly. Nothing untoward happened. Good.
    Next on the agenda was getting the hell out of town, but there were a couple of things he had to see to first. First Van Appin, then Nellie. Or maybe the other way round.
    He was trying to make a decision on this point on his way downtown when a choice became unnecessary. A girl on a bicycle drew up beside him with a screech of brakes, walloped him on the back and said, ‘Hello, George.’
    Now then. We want this to be a civilised book. There are some authors, prurient types with the morality of paparazzi, who stoop so low as to eavesdrop on their characters’ most private and personal moments and then print the whole lot, verbatim. Well, not quite; they do leave some bits out. In all the works of D.H. Lawrence, for example, the girl never once says to the man, ‘Hold on a minute, my arm’s gone to sleep.’ Nevertheless, standards in this respect are deplorably low. It’s time something was done about it.
    We therefore rejoin the narrative at the moment when Helen of Troy and Lucky George have got over the emotional side of meeting again for the first time in over four hundred years, and are discussing what they should do next over coffee and pancakes.
    â€˜It’s looking hairy,’ George said. ‘Apparently that toad Lundqvist is after me.’
    Helen clicked her tongue sym pathetically. ‘Poor lamb,’ she said, ‘what a bore. Is that what all the stuff with the credit cards and the biros and the golf courses was about?’
    George nodded. ‘Actually,’ he added, ‘I quite enjoyed all that. It’s been a long time, you know.’
    â€˜You always did have a childish streak.’
    â€˜Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘Comes in handy. Anyway, it didn’t do a blind bit of good. Sure, all the hobgoblins and so on were pulled off the street, but that’s neither here nor there. The day I can’t sort out a few idiots with pitchforks . . .’
    Helen frowned. ‘Be that as it may,’ she said. ‘Had you got something in mind?’
    â€˜Not really. I was thinking of keeping my head down until the lawyer’s ready, playing it by the book, that sort of thing. There’s no point looking for trouble, after all; I don’t want to start a fight if I don’t have to.’
    Helen considered this as she finished her pancake. ‘Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as that,’ she said. ‘Besides, if turning all the traffic lights in Milan into sunflowers isn’t starting a fight, it’ll probably do to be going on with. That’s always been your trouble, George,’ she added sternly. ‘Too much of this silly artistic integrity stuff.’
    By way of reply, George simply grinned. ‘All this,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘may look to you like aggravation, but to me it’s more like . . . What’s the word I’m looking for?’
    Helen of Troy applied her mind in the search for the appropriate word. ‘Extreme danger?’ she hazarded.
    George shook his head. ‘Fun. That’s the word I’m looking for.’
    â€˜Fun?’
    â€˜Fun.’
    Helen broke off a corner of bread to mop up the last of the maple syrup. ‘Breaking out of Hell,’ she said. ‘Being hunted across the face of the earth by the most deadly contract killer history has ever known, who incidentally has a personal grudge against you. If that’s your idea of the meaning of fun, I suggest you sue the compilers of your dictionary.’
    George shrugged. ‘I get what you’re driving at,’ he replied, ‘in a way. On the other hand,’ he said, smiling at the empty coffee pot, ‘compared to what I’ve been doing for the last four hundred years, it’s absolutely bloody hysterical.’
    Helen gave him what, in a poor