E-Mail: Jens.Altmann@excite.de
Andrea: “Unhappy the land that has no heroes!”
Galileo: “No, unhappy the land that needs heroes.”
Berthold Brecht, Life of Galileo
* * *
“There's somebody up there,” the fat man said. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from this face. “Pjotr. Nikita. Go get them.”
Vasya Varvarinski leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes and sighed. He could handle the cops. They were no problem. Those who wouldn't be bought couldn't touch him because of his diplomatic status. They couldn't even touch his men. He provided them with the same security. The occasional raid was no problem either. He had greased enough palms on the force to be forewarned most of the time. The rest were the usual calculated risk of doing business.
Until that damned Midnight Sentinel had decided to declare war on Vasya's operation. The vigilante seemed to know exactly where to strike, and when. As if he had insider information.
And that message he always told his men to give to Vasya: “Be afraid of the dark.”
By now, he was.
He almost had a heart attack when a body crashed through the panorama window. Vasya didn't immediately identify the unconscious body as Nikita, but he did recognize him just before the lights went out.
The dark-clad man was silhouetted by the moon. He stepped into the room, broken glass crunching under his feet.
Vasya reached under his coat. He felt the grip of his Glock and pulled it out of its holster. Before he could aim it at the intruder, the dark man slapped it out of his hand.
Vasya drew back. The dark man followed.
“I told you to be afraid of the dark,” the dark man said.
“You c—can't touch me,” Vasya gasped. “I have diplomatic immunity ...” He put his hand into another pocket. The Midnight Sentinel grabbed his wrist. He forced Vasya to take his hand out slowly. Vasya wiggled the two fingers that held his passport. His diplomat passport.
“Diplomatic immunity,” he repeated. “Me and my men both.”
The Midnight Sentinel chuckled as he took the passport from Vasya's hand. He looked at it and tore it in two.
“That may protect you from the law,” the vigilante said. “But I'm not the law. It doesn't protect you from justice.”
“What do you know of justice,” Vasya challenged. He grew bolder now. If the Midnight Sentinel had wanted to do anything to him, he would have done so already. The masked man was no killer. Not like Vasya. He couldn't do anything. “You're a criminal. You break the law.”
“You think I can't hurt you, do you,” the Midnight Sentinel said. He sounded amused. “I hurt you where it really smarts, mister. I hurt your wallet. Your business. Your reputation. This is just a friendly visit. This city is under my protection. Get out of my city, or I will destroy you and make you the laughing stock of every criminal organization on this planet.” He chucked. “For someone like you, that would be worse than prison or death.”
The Midnight Sentinel pushed Vasya to the floor, where he landed hard on his rump. He turned and went to the broken window. As he reached the frame, he turned.
“Who knows,” he added, “perhaps you'll become such an embarrassment to your country that they will finally do something about you.”
With that, he vanished into the darkness.
* * *
“I can not accept this,” Vasya screamed, throwing the papers into his secretary's face.
“That doesn't help it,” the secretary said. “Prostitution is down 7%. Drug traffic is down 35%. The diplomatic immunity protects our men from prosecution by the police, but it doesn't extend to the drugs.”
“The police can't touch the drugs,” Vasya said. He sighed, sank down in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “They're diplomatic luggage and can't be searched.”
“The police aren't to blame,” the secretary said. “It's that vigilante. He disrupts our business to a degree that the concept of diplomatic luggage no longer applies.”
“How so?”
“Take yesterday's shipment for example. Our men brought it through customs as diplomatic luggage, no problem. But they weren't even out of the airport when they where attacked. The details aren't clear, but somehow the bag burst open and spilled the drugs all over the airport floor. Or that time last week, when the ship that brought several tons of coca base into town went up in flames. What wasn't destroyed by the fire was discovered by the authorities. In both cases, the local authorities confiscated the drugs. And don't even get me started on the automobile accident that ruined our Krügerrand business.”
“The Midnight Sentinel,” Vasya sighed. He turned his head left and right. The tension in his neck was killing him. “It has to be him.”
“Very likely,” the secretary said. “According to your soldiers, he has been seen at more than one site. They all said they thought he had wanted them to notice him.”
“He disrupts my business and what's even worse, the ambassador in the capital is starting to ask questions. His secretary called me yesterday, after the airport thing went public, and dropped hints that they can't ignore my business much longer.” Vasya rubbed his neck. “We need to do something about this Midnight Sentinel.”
“Yes, sir.” The secretary waited expectantly. Vasya glared at him.
“Write a letter to the ambassador,” he said after a few interminable minutes. “Tell him we're having a reception, and invite him. Then look through the Who's Who of New Harbor and invite the most important people of this city.” Vasya smiled. “Make sure the press reports on our little reception. And ask the police to assist our security. After all, we have recently fallen victim to terrorist harassment. The terrorists will surely show their faces.” He frowned. “Not their faces, exactly. But they will show themselves. Between the police and our own security arrangements, we should be able to end this matter quickly and efficiently. Perhaps we'll even get a medal out of this.” Vasya chuckled. “When that masked terrorist shows up to assassinate our ambassador, the one who kills him will go places. And there is no telling what would happen if the ambassador should fall victim to the Midnight Sentinel's terrorist attack ... Oh, and please find out who is next in line for the position.”
* * *
It was a trap. It had to be. After all, what did Vasya have to celebrate? A 'going out of business' party?
Alexander Nichols let the newspaper drop into his lap and stared at the wall. This didn't seem right. So it had to be a trap.
Alex read the article again. Everybody would be there, from the mayor to the top 50 wealthiest men of New Harbor. Even the ambassador of Chernovia, Vasya's home country, would attend.
What's on your dirty little mind, Vasya?
At times like this, Alex wished he had someone with whom to discuss these things. Someone to bounce ideas off of, if only to make sure he wasn't missing anything vital.
Okay, so this was a trap. Vasya had lost a lot of face since their little war began. A lot of face, and even more money. The latter was lost, but if he could get rid of the Midnight Sentinel, publicly and spectacularly, he could at least recoup the face.
He wondered what the ambassador would be doing there. Was the man in the loop, a pawn, or in the way?
“Only one way to find out,” he muttered.
“What did you say?” Imogen asked.
“What?” Alex blushed. He hadn't noticed he'd spoken out loud. “Nothing. Just ignore me.”
He picked the newspaper up again and pretended to read. His mind didn't register the words. It was too busy looking for a way to learn more about Vasya's planned reception.
* * *
The policemen were easy to spot. Then again, he had the advantage of knowing where they were.
Vasya's men were not so easy to make out, but he managed. He had busted up enough of them to know them by sight. The bulges under their dinner jackets looked unfriendly. The Midnight Sentinel supposed they carried Scorpion automatic pistols. Vasya's men usually did. It was almost like a trademark.
The Midnight Sentinel smiled under his mask.
What am I doing here anyway? he asked himself for what seemed like the thousandth time tonight. There was really no reason to crash Vasya's party. The possible benefits, whatever they might be, weighed nowhere near as heavy as the risks.
But the ambassador of Chernovia was there. That was an opportunity he wouldn't get again anytime soon, if ever. All he had to do was reach the ambassador, present him with the evidence on Vasya's illegal activities and persuade him to lift Vasya's diplomatic immunity.
Provided I live long enough, he thought. He shook his head. That kind of negative thinking would get him killed. Of course he would live long enough. He had no intention to get himself killed. If things turned ugly, he would fade into the night and find another way to contact the ambassador.
The Midnight Sentinel looked at his watch. He counted the seconds until he had the rhythm. He kept counting as he scaled the wall and climbed over the usually electrified barbed wire that topped it. Something sizzled behind him as he touched the ground on the inner side of the fence. The Midnight Sentinel looked up. He exhaled.
Thanks, Hammer, he thought. I don't know what I'd done without you. Fortunately, the NHPD detective was as keen on putting Vasya away as the Sentinel was. Since Vasya's diplomatic immunity meant the law couldn't touch him, Hammer was willing to bend the rules a bit in the Midnight Sentinel's favor. This time, anyway.
The colors of his costume made the Midnight Sentinel nearly invisible as he hugged the dark while he approached the house. He went slowly. He had several hours to reach the house, and he felt better to take a bit longer than to trip any of the number of alarms Vasya had set up. He already knew where most of them were, from his previous visit. Curiously, Vasya didn't seem to have set up any new alarms. The Midnight Sentinel frowned. Wouldn't that have been a natural precaution? Then again, he had already decided he was walking into a trap. You wouldn't make it too difficult for your prey to enter your trap. It might decide not to.
He reached the house without tripping the alarms. The party was in full swing. The Sentinel looked up and down the building. He wondered how to get inside. A sound just above caught his attention. He hid himself and looked up to the balcony. Two men stood there, smoking. He thought he recognized them from the newspapers, but he couldn't place them. A few minutes later, they went back inside. The Midnight Sentinel climbed the tree and looked. They hadn't closed the door. He grinned. Why should they? It was late summer, the weather was beautiful, and all was right with the world.
Step into my parlor, little fly, he thought as he leaped onto the balcony. He ducked and sneaked to the open door. No alarm. There was nobody in the room. It seemed all right to enter.
The Midnight Sentinel licked his lips.
Way too easy, he decided. He opened one of the pouches he had attached to his belt and removed a small tin. He opened the lid and blew over the top. A fine powder drifted through the open door. The Sentinel looked closely. There was no telltale red glow. He frowned. Was there really no alarm to trip, or was it just too well hidden?
Fortune favors the bold, he thought with a mental shrug. That, and any of a dozen other clichés on the subject.
He stepped through the open door into the room and immediately crouched behind a massive-looking couch.
Ten seconds later, nothing had happened yet. No alarm, apparently.
Emboldened, the Sentinel came out of hiding and went to the door. He opened it and looked up and down the corridor. From downstairs he could hear the sounds of the party. But there was nobody in sight. The Midnight Sentinel shook his head. This was either a very subtle trap, or Vasya was even stupider than he seemed.
Ducked, the Sentinel rushed along the corridor to where he knew Vasya's study to be. He wondered if Vasya thought that recent visit had served only to intimidate him, or if he had figured out that the Sentinel had used it to have a very close look at Vasya's house. He had found Vasya's study and he had found where Vasya kept his safe — it was set into the wall, behind a framed print of the From Russia With Love movie poster.
The Midnight Sentinel took the print from the wall and set it down carefully — it was a good movie, after all. He took a gadget from his pouch, which he had bought from a mail-order electronics store (sent to a p.o. box rented under an assumed name). With the gadget's help, he opened the safe in no time at all.
He searched it quickly and efficiently. And smiled. Of course Vasya would make sure to keep the evidence for his illegal activities close at hand, after the Midnight Sentinel's last visit. It was a pity the police couldn't make use of it.
But someone else probably could. All the Midnight Sentinel had to do now was figure out how to get the evidence to that man.
* * *
A little red light flashed on Vasya's wristwatch.
“Is anything the matter?” the ambassador asked.
“Nothing that should disturb the party,” Vasya assured him. He waved at one of his men. The soldier came over quickly. “He's here,” Vasya whispered. “In the upstairs study. Take five men. Raise a fuss. Make sure everybody notices we're under attack.”
The soldier nodded and quickly stalked off.
“Where is that man going?” the ambassador asked.
“A minor problem,” Vasya said. He smiled. “Nothing to concern yourself with. What was that you said about the trade concessions?”
The ambassador was just about to answer as the first of Vasya's men made a spectacle of himself by crashing down the stairs.
* * *
All right, he had expected some opposition, but this was ridiculous.
Three burly tough-guys entered the room, pistols drawn. As he leaped into the fray, the Midnight Sentinel noticed that they had silencers screwed to the barrels. He jumped the one in the middle, planting both feet against the man's chest. He fell backwards and fell over the railing. The Midnight Sentinel tried to duck as the second man swung his pistol his way. The silencer-extended barrel grazed the Sentinel's head. He lashed out instinctively, felt his fist connect with something that broke. Dazed, he kicked at where he remembered the third man to be. There was nothing, but he heard a muffled crack and something burned along his shoulder.
I've been shot!
He turned, saw the thug and threw the notebooks at him. The thug caught them reflexively, which bought the Sentinel the seconds he needed to attack. He threw a punch, and regretted it instantaneously as the pain in his shoulder reminded him that a wounded arm had better be immobilized. Consequently, the punch didn't seem to bother the thug very much. The Sentinel followed up with a series of kicks, which worked better.
So much for subtlety, he thought, overlooking the results of his little altercation. He could already hear more people approach, and the party had gone deathly silent. Waiting to see which room the ambassador would retire in and then pay the man a visit was now out of the question. He wondered, only for a second, which trap he had missed.
“What was that about the best defense?” he muttered. He picked the notebooks up and dashed out of the study, out to the corridor. There were three, no: four more guards coming his way. The Midnight Sentinel had no time for them. He looked down to where the party had been. The guests looked up at him.
He didn't really have a choice.
He put his left hand over the railing and vaulted over it, daring the 1o foot drop. He landed lightly, safely.
Vasya made a good show at panic. How much of it was show?
“Protect the ambassador,” the mobster cried, backing off. “The terrorist is here to kill the ambassador.”
“No need,” the Sentinel countered. “Your breath is doing a good job at that. I can smell it over here.”
The crowd parted like the red sea as the Midnight Sentinel quickly went to the ambassador.
“If I wanted to kill anyone,” he said, “I already would have. But I'm not a killer.” He stopped an arm's length from the ambassador. With his good arm, he held out the notebooks. “Vasya, on the other hand, is, sir,” he told the man. “He is a very major player in the local mob. These books contain the evidence.”
The ambassador took the books. He stared at the cover.
“What are you giving these to me for?”
“Vasya has diplomatic immunity, sir,” the Midnight Sentinel said. “Giving this to the police is pointless. If you, after seeing the evidence, should lift that immunity ...” He shrugged, and barely kept from wincing. “Please consider that a criminal with diplomatic status hurts your country's reputation too.”
The ambassador looked at the notebooks once again.
“I will look at what you have given me,” he promised gravelly. “If what you say is true, I shall see to it that justice will be done. Is that satisfactory?”
“That's all I want,” the Sentinel agreed. He turned. Stopped. Hesitated. Turned to the ambassador again. “Think anyone'll mind if I leave through the door?”
The ambassador smiled. He waved at the door.
“By all means,” he said. He waved at one man in the crowd. “Oscar. See to it that this man will get safely off the property.” He nodded at the Sentinel. “You took a great risk in bringing this to me.”
Not as big as the danger I'll face when I don't find an explanation for the gunshot wound that I can tell Imogen.
“This city is under my protection,” he heard himself say. “I will do anything it takes to safeguard it.”
To his surprise, he meant it.
The End