"Sleepers Waiting For the Trumpet"
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dochermes"Sleepers Waiting For the Trumpet"
12/5/1994
I.
He woke up completely confused, with intolerable pain thundering in the back of his head. What was going on? Where was he? He seemed to be lying face down between two cars in a cold rain. It was dark, the middle of a winter night. The drizzle felt like freezing needles stabbing into his poor head. Could he get up? Maybe. His vision was clouded and he felt weak but somehow it seemed urgent that he hide himself.
"Bane?" called a voice from an infinite distance. "Hey, Bane? What happened to you?"
Bane? Yes. Of course. He was Jeremy Bane, the Dire Wolf. What had hurt him so badly? It was impossible to gather his thoughts. He got his palms flat on the wet asphalt beneath him and tried to rise. The first time failed. He grunted against the throbbing in his head and made a second attempt that got him up on his knees. If only he could clear his mind.
Kneeling between the cars, taking deep breaths to fight down panic, Bane suddenly felt strong hands seize him under the arms and lift him to his feet. He couldn't resist. If he struggled and got free, he knew he would fall on his face.
"Oh my God, Bane," said a deep male voice beside his ear. "Look at the top of your head. Hold still. Come on, cooperate for once in your life."
"Who...?" he managed to croak.
"Yeah, I can see why you'd be a little fuzzy. It looks like Cherny tagged you with one of his famous .22 slugs. Hold still, come on now. Oh, maybe it's not as bad as it looks..."
Feeling a little stronger, Bane straightened his legs and stood upright. "Who are you?"
"Peck. Warren Peck, you know me! We worked together before. Listen, it seems to me that you got creased across the top of your head. The scalp has a gouge across it, but I don't think your skull has been compromised."
The hands turned him around gently. Bane found himself facing a man of his own size and build, six feet tall and maybe one hundred and eighty pounds. But this Warren Peck had light sandy hair and bushy eyebrows over sharp-edged features. A brush mustache reaching down over the upper lip was pale enough to be inconspicuous. He was wearing a basic black business suit with a white dress shirt and a narrow black tie. In the early December chill, he wore a black topcoat that reached his ankles.
Bane tilted his head to look down at himself. The familiar black turtleneck and sport jacket, yes that looked right. That was his usual outfit. Despite the ongoing pain in his head, he tried to grasp the situation. "Wait? Who's Cherny? Why did he shoot me?"
"Man, you're really dazed. I wish there was time to take you for X-Rays. Come on, the Trumpet's set to blow too soon for us to stand around." Peck took him by one arm, leading him across what Bane now saw was a parking lot in some suburban mall. It was late at night, judging by the sparse number of cars parked here and there. As he was half dragged by the arm, Bane noticed that this Peck guy kept one hand near his right hip. He must be carrying a gun and expecting the need to use it at any second.
The thought made Bane remember his own weapon. He managed to reach behind his left side and felt the comforting weight of his Smith & Wesson 38 revolver. But wasn't there something else? Knives. Yes. The two matched silver daggers he always wore. He couldn't feel them on his forearms where they were invariably sheathed. That was odd.
He realized Peck was talking and tried to focus. The pain made it difficult.
"It's amazing you're alive, to be frank," the man said. "Cherny has a reputation for accuracy. I bet those famous reflexes of yours helped."
"Who is Cherny?" he demanded, his voice getting stronger as he felt clearer.
"Miklo Cherny. One of the Cherny brothers, they've been carrying out hits in Europe for fifteen years now," said Peck. "You were supposed to be tracking him but I guess he caught on. Listen, is there a ringing in your ears? Is your eyesight fuzzy or do you see halos around objects?"
"Yes. All of that." But even as he answered, Bane felt the cold rain seeming to help. It was bracing him. "It hurts but I'm getting used to it."
"Here, get in the vehicle," Peck said. He thumbed a key fob and the doors of a black SUV unlocked with a click. The man opened the front passenger door and saw Bane get buckled in before circling around to the driver side.
Staring out the windshield, Bane realized he had heard of Miklo Cherny snd the older brother Karel. He had read a file on them. But he still could not remember this Warren Peck person who was dragging him around. Bane felt sure he normally worked alone or with the few survivors of the KDF. Yes, KDF... his team of Tel Shai knights who had been wiped out in the Final Halloween. That was coming back to him.
As Peck started up the SUV, Bane said, "Bear with me a little. What agency do you work for again?"
"What? The Mandate of course. We're an investigative branch of the US Department of Justice. You've helped us out quite a few times over the years. Do you remember being briefed by the New York Supervisor, Frank Walden?"
"No. Not yet." Although he couldn't have explained why, Bane was becoming increasingly suspicious of Warren Peck. Deep-seated instincts told him this man was not a friend. And yet, wasn't that normal when dealing with spies and counter-agents? Being used for devious purposes, being manipulated and never told the full story? He knew that much.
As they rolled through the nearly deserted parking lot and exited from behind a Grand Union supermarket, Peck exhaled sharply. "I guess Cherny took off. I was expecting a bullet or two from the darkness if he saw you were still alive."
Some of the usual command had returned to Bane's voice. The agony had subsided to a vicious throb. Maybe the cold rain had helped. "Give me something to work with, Peck. What's our agenda? What did I agree to help out with?"
Coming to a stop at a red light where the sign hanging from the wires read ROUTE 19 with an arrow, Peck turned to stare. "Oh, it's crucial. We're trying to meet a deep cover spymaster named Lukianov. He has the key to activate dozens of Sleepers who don't even consciously know they're Russian agents. And you're the only man Lukianov will listen to."
II.
As they sped along the highway, Peck said, "Don't let me miss the street, Bane. You've got the information no one in the Mandate could determine."
"Sure." Glaring angrily out at the rain that seemed to be coming at them horizontally in the headlights, Bane struggled with the growing sensation that all this was wrong. It wasn't just the head injury making it hard to form a coherent sequence, it ran deeper than that. A powerful urge to attack the man next to him, to seize the wheel and run them off the road, boiled up in him.
There was no use asking for an ID. The Mandate, along with the other espionage agencies, produced fake documents so well he certainly couldn't find flaws in them under these conditions. Bane tentatively touched the top of his head, winced, and then tried again. Blood was clotting in his hair and he could feel where the skin had been sliced from the back of his skull toward the front. What were the odds against getting creased like that? Even the best snipers with the finest weapons wouldn't guarantee such a shot? He was starting to disbelieve the whole situation.
The road they were whipping along seemed familiar. Northern New Jersey, he thought. Bane tried taking deep slow breaths to get a grip on himself. "What's the point of stirring up these Sleeper agents, anyway? What does Russia get out of it?"
"Oh, they are not set to target random citizens," Peck replied. "It's not like they are going to walk into a mall and start shooting in all directions. No, each Sleeper was chosen because he-- or she-- has access to government officials. When the Trumpet is blown, they have weapons concealed and they will take advantage of their family or social connection to various Senators, Generals or administrators to kill them specifically."Schonger shrugged. "The Sleepers themselves will be mostly killed themselves instantly by bodyguards but they don't care. They've been so canalized that their own deaths never enter their heads."
"Hmmm. I thought brainwashing was overrated. I'd heard that it wasn't that reliable and that regular bribery or blackmail were better levers."
Warren Peck allowed a mean-spirited chuckle to escape. "Not with Russian thoroughness. They break a man's personality right down to the core and rebuild it. It takes years. Sexual abuse, heavy use of psychoactive drugs and torture reinforcement, indoctrination. What is most impressive is that the Sleepers aren't even aware of their own state. They really believe that they are an Amway representative or a backhoe operator with a personal history that seems completely real to them."
"Hard to imagine anything more heartless," Bane said simply.
"It's an ugly world, my friend," said Peck. "Life is brutal. You and I simply see the naked reality that most people cover up with their pretty little fairy tales. How are we doing as far as our destination?"
"Another couple miles, don't worry." Bane unobtrusively held his left wrist with his right hand and tried to curl his left arm up. The resistance was disappointing. Shouldn't he be much stronger? Since puberty, he had been more than twice as fast as an ordinary person both in reflexes and in voluntary movements. But he didn't feel like that. Was it the head trauma that had knocked him down to regular Human levels? Bane probed his abdomen with his fingers and felt a layer of muscle hard as carved wood with zero fat over it. At least he was in great shape.
"We'll be turning right soon," Bane said but with a distracted air. "Look for Mountain Hill Road. You know, something else bothers me. The Mandate was always concerned with supernatural threats. You guys specialized in capturing people with unusual powers. This whole Sleeper problem seems like something the CIA would handle themselves. They sure have more manpower than your department."
Seeing a corner sign MOUNTAIN HILL ROAD, Peck swung right and headed up a gently sloping way with residential houses on either side. He was peering around at each corner, checking out every car that passed them going the other way. The tension made his voice brittle. "All right. All right. Lukianov has what we call a Wild Talent. Can't be explained or reproduced. He's a low-level telepath. Not like the mind-readers you know. Lukianov has been shown to have high accuracy in spotting deceit or trickery."
"That's why you need me?'
"Yeah! You met him a few years ago. From our moles in his network, we heard that he trusts you as much as he can trust any American. He told his staff that you have a basic sense of honor and try to keep your promises."
"Faint praise is better than none."
"Now you're sounding more like the Jeremy Bane I know," the Mandate spy laughed. "There are some analgesics in the back seat. Even a morphine patch. Feel like you need one?"
"I don't think so," Bane said. "It hurts like Hell but I've survived worse. Okay. At this next curve, slow down. There's a big oak tree right up against the road and his driveway is next to it."
"Damn. Nearly missed it!" Peck swung the wheel hard and turned into a paved driveway flanked by neatly trimmed hedges and identical elms that had evidently been planted at the same time. There was a single PRIVATE PROPERTY -NO TRESPASSING sign on a post but any cameras were too well concealed to be spotted. It was still drizzling and visibility was poor, though.
A gravel circle around the neat pine log cabin already had a Lexus parked halfway out of sight. A floodlight over the front door provided more than enough illumination to show a stocky elderly man with a white mustache standing before the open door. Lukianov was waiting for them.
III.
As they got out of the van, Lukianov scrutinized them dubiously. "Wait before you come any closer," he said without the slightest trace of any accent other than standard American. "Mr Bane? I'm glad you came."
"Lukianov, he's been hurt," Peck called from ten yards away. "Look at his head. Let me clean him up a bit."
"Patience. I know about your Mandate," said their reluctant host. "Mr Bane, when we met, do you remember what I was wearing?"
"Sure. Pajamas with a maroon bathrobe. Slippers. I rousted you out of bed when I fought with Seth." Bane was feeling stronger and more aware of his surroundings but still a powerful sense of wrongness was screaming at him to get out of there.
"Yes. Very well, come in." Lukianov stepped aside and allowed the two men in out of the rain. Inside was a warm dry living room with several lamps burning and a pleasant aroma of cedar. In front of a long couch, the TV was off and a stereo was playing Bach quite low. Bookcases and potted jade plants gave the room a cozy look.
Still keeping some distance between himself and his visitors, Lukianov watched them with a dubious expression. "You've changed, Mr Bane. The fire and the concentration have weakened in you."
"It's been a rough few years for him," Peck interrupted. "Let's get to business right away. You have the codes to launch the Trumpet somewhere in this cabin, please get them and we can all relocate to a safer location."
"Not so quickly. Why is it urgent to do so now, in the middle of the night? There is no immediate international crisis. I see no indication why the enemy would activate their Sleepers at this point."
"Wait," said Bane. "The enemy? You mean the Russians? I thought you were one of them or at least working for them."
With Bane facing Lukianov from ten feet away, Warren Peck took a step so he was facing them both well out of arm's reach. "There's infighting in the Kremlin, Dr Lukianov. One warhawk faction wants to stir things up because they feel conflict in inevitable. They intend to wake the Sleepers and launch an attack while our leaders are in turmoil."
Instead following the conversation, Bane was swamped by an irresistble flood of mental images. Lukianov's telepathic contact had galvanized his mind. As forcefully as snapshots held in front of him, he saw a man in a surgical mask raising a scalpel. Then a freezing cold cell with walls of white tile. He saw a thin bamboo whip rising and falling, he saw a hypodermic being inserted into his raised arm. He thought he heard desperate tortured screaming... and the voice was his own.
Bane swayed and put a hand on the couch to steady himself. What was that all about? What did he mean? He looked up and the air in the room was shimmering and disturbed as if he was underwater.
"Come on, Bane," snapped Peck. "Toughen up. This is no time to weaken."
"Not Bane," Lukianov muttered, walking over beside his confused visitor. "Although he THINKS he is."
"All right, the play acting is over then." Peck reached behind him and whipped up a short-barreled Browning 9mm. "At least he got me in here. I'll take it from here... and I'll take those codes, doctor."
But Lukianov was still fascinated by Bane. "All that pain and terror just under the surface. He still remembers his true name and his past but they are buried deep." He swung around to confront Peck. "What have you done to him? You are monsters."
"So what? He volunteered. He looked a lot like Bane to begin with. Not much surgery was needed. And the years of conditioning paid off. You turned off your alarms when you saw him or else you'd have a dozen Red guards surrounding us now."
"I only need another minute," Bane pleaded. "Was that my mother's face? Who were those kids? Please, wait just another minute. This could mean everything."
"Who cares?" scoffed Beck, extending his gun toward Lukianov. "Give me the codes the easy way, doc. After one of your knees gets blown off, you'll give it to us anyway."
"Do your worst," Lukianov said. "It's hidden so well even I haven't seen it in years. The Trumpet was a last-ditch strategy in case in imminent nuclear war. Better it should remain forgotten. Let the Sleepers sleep."
"Oh, no. I have my orders. You're going to lose your left kneecap in a second, doctor. The pain will be worse than you can imagine."
Bane drew his own gun with well-practiced deftness. Only a dull click sounded as he pulled the trigger twice and his face sagged at the realization.
"Don't look so disappointed," laughed Peck. "Of course it's loaded with duds. The brain experts figured there was a tiny chance you might try to fight the process."
Holding the revolver up at chest level, Bane struggled to say, "I bet there was no Cherny. I wasn't shot, wasn't I?"
"Hah! Catching on much too late, eh?" Peck swung his Browning back to a spot between the two men. "I guess the reprogramming has its weak points. Yeah, our medic sedated you in the van and made an incision on your scalp. Then he smacked you good and hard right on top of the head. Does knowing that help?"
Bane took a deep shuddering breath. "There's still one thing you don't know...." In the second that Peck involuntarily leaned forward to listen, Bane threw the heavy revolver as savagely as he could. It crashed right into the center of Peck's face, breaking the Mandate agent's nose.
The next few seconds were a confused blur of movement as Bane lunged forward and grappled with Peck. They hit the hardwood floor hard. The Browning fired twice, muffled by a man's body and then it detonated a final time with the barrel jammed up under Peck's chin. Most of the top of the spy's skull flew apart in a spatter of red and grey goo. Bane rolled off the corpse, gasping and trying to breathe. The front of his black turtleneck glistened with spurting arterial blood.
As Lukianov rushed over to raise his head, the dying man coughed. More blood poured out from his mouth. "Oh my God, oh my God," he wheezed. "Tell me quick, tell me my name. Who am I? Who was I?"
The Russian agent's voice was somber. There was only another second to answer. "To me," he said clearly, "When it mattered the most, you WERE Jeremy Bane."
5/18/2018
12/5/1994
I.
He woke up completely confused, with intolerable pain thundering in the back of his head. What was going on? Where was he? He seemed to be lying face down between two cars in a cold rain. It was dark, the middle of a winter night. The drizzle felt like freezing needles stabbing into his poor head. Could he get up? Maybe. His vision was clouded and he felt weak but somehow it seemed urgent that he hide himself.
"Bane?" called a voice from an infinite distance. "Hey, Bane? What happened to you?"
Bane? Yes. Of course. He was Jeremy Bane, the Dire Wolf. What had hurt him so badly? It was impossible to gather his thoughts. He got his palms flat on the wet asphalt beneath him and tried to rise. The first time failed. He grunted against the throbbing in his head and made a second attempt that got him up on his knees. If only he could clear his mind.
Kneeling between the cars, taking deep breaths to fight down panic, Bane suddenly felt strong hands seize him under the arms and lift him to his feet. He couldn't resist. If he struggled and got free, he knew he would fall on his face.
"Oh my God, Bane," said a deep male voice beside his ear. "Look at the top of your head. Hold still. Come on, cooperate for once in your life."
"Who...?" he managed to croak.
"Yeah, I can see why you'd be a little fuzzy. It looks like Cherny tagged you with one of his famous .22 slugs. Hold still, come on now. Oh, maybe it's not as bad as it looks..."
Feeling a little stronger, Bane straightened his legs and stood upright. "Who are you?"
"Peck. Warren Peck, you know me! We worked together before. Listen, it seems to me that you got creased across the top of your head. The scalp has a gouge across it, but I don't think your skull has been compromised."
The hands turned him around gently. Bane found himself facing a man of his own size and build, six feet tall and maybe one hundred and eighty pounds. But this Warren Peck had light sandy hair and bushy eyebrows over sharp-edged features. A brush mustache reaching down over the upper lip was pale enough to be inconspicuous. He was wearing a basic black business suit with a white dress shirt and a narrow black tie. In the early December chill, he wore a black topcoat that reached his ankles.
Bane tilted his head to look down at himself. The familiar black turtleneck and sport jacket, yes that looked right. That was his usual outfit. Despite the ongoing pain in his head, he tried to grasp the situation. "Wait? Who's Cherny? Why did he shoot me?"
"Man, you're really dazed. I wish there was time to take you for X-Rays. Come on, the Trumpet's set to blow too soon for us to stand around." Peck took him by one arm, leading him across what Bane now saw was a parking lot in some suburban mall. It was late at night, judging by the sparse number of cars parked here and there. As he was half dragged by the arm, Bane noticed that this Peck guy kept one hand near his right hip. He must be carrying a gun and expecting the need to use it at any second.
The thought made Bane remember his own weapon. He managed to reach behind his left side and felt the comforting weight of his Smith & Wesson 38 revolver. But wasn't there something else? Knives. Yes. The two matched silver daggers he always wore. He couldn't feel them on his forearms where they were invariably sheathed. That was odd.
He realized Peck was talking and tried to focus. The pain made it difficult.
"It's amazing you're alive, to be frank," the man said. "Cherny has a reputation for accuracy. I bet those famous reflexes of yours helped."
"Who is Cherny?" he demanded, his voice getting stronger as he felt clearer.
"Miklo Cherny. One of the Cherny brothers, they've been carrying out hits in Europe for fifteen years now," said Peck. "You were supposed to be tracking him but I guess he caught on. Listen, is there a ringing in your ears? Is your eyesight fuzzy or do you see halos around objects?"
"Yes. All of that." But even as he answered, Bane felt the cold rain seeming to help. It was bracing him. "It hurts but I'm getting used to it."
"Here, get in the vehicle," Peck said. He thumbed a key fob and the doors of a black SUV unlocked with a click. The man opened the front passenger door and saw Bane get buckled in before circling around to the driver side.
Staring out the windshield, Bane realized he had heard of Miklo Cherny snd the older brother Karel. He had read a file on them. But he still could not remember this Warren Peck person who was dragging him around. Bane felt sure he normally worked alone or with the few survivors of the KDF. Yes, KDF... his team of Tel Shai knights who had been wiped out in the Final Halloween. That was coming back to him.
As Peck started up the SUV, Bane said, "Bear with me a little. What agency do you work for again?"
"What? The Mandate of course. We're an investigative branch of the US Department of Justice. You've helped us out quite a few times over the years. Do you remember being briefed by the New York Supervisor, Frank Walden?"
"No. Not yet." Although he couldn't have explained why, Bane was becoming increasingly suspicious of Warren Peck. Deep-seated instincts told him this man was not a friend. And yet, wasn't that normal when dealing with spies and counter-agents? Being used for devious purposes, being manipulated and never told the full story? He knew that much.
As they rolled through the nearly deserted parking lot and exited from behind a Grand Union supermarket, Peck exhaled sharply. "I guess Cherny took off. I was expecting a bullet or two from the darkness if he saw you were still alive."
Some of the usual command had returned to Bane's voice. The agony had subsided to a vicious throb. Maybe the cold rain had helped. "Give me something to work with, Peck. What's our agenda? What did I agree to help out with?"
Coming to a stop at a red light where the sign hanging from the wires read ROUTE 19 with an arrow, Peck turned to stare. "Oh, it's crucial. We're trying to meet a deep cover spymaster named Lukianov. He has the key to activate dozens of Sleepers who don't even consciously know they're Russian agents. And you're the only man Lukianov will listen to."
II.
As they sped along the highway, Peck said, "Don't let me miss the street, Bane. You've got the information no one in the Mandate could determine."
"Sure." Glaring angrily out at the rain that seemed to be coming at them horizontally in the headlights, Bane struggled with the growing sensation that all this was wrong. It wasn't just the head injury making it hard to form a coherent sequence, it ran deeper than that. A powerful urge to attack the man next to him, to seize the wheel and run them off the road, boiled up in him.
There was no use asking for an ID. The Mandate, along with the other espionage agencies, produced fake documents so well he certainly couldn't find flaws in them under these conditions. Bane tentatively touched the top of his head, winced, and then tried again. Blood was clotting in his hair and he could feel where the skin had been sliced from the back of his skull toward the front. What were the odds against getting creased like that? Even the best snipers with the finest weapons wouldn't guarantee such a shot? He was starting to disbelieve the whole situation.
The road they were whipping along seemed familiar. Northern New Jersey, he thought. Bane tried taking deep slow breaths to get a grip on himself. "What's the point of stirring up these Sleeper agents, anyway? What does Russia get out of it?"
"Oh, they are not set to target random citizens," Peck replied. "It's not like they are going to walk into a mall and start shooting in all directions. No, each Sleeper was chosen because he-- or she-- has access to government officials. When the Trumpet is blown, they have weapons concealed and they will take advantage of their family or social connection to various Senators, Generals or administrators to kill them specifically."Schonger shrugged. "The Sleepers themselves will be mostly killed themselves instantly by bodyguards but they don't care. They've been so canalized that their own deaths never enter their heads."
"Hmmm. I thought brainwashing was overrated. I'd heard that it wasn't that reliable and that regular bribery or blackmail were better levers."
Warren Peck allowed a mean-spirited chuckle to escape. "Not with Russian thoroughness. They break a man's personality right down to the core and rebuild it. It takes years. Sexual abuse, heavy use of psychoactive drugs and torture reinforcement, indoctrination. What is most impressive is that the Sleepers aren't even aware of their own state. They really believe that they are an Amway representative or a backhoe operator with a personal history that seems completely real to them."
"Hard to imagine anything more heartless," Bane said simply.
"It's an ugly world, my friend," said Peck. "Life is brutal. You and I simply see the naked reality that most people cover up with their pretty little fairy tales. How are we doing as far as our destination?"
"Another couple miles, don't worry." Bane unobtrusively held his left wrist with his right hand and tried to curl his left arm up. The resistance was disappointing. Shouldn't he be much stronger? Since puberty, he had been more than twice as fast as an ordinary person both in reflexes and in voluntary movements. But he didn't feel like that. Was it the head trauma that had knocked him down to regular Human levels? Bane probed his abdomen with his fingers and felt a layer of muscle hard as carved wood with zero fat over it. At least he was in great shape.
"We'll be turning right soon," Bane said but with a distracted air. "Look for Mountain Hill Road. You know, something else bothers me. The Mandate was always concerned with supernatural threats. You guys specialized in capturing people with unusual powers. This whole Sleeper problem seems like something the CIA would handle themselves. They sure have more manpower than your department."
Seeing a corner sign MOUNTAIN HILL ROAD, Peck swung right and headed up a gently sloping way with residential houses on either side. He was peering around at each corner, checking out every car that passed them going the other way. The tension made his voice brittle. "All right. All right. Lukianov has what we call a Wild Talent. Can't be explained or reproduced. He's a low-level telepath. Not like the mind-readers you know. Lukianov has been shown to have high accuracy in spotting deceit or trickery."
"That's why you need me?'
"Yeah! You met him a few years ago. From our moles in his network, we heard that he trusts you as much as he can trust any American. He told his staff that you have a basic sense of honor and try to keep your promises."
"Faint praise is better than none."
"Now you're sounding more like the Jeremy Bane I know," the Mandate spy laughed. "There are some analgesics in the back seat. Even a morphine patch. Feel like you need one?"
"I don't think so," Bane said. "It hurts like Hell but I've survived worse. Okay. At this next curve, slow down. There's a big oak tree right up against the road and his driveway is next to it."
"Damn. Nearly missed it!" Peck swung the wheel hard and turned into a paved driveway flanked by neatly trimmed hedges and identical elms that had evidently been planted at the same time. There was a single PRIVATE PROPERTY -NO TRESPASSING sign on a post but any cameras were too well concealed to be spotted. It was still drizzling and visibility was poor, though.
A gravel circle around the neat pine log cabin already had a Lexus parked halfway out of sight. A floodlight over the front door provided more than enough illumination to show a stocky elderly man with a white mustache standing before the open door. Lukianov was waiting for them.
III.
As they got out of the van, Lukianov scrutinized them dubiously. "Wait before you come any closer," he said without the slightest trace of any accent other than standard American. "Mr Bane? I'm glad you came."
"Lukianov, he's been hurt," Peck called from ten yards away. "Look at his head. Let me clean him up a bit."
"Patience. I know about your Mandate," said their reluctant host. "Mr Bane, when we met, do you remember what I was wearing?"
"Sure. Pajamas with a maroon bathrobe. Slippers. I rousted you out of bed when I fought with Seth." Bane was feeling stronger and more aware of his surroundings but still a powerful sense of wrongness was screaming at him to get out of there.
"Yes. Very well, come in." Lukianov stepped aside and allowed the two men in out of the rain. Inside was a warm dry living room with several lamps burning and a pleasant aroma of cedar. In front of a long couch, the TV was off and a stereo was playing Bach quite low. Bookcases and potted jade plants gave the room a cozy look.
Still keeping some distance between himself and his visitors, Lukianov watched them with a dubious expression. "You've changed, Mr Bane. The fire and the concentration have weakened in you."
"It's been a rough few years for him," Peck interrupted. "Let's get to business right away. You have the codes to launch the Trumpet somewhere in this cabin, please get them and we can all relocate to a safer location."
"Not so quickly. Why is it urgent to do so now, in the middle of the night? There is no immediate international crisis. I see no indication why the enemy would activate their Sleepers at this point."
"Wait," said Bane. "The enemy? You mean the Russians? I thought you were one of them or at least working for them."
With Bane facing Lukianov from ten feet away, Warren Peck took a step so he was facing them both well out of arm's reach. "There's infighting in the Kremlin, Dr Lukianov. One warhawk faction wants to stir things up because they feel conflict in inevitable. They intend to wake the Sleepers and launch an attack while our leaders are in turmoil."
Instead following the conversation, Bane was swamped by an irresistble flood of mental images. Lukianov's telepathic contact had galvanized his mind. As forcefully as snapshots held in front of him, he saw a man in a surgical mask raising a scalpel. Then a freezing cold cell with walls of white tile. He saw a thin bamboo whip rising and falling, he saw a hypodermic being inserted into his raised arm. He thought he heard desperate tortured screaming... and the voice was his own.
Bane swayed and put a hand on the couch to steady himself. What was that all about? What did he mean? He looked up and the air in the room was shimmering and disturbed as if he was underwater.
"Come on, Bane," snapped Peck. "Toughen up. This is no time to weaken."
"Not Bane," Lukianov muttered, walking over beside his confused visitor. "Although he THINKS he is."
"All right, the play acting is over then." Peck reached behind him and whipped up a short-barreled Browning 9mm. "At least he got me in here. I'll take it from here... and I'll take those codes, doctor."
But Lukianov was still fascinated by Bane. "All that pain and terror just under the surface. He still remembers his true name and his past but they are buried deep." He swung around to confront Peck. "What have you done to him? You are monsters."
"So what? He volunteered. He looked a lot like Bane to begin with. Not much surgery was needed. And the years of conditioning paid off. You turned off your alarms when you saw him or else you'd have a dozen Red guards surrounding us now."
"I only need another minute," Bane pleaded. "Was that my mother's face? Who were those kids? Please, wait just another minute. This could mean everything."
"Who cares?" scoffed Beck, extending his gun toward Lukianov. "Give me the codes the easy way, doc. After one of your knees gets blown off, you'll give it to us anyway."
"Do your worst," Lukianov said. "It's hidden so well even I haven't seen it in years. The Trumpet was a last-ditch strategy in case in imminent nuclear war. Better it should remain forgotten. Let the Sleepers sleep."
"Oh, no. I have my orders. You're going to lose your left kneecap in a second, doctor. The pain will be worse than you can imagine."
Bane drew his own gun with well-practiced deftness. Only a dull click sounded as he pulled the trigger twice and his face sagged at the realization.
"Don't look so disappointed," laughed Peck. "Of course it's loaded with duds. The brain experts figured there was a tiny chance you might try to fight the process."
Holding the revolver up at chest level, Bane struggled to say, "I bet there was no Cherny. I wasn't shot, wasn't I?"
"Hah! Catching on much too late, eh?" Peck swung his Browning back to a spot between the two men. "I guess the reprogramming has its weak points. Yeah, our medic sedated you in the van and made an incision on your scalp. Then he smacked you good and hard right on top of the head. Does knowing that help?"
Bane took a deep shuddering breath. "There's still one thing you don't know...." In the second that Peck involuntarily leaned forward to listen, Bane threw the heavy revolver as savagely as he could. It crashed right into the center of Peck's face, breaking the Mandate agent's nose.
The next few seconds were a confused blur of movement as Bane lunged forward and grappled with Peck. They hit the hardwood floor hard. The Browning fired twice, muffled by a man's body and then it detonated a final time with the barrel jammed up under Peck's chin. Most of the top of the spy's skull flew apart in a spatter of red and grey goo. Bane rolled off the corpse, gasping and trying to breathe. The front of his black turtleneck glistened with spurting arterial blood.
As Lukianov rushed over to raise his head, the dying man coughed. More blood poured out from his mouth. "Oh my God, oh my God," he wheezed. "Tell me quick, tell me my name. Who am I? Who was I?"
The Russian agent's voice was somber. There was only another second to answer. "To me," he said clearly, "When it mattered the most, you WERE Jeremy Bane."
5/18/2018
