dochermes | Entries tagged with eric spiegel

"Nope, No Spies Here"

6/21-6/22/2008

I.

For some reason, Unicorn had leaned up against Megan on the couch and fallen utterly asleep. Looking down at Ashley's shining silver-white hair pressed against her shoulder and hearing the peaceful nearly inaudible breathing of her friend, Megan Salenger was at a loss how to react. This puzzlement happened often to her with the Unicorn. Having been raised by the unemotional Trom, Megan was a certified genius in a dozen highly demanding technical fields but there were still gaps in her understanding of Human courtesy. They had both been getting by on inadequate sleep for the past week and she understood why Unicorn was tired.

The Trom Girl sat motionless and allowed herself a wry expression that no one saw. Only a little older than Ashley, Megan was a few inches taller and a little more solidly built than the waiflike Unicorn. Short unruly black hair and large dark eyes in an oval face added to the contrast between them. They were even dressed in opposite colors as usual, Megan in her black field suit with its waist-length jacket and Unicorn in all white.. tight jeans, a long-sleeved crewneck jersey and a lightweight white windbreaker with blue trim. More than once, someone had teased them for looking like a living Yin-Yin symbol.

After a few minutes dragged by, Megan got restless. She was duty motivated and disliked wasting time when there was so much work to be done. They were sitting on the long leather couch in Sable's office, where they had been told to wait for details on a new mission. The Trom Girl glanced over at the fish tank sitting on top of the waist-high bookcase opposite them. Those bizarre creatures from Ulgor, the luminous squid, the large sea horse with fangs, even that ominous starfish with its single red eye in its hub, all were moving about normally. But Megan had a strong urge to check on them, to measure the water quality and perhaps install a microphone to record and analyze any sounds those creatures made.

Megan braced herself and began to slowly rise so she could disentangle herself, but Unicorn mumbled in her sleep and threw one arm across Megan's lap. The faint sigh of contentment from the little blonde broke Megan's resolve. A few more minutes couldn't hurt. Humans did require sleep for both physical and psychological reasons. As she relaxed and leaned her head back, the Trom Girl was not aware of slipping off into slumber herself.

Ten minutes later, a tall gaunt man stuck his head silently through the doorway. For once, those infamous grey eyes softened. The thin-lipped mouth curled into an actual smile. It was rare to see Jeremy Bane openly amused but he was now. For a long moment, he watched the two sleeping young women holding each other. A faint poignant twinge stung in his chest, a bittersweet feeling he wasn't familiar with. The Dire Wolf stepped back out into the hallway and moved toward the front door.

He had parked his Mustang in the tiny underground garage and come up through the passage which exited in the rear of the walk-in closet. Now, he opened the massive mahogany door which opened to the foyer and beyond that to East 38th Street. Bane thumbed the button that sounded the overhead chimes and stepped back into the hall, closing the door more loudly than was really necessary. Stomping his feet as he strode the open office door would have been a bit too obvious, he thought.

When he entered the office, he found both Unicorn and Trom Girl sitting upright on the couch and sliding a bit away from each other. Ashley was tugging down her windbreaker where it had ridden up and Megan was visibly blushing as she rose to greet him. "Hello, captain."

"Hi, you two," he replied. Bane had felt no temptation to tease them by shouting suddenly to have awakened them. He had almost no sense of humor beyond an occasional use of irony, it wasn't part of his make-up. "Sable said the rest of the team is in Belgium chasing Avathor but that you guys were available."

Ashley Whitaker clapped her hands together. "Great! Super! All we do is study and train and then study more and train more. Whatcha got for us?"

"It may not be all that exciting," Bane said. "I spotted Eric Spiegel in town."

"Oh my God, no! It can't be," sassed Unicorn and then added, "Who's he?"

Megan broke in, "He is a prominent enforcement agent for the Mandate. Eric Chester Spiegel, born September 2 1977 in Endicott, Massachusetts, is credited with eleven confirmed kills of enemy agents from STIGMA, the White Web and one MI 6 rogue. Our files have him working out of Houston, Texas."

With a sniff, Unicorn asked, "How much does he weigh? What's his favorite color?"

"He weighed one hundred and eighty-one pounds and stood six feet one inch tall at his last physical. His favorite color is not listed."

"I wasn't being SERIOUS, science nerd."

Bane unclipped his Link from his belt, a flat electronic device no thicker than three playing cards on top of each other. "Here. I'm sending you each the last photo available of Spiegel and of Dandelion."

"Dandelion? Now HER I know about!" Unicorn chirped as she watched the screen on her own Link. "You've fought her a bunch of times, captain, is she really the best shootist ever?"

"Best I've ever seen in person, anyway." Bane let the natural gravitas return to his voice. "Take her seriously. Dandelion had some Tel Shai training before she was rejected by the Order. Her draw and her accuracy are way beyond what Human relexes can explain. She's supernatural in a real sense."

"But you're faster than her, right? I mean, come on, you're the freaking Dire Wolf!" Ashley went on.

"I have to be realistic about this," Bane said. "We're so closely matched that I don't think there's any way to measure the difference. In any given showdown, either Dandelion or I could draw and shoot first but the odds are very good that both of us would take a bullet or two in the process."

"Interesting," Megan added quietly. "One scholar of the Midnight War theorized that this woman has an unconscious telekinetic ability capable of accelerating bullets in flight and guiding their trajectory. I would like to test this."

"Watch out. She knows about the Trom armor we wear under our clothes," said the Dire Wolf. "Your head and neck are more than enough. Anyway, Dandelion was mentioned in a transmission I overheard Spiegel send. We don't know for a fact she's in the city. I would rather have you snoop around Spiegel and see what he's up to, it'd be better if you don't meet Dandelion at all."

"We're on the job, Jeremy," Ashley said, clipping her Link to her belt under the windbreaker. "You working with us on this?"

"I wish, but no. I've got a client at my agency and today I hope to find out what happened to his kids. It's very personal. But I did attach a Trom transmitter inside the wheel well of his car. Signal 177. You'll have no trouble finding him."

"And the two of us look so different we can switch off while trailing him to avoid being spotted," Unicorn smirked. "Okay, science nerd, you ready?"

"Yes." Megan Salenger seemed distracted. "To be honest, I am curious about determining how this Dandelion can perform her sharpshooting feats. It would be a useful ability to replicate."

In the doorway, Bane said, "I have to go now. Listen, I don't usually caution you two. You're both experienced Tel Shai knights and to be honest, you're as good as any other KDF members before you. But I strongly recommend staying away from Unicorn if you see her. Text me according to your own judgement, I should be down by the Battery."

The sound of the door closing out in the front hall was the prompt for Ashley and Megan to exchange amused smiles. "Well," laughed the little blonde, "Now I'm determined to chase down this Dandelion lassie no matter what!"

( the rest of the story )

"Dandelion Don't Tell No Lies"

8/3/2007

I.

Finding Cornell Street deep in one of the seedier neighborhoods of Queens, Dandelion parked her inconspicuous dark green Hyundai and studied Silverberg's Swap Shop. Despite how oppressive this sullen humid August evening was, she still wore a short denim jacket over her lilac blue shirt. She needed it to conceal her two small Walther P22s in holsters built into the inner lining, grips outward for access. For a few seconds, she studied the variety of items in the windows. Machetes and swords, bongo drums and guitars, stacks of CDs and DVDs, a nice olive-green tool box. An accordion and a camcorder. All had hand-lettered signs promising the items could not be found cheaper anywhere.

Even more vital than looking at the shop, though, she was scanning the street. She scrutinized the cars at their meters, the curtained windows in the buildings across the street, the young couple sauntering by and munching on hot dogs wrapped in paper napkins. All her instincts reassured her the area was safe, but she was still innately wary. Living outside the law meant trusting nobody and nothing.

Just as she had regretfully left her canary yellow Maserati garaged for this mission, Dandelion had concealed the famous shock of platinum blonde hair under a mousy brown wig. Lightly tinted sunglasses with oversized frame helped change her appearance a bit more, but she seldom wore more elaborate disguises. The wide jawline, the full delicate lips and snub nose would be recognizable to anyone who knew her.

Still glaring suspiciously in all directions, she went inside, making the bell at the top of the door tinkle as she went through. In the gloomy interior, Stan Silverberg sat on a stool behind a counter with a cash register. His round belly was bisected horizontally by a belt pulled high, and he wore a black vest over a white dress shirt. The moonface was open and friendly, with a smile that invariably won people over. Silverberg had never been good-looking but he was likeable.

To Dandelion's reassurance, Silverberg did not recognize her immediately. He raised a hand in half a wave and said, "Afternoon, miss. Anything in particular?"

"Jewelry," she replied in a huskier voice than her own. "Rings, maybe."

"Oh, rings we got and plenty of 'em. Over here." He rose with a grunt of effort and steered her toward a long glass display case toward the back of the store. "Mebbe You'd like to browse by yourself for a minute, eh?"

"I'm after a gold signet ring with an oval onyx on its top. There's a gold letter X on the gem."

That further exposure to her voice was enough. He blinked and peered more closely. "Say, this is a new look for you, isn't it?"

"A girl has to be careful these days," the most dangerous assassin of her era replied.

Silverberg let out a deep heavy sigh that was not feigned at all. "Ah, Dandy, a pretty girl like yourself playing such a dirty game..."

"I'll get my sermons in church, Stan."

"There is no such ring in my shop, I reget to say."

Dandelion allowed herself a wicked grin. "Right now, you mean. So, Stan, where's a nice view of the town where I can think things over?"

"Hmm. Well, behind Rowe's Bistro up on Prince Street. I used to park there when me and my missus went there for late meals. They don't close until eleven. From there, you can look down on the highway and count the headlights."

"Hmm, interesting. But if you don't have the sort of ring I'm looking for, I will move on."

"Best of luck to you, miss." Silverberg watched the slender form exit his shop and vault lightly behind the steering wheel of the Hyundai, waiting until she had rounded the corner and was out of sight. Then he slowly turned to face a gaunt figure appearing from behind a partition at the rear of the store.

In his fifties now, Jeremy Bane had not changed much. Only a few flecks of white showed in the short black hair and the cold grey eyes were still alert. In his trademark uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, he remained as ominous a figure as a hooded hangman. "Lucky I saw her pull up outside, Sam. Having that fan on in your back room helped conceal my breathing."

"What a pity. A face an angel would admire but such a cold cold heart."

Bane placed a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Don't have any illusions about Dandelion. Her looks are just another weapon."

( the rest of the story )

"Come Slyly, Death"

(10/1/1997)

He decided to take the bullet high on his chest. In the split-second that he would have been dodging, he drew and fired back. Bane was using a long-barreled .38 revolver, not the most powerful available but one he found accurate and reliable. As the assassin's slug punched hard just above his sternum, he knew he had hit the man right in the face by the way the body flung its arms up. He himself was knocked back off his feet and fell hard to the concrete. Every time Bane got hit by a bullet, it felt as if the Trom armor had failed but each time he recovered in a second and found the foil had dispersed all but a small fraction of the impact. He rolled over on his knees and got back up as if he had merely lost his footing. The pain in his chest was just a dull ache.

In the moonlight, the Dire Wolf could see his opponent clearly enough. The Repairman, what a name for an assassin. He supposed it helped when discussing him, you could say, "Time to call the repairman," without worrying about being overheard. Bane walked over and glared down at the body. The famous goggles, the longish blonde hair, the tan jacket with its pouches. Even the rifle with its infra-red scope was accurate. But he knew better.

Without turning around, Bane said, "Who was he, really?"

The familiar drawling voice came from closer than he would have thought. "The Repairman? You want his real name?"

"No," said the Dire Wolf. "Whoever this poor soul was before the surgery." He swung around, the gun still in his left hand. Not far away, the roar of a plane engine passed overhead and he saw the lights go by as the general was on his way to the States. No one else should be near this abandoned airfield for miles but coming out of the shadows of a maintenance building was a stocky little man with curly hair and a soft voice.

"Mr Bane, really." Carmody kept his hands in his coat pockets. "You have got to get your imagination under control."

"Oh, I'm imagining a lot of things right now. I saw the Repairman once, I saw how he moved. His sense of balance. This wasn't him."

Carmody giggled. "I think you are giving yourself credit for more perception than you can have-"

"No. You don't know Tel Shai. My training is not anything you are familiar with." Bane holstered his gun and came closer to the man. "I suppose you think your Mandate has the ultimate expertise but there is secret knowledge in the world that goes back thirty thousand years. Plastic surgery isn't enough to fool a Kumundu master, practice and rehearsal isn't enough. I can tell the inner balance of a man in a way I can't explain to you."

The wind had died down and the night was muggy again. Carmody grinned under the full moon like a Halloween pumpkin. "I suppose you deserve a little information. The Mandate is not concerned with whether or not General Dominguez made it to the plane. He's not important. We really wanted to know if the Repairman was still sticking to his agreements."

"He worked for whoever paid him. Money was all he cared about."

"Of course. But the question is, would he change sides if offered more? We needed to know because we were planning on putting him in a situation where he would be tempted by a higher offer. So we had to tempt him first."

Bane interrupted. "Why have me confront an imposter? Why ask me to come down here to protect the general if he was not the real thing?"

"Because we are worried about you as well. You are a random element, an extra joker in the deck. No one really knows what you want. What is behind your ghostbusting? And your serial killer chasing? Your so-called Midnight War?"

For the first time, a trace of amusement showed in the Dire Wolf's voice. "See, this is where you are too jaded to see the truth. There IS nothing behind my work. I am just what I seem to be. You can't recognize a knight because you don't believe they exist."

Now Carmody moved his hands inside his coat pockets. Bane had detected the man held a small caliber pistol in each hand, and the coat was of such a thin material to avoid interfering with the trajectory that the motions were more obvious. Almost with a sigh, Bane said, "You just saw me take down a man who was already aiming a rifle at me. Don't think you can survive any more than he did."

"Oh, but it is not I who will do -" began Carmody just as a large hole popped open in his forehead. Blood splatted out, black in the moonlight, and he fell to his knees and then onto his face. His hands were still in his coat pockets. The thump of the gunshot was muted but still recognizable.

Bane had not moved. From the angle of the wound, he saw where the bullet had come from and his superior night vision spotted the man even before he moved out of the doorway. Eric Spiegel lowered the Parabellum and untwisted the hot silencer. He looked as Bane had remembered him from years ago, a tall handsome man with thick black hair and a flashy smile. He wore a lightweight tropical suit in white. " 'Come slyly, Death," he quoted, "come like a thief in the night.'"

"Spiegel. Oh brother, another layer of deception," the Dire Wolf said. "Okay, let's have your version."

The Mandate's top field agent raised the barrel and sniffed it delicately. "I don't really like the smell, but I have a theory it's a little different each time. Jeremy Bane, the Dire Wolf. We haven't had to cross paths for a few years now."

Bane nodded toward the dead body lying in front of him. "I'm guessing not much of what he told me was true, eh?"

"Not much. Although he thought it was. Or we think he did. See, the Repairman died suddenly, on the job as it were, and I was the only one present. Oh, why be modest? I removed him from the living. My chief already had someone on the staff who resembled the Repairman closely, chap named McDowell, and some surgery and acting lessons made the impersonation undetectable." Spiegel's voice sharpened. "Or so we thought. How did you spot him, by the way?"

"Just as I said. I have had training not available in the world. When you stepped forward, just now, I saw you didn't get enough sleep and you ate too much last night and you have an old injury in your lower back that is bothering you. Also, you are getting myopic."

Despite himself, Spiegel flinched. "Ah well, parlor tricks. I think you still deserve a little information, son. McDowell as the Repairman was only a lure to get you down here. We thought you would be interested in facing an assassin of his stature. Carmody had orders not to try to kill you but we knew that a third party was going to try to hire him to do just that. Carmody was the real problem. He played three sides against the middle."

"FACADE!" snorted Bane. "Those losers again."

"I did NOT say that name. I don't think the existence of FACADE has ever been established. There are no freelance espionage groups, they don't exist, everyone works for one country or cause."

"If you say so. This man McDowell behind me. The one I killed a few minutes ago, the one you disguised to look like the Repairman. Did he know he was going to his death?"

The Mandate agent shrugged, an expressive gesture for him. "He knew the risks. He was a professional and he was expendable. We know that. You, me, him... we are all expendable."

"That's where we disagree," Bane said quietly. "I am not expendable."

Spiegel came groggily back to his senses. The side of his neck hurt atrociously, and he was lying on the cold hard concrete runway. Confused, he tried to get up and couldn't. His hands were tied behind him, and his ankles were tied together. Despite the pain when he moved his head, he twisted around to see the grey eyes of Jeremy Bane watching him with cool interest.

"What the...? How did you DO that?"

"I hit you with the outer edge of my hand," Bane replied. "Not hard enough to be fatal, it takes some precision."

"But I was looking right at you."

Bane said, "You still don't understand. I am not part of your world of lies and schemes and betrayals. I am something you will never figure out. Ah, but I think I do understand YOU. You have not been working exclusively for your masters in the Mandate, have you?" The Dire Wolf bent and picked up the big man with one hand, as if it was no effort at all. "Come with me. Tell me all about FACADE."

5/77/2013

"A Wilderness of Mirrors"

6/29/2010

I.

Bane snapped awake, fully alert and clear-headed. He was lying face up on a comfortable double bed in a room he didn't recognize. In an instant, long decades of Kumundu training reassured him there was no one else in the room. Holding his breath, slowing his heartbeat, the Dire Wolf used a Tel Shai technique to enhance his hearing. He focused and concentrated. Yes, there was no one else within the building.

Taking normal breaths again, Bane gazed down at himself. He was lying on top of the covers, wearing dark green flannel pajamas with yellow trim. His matched silver daggers and the flexible Trom armor were not on him but he had known they wouldn't be. Before he had set himself up to be captured by the Helpers, Bane had been sure to leave behind his invaluable belongings.

Under heavy dark brows, his pale grey eyes glinted with excitement. The game was underway. Bane swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. At six feet tall and a gaunt one hundred and seventy pounds, he moved with ease and confidence. Nearing fifty-five, he had lost none of his enhanced speed or agility. He was still the Dire Wolf. Perhaps he always would be.

The room was warm and clean, fragrant with the smell of cedar. The double bed, the comfortable chairs, the couch facing a wide picture window... all were done in an early American style, handcrafted from pine. A standing lamp by the door was off; enough light diffused through the gauzy curtains to see clearly.

Oddly, every wall had a mirror. Some were full-length, some mere rectangles small enough to fit in a pocket. No matter where he glanced, he was greeted by a reflection of himself with a wry expression. Bane raised an eyebrow at his image. How many cameras were behind those mirrors? How many of those mirrors concealed a darkened room or nook where someone sat watching?

Three light raps sounded at the door and the knob turned. Despite his instant wariness, the way he settled into a loose stance that would let him meet an attack, Bane had no feeling he was in immediate danger. His instincts were usually very good.

"Excuse me, sir?" asked a demure female voice.

"Oh, come right in," the Dire Wolf answered.

A young woman in pastel blue scrubs like a nurse poked her head through the doorway. She was pretty in a unobtrusive way, with short curly hair and bright blue eyes. In one hand, she lifted up a garment bag on a hook. "Today's kit, sir," she said.

"Really," Bane replied vaguely. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry your breakfast wasn't quite ready," she went on as she carefully laid the bag out on the couch. "You're up earlier than expected."

Because I shook off the knockout drugs you used on me, Bane thought. Decades on the Tagra diet available only from Tel Shai had elevated his healing factor beyond what medical science could explain. Even deadly neurotoxins only sickened him briefly, and he had immediately recovered from whatever drugs this place had used on him. His captors had probably expected him to be unconscious for hours.

"How did you know I was awake?" Bane asked lightly.

"Oh, I took a chance," the attendant said. "If there's nothing else, sir?"

"I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"Sunflower, sir."

"After the color of your eyes?"

"Of course." She gave a polite inclination of her head and was gone again.

Left to himself, Bane began an immediate survey of his rooms. Certain that he was surrounded by cameras and microphones, he did not start tearing the furnishings apart but simply ambled about the way someone checking into a motel might. The bathroom was small but immaculate. There was a cupboard that held dishes and plates and utensils, and there was a waist-high refrigerator stocked with bottles of water and soda, sandwich meats, snacks and such.. but there was no provision anywhere for cooking. Not a hot plate, not a microwave.

In the big main room, an old-fashioned wooden radio sat on a sideboard. No television anywhere, no landline phone. There was a short bookcase and he glanced over the nondescript titles. A few mystery novels, a book of essays on the Civil War, a King James Bible and some slim volumes of self-help pop psychology.

The Dire Wolf decided he had better get outside and start taking control of the situation. Opening the garment bag, he found loose slacks and a polo shirt of cotton, as well as a nylon windbreaker. Everything was of the same dark green with yellow trim. A pair of slip-on loafers had been included.

Before stripping off the pajamas, Bane went through the dresser next to the bed. Neatly folded underwear and socks had already been stowed away in there. He took off the pajamas and hung them on the back of a chair, then got dressed. Being naked in front of concealed watchers meant nothing to him. He had never developed much modesty as a street orphan.

Even without his armor and weapons, even without the silver daggers he had carried all his career, Bane felt no sense of disadvantage. He still had his hard-trained body with its innate superior reflexes. He had the enhanced healing factor from decades of the Tagra tgea regimen. And he had his mind. Bane felt sharp and alert and ready for confrontation.

Before going outside, he paused to use the bathroom, washed his hands and face and brushed his short black hair. The strangest sensation of unease was starting to creep up on him. No obvious threat was at hand, and yet...

Going to the front door of his cabin, Jeremy Bane flung the door open and stood taking in his first sight of Placid Falls.

( the rest of the story )