dochermes

BASILISK III: "The Kingdom of the Lost"

4/13/-4/14/2009

I.

Just as the sky was beginning to grow dark, Jeremy Bane eased his Toyota Matrix into an available space on East 38th Street, just past the Lexington Avenue intersection. Only a few people could be seen outside. An old man digging through litter baskets, a young couple running in matching warm-up suits, a woman carrying two big suitcases and stomping her feet in anger over something.

As that woman passed the Toyota, she had no clue that she was being intensely scrutinized by four pairs of suspicious eyes. Nor that the small blonde in the front passenger seat had her own hand on the grip of a silenced Walther P22 and was almost eager to use it at any hint that the passerby was not an innocent civilian. Behind the wheel, Bane nodded and said, "Everything looks clear to me. What do you guys think?"

In the back seat were two handsome men both around thirty, both wearing neat dark suits with white shirts and thin ties. Holden Crest, top enforcement agent for INTERCEPT, had almost movie-star good looks with wavy dark brown hair and a cleft chin. "Okay as far as I can see. John?"

Beside him, John Lewis Ashcroft from the London office took a second to confirm. He was a black man with very dark skin, short-shaven hair and a winning confident smile. "Quite. Still, one had best be on his toes."

In the passenger seat, Dandelion grumbled. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled up into a swirl on the back of her head. The most dangerous assassin of her era, she grudgingly said, "I guess. But I can't get a good look at that roof across the street..."

"I'll get out first," Bane told them. "With all of you keeping your eyes peeled, what could go wrong?" The Dire Wolf slid out from behind the steering wheel and hiked briskly up to the ten story stone building in the middle of the block. Five wide steps led up to an oaken door which had the number 28 on it and a bronze plaque, KENNETH DRED FOUNDATION. As he placed his foot on the top step, before he could press the buzzer, he was stopped by a man's voice from some concealed speaker, "Ah! Good morning, captain."

"Hi, Josef. Glad to see you're on watch."

"Please come in," answered the voice as the locks clicked the heavy door swung outward by itself. Bane waved for the others to join him. As the three agents jumped out of the car and hurried up to the steps, Bane moved inside the small foyer. It held little more than a bench, a table with magazines and a lamp. On the wall to the left was an oil portrait of a white-haired gnomish man labelled KENNETH DRED 1900-1979.

"Hold on, everyone. I know it's a tight squeeze." Bane got them all in on top of each other. A series of low humming noises and a scent of ozone were perceptible, then the man's voice continued, "All of you have positive IDS. But you know KDF policy. Those firearms have to be surrendered before the inner door opens."

"Right, Josef." Bane flipped up the seat of the bench to reveal a padded interior, into which he placed his long-barreled Smith & Wesson. "All right, all the guns in here. It's a rule."

Both Crest and Ashcroft complied, but Dandelion hesitated. She was a small woman, wearing a waist-length denim jacket, and she made no move to cooperate.

"Dandelion, you'll have to stay out here then." Bane's voice was not angry, just firm. "No one brings a gun inside."

In obvious bad temper, the blonde pulled two of the silenced Walthers from the built-in holsters inside her jacket, then got a third from the small of her back. She placed them into the bench and straightened up.

"Come on, you know better," Bane said.

Finally, she drew a tiny one-shot derringer from inside her boot and added it to the collection. As the lid closed, it locked with a decisive click. "Happy now?"

"Yeah, very happy." Bane made room as the inner door swung toward them and they saw the front hall. Standing there was the Blind Archer. Josef Jubilec was tall and lanky, dressed in a plain white T-shirt and black jeans. The muscles in his chest and arms stood out dramatically, a bit overdeveloped from a lifetime pulling a bow. Josef had short sandy hair and watchful blue eyes in a weahered face.

"Hello, captain," the Blind Archer said in his faint accent. "What brings you and your friends here?"

"Gang war between espionage groups," answered Bane bluntly. "Who's on base, Josef?"

"Only myself and Megan. Unicorn and Argent are guarding someone from a Kulan attack. Sable is at Tel Shai for testing. Perhaps we can all step into the reception room?"

"Good idea," Bane said. He headed to the first door on the left, a neatly appointed room mostly used for visitors who did not need to see too much. There was a lot of open space. To the right was a desk under a hand-painted map of the world; facing the door as one entered was a long leather couch, and a half dozen straightback chairs were scattered about. Against the left wall was a waist-high bookcase on which an aquarium filled with bizarre specimens from Ulgor sat.

Glancing at the desk, Bane turned away. He had stepped down as leader of the KDF team and did not feel it was his place to sit there again, giving orders. Instead, he motioned for everyone to arrange chairs facing each other. When all were seated, with Dandelion claiming the couch for herself, the Dire Wolf recapped the situation for Josef. In so doing, he also clarified what had been going on in everyone's minds.

"There you have it," he finished. "My plan is to lead these three here to attack BASILISK headquarters and tackle the Master Mind. The silent dog whistles are what I'm hoping will give us an edge. Finding two of them is no coincidence, right?"

Josef grinned. He missed working with Bane sometimes. "I think what we need now is our Trom Girl to get busy. Let me page her." He took his Link from his belt and thumbed a button. Instantly, a young woman's voice answered as prompt and alert as if she had been waiting for the call.

"Yes, Josef?"

"Jeremy is here with some friends. Are you curious to see what's going on?"

"On my way," answered the voice. Bane and Josef exchanged amused glances.

"So this is the headquarters of the Kenneth Dred Foundation," said Ashcroft. "I'd heard so many wild rumors! Do you know how badly our superiors ache to get in here?"

"I can imagine. But the worlds of the KDF and your MI 6 only overlap a bit here and there." Bane stood up again, perpetually restless and went over to examine the fish tank. There was the starfish with the single red eye in its center, there were the hermit crabs who had built their own little town, but the luminous squid was gone. Without turning around, he continued, "The Midnight War gives us enough to keep busy."

Megan Salenger appeared in the doorway, brushing her shock of black hair back with her fingers. She was wearing sneakers, white pants and a dark blue jersey with a one-button collar. Just thirty, her slim build and gamin face made her look quite a bit younger. As she entered, the Trom Girl allowed herself a smile. Her upbringing of repressing emotion and maintaining a deadpan demeanour had gradually been eroded by experiences with her teammates. "Captain! I am pleased to see you."

"Sorry to roust you again," Bane said. After quickly summarizing what had been going on, the Dire Wolf produced one of the little tin whistles. "So, my theory is that somehow-"

Reaching for the whistle, Megan interrupted gracelessly, "I understand. It will take a little more than a hour to fabricate signal emitters for your team. I think it will be best to program them for constant broadcast." She spun on her heel to head for the door, but Bane stopped her with a word.

"Hold on a second, Megan. While you're doing that, I think the rest of us will getting supper. What would you like on your tray?"

Despite her efforts to remain deadpan, the Trom Girl grinned. "You know me well enough, captain," she answered and hurried from the room.

Josef stood up. "Right then. I suggest we all move down to the kitchen where I will appreciate help rustling up food for everyone."

Stretching and unbuttoning his suit jacket, John Lewis Ashcroft stifled a yawn. "Allow me. You haven't experienced the glories of proper English cooking. You do have an electric kettle?"

( the rest of the story )

"BASILISK I: The Pathless Land"

4/11/2009

I.

As the explosive shell detonated against its right rear tire, the Audi swerved crazily and almost flipped over but went into a ditch instead. Instantly, four STIGMA killers were jumping out of the car, separating and firing their weapons at their pursuer. As Pryshepa skidded his own Chrysler to a halt, his passenger had leaped from his seat and was running toward the enemy. Jeremy Bane whipped up his long-barrelled Smith & Wesson .38 and snapped off a shot that tagged a STIGMA man right in the center of the yellow mask with the black skull emblem. Then a barrage of bullets smashed into Bane's chest and the impact caught him in mid-stride, knocking him down off his feet.

The STIGMA killers were all big men, all wearing dark clothing except for the bright yellow sleeveless vests which had a black skull emblem on the back. Their full-face linen hoods were also that canary yellow and bore a black skull only slightly smaller than the face beneath would be. In the years since STIGMA had gone public, public killings had given those masks the power to terrify and unnerve any who saw them. Now, three of the STIGMA assassins kept up their fire. In a few seconds, their automatics pelted Bane with one shell after another. He had fallen with his forearms up over his head, curling into a fetal position. Now, as the assault died down, the Dire Wolf leaped to one knee and took instinctive aim to drop another STIGMA man with a bullet in the chest.

From behind the reinforced door of the INTERCEPT car, Nicholas Pryshepa had aimed his own weapon, a 9mm Glock 19, and he blasted a single shot that flung one of the two remaining STIGMA men around in a half-circle. Only one enemy was left when Bane's gun barked again and the man dropped straight down as if suddenly extremely tired. His masked face hit the dirt road with a thud.

Getting to his feet with just a twinge of soreness from all the hits he had taken, the Dire Wolf satisfied himself that none of the enemy were moving. He glanced down ruefully at the shredded black turtleneck and sport jacket he wore. It had been ripped apart by those bullets, revealing the sheen of what looked like wet silk but which was actually flexible Trom armor. Bane took some shells from a box in his jacket pocket and reloaded the Smith & Wesson while still watching the four enemy who were sprawled on this dusty back road Pennsylvania. In the late afternoon sunlight, the scene looked surreal.

Coming up behind him, Nicholas Pryshepa remarked steadily, "We could use a few suits of that armor, Jeremy. All those impacts and you're not even knocked out of breath. Yet it looks thin as cloth."

Bane said over one shoulder, "I can't duplicate it, Nick, and I can't tell you where I got it. Sorry. I will tell you that my chest hurts like I let somebody practice driving nails in it, so the armor isn't perfect."

On a deserted back road, the two men stood side by side, both were six feet tall and slim, both dressed in black although Pryshepa wore a white dress shirt and black tie. He had straw colored hair and dark blue eyes, while Bane had black hair and pale grey eyes. But the differences ran much deeper than that. Pryshepa was good-looking in a bland, regular way and his expression was one of polite interest. Bane had a feral edge to his narrow face and heavy eyebrows, and he moved with a sharp quickness that was intimidating. Now he glanced back at his ally from INTERCEPT and said, "I think yours is still alive, Nick."

"Well, I certainly hope so," Pryshepa answered. "I intended to hit him high on the shoulder but no one's aim is perfect. Let's have a look." The blond agent walked closer, with Bane slightly behind and to one side, both still holding their sidearms ready. The STIGMA man was moving feebly, still trying to reach the 45 he had dropped when he had taken that hit. Bane kicked the gun out of reach, bent low and inspected the damage, then holstered his own weapon behind his left hip.

"Not too bad," he declared after a while. "Missed the big artery by an inch. He's bleeding pretty free but he'll live with some medical attention. I doubt that arm is ever going to get its full range of motion back." The Dire Wolf looked around for something to use, then whipped a dagger from beneath his sleeve and sliced off pieces of the man's jacket to fold into a pad he pressed over the wound. Without looking up, he asked, "I presume you have back-up coming?"

"I'm calling them now," Pryshepa said as he flipped open his cell phone. "Open Channel Three. Priority Green. This is Agent Sturgeon, requesting immediate back-up to this signal. Agents are unharmed, three enemy paid off, one still in debt. Out."

Keeping pressure on the STIGMA man's wound, Bane glanced up. "Sturgeon?"

"We don't pick our code names," Pryshepa answered sourly. "Still, it could be worse. Holden had the code name Camisole for a month."

Within ten minutes, a long dark Lincoln rolled up and two men in black suits emerged. Pryshepa gave them instructions and they began first aid on the wounded man, loading him into the back seat.

"The wagon was right behind us," one of the INTERCEPT agents said as he kept examining the STIGMA killer. "They'll clear the dead ones and clean up the scene. State Police will be anonymously informed when there's nothing left for them to find." He headed toward the driver's side. "See you two back at HQ."

"As soon as we can," Pryshepa replied. "Good work, men." As the Lincoln eased out and sped away into the darkness, the INTERCEPT agent turned back to Bane. "Are you sure you're not injured, Jeremy? There must have been twenty slugs hitting you."

"I'll have some bruises," the Dire Wolf said absently. "Look, Nick. There's something you need to tell me. I know you are spies and you love secrets and all that, and I'm just a freelancer you call in when needed. But something is bothering you. We chased a car full of STIGMA guns down the road and shot it out with them, and you're still detached. What's on your mind? I deserve some answers."

Pryshepa did not answer immediately. He brushed the fine blond hair back, turned away for a second to look out at the Pennsylvania hills and finally took a deep shuddering breath. "You have been a good ally four times, Jeremy. Yes, you deserve some information, even though you have not been cleared for it. Our little struggle is no longer just between INTERCEPT and STIGMA. A third player semingly has joined the game, one we did not even know existed."

( the rest of the story )

"The Man From INTERCEPT Affair"

8/29-8/31/2006


I.


Everything had that orange haze that promised an unbearable day, and at seven-thirty in the morning, it was almost eighty. Jeremy Bane did not feel uncomfortable, even in his usual outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Zero body fat and thirty years on a tagra diet had left him with a body that adjusted to extremes easily. He had become so used to it that he was a bit startled when he felt faint sweat on his forehead. Getting old, he thought. Hitting fifty is bound to bring some limitations. He stepped away from his dark green Subaru Outback, paid for the day and left the municipal parking lot. He was down around 40th Street, almost right on the East River. As a huge semi pulled by, he looked across the street and gazed at the row of unremarkable buildings with stores on the lower floor and apartments above. Bane sighed. Yesterday, he had checked his own sources and had decided to look into this affair but he was not enthusiastic.

Crossing the street, he went past the TWICE IS BETTER antique store and turned into the narrow dead-end alley between it and the next building. Ahead was a chest-high wooden fence with a few crates in front of it. As he walked toward that fence, a plain wooden door opened from within and he stepped inside without breaking stride. He found himself in a small dingy foyer that smelled musty, with another simple unmarked door on the back wall. Standing in his way was a slim man of average height, wearing a neat black suit with white shirt and black tie, very plain. The man had straw blond hair and suspicious blue eyes in a narrow face.

"Good morning," he said, and even Bane's training could not spot an accent.

"Hi," the Dire Wolf answered informally. "I believe I had an appointment."

"And with whom would that be, if I might ask?"

Now he had spotted it. Georgian. But this man had traveled widely. "A man who does not light his pipe," he said, feeling silly.

"Exactly." The blond man held out his hand. "Nicholas Pryshepa. Good to meet you, Mr Bane." He turned and raised a hand, and the door behind them opened by itself to reveal a corridor of blindingly bright white tile. Bane fought a smile at the contrast, although he enjoyed this agency's sense of theatrics. Pryshepa led him around a corner to a wide double glass door that slid apart to let them into a reception room. Everything was pristine, gleaming, as if the place had just been built and never used. Behind a stainless steel desk sat a gorgeous young woman with long black hair. She was wearing a white blouse and Royal blue blazer with matching pleated skirt. She stood up, glancing down at the display screen built in the surface of the desk. Reaching behind her, she took two triangular badges from a board behind her and wiped them with a cloth before handing them over. Following Pryshepa's example, Bane pinned the badge to his jacket pocket and glanced to see it read INTERCEPT GUEST 014.

"Thank you, Mia," said the blond man, receiving a stunning smile which he seemed oblivious to. As they turned, the woman pressed a button and a panel in the opposite wall slid open to reveal an elevator cage. Pryshepa led him in, the door slid shut and the cage rose smoothly. Bane thought it strange that everything was done for them, no attempt was made to reduce the obvious fact that they were under constant observation. Must be a nerve-wracking place to work, he thought. As they reached the fifth floor, the door slid open and Pryshepa gestured for him to enter the office.

There was another dramatic contrast. A minute ago, everything had been glaring overhead lights, steel and white tile. They walked into a subdued, cozy office lined with bookshelves and framed portraits and a three-foot globe by a curtained window. A big oak desk buried under folders and loose papers and styrofoam coffee cups took up much of the space, and the man behind it did not seem to have noticed their entrace.

"Good morning, sir," Pryshepa said discreetly.

A man about seventy sat there, with a sad deeply-lined face and spiky eyebrows. His tweed suit looked as if he had been wearing it for a few days, and his tie was badly knotted. He looked up, frowned, and for just a second the pose of absentmindedness slipped and Bane caught a glimpse of a shrewd intelligence probing at him.

"Ah, Mr Bane, good of you to come." He stood partly up and extended a hand which the Dire Wolf shook. "Lionel Davenport. Please, have a seat." There were two red leather chairs in front of the desk and Bane dropped down in one.

"I suppose first we need to establish where we stand. You've never worked for INTERCEPT before, I believe?"

"I've never worked WITH your organization," Bane answered with the different phrasing. "Our areas of interest don't often overlap."

Davenport smiled and leaned back. "I find most people have never heard of our organization, much less know our purpose. We are, how shall I put it, called in by various member nations of the United Nations when they have unusual or delicate problems their own agencies should not handle. Our name itself is a good clue to our function."

"You have a good reputation," Bane said. "More than I can say for many spy agencies."

"Ah, yes, I understand you have had trouble with the Mandate. That crew," Davenport sighed, "are a grave disappointment in every way."

Leaning forward, Nicholas Pryshepa picked up a glossy 8x10 photo from the desk and handed it to Bane. He saw a handsome, dark-haired man about thirty in a tuxedo, smiling smugly. Bane handed the picture back and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Ah, that young fellow is our main Interception Agent. Chap named Holden Crest. Sadly, the night before last, he was walking outside his apartment building when someone dropped a cat upon him. Common housecat but its claws had been dipped in poison. He's doing well, but the doctors won't release him for duty for another few days."

Bane did not know how to reply. "Unusual attack strategy."

"Quite. Normally, I would use Mr Crest on the case we are facing now, but with him out of commission, I am at a bit of a loss. Mr Pryshepa here is out second Interceptor and a fine man, but our policy is to always send a team of two and the others I have on my staff are not experienced enough or unavailable. Besides, there is another problem. The menace we face is something quite extraordinary, something more from your line of work than ours. Tell me," and he lowered his voice, "Have you ever heard of STIGMA?"

Bane frowned. He was beginning to get a feeling here that there was something threatening to him under all the melodrama. He had known some very dangerous foes who wore a silly facade. "STIGMA? No, never."

"They are not a particularly old group. Our earliest reports of them go back less than three years. STIGMA is a loose alliance of various independent criminals. Each has his own little empire, whether espionage or gambling or whatnot. We believe they have set this up to eliminate friction when their affairs interset, possibly to pool their resources as needed. Our organization has clashed with STIGMA several times but, I regret to say, with indifferent results. We pull a draw more often than a clear-cut victory. Now, this brings us to why I thought it best to ask if you would lend a hand. one of the services of STIGMA is assassination, particularly in the East Asian area. They use diabolically cruel methods and are held in great fear. The leader of the Asian branch of STIGMA is an elderly man named Chiang Surigata."

"Wait, what? Chinese first name and Japanese last name?"

"Quite. Rather unusual, that."

"Unheard of is more like it. But I suppose it's not impossible. Go on."

Davenport glanced up at the Russian. "Nicholas, if you would?"

Apparently taking over while his chief sipped cold coffee, Pryshepa began, "We were requested to protect an industrial chemist who works for a new fertilizer company from threats on his life. His company has had great success coaxing crops from previously barren land, and STIGMA for whatever reason seeks to block this. We have heard that Chiang Surigata is involved." The Russian came around to stand beside the desk, so that Bane could see him and Davenport at the same time. "I must admit, Surigata is an enemy outside our expertise. In this modern age, the idea of magic and witchcraft seems hopelessly out of date. And yet... Surigata has done things that are difficult, perhaps impossible to explain."

"And that's where I come in," Bane said. "The Midnight War has touched your world." He sat up. "You must know a little about me. My war is not general public knowledge but you have sources..."

Lionel Davenport broke in again. "Quite so. Your record of capturing maniacs like Samhain and fighting warlords like Arem Kamende are well documented. But all the rumors of the occult, of the sorcerors and monsters you've brought down.. Officially, none of that happened. The FBI, the NYPD, the CIA, even the Mandate and Black 21 are in on it. They deny everything but we know they have asked you to help out when there are supernatural threats."

Pryshepa made a scoffing noise and immediately caught himself. "Sorry, sir."

"I'll look into this," Bane said after a second. "I myself don't tackle international crime rings anymore, but there is a new KDF team going and they could handle STIGMA. We broke Wu Lung and John Grim back in the old days." He started to get up.

"Mr Pryshepa will accompany you," Davenport interrupted. "Your first lead is the chemist, of course. Rather colorful chap, Australian named Colin 'Pongo' Harkins. He's been told you will coming to see him. Mr Pryshepa here will brief you on our methods. Good luck, gentlemen."

For a second, the Dire Wolf paused. His first reaction was to insist he work alone using his own approach. But then, he figured, why not go along with these people and see what they were up to? If Pryshepa was being used to keep him under watch, at least he would be visible and not skulking around. "All right," he said. "I'll try it your way."

Davenport smiled and went back to rearranging papers into different stacks. The Russian turned and led Bane out of the office and back into the elevator. As they stepped out into the reception room, they just caught glimpse of a tall black man in a dark suit heading through a door with a thick manila envelope and an air of urgency. It was the first hint of other operatives in the building. The woman named Mia took their badges and wiped them with a cloth before hanging them back on their pegs.

"Security," Pryshepa explained. "A chemical is put on the badges before we get them. Without that chemical, a stolen badge would cause alarms to go off."

Bane made a non-committal noise and followed him through the tiny dingy foyer back out into the dead-end alley. Warm muggy air slapped them and Pryshepa scowled. "We should use an INTERCEPT car," he said as he headed for the street.

"Lead the way. Mr Pryshepa, what do you know about me? That you can share?"

The Russian walked briskly along 40th Street. "The Dire Wolf. An American of uncertain origins, first known as an aide to the late Kenneth Dred. Founded the Kenneth Dred Foundation. Private detective work on his own for decades. You have killed or captured many dangerous criminals, including Samhain, Seneca, Atron Ke, Wu Lung, Arem Kamende, Avathor... quite a list."

Bane said, "Go on."

"Very well," Pryshepa said with barely concealed irritation. "Your reputation is that you handle supernatural threats. Both the police and government agencies have used your services this way, unofficially and off the records."

They were at the municipal parking lot. The Dire Wolf said, "Of course you don't believe in the supernatural, do you?"

"Of course not. I am an educated man. This is not the Middle Ages. To be honest, I am a little disappointed to see people in authority even consider anything other than rational, common sense explanations to mysteries."

The man waited for a comment. Bane said evenly, "I'm not out to prove anything, Mr Pryshepa. I take things as I find them."

"Please call me Nicholas or Nick. We are going to be working together, I think we should be on a professional basis."

"Glad to. Call me Jeremy." He followed the Russian to claim a spotlesss new Nissan that looked as if it had been waxed a few seconds ago. Pryshepa took the wheel and they eased out into traffic as Bane noticed a few unobtrusive gadgets which had been installed.

"Normally you would be working with your friend Holden Crest?"

Pryshepa snorted lightly. "A good agent, good man. But he has a weakness for women, particularly blondes, and it has gotten us both in trouble several times. I trust that will not be a problem with you."

"No," Bane said. "Don't worry about me. Before we meet this chemist, what can you tell me about him?"


( the rest of the story )