dochermes

"The Dead Do Not Forgive"

10/11-10/22/1978

I.

THE twigs which Watesa flung on the fire broke and crackled. The upleaping flames lit the countenances of three people. Samuel Watesa, voodoo Hungan of New Orleans, was a solidly built black man of early middle age, with a sprinkling of white throughout his beard and hair. He was wearing sensible hiking clothes, light weight khaki, now stained with dried sweat and torn in places.

Facing him was the young Dire Wolf, Jeremy Bane. He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad all in black... hiking boots, loose trousers and a long-sleeved shirt with a many-pocketed vest over it. His wide-brimmed slouch hat was drawn low over his heavy brows, shadowing his narrow face. Cold grey eyes brooded in the firelight.

"This is the farthest I've ever been from New York City," he announced. "The train ride from the capital, then the drive in that rented Jeep we had to leave behind and now four days walking through jungle."

"Oh, I daresay we will be see more distant places as long as we work for Mr Dred," said Katherine Wheatley. Still in her teens, her long black hair tied up in a bun, she was wearing boots and khaki pants like Watesa's but she had on a thin white cotton blouse. She toyed with the white pith helmet she had purchased at a trading post. "We haven't even been to any of the adjacent realms yet."

That drew an amused chuckle from Watesa. "Oh, you two have some revelations in store for you. Okali, Perjena, Signarm. Or even, God forbid, Maroch or Fanedral itself."

"Danarak is enough for right now," Bane's voice was more sullen than usual. "This is some rough going, Samuel. I'm a city boy to the bone."

Watesa stirred the fire, saying nothing.

"Mr Dred tried to explain Voodoo to me, he said it's a modern, lighter version of the forbidden knowledge gained at the Corruption thousands of years ago. He said you are one of the top five or six Voodoo masters in the world, you're called a Hungan."

"Yes, I am Samuel Juhari Watesa! Hungan priest of the Higher Ones! Sleep if you can, Jeremy, I have much to consider."

Bane gazed at the Hungan who bent over the fire, making even motions with his hands and mumbling incantations. Bane watched, growing sleepy. Katherine had already dozed off. A mist wavered in front of him, through which he saw dimly the form of Watesa, etched dark against the flames. Then it faded out.

Bane awoke with a start, hand shooting to the pistol in his belt. Watesa grinned at him across the flame, and there was a scent of early dawn in the air. From Katherine's soft steady breathing, she was sleeping soundly.

The Voodoo master held a long staff of ebony in his hands. This was elablorately carved with many esoteric symbols. One end tapered to a sharpened point but the other was capped with a deep blue gem wrapped in silver wire. "This is the ceremonial staff of the Elders of Danarak," said Watesa, putting it in the Dire Wolf's hand.

Bane hefted the thing to judge its weight, highly suspicious of witchcraft. It was not heavy, but seemed as hard as iron. Between the sharp point at one end and the heavy gem at the other. it should make a good weapon at least, he decided. Dawn was just beginning to steal over the jungle and the river.

"I think you should carry it from now on," said Watesa. "Let's be honest, you're the fighter in our little expedition. When trouble comes.. and it will!... the staff will be more useful wielded by you."

"Fair enough," Bane acknowledged. "How about some solid, straightforward information, Samuel? What are we going up against? What ceremony are you prepared for? I'm a simple guy who likes direct answers."

"Soon, maybe all too soon, it will all be revealed. He turned his head as Katherine stirred.

Sitting up, rubbing her eyes, the young telepath yawned. "Morning, lads. Gracious, I'm all stiff. I feel like my grandmother. I'll be right back." She got to her feet and hurried out of the cave into the bushes as Nature called.



( the rest of the story )

"Death Howls In the Night"

11/28-11/30/1978

I.

After walking through the cold dark night from the municipal parking lot, the inside of Gallegher's Pub seemed like a bright overheated mass of people laughing and talking too loud. Bane winced visibly as he held the door for Katherine. He was solitary by nature and would be much happier roaming the freezing deserted streets by himself.

Stepping inside, Katherine Wheatley tried to keep from smiling at his discomfort. She herself had to turn down her telepathic perception to keep from being swamped by all the boisterous mental activity going on in this bar. This was something Kenneth Dred had taught her. In less than a year, he had shown her many useful techniques to keep her mind-reading under control. He himself was no telepath but he had known a few.

As she shrugged off her heavy tan coat, she was aware of a few admiring looks from men. At nineteen, Katherine was a slim, attractive girl with jet black hair that hung straight to her shoulders and her face was friendly-looking, accessible. Her pale blue eyes made a dramatic contrast with her hair. Under the coat, she was wearing snug jeans and a bright red sweater with white trim at collar and cuffs. The young telepath glanced over the crowd with a faint smile. Everyone was so rowdy, and it was barely midnight. The front part of Gallegher's was a U-shaped bar with swivel chairs ringing it and a few round wooden tables almost within reach. Further back, where the floor was a step lower, was a dining area with larger tables and comfortable chairs.

"Place is packed," the Dire Wolf said in her ear. Jeremy Bane was only a few years older than she was, he had just turned twenty-two, but he was so serious and intense that people reacted as if he were much older. As usual, he was dressed all in black, a long cloth coat over a turtleneck and slacks. Like Katherine, he had black hair and light-colored eyes but his irises were a cold unfriendly grey that startled even people that knew him.

( the rest of the story )

"Featuring Chet Wilkins On Voodoo Drum"

8/11-8/12/1978

I.


There had been four of the so-called Forehead Murders by the second week of August. When Jeremy Bane came downstairs early as usual because his hyperactive metabolism meant he only needed four hours of sleep a night, he stuck his head in the reception room. Kenneth Dred had been working there the night before and he had left newspaper clippings arranged on the oak desk under the gorgeous hand-painted wall map. Bane automatically moved over to check the clippings out in the hazy dawn light through the high windows.

At just twenty-one, the Dire Wolf was so serious and self-assured that people reacted to him as if he were an older man. Just over six feet tall but so lean as to seem gaunt, he was wearing his usual outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. He was so rarely seen dressed any other way that he would have been almost hard to recognize in colorful clothes. Bane leaned over the clippings and read them slowly. Mr Dred had mentioned that they might be starting a new case.

The main feature of interest seemed to be the method that was used. The victims had a fracture in the forehead above the eyes, with a deep puncture wound that went into a specific area of the brain and caused quick death. In at least one case, the victim apparently had clung to life for a few moments as there were signs of strangulation as the real cause of death. Interesting, thought Bane, a new weapon of some kind, probably homemade. He looked at a list which Dred had left on a sheet of typing paper, detailing the victims' names, ages, addresses and occupations. There was no common factor that he could see.

The young Dire Wolf straightened up and for once his pale grey eyes were distant. This would be hard to investigate. Where to start? Finding something linking to victims was the usual way police proceeded but they had been getting nowhere. Maybe Mr Dred had some ideas....

Something tickled the edges of his mind, like an echoe from a distance. He was getting used to that sensation. It wasn't unpleasant or intrusive, just a vague sensation that he could ignore if he wanted to but he was intensely private by nature. Having a telepath living in the building with Mr Dred and himself would take some getting used to, and the fact she was a pretty girl added to his uneasiness. As he looked up, a slim figure swung into the doorway and a cheery "Well, good morning!" was spoken aloud.

Katherine Anne Wheatley was a year younger than himself, with a trim figure and a fresh-scrubbed attractive face. Like Bane, she had jet black hair and light-colored eyes but hers were sky-blue and friendly. She was wearing blue denim jeans, white sneakers and a dark blue sweater over a white blouse with the collar out over the sweater. "Say, Jeremy, what time do you rise anyway? It's barely half past six you know."

"I don't sleep much. Did Mr Dred tell you about these Forehead Murders?"

"Ugh. Yes. I dare say it's one reason I didn't sleep well myself." Katherine had been in the States so long only the faintest trace of her Northern England accent remained. She came over to glance at the clippings on the desk, standing close enough that Bane could smell the faint floral scent in her hair. He promptly moved away, ostensibly to pull the curtains aside to look at 38th Street, and she smiled slyly to herself.

"It's a beastly business," she continued. "Have you ever heard of such goings-on before?"

"No." Just the single word. He was watching a checker-topped taxi come to a stop at the corner. A tall heavy-set black man in an expensive tan suit got out, paid the driver and fetched a suitcase from the back seat. "I think we're going to have a visitor, Kath."

"Hm? Yes. You're right." She headed for the front door. The rare telepathic talent Dred had been teaching her how to use flared up fully as she reached out to the man outside. "He's a decent sort," she said over one shoulder to Bane. "Serious, disciplined. He thinks of Mr Dred as an old friend."

"You're our early warning system," the young Dire Wolf grumbled to himself, letting his constant guard down slightly. He followed her out into the hall just as she opened the inner door to the tiny foyer.

"Oh, he's from Africa, isn't that interesting?" she called back as she stepped down to unlock the heavy door to the street. "Good morning, may I help you?"

"Ah, you must be Miss Katherine Wheatley," answered the man in a rich baritone. "And behind you, that has to be Jeremy Bane? Kenneth has told me so much about you youngsters that I feel I know you. My is Watesa, Samuel Watesa."

The man was an inch or two under six feet tall, heavy about the waist and imposing in manner. He was very dark-skinned, almost with purple highlights, and his hair was cut short to match his neatly trimmed beard. The glasses he wore had lightly tinted blue lenses. As he saw the two young people watch him uncertainly, he smiled and placed the suitcase down to one side. "In fact, Kenneth expected me later today but I happened to catch an early flight from New Orleans. If he's not up yet, please don't disturb him on my account."

"You might wait in our reception room," Katherine told him. "We do have today's newspapers and I would be pleased to make coffee if you like."

"Thank you kindly," Watesa answered. "Yes. I only regret such a serious matter brings me to visit. Dire Wolf, is it? I have heard much of your accomplishments in so short a time. Yet I do not think you have yet encountered real Voodoo."

( the rest of the story )

"Other Clay"

2/21-2/22/1978

I.

In his black outfit, Jeremy Bane was only a vague shadow in the gloom of a winter night. From out of the woods, he stepped over a low concrete curb onto the nearly empty parking lot. The long L-shaped building had only one window lit, by the front entrance where a Ford pick-up truck sat. Security guard, he supposed. He had come out of the brush by the white panel van that still stood where it had been that afternoon. It was locked. He wanted a look in that windowless back compartment but Auerbach's office came first. When he had been there only a few hours earlier, the Dire Wolf had quietly noted where the security cameras were located. Now he flashed across the dim parking lot and flattened against the white brick wall next to the window he wanted. He had brought his burglar kit with him from the Buick. Fastening clips to the wire on either side of the window, he bypassed the burglar alarm. The window had six panes of glass and he pressed his palm to the top center and gave the back of that hand a smart smack. The panel popped neatly out of its setting and dropped to the carpeting inside. He reached in and opened the turn lock, then slid the window open.

Taking two steps back, Bane dove neatly through the window and landed inside on toes and fingertips, completely silent. All this looked easy the way he did it, but that was only because years of practice and experience made it seem so. Being thin and athletic helped, too. The Dire Wolf found the pane of glass and pressed it back in place. It wasn't as secure as it had been but it would pass a casual glance. Bane tugged the window back down but left it open just a crack so it would be easy to fling up again in a hurry. From one of the inner pockets sewn in his black jacket, he drew out a pencil flash and narrowed its lense so it produced a spot of light no bigger than a penny. For the next hour, he searched the office.

When he had visited Dr Auerbach that afternoon, the conversation had been polite but not very helpful. Auerbach had heard of the three "Human Ant" murders and in fact had once met one of the victims. But he had nothing useful to suggest and had explained in great detail why a six inch tall man could not exist. He had gone over the cube-square law, mentioned that a brain that size could not possibly function with any intelligence greater than what, say, a white mouse possessed and concluded that there was not even any plausible theory by which a living being could be shrunk in the first place. Bane said that the two witnesses who had seen this Ant-man gave descriptions which matched-- despite the fact they did not know each other and that the police had not released that detail. Auerbach just scoffed and said he had to get back to work.

Bane had not argued with any of that. Six months of working for Kenneth Dred, investigating the Midnight War, had left him ready to deal with crazy events and worry later if they were impossible or not. Thanking the biochemist, he had fixed every detail of the office in his mind. Then he had driven into town to have a meal and wait for dark.

It looked as if Auerbach had cleaned up the empty coffee mugs and some of the debris and filled the waste paper basket but the office was still terribly cluttered. Books were jammed into every available inch of space, scraps of paper were taped to the walls and the sides of the desk. He began working his way through the search. Most of the heavy reference books were on biochemistry and physics and the titles were meaningless to him. Bane had no formal education, it was surprising he could read at all. Then, on one shelf, he found a half-dozen books that stood out dramatically. They were old, slim, with ragged covers and a musty smell. THE REVELATIONS OF TOLLINOR KJE. THE SKULL BENEATH THE SKIN. VELKANDU. Bane smiled grimly at these titles. Oh yes, Mr Dred had been right. Auerbach was trying to marry science and sorcery into a synthesis. Best of both worlds, he thought.

As he searched, Bane was keeping an ear cocked for any noise in the hall outside. But it was the faintest whisper by his head that alerted him. He was crouching by the bookcase, peering at the dot of light, when he caught the sound. He swung around and saw a glint as something slid past his cheek,missing by less than an inch. He was up and on his feet faster than any real wolf, and the flash landed on a stunning sight. There was a tiny man. Six inches tall, wearing a tunic and leggings of red cloth roughly tied together, hairless and olive-skinned... what had come to be called the Human Ant. He drew back his little arm and hurled the poisoned needle like a javelin. Bane ducked to one side and stared. For once, he was dumbfounded. This early in his career, he was not as blase as he would later become and this stunned him.

In that moment, the Ant-man spun and scuttled across the desk, leaped up onto the windowsill and got through the opening. Now Bane came to life, keeping the flashlight and leaping across the room. He got the window open, swung through it and was outside. Widening the lense, he swung the light and spotted a tiny figure racing quick as a spider across the parking lot. If he lost sight of him, he would never be able to find the little killer but a second later, the form was gone. Then he heard the door of the van slam. Bane raced for it. Someone had to be in that van, helping the Human Ant.

As the Dire Wolf hurtled up close, he was taken aback by another complete surprise as the back door of the van crashed open and something enormous catapulted out. It was bigger than a person, maybe twice as big, and in the gloom it was hard to tell details. His eyes were adjusting quickly. Something whooshed past his head, making his hair ruffle with its passing and he dropped low and jumped back. It looked like a man twelve feet tall, wrapped in a crude red tunic. That immense hand swung again, and Bane came in under it to stand next to the giant. Raising one foot, he kicked the monster in the back of the knee as hard as he could and the giant dropped and almost fell. There was the back of the head. Bane brought his fist up and back and then slammed it down with all his strength at the nape of the neck. There was good reason that the rabbit punch was outlawed in boxing, it could easily be fatal and it hurt even this huge hulk. Bane's left hand dropped behind his hip to go for his .45 automatic and the huge paw swung back and caught him right in the chest. It felt like being hit by a car.

The next few minutes were filled with pain and confusion. Bane managed to roll over onto his hands and knees and get up again. It hurt when he took a breath. As he stood up, he was blinded by the sudden headlights as the van started up and roared away. He went to take a shot with the idea of hitting a tire but his gun was gone. A second later, he saw the lights of the van whip out onto the highway and disappear around a curve.

The Dire Wolf let out a painful breath. That just could not have been what it seem. There had to be another explanation. Had someone found a way to shrink down to doll size and then shoot up again to twice normal height? Bane had seen a lot in the past few months but that seemed just impossible. He found his pistol and holstered it, then trudged back toward the building. The fight had only lasted a few seconds and there was no sign anyone in the facility had seen it. He climbed back through the open window, wincing at his bruised ribs as he did so. He still had the pencil flash. After a second, Bane found the needle the Human Ant had thrown at him. He wrapped it in a paper napkin off the desk and took it carefully with him. Before he left, he closed the window from the outside and hooked up the alarm again. He had a five minute walk through the woods back to where he had left Kenneth Dred's Buick Regal parked just off the road and there was a lot to think about.

( the rest of the story )

"Slugging the Reaper"


(11/2/2000)

12/11/1978

Jeremy Bane stood with hands clasped at the small of his back, staring moodily out the window at the rain. He could not see more than a few yards into the woods. The downpour had been going on since late afternoon and now, close to midnight, it was just beginning to show signs of letting up. At least it was warm enough that this storm wouldn't leave freezing rain.

At twenty-one, Bane stood just over six feet tall, with the lean, stripped-down appearance of a runner. His black hair was cut short. From under heavy brows glared a pair of cold grey eyes that regarded the world with suspicion and distrust. He was dressed all in black, slacks and turtleneck and sport jacket, and without trying, he unnerved a lot of people who met him. The Dire Wolf glanced back over his shoulder at the house he was stationed in this night. The living room was warm and dry, the furniture solid and comfortable, there were bookshelves and a big TV and even a small fireplace with a stone mantle. This writer Martin Kendall sure lived well. A house like this at the foot of the Catskills, with fifty acres and a nearby lake, could not come cheap.

Bane surveyed the room warily. The stairs going up to the bedroom where Kendall was sleeping, the polished light wood floor, the heavy curtains... everything seemed okay. This place wasn't bad, he concluded. You could see how it was quiet and cozy enough for a Hollywood type to work on his screenplays. Kendall was rich, successful, single and still young enough to enjoy it all.

Too bad someone wanted to kill him.

Seeing nothing out of place, the Dire Wolf began to pace restlessly. The same metabolism that gave him his enhanced reflexes also made him hyperactive and he found it difficult to stand still. He went over to the bookcase and glanced at the titles. Mysteries, mostly. Bane almost growled deep in his chest at the prospect of a long, boring night of keeping watch. It wasn't that Kendall had hired him as a bodyguard, because no money was involved. The threats on the writer's life had sounded so twisted, so unbalanced, that Kendall had gone to his old friend Kenneth Dred for help. Dred had agreed that a frustrated stalker had to be taken seriously and that such a psychotic had to be taken seriously. The letters had warned that Kendall would never see another day after his fortieth birthday... tonight.

At seventy-eight, Dred seldom left his house on East 38th Street in New York City and he certainly could not be expected to provide much protection himself. But he had a new protege, a dangerous young man who had been hired as a field agent but who quickly was becoming a surrogate son, Jeremy Bane. So here the Dire Wolf had come. He glanced at his watch. Ten to midnight. Part of his mind wondered why this stalker had come to hate Kendall so viciously, why the letters and phone calls had escalated so rapdily to death threats and finally a vow to kill the loved one. It didn't make sense to Bane, who had no emotional ties to anyone other than Dred, who he respected and even cared about. But he knew part of being famous was having an occaasional whacko fan. What made this a matter for Bane and not the police was the element of the supernatural that tinged the situation...

For Kenneth Dred was an authority on the Midnight War, the ancient conflict that gave rise to folklore around the world, the source of tales of monsters and demons. In his younger years, he had fought the threats that normal methods could not handle. Now, nearing the end of his life, he was turning his battles over to Bane. On the mantle, a clock chimed softly, midnight. Bane straightened up and took a breath. Dred had told him that Kendall had dabbled in the occult, that the degenerate orgies and esoteric drugs of the notorious Red Sect had drawn him in. That loose band of hedonists and nihilists had welcomed the wealthy screenwriter, but Kendall dropped away when he saw genuine black magic before his eyes.

On each forearm, sheathed under his sleeves, Bane wore a silver-bladed dagger. So far, he hadn't met anything that could stand up to them, with his own speed and skill behind those blades. Outside, the rain sounded like it was coming down heavier. Then the front door opened despite its being locked, and the Grim Reaper walked in.

Bane froze where he was, paralyzed with disbelief and fear. Here was a skeleton, white and fleshless, rags draped over its shoulders, wielding a scythe, It was a figure out of folklore, seen in countless cartoons and illustrations and movies, an icon rooted deep in the human mind. For the first time in his life, Bane stood motionless in terror. He held his breath as the weird figure stalked past him toward the stairs. The Reaper paused with one bony foot on the bottom stair, turned its skull toward Bane and leered mockingly.

And then, strangely enough, Bane noticed something. The wet muddy footprints that the Grim Reaper had left on the wooden floor weren't skeletal. They were perfectly ordinary, wide, shoe-shaped prints. The Dire Wolf suddenly stared at the Reaper with new perception. The changed look on his face seemed to startle the ghastly apparition. Standing near a lamp, the Reaper's shadow loomed sharply on the wall next to him and it was the perfectly normal shadow of a flesh and blood man.

With a wicked grin, Bane hurtled across the room, quicker than a real wolf. The Reaper raised its arms and squacked, "No, wait..!" The Dire Wolf was on him in a barrage of short quick punches to the body and then a whiplash backfist that spun the spectre completely around to drop to the floor. The air shimmered redly, suddenly the Reaper became a young man with dark blonde hair and a bloody nose. The scythe was a common machete. With the man being beaten senseless, the illusion cast on him faded and was gone.

Standing over the unconscious man, Bane let out a deep breath. He rubbed his left fist, where a knuckle had been scraped on a tooth. That had been an unexpectedly busy few minutes, he thought wryly. He glanced up the stairs but saw no sign of activity, Martin Kendall had downed a few drinks, locked his door and gone to sleep more than an hour ago; the fight, if you could call it that, had only lasted a few seconds and had not rousted him. The Dire Wolf shook himself and came back to the situation at hand. Now, he needed some clothesline to tie this guy up. Then a phone call to Kenneth Dred down in the city, he would be waiting up to hear what had happened. Then calling the police, although his report to them would leave out the gralic illusion of Red Sect that had made the intruder look like.. like...

Abruptly, Bane snorted and almost laughed out loud, something rare for him. Nothing would ever intimidate him again. Once you punched out the Grim Reaper, any other opponent would be a letdown.
___________________
Written 11/2/2000 - Revised 2/22/2013

"Lost Science of the Ancients"

4/12-4/13/1978


The guard had been found frozen solid on a beautiful April afternoon, a day with a high of sixty-one degrees and a sunny sky. His body lay on the floor next to his overturned chair, the keys had been taken from his shirt pocket. Frost covered the man's skin and hair, and his dark blue uniform was white with hard ice crystals. Inspector Wollheim tilted his battered fedora back on a balding scalp and exhaled sharply. He felt he was getting too close to retirement age to be given this sort of assignment all the time. Somehow all the weird and creepy crimes were dropped in his lap. He knew this unofficial procedure was his fault in a way because he had been bringing such cases to Kenneth Dred.

Wollheim looked around at the shelves which lined the long, high-ceilinged room under bright fluorescent lights. There were many locked drawers and many glass-fronted cabinets holding particularly rare volumes, here in the section of the New York Public Library dedicated to the occult.
Of course, one cabinet was hanging open, keys still in the lock, and a gap where books leaned on each other showed where a few had been taken.

As the forensics squad had finished their measuring and photographing and sampling, they faded out and two paramedics got the frozen body on a stretcher. Covering the bizarre sight with a sheet, they headed out the door, leaving Wollheim alone with Sgt Yeager and the strange young man he had brought here.

Wollheim took a sidelong glance as Bane studied the scene. He had an odd kid, no more than twenty-one if that, six feet tall and gaunt at barely a hundred and seventy pounds. Jeremy Bane dressed all in black.... slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. He had short black hair, a narrow intense face and the palest grey eyes Wollheim had ever seen. Under heavy brows, the sharp stare of those eyes was unsettling.

( the rest of the story )

"The Smoke From Burning Bridges"

9/6-/9/9/1978

I.


None of his fear and uncertainty showed on Bane's face as he walked through the dingy Xiao-sing airport just after ten at night. He had not quite turned twenty-one and had only been out of the United States once before, a few months earlier. At six feet even and barely one hundred and seventy pounds, Jeremy Bane looked thin and even almost frail in his customary black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. His TWA shoulder bag held only a change of clothing, socks, underwear, toothbrush and razor and comb. In one jacket pocket was his passport and wallet. In one hand, he clutched the handle of a case holding a battered manual typewriter with a ream of paper.

The airport was almost deserted that night. Only a few bedraggled travelers made their way through customs or used the bank of pay phones along one wall. But adding their presence were uniformed soldiers in doorways, rifles slung over their right shoulders. Because Xiao-sing was a disputed island claimed by both Taiwan and by the People's Republic of China during this particularly touchy phase of relations between the two countries, security was insanely tight. The Chief Executive of the island, who did not dare claim the title of Prime Minister under those conditions, had metal detectors and search squads everywhere. Carrying a gun of any kind was like requesting a death sentence. Chief Executive had survived three attempts on his life that year and was not so much paranoid as prudent.

The young Dire Wolf got through customs after an hour of intensive interrogation during which he acted dumber and more idealistic than he was. His story of being a newly hired reporter for the WASHINGTON POST here to write a glowing piece about how well Xiao-sing was doing in turbulent Asian politics seemed to be grudgingly accepted after much discussion. Finally, he got outside to find the damp streets outside still steaming uncomfortably, but his papers had been stamped and he had been released with final suspicious glares. Bane had begun sweating while still in the airport from stress but now he was soaking wet before walking two blocks.

He missed carrying the matched silver-bladed daggers he had worn ever since starting to work for Kenneth Dred, but he had known they would be confiscated and never seen again. Almost certainly he would be able to pick up some decent fighting knives here quickly enough. The important thing was the vast amount of cash, both American and Taiwanese, that had been deftly sewn into his clothing, along with traveler's checks and a platinum American Express card. That was the best weaponry the Mandate could have provided for him under the circumstances.

Beneath heavy black brows, Bane's remarkably pale grey eyes were startling in his narrow tanned face. Those eyes were watchful and hostile after a lifetime of struggling to survive. Opposite the airport he saw a decent hotel and a used car lot and a Western style restaurant, but beyond that was nothing but slums. Old buildings in poor repair, narrow twisting streets littered with garbage, the stink of ripe fish and urine which hung in doorways of a city which seemed to have never been washed. Sickly stray cats returning after a night of prowling on their sinister missions. Wet laundry hanging from lines strung between buildings. The heat and humidity did not help his initial impression of Xiao-wing.

Not for the first time, he had doubts about his ability to handle this mission. Kenneth Dred had left the choice whether to go ultimately up to him. Youthful overconfidence and ego had swayed his decision. Finding out what Wu Lung's latest masterplan was had seemed so important back in New York.

Bane scowled and immediately started striding down the cracked paving as if he owned the country. He had never doubted himself before. The Mandate would soon see they had met a free-lancer who could match any of their agents. He had memorized an address and, although his Chinese was meager from childhood summers spent on Mott Street and Canal Street, he was sure he would recognize the ideograms for 'Twin Blossoms In Water.' On the plane, he had sketched them over and over on a piece of scrap paper.

As he stepped out onto the wider main street, where some cars and trucks were crawling along despite pedestrians who seemed disinclined to get out of the way, Bane came to a halt at the curb. A gleaming black Lincoln Continental rolled to a halt in front of him. Acting on instinct, the young Dire Wolf lowered his typewriter to the sidewalk and shrugged the TWA bag off his shoulders to give himself freedom of action.

Three East Asian man in neat business suits emerged quickly from the car and formed a group in front of him. Two wore opaque sunglasses, and the third had longish hair and a thick mustache. He seemed to be in charge, because he said in heavily accented English, "Hello to you. Miss Laura Lye is waiting for the interview. We will take you to her cafe."

This reception was news to Bane. "I want to get a look around town," he answered quietly. "Maybe I'll just walk. It's only a few blocks."

One of the three men started to edge around Bane, getting where he could not be kept in sight at the same time as the first two. This triggered such a deep instinct of danger in the Dire Wolf that he instantly took a step back to nullify the move and his hands curled into fists, ready to strike.

The mustached leader dove a hand behind his back, under his suit jacket. "Easy, easy, let us handle this like civilized men, eh?"

And from seemingly nowhere, a voice rang, "Don't go anywhere with these killers!" as a slippered foot exploded against the leader's jaw to swing the man's head almost completely around.

( the rest of the story )