Anderson, Kevin J. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.html

 

THE LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY GENTLEMEN

NOVELIZATION BY

K. J. ANDERSON

BASED ON THE SCREENPLAY BY

JAMES DALE ROBINSON

ADAPTED FROM THE COMIC BOOK BY

ALAN MOORE

ONE

Central London, 1899

 Night 

On the edge of a century’s turning, London was a sprawling mosaic of crooked tile roofs, shuttered windows, cobblestone streets, and garbage-strewn alleyways. Fog crept through the city like pestilence, mixing with the foul breaths of smoke from coal grates and great belches from factory smokestacks. Cold buildings huddled together as if seeking warmth against the nights chill.

Nearly two millenia of history had seen London evolve from a Roman settlement to a Saxon stronghold, then a burgeoning commercial center and religious axis. Ultimately, London became a pinnacle of European political might as well as a powerful industrial hub. World-shaking events would beginor endhere.

For decades now this place had endured the turns of the industrial revolution, which had transformed it from a grand city of one million inhabitants into a vast metropolis teeming with more than four times as many people, all of them trying their best to survive.

In the distance Big Ben chimed its lonely but predictable tones. Most people no longer even awakened to the clock towers hourly ritual, especially not so late. The steady sequence of gongs drifted past like a lullaby, reassuring the city’s sleeping inhabitants that all was well.

Big Ben fell silent again, and so did the streets.

Then a low rumble started deep underground, as if the convoluted sewers near the Thames suffered from indigestion.

In Moorgate Passage, a pair of dogs hungrily dug through garbage in search of edible scraps, as they did every night. They half-heartedly snarled at each other, too hungry to notice the mysterious sounds.

But the noise rose steadily in volume, like buried, restless thunder. The ominous trembling grew louder and louder, shaking forcefully until it rattled loose roof slates and chimney pots&

One mutt lifted his head and pricked his ears. The second dog used the opportunity to seize a rank-smelling fish head from the trash heap and bounded away with his prize. Then he, too, paused, whining. His jaws opened and the moist fish head fell to the slick street. The rumble grew more ominous, a different sort of growl.

The two dogs snarled at the sound that seemed to come from everywhere beneath and around them, then they scuttled away in fear. The second mutt doubled back to snatch up the fish head, then sprang down the alley just as the sound reached an explosive roar.

A dark brick wall at the opposite end of the alley split and broke as something huge, black, and mechanical hammered its way up from beneath the streets, knocking bricks and timbers apart. Walls fell, brushed aside from the leviathan as if they were little more than dust and dry leaves.

Both dogs ran for their lives as the immense subterranean machine roared and clanked after them.

Though he had been deeply asleep, immersed in dreams of playing in the park with his father on a Sunday afternoon, Bartholomew Dunning sat up quickly in bed. The pallid six-year-old boy clutched an old woolen blanket and stared into the faint light that came through the window of his cellar bedroom. On a narrow brick windowsill above the bed, his tin toy horse and buggy shuddered and rattled, as if they had come alive.

The rumbling made the entire tenement shake. Dust sprinkled down from the ceiling, captured in the hazy moonlight that penetrated the fog.

Bartholomew wanted to call out for his father, but he knew Constable Dunning would be out walking the streets, keeping London safe, as he did every night& all night. But right now the boy wanted his father. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, hoping to hide. But the noise grew louder.

The toys jittered and wobbled, then finally tumbled off the windowsill. More dust sifted down from the tenement ceiling, and Bartholomew could hear shouts from the residents in the floors above.

Gathering his courage, thinking of his father in his fine policeman’s uniform striding down dark alleys and arresting pickpockets and murderers, Bartholomew scurried out of bed as the monstrous noise came deafeningly close. Someone upstairs let out a loud yell.

Because his father worked every night, and slept most of the day, Bartholomew could spend time with him only on Sunday. But Constable Dunning put food on the table and coal in the grate for the boy and his two sisters; they had to care for themselves without a mother to watch over them. His sisters snored together in the inner room, not even awakened by the noise. It was up to the boy to see what was happening outside.

Shrill whistles pierced the growing noise, and he took comfort in knowing the police were rushing to the scene.

Bartholomew went to the window, stood on tiptoe, and used the flat of his hand to wipe fog from the pane. The glass remained blurry from the grime outside, but an immense shadow passed along the street. When he pressed his face close, the boy could see well enough that his eyes widened in fear.

Massive mechanical treads rolled past at street level, crushing cobblestones, clanking and clattering like the loudest factory line.

Bartholomews windows splintered and fell in. He screamed, scrambling backward as the whole frame came crashing down. Part of the wall and ceiling slumped under the crushing passage of the huge vehicle. Broken bricks and crumbling mortar buried and destroyed his toy horse and buggy.

He crawled for shelter under his bed, a place usually reserved for nighttime monsters. Right now, though, the boy was only afraid of the very real and tangible beast outside.

Then the mechanical juggernaut surged past, smashing gutters and shouldering aside brick corners that got in its way.

As dust and rubble continued to patter all around him, Bartholomew peered out from his hiding place. Safe, for now.

But he knew his father was out in the streets, armed with little more than his whistle and truncheon. Even a stern constable in a clean uniform would be no match for that thing.

Tabard Row had been quiet all evening, and Constable Dunning paused in his rounds to smoke his pipe. He took a long draw on the tobacco, savoring the moment of bliss.

His children were home together, asleep. Their mother had died of consumption two years earlier, and the boy Bartholomew had been forced to grow up much faster than he should have. Once, he’d playfully tried on his fathers constable cap, and it had nearly fallen down to his small shoulders. Bartholomew was the man of the house whenever his father left to patrol the night streets, and the boy took his responsibilities with admirable, heart-aching seriousness, though his father occasionally saw him playing with his toys. Just a little boy, no more than six years old.

At least he was safe tonight&

Constable Dunning’s peaceful feeling was suddenly shattered by the pitiful wailing of dogs. A moment later a monstrous rumble shook the ground, accompanied by breaking glass and shattering walls.

Dunning drew his baton and trotted toward the sound, by habit tapping his truncheon on the wall as he went, making a sound like rapid gunfire. Shrill whistles sounded the alarm from other officers heading in the same direction. Drawing a deep breath, he blew a long high-pitched note on his own whistle.

“Its down in Moorgate Passage!” one of the policemen called, joining up with Dunning. They ran together, reacting out of instinct without stopping to worry about the nature of the threat. From the sound of it, this was more serious than a drunken brawl, a cutpurse, or a pair of whores trying to claw each others’ eyes out.

The two constables sprinted onto Threadneedle Street, heading for Moorgate. Dunning stumbled and nearly sprawled on his face in a filthy gutter as he and his companion collided with a pair of utterly terrified dogs racing in the opposite direction, off into the night.

“Bleedin’ ratbags! Whats gotten into ‘em?” said Dunning.

Then again perhaps the mutts had the right idea.

Like a factory-made demon, a giant, armor- plated machine careened around – and through -  a corner of the narrow street, demolishing everything in it’s path.

“Good Christ!” Dunnings companion skittered to a halt, eyes wide. His truncheon drooped in his grip, laughably insignificant compared to the mechanized titan lurching toward them with a roar of engines and a belch of oily exhaust smoke.

It was a tank vehicle plated with thick iron sheets, riveted into place on a body that rode on implacably paired tracks. Glaring headlamps shone forward like the baleful gaze of a dragon. It’s reinforced bow slammed like a battering ram through the wall, knocking it down without pause. The heavy treads crushed fallen bricks into powder. Dunning couldn’t even guess how many tons the vehicle weighed.

Three other constables converged from their own beats, stopped in their tracks. “Its an infernal Juggernaught!”

“Run!” Dunning’s tone was urgent as he backed away. Not cowardlyjust sensible. There would be no real protection against a mechanized leviathan that could plow through solid walls.

While three of the policemen staggered backward, Dunning’s companion took an unexpected initiative. Swallowing hard, he raised his truncheon, stepped into the middle of the street, and blew his whistle again for good measure. He stood his ground in the glare of the behemoths headlights, raised his hand, and said, “Halt! In the name of the Queen!”

“Get out of the way, you fool!” Dunning shouted.

When the land ironclad did not slow down, the man tried to dodge into a doorway, but the lumbering vehicle filled the narrow street. The young constable was caught between the treads and went down. His scream was cut short with a wet, squelching sound under the increasing roar of the demonic engines.

The tank moved onward, without pause.

Sickened and angry, Dunning ran to his comrades aid, but he arrived too late. Courageouslythough futilely he beat the metal monster with his baton and his fists. He made barely a mark on the thick plating.

Ignoring him, the land ironclad rolled on down the street.

Dunning ran after the machine, not knowing how he might stop its inexorable progress. The street opened up, away from the crowded slums, grimy pubs, and dim opium dens. Ahead stood a particularly impressive building with an ornate multistoried facade of marble columns, graceful statues, and stately blocks of gray-white stone.

Dunnings stomach clenched as he glanced up at the deeply engraved words BANK OF ENGLAND on the lintel over the building’s main entrance. “Not the Old Lady,” he muttered, hardly able to conceive of such a violation.

The tank rolled toward it, picking up speed.

The privately owned bank, often referred to as the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, had been established more than two centuries earlier. In the past two hundred years, the Bank of England had become more than simply a financial institution: The Old Lady was a symbol of England itself.

The juggernaut smashed into the bank’s broad central door. Columns broke apart and tumbled down; the massive locked door collapsed inward.

And the mammoth machine kept moving forward all the way into the financial fortress, undeterred.

The tank’s heavy treads, now bloodstained, clattered down a flight of marble steps that groaned and cracked under the immense weight. Picking up speed, the land ironclad ground its way across the polished marble floor of the lobby.

A night contingent of British soldiers guarding the bank drew their guns and opened fire. Like hail pattering on a tin roof, the bullets ricocheted ineffectually off the iron armor plates. The panicked soldiers leaped aside as the tank smashed through teller desks, back offices, records archives, private consultation rooms lined with security boxesand finally into the vault room.

Constable Dunning came running after it, picking his way through the rubble of stone and splintered wood and glass. He was aghast at the sheer carnage all around him. The soldiers recovered themselves then yelled indignant threats after the rampaging machine. Scrambling together, they all raced toward the vault room.

As if stymied, the mechanical monster came to rest against the massive iron door of the vault.

Dust and debris settled in ominous silence as Dunning and the soldier guards crept purposefully into the vault room. “Hah!” Dunning called, a bit disoriented by the frantic activity going on around him. “That door’s too solid even for a beast like that!”

Several other constables, panting hard from their long run, entered the bank and stared at all the destruction.

The tank just sat there, throbbing, pressed up against the thick vault door. It seemed to be defeated& or simply gathering its breath, preparing to strike again.

The shaken soldiers arose and, together with the constables, encircled the machine. Dunning edged closer, peering at one of the scraped plates on the front of the tank. “What is it doing?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

With a loud clang, a panel opened and two human eyes stared out through the narrow slot. Dunning sprang back with a yelp. The slot slammed shut. “There’re men inside that thing!”

Clanking, winding, slotting sounds began to emanate from within the mechanical beast. A panel thwacked open on top of the machine, and a fat cylinder extended, swiveled about in search of a target, then locked into place. It was aimed at the vault door.

Everyone there could recognize a cannon barrel when they saw it.

“Get back!” shouted Dunning. He clapped his hands over his ears, but many of the others didn’t react quickly enough.

The weapon fired with a deafening sound as if all the heavens had cracked asunder. The shock wave in the enclosed vault room threw constables and soldiers to the ground. The merciless cannon fired again, and then a third time.

Finally, the massive, dented vault door teetered, slumped, and at last fell inward. It crashed to the stone floor with a sound as deafening as the artillery explosions.

The air inside the ruined bank was thick with choking dust. The men’s ears were bleeding. Dunning shook his head to clear it; with the back of one hand, he wiped powder and sweat from his eyes.

A thick metal hatch opened high on the juggernaut’s flank and a step ladder cantilevered down. Men wearing easily recognizable German army uniforms emerged, led by a pale-eyed man who wore cruelty on his face as naturally as another man might wear a moustache. The uniformed men carried sleek, modern-looking snub-nosed firearms and boxy radio sets on their hips.

Constable Dunning had never seen anything like it. He had heard, though, the Kaiser had been stepping up his war effort, planning against the British Empire. And here was the proof!

The foremost invader turned back to the dark interior of the massive ironclad machine. He spoke in clipped German. “We are ready, Herr Fantom.”

Only then did their leader step into the open, emerging from the infernal machine. Dramatically garbed in black clothes and a sweeping cape, the man cut a formidable presence. He wore gleaming black boots, crisp glovesand a frightening silver mask that hid most of his features. Dunning caught only a partial glimpse of a terribly disfigured face.

Dunning stared, burning the Fantom’s face into his memory. He had read something about a similar murderous villain who had terrorized the Paris Opera House, not many years ago. But that Fantom had supposedly been killed&

Now the man in the metal mask gazed around the room, ignoring the astonished constables and soldiers as if they were no more relevant than insects.

“Ah, I love a night out in London,” the leader said in German. “Lieutenant Dante, instruct our men to go about their work. We have other appointments to keep.”

The cruel-faced Dante dispatched a team of German soldiers who scrambled out of the land ironclad and into the vault. Others, brandishing their futuristic snub-nosed weapons, held the intimidated bank soldiers and constables at bay.

When the invaders marched brazenly into the ruins of the Bank of England vault, one of the British guards broke free. “Here now, you can’t be”

With a flourish, the Fantom pulled out a snub-nosed gun and callously shot the outspoken British guard between the eyes. As the guard crumpled, the masked leader tossed his gun to Lieutenant Dante. “Leave one of them alive to tell the tale. Only one. What you do with the rest& I leave to your vivid imagination.”

Striding through the debris, his cape flowing behind him as if no dust would dare cling to his black clothes, the Fantom entered the vault, leaving Dante and the others to their given tasks.

As the ruthless executions began, Constable Dunning squeezed his eyes shut and thought of his children.

As the crack of gunfire and pleading screams resounded from outside the vault, the Fantom’s Germans used crowbars and the butts of their weapons to break open security boxes of all sizes. The men spilled the contents onto the floorbank notes, gold, jewelry, bondsbut they were searching for something in particular.

An eager henchman picked up a gold brick and could not help admiring it. “Such treasures.”

“Treasure, yes,” the Fantom agreed, hardly sparing a glance for the chunk of precious metal. “Some worth more than others.”

With a gloved hand, the masked man snapped the latch of a mahogany plan-chest and reverently drew open the long drawer to reveal a sheaf of fragile parchment. He lifted one sheet, then another. Behind the metal mask his eyes darted back and forth.

The pages of age-yellowed paper bore hand-drawn architectural plans of a city on water, its deep foundations crumbling and cavernous. In spite of the faded ink, the detail was incredible, drawn by a genius centuries ago.

“Ah, here is the key to our labyrinth.” The horribly scarred lips, barely visible beneath the silver mask, smiled. The Fantom snatched up the pages and swept out of the vault, ignoring the rest of the gold and treasure. “Time to go. We have what we need.”

Outside, Constable Dunning huddled in horror and misery, his face spattered with blood. As relieved as he was to be alive, he felt a piercing guilt at being the only survivor among dozens of slaughtered policemen and soldier guards. The German henchmen ignored him as they climbed back aboard the land ironclad.

The Fantom also vanished inside the vehicle, while his lieutenant spared a final glance for the surviving constable, who seemed oblivious to the departing soldiers. Dante said to him, “Count your blessings.”

Then he swung the hatch shut, and the land ironclad roared back off the way it had come.

TWO

Voalkyrie Zeppelin Works
Hamburg, Germany

Like gigantic inflatable whales, six zeppelins floated inside a construction hangar that was large enough to swallow a small town. Spotlights shone on the graceful curved sides of the hydrogen-swollen dirigibles.

Atop the hangar, red wind socks extended parallel to snapping giant flags that displayed the colors of the German Empire. In the cool breezes that swept across the grassy lowlands off the Elbe River, the zeppelins strained against their tethers, as if restless.

Ferdinand Graf von Zeppelin had designed these huge airships, supported internally by a light skeletal framework and guided by rudders and propellers. Zeppelin himself had envisioned the military uses of these giant and silent craft after ascending in observation balloons with Union forces during the American Civil War. After retiring from military service, Zeppelin had spent most of his life’s savings on independent aeronautics researchuntil finally the Kaiser himself had become interested enough in the work to provide much-needed financial backing.

In the past several years, Kaiser Wilhelm II had invested a fortune in the secret Valkyrie Zeppelin Works. The graceful, yet intimidating airships would be Germany’s pride, drifting across the skies in fearsome formation. They looked silent and peaceful, like slumbering giants of the north.

The first gunshot rang out even before shouted orders launched the sneak attack. A German guard screamed as he died. Others scrambled for their weapons, taken completely by surprise. But no matter what they did, it was too late for them.

The Valkyrie Works were destined to fall this night.

“Forward, men! Tallyho! For Queen Victoria!” Heavily armed men wearing British military uniforms let out a simultaneous yell and rushed forward into the zeppelin factory:

Ratcheting sirens blared like prehistoric beasts in the cavernous construction hangar. Warning shouts rang out above the din, a mixture of German and English.

Straight-backed and grimly satisfied with how the operation had proceeded so far, Lieutenant Dante emerged from a workers’ room. Tonight, for this second phase of the Fantoms plan, he was dressed as a British commander, even sporting a pencil-thin moustache. He directed squads of “British” soldiers as they roughly herded frightened German factory workers down iron steps from the catwalks and construction platforms above.

The radio box at Dante’s hip squawked. He grabbed it, pressed it to his ear, and listened to the report from his scouts outside the factory perimeter. He scowled. “Fantom! We won’t have the time we expected. The Germans are already arriving in force.”

With his gleaming silver mask affixed to his mysteriously malformed face, the gaunt Fantom waited at the bottom of the metal stairs. “I expected the Kaiser to respond without delay.”

Both of them spoke in richly accented English this time. The German workersanyone who survived, that waswould hear him and remember who had attacked the extravagant new zeppelin factories in Hamburg. The Kaiser wasn’t likely to be very forgiving of the British Empire.

Brandishing their modern snub-nosed weapons and shoving, the Fantom’s men drove the other prisoners away. The sounds of fighting echoed intermittently through the hangar, screams, gunshots. Although the resistance was dwindling, the Kaiser’s troops would arrive before long.

The Fantom turned, swirling his black cape. “But that is not relevant, Dante. Do we have the man we came for?”

The Fantoms lieutenant snapped his fingers, and one of the henchmen shoved a meek academic scientist forward. “As you requested, Fantom. This is Karl Draper, at your service, whether or not he bloody well likes it.”

The Fantom regarded the cringing man before him. The German scientist wore spectacles and work overalls; from one pocket protruded a wad of cloth with which he had frequently mopped beads of perspiration from his forehead. Karl Draper looked into the bright, demonic eyes behind the silver mask; he swallowed hard at what he saw there.

“W-what do you want?” Draper asked in German, the tension of terror modulating his voice to a higher pitch.

“The world, Herr Draper. I want the world.” Barely visible beneath the lower curve of his mask, the Fantoms’ lips curled in a sinister smile. “And you will help give it to me.”

The scientist looked as confused as he was frightened. “But& but I have no secret knowledge! I am just an architectural engineer.”

The Fantom looked at Draper as if he were only a mildly interesting specimen in a very large collection. “Yes. I know.”

Dante checked his boxy radio and frowned. “The Kaiser’s troops have reached the gate, Fantom. They will be inside in a matter of moments, and they seem to be surprisingly well armed.”

Below the mask, the Fantoms’ twisted lips smiled. “Yes, the Kaiser has been gearing up for war for many years now.”

Dante stood, waiting for more detailed orders. “Should I tell the men to prepare for a pitched firefight?”

“Nothing so troublesome, Lieutenant. I’ll provide a distraction to cover our exit. I think it will be rather impressive.”

The Fantom glanced up to the hangar’s next level and gestured to one of his loyal henchmen who stood on the iron steps above. The soldier tossed down a sleek and complicated rocket-launching weapon. The masked leader shrugged his cape out of the way, shouldered the weapon, and cocked the firing pin.

“Are you mad?” the German scientist cried upon seeing the rocket launcher. “This place is full of hydrogen gas!”

“Exactly.” He turned to Dante. “Get Herr Draper to safety please.”

Shouting into his radio box, Dante sounded the retreat. Leaving the corralled factory prisoners waiting for rescue from the incensed German army, the invading soldiers in British uniforms beat an orderly withdrawal from the main work area.

The masked leader swung the weapon to bear on the space behind them, where the six enormous zeppelins hovered by the yawning open doors of the hangar. Shouting curses at the English, the Kaiser’s reinforcements swarmed through the front doorway, demanding that the British troops surrender.

When the oncoming German soldiers were halfway across the hangar, running directly under the dirigibles, the Fantom fired the heavy rocket launcher.

“Nein!” Karl Draper shouted, his face filled with horror. Dante pushed him impatiently ahead.

Whistling, sputtering, and buzzing as it flew, the rocket trailed a control wire behind it. The Fantom studied the trajectory like an expert skeet shooter and adjusted his aim to put the nearest zeppelin in the crosshairs. He couldn’t possibly miss.

The wire-controlled rocket angled up and tore through the side of the gas-filled airship, then detonated. Though a single spark would have been sufficient, the Fantom found this extravagant method more dramatic and satisfying.

Contained within baffled chambers of the huge lighter-than-air dirigible, the rich hydrogen gas erupted in incinerating flames. The explosion sent out shock waves powerful enough to knock the rushing German soldiers flat. Many of them caught fire, like living candles, screaming as they burned and fell to the hangar floor. The trapped factory workers and defeated guards tried to escape, but the flames rolled forward like fiery floodwaters from a burst dam.

A wave of flame spewed from the first dying zeppelin and ignited its nearest counterpart, triggering a catastrophic chain reaction that leaped from one zeppelin to the next. Soon, the entire Valkyrie Works were in flames.

The Fantoms’ silver mask caught and reflected the dazzling firestorm. He admired the holocaust he had triggered. Quite impressive.

Then he turned and followed his men, thoroughly satisfied with how well he had stirred the hornets nest.

THREE

The Brittania Club
 Nairobi, Kenya

A dry savannah wind blew along dirt roads lined with single-level stores, huts, and merchant stalls. A few natives loudly hawked overripe fruits and vegetables from produce carts. The smell was thick with rot, manure, and sweat. It seemed inconceivable that a person might choose to live here unless he had absolutely no other options.

Sanderson Reed looked at his surroundings with disdain, waving his straw hat in front of his face as much to chase away the odors as to cool himself. He was a pallid bureaucrat in his late twenties; to him, traveling so far from home was an unpleasant chore instead of an adventure.

“Nairobi. The big city& according to the map of Kenya.” He made a snorting sound.

According to the briefing M had given him, this was little more than a glorified, boggy watering hole for the Maasai people. Not exactly civilization. Reed wished he was back in London. For all its faults, at least that city had culture.

Hearing him mutter, the dark-skinned driver of the wagon turned to him. “Sorry, sir? Did you say something, sir?”

“Nothing worth repeating. So, where is the Britannia Club? Are we almost there?” The drive had been as interminable as it was unpleasant.

“Almost there, sir.” The wagon creaked ahead down to the end of the dirt road, finally stopping beside several horses tethered to a hitching post. With a sad attempt at pride, the driver gestured. “Here it is, sir. The Britannia Club. Nairobi’s finest, sir.”

With a sigh of dread, Reed looked at the rundown building. “I was afraid you were going to say that.” He shook his head.

The Club was certainly one of the largest and sturdiest stuctures in all of Nairobibut that wasn’t saying much. The grounds had gone to seed, making the weeds indistinguishable from the once-tended flower beds. Union Jacks drooped from poles like dead fish, engorged with humidity. The heat and flies and squalor seemed to sap the life from even the flag of the British Empire. He doubted M would have approved.

As the patient driver waited, Reed climbed gracelessly out of the wagon. “Don’t wander off,” he said. 

“No, sir.”

Stepping toward the Britannia Club, the bureaucrat wrinkled his nose as he glanced over at a rundown graveyard nearby. “Couldn’t they have picked a better place to put a club? On another continent, perhaps?”

Reed climbed the porch steps and entered the open front door; as many flies seemed to be wandering out as venturing inside. Not a good sign. He took a moment to assess the surroundings, observing the details of the room with a sour frown.

The Britannia Club spoke of weary, faded glory, a time when Cecil Rhodes and intrepid explorers had seen the dark continent as a treasure box to be unlocked. Allan Quartermain had personally done much to foster that impression on gullible English schoolboys who were hungry to read tales of adventure.

The walls were crowded with a hodgepodge of stuffed animals, tribal shields, stretched pelts of striped and spotted animals, and dusty portraits of forgotten English adventurers. Ivory tusks hung from the rafters.

The club was full of the empire’s dregs, old men awash in gin and memories. They sat around at the tables snoring, playing cards or checkers, or endlessly repeating stories of their past escapades.

A black valet stepped up to meet him. “Good afternoon, sir. May I help you? A drink perhaps?”

“I’d prefer information.” Reed explained who he was looking for, and the valet, showing no surprise at all, gestured in the direction of a red-faced fellow in his mid-sixties, whofrom all appearancesprobably spent more time drinking than adventuring.

Anxious to finish his assignment and catch the next steamer back to England, Reed briskly approached his target. A second man sat at the table, brooding and silent, probably drunk. Reed ignored the companion, now that he had found his mark.

“Excuse me, gentlemen?” He waited for them to look up at him with bleary eyes. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Allan Quartermain?”

The red-faced man grinned at him with discolored teeth. “You do, sir. Indeed you do!” A breath heavy with the sour juniper of bad gin wafted up to him. “Only, it’s Quatermain. Bloody press always misspells my name. Never asked them to print my adventures anyway, and then they can’t even spell my name right.”

“You’re not& at all what I expected,” Reed said, disappointed. But then, so far everything about Africa, Kenya, Nairobi, and the Britannia Club had also been a disappointment. But M had been very specific about this man.

“I presume you’re another traveler, got it into your head to sample the dark continent? And while you’re at it, why not hunt down old Allan Quatermain and have him tell his adventures, eh? Well, I’ve heard that one before, and I certainly welcome the company.” Jovially, the red-faced man nudged his quiet companion. “He’s not much of a conversationalist.”

The other man just grunted.

“Well, actually” the pallid young bureaucrat said.

“Sit down, sit down. Fill a seat, fill my glass.” Quatermain shouted to the bartender. “Bruce! A double!” He turned back to Reed, smiling. “And I shall regale you with how I found King Solomon’s Mines. Or I could relate my exploit in Egypt when I met Ayesha, Ayesha, ‘She who must be obeyed.”

As if they were old friends, Quatermain reached out to grasp Reed’s elbow.

“Scintillating, I’m sure, but it is not your past that interests me,” Reed said, peeling the man’s moist hand off his sleeve. He refused to sit down.

“Not interested? That must surely be a first, sir.” Bruce arrived with Quatermain’s drink, which the old adventurer gladly accepted. The brooding man at the table glanced at the visitor with a faint flicker of interest.

“My name is Sanderson Reed. I am a representative from Her Majesty’s British Government. Terrible things are happening, Mr. Quatermain, and the empire needs you.” His words fell heavily on the humid air, and dropped like gassed flies.

Blinking his gin-reddened eyes, Quatermain was unsure of what to say. Fumbling, he looked over at his companion, full of unspoken questions. Then the quiet man leaned back to look Reed in the eye, his gaze sharp as a surgeons scalpel.

Startled, Reed realized that he had been duped. As he looked more carefully at the other man, he understood that this must be the real Allan Quatermain. His past was written on his face, his visage etched with hard lines from a life on the veldt.

“But the question is, young man, do I need the empire?” said the real Quatermain. His voice was rough and rich, with a pleasant lilt.

“I” Reed started, rummaging through his rehearsed lines to find one that might fit the situation.

The jovial impostor clutched his fresh drink, as if it were a prize that he would allow no one to pry from his hands. He looked crestfallen, as if his favorite game had been spoiled. “I’ll toddle off then, shall I, Allan?”

“Yes, of course, Nigel. You toddle off.” Quatermain turned back to Reed. “Nigel is useful for keeping the story-seekers at bay. I’m Quatermain. Now, either sit down or leave, but don’t just stand there like another one of those tiresome stuffed hunting trophies.”

Reed quickly took the seat that Nigel had vacated, “The empire is in peril,” he said again, lamely. He had expected that phrase to be sufficient. 

“I’m sure you’re too young to know, Mr. Reed, but the empire is always in some kind of peril,” the old adventurer answered. “It gets to be as tedious as Nigel’s inflated stories of things I may or may not have done.”

Reed remained insistent. “We need you to lead a team of uniquely skilled men, like yourself, to combat this threat.”

Quatermain gestured for the bartender to refill his glass and pour a stiff drink for Reed, who by now felt he needed one. “Very well. Explain yourself, and please try to make it interesting.”

The bureaucrat sniffed. “You may not be much aware of current events, since Nairobi is so& unfortunately isolated. Believe me, there is great unrest. Europe, the Orient, parts of Asia, and even here on the dark continent. Many countries are on the brink of war on an unprecedented scale.” His voice finally found its fervor.

Quatermain raised his eyebrows. “This is ‘news’? The natives realize that they don’t need their Great White Father. It’s about bloody time.”

“You think this is just unrest among the British colonies? If it were that simple, we’d deal with it in a snap,” Reed said. “The Queen’s army has plenty of resources to deal with ordinary problems such as that.”

The famous old hunter ignored his fresh drink as his indignation grew. “Oh, yes, I know the practice. Send in the troops, kill a few villagers, and peace is restored.” He made a disgusted sound. “No. Request denied. I’m not going anywhere.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You may leave now.”

Reed did not accept the rebuff, but pressed on as he had been instructed to do. “Europe is a sticky place at the moment. Countries at each other’s throats, baying for blood. It’s a powder keg. The trouble of which I speak could set a match to the whole thing, extending far beyond the British Empire. War.”

“You keep saying that. But a war with whom exactly?” Quatermain said, irritation and curiosity coloring his tone.

“Everyone. A world war.”

Instead of reacting with shock, the old adventurer nodded slowly, digesting the information. “And that notion makes you sweat, Mr. Reed?”

“Heavens, man! Doesn’t it you?”

“This is Africa, dear boy. Sweating is what we do.” Quatermain turned from Reed and picked up a copy of The Strand Magazine lying beside a deck of worn playing cards on the adjacent table; the issue was several months old, featuring a new story by the imaginative young writer H. G. Wells. “It’s been almost interesting talking with you, Mr. Reed. Good day. Have a nice trip back to England.”

Reed just blinked at him in disbelief. “Where’s your sense of patriotism, Quatermain? Even though this is godforsaken Kenya, we’re in the Britannia Club, for heaven’s sake.”

Quatermain stood, snapped to comical attention, and turned to his fellow drinkers as he raised his glass. “God save the Queen!”

Everyone in the bar responded with automatic enthusiasm, like windup toys. “God save the Queen!” A moment later they fell back to their drinking and card games and snoozing.

“And that’s about as patriotic as it gets around here, Mr. Reed,” Quatermain said as he sat down.

At the front entrance to the Britannia Club, he noticed more new arrivals, one of them carrying a leather case. The valet stepped up to the four travelers, who asked him what was obviously a familiar question by now. The adventurer sighed and turned back to Reed, who remained oblivious.

The young bureaucrat insisted in a low voice to keep the man’s secret. “But you’re Allan Quatermain! Stories of your exploits have thrilled English boys for decades.”

“That I know. Nigel does a grand job of reminding me.”

Predictably, the four new travelers approached jovial Nigel, who sat up on the sagging leather couch where he had gone to rest. One of them carried a brown satchel, which he tucked under a small table near the bar before stepping in front of the red-faced “adventurer.”

Smiling, Nigel prepared for another performance. Quatermain’s stand-in had already finished the drink he’d ordered upon Reeds arrival; these new visitors would no doubt buy him a new one.

Quatermain sighed sadly. “With each of my past ‘exploits’ those English boys find so entertaining, Mr. Reed, I have lost friends. Dear friends, white men and black and more besides. I am not the man I once claimed to be. Maybe I never was.”

In the background, Nigel spoke now-familiar words, putting his heart into the act. “Yes, indeed. I’m Allan Quatermain. Sit downfill a seat, fill my glass.” He signaled the bartender for his usual. “Bruce”

Suddenly, one of the travelers pulled a handgun from his vest. In a single smooth movement, he shot Nigel in the chest. The florid-faced stand-in adventurer slammed backward into the leather sofa, then he slumped down, seeping red from the deep wound. His empty gin glass clattered to the floor.

FOUR

The Britannia Club

Time seemed to stand still. Quatermain stared as his friend Nigel slumped dead.

Then the Britannia Club erupted into utter chaos as the other three newcomers also drew weapons. The old dregs of the empiremen who hadn’t moved with such speed for decadesnow dove for safety behind chairs and under tables. Cards and checkers and magazines scattered in a flurry. One potbellied man cowered behind a stuffed water buffalo; a bald veteran yanked a Zulu war shield from the wall and held it in front of him.

Quatermain, though, did not hide. He pulled an old but well-oiled Webley revolver from his jacket, pulled back the hammer, and fired. A single shot to the head took out the first assassin before the other three had time to realize what was happening. The man fell dead on top of Nigel.

“Wrong Quatermain,” the old adventurer said.

The other assassins turned to see Quatermain coolly cocking his Webley, then realized their mistake. “That’s him!” They dove for cover, returning fire even as the famous hunter shot again.

The room became a hail of bullets that chewed the club’s already-battered paneling to pieces. Bottles shattered, and stuffed animals exploded. Quatermain dashed over to take cover behind Nigel’s sagging leather sofa, dragging Reed with him. As he ran, ducked low, he took perfect shots at his attackers. His aim was accurate from a lifetime of practicebut the bullets ricocheted off their chests.

“They’re indestructible!” Reed stared in amazement from behind the sofa, until Quatermain pulled him back down. The assassins returned fire, and bullets tore through the upholstery, popping out coarse hemp stuffing near Reed’s ear.

“No. Just armor-plated.” Quatermain cautiously reached around the couch to check Nigel’s nonexistent pulse. “Remember what I was saying about losing friends every time someone wants me to get involved in another adventure?” He sighed with utter world-weariness. “Nigel was one of the last friends I had.”

As the young bureaucrat huddled against the continuing gunfire, Quatermain grabbed a handy wicker chair and heaved it over the back of the bullet-riddled sofa. Using the chair as a distraction, he leaped up and over the couch.

The three bulletproof assassins fired with new weapons nowfully automatic machine rifles, far more modern than Quatermain’s Webley revolver. After the thrown wicker chair exploded into splinters and dust, the killers turned their noisy, deadly weapons at the new target.

Shocked to see the automatic machine rifles cause faster and more thorough carnage than he had ever imagined, Quatermain realized he was caught in the crossfire. He dove for cover so frantically that his trusted revolver went skittering across the debris-strewn floor of the club. He ducked a stuffed lion that was shot to pieces, then took cover next to an elderly hunter, who was clumsily loading his shotgun.

“What in God’s name! Automatic rifles?” he said.

“Dashed unsporting, if you ask me,” said the elderly hunter. “They’re probably Belgian. Shouldn’t be allowed in the Club.” Indignant, the old man stood up and fired his shotgun, winging one of the assassins. Quatermain was glad to see that their armor protection did not extend to their arms as well.

A second assassin coolly shot the elderly hunter dead, using at least a dozen more bullets than was necessary and expending the last rounds in his automatic machine rifle.

Furious, Quatermain snatched up the elderly mans fallen shotgun and blasted with the second barrel. His shot sent the assassin diving for cover, then he waded in, his anger endowing him with more confidence than the bulletproof plating gave his attackers.

Recovering from the shock, the downed assassin crawled across the floor, clutching the flesh wound on his blood-soaked sleeve. The second killer struggled to reload his empty automatic rifle. The third assassin wrenched a thick paw from the ruined stuffed carcass of a lion; the taxidermist had extended the lion’s claws to make the trophy look more ferocious. Using the stiff paw as a club, he slashed at Quatermain with the hooked claws.

But the old adventurer was faster. He smashed the man with a liquor bottle he grabbed from the bar, shattering it over his unprotected head. “Wicked waste of good scotch.”

Finally finished reloading his machine rifle, the second assassin raised his weapon to firebut Quatermain crashed into him with a rattling tea trolley. He sprawled with a yelp, and the famous adventurer lifted the cart and broke it over the man’s head. Cakes and china cups went flying in all directions.

The distinctive click of a gun being cocked made Quatermain whirl, ready. His heart pounded, his blood flowed, his muscles workedjust as they had in his younger days. But instead of another enemy, he saw pallid Sanderson Reed nervously aiming the old Webley, which he had retrieved from the floor.

“You’re liable to hurt someone with that,” Quatermain said.

“II just wanted to help”

“Allan!” Bruce the bartender called out. “Heads up, man!”

Quatermain whirled and barely dodged a swarm of sharp silver throwing knives. With a staccato patter, the blades thunked like arrows up the face of a wooden pillar in the middle of the gathering room. The last few knives stapled Quatermain’s collar to the mahogany.

The man who had been grazed by the elderly hunters  shotgun blast looked badly wounded, his right shirt sleeve soaked with blood. But he was still coming, and  he could throw with his uninjured arm.

Quatermain grimaced. “Just my luck the bastard’s left handed.”

Bending awkwardly, he tried to pull the knives loose, but the thick material of his sweat-damp shirt would not tear free. He succeeded only in slicing his callused hand. Seeing his victim pinned like a moth to a specimen board, the wounded assassin brandished a big gutting knife. He smiled as he stabbed at Quatermain’s head.

Though he had limited mobility, the old adventurer thrashed and evaded the wicked strikes. So the assassin gripped the big knife and tried for his victims gut, using an underarm swing.

Amazed at his own resilience after being so long out of practice, Quatermain squirmed his hips and hauled his body up out of the way, just as the assassin’s blade stuck into the wood, driven by all his force.

Coming down from his agile move, Quatermain whacked the man on the head. The assassin grunted, and his own weight finally succeeded in pulling the wedged blade freejust in time for him to fall onto the point of his own gutting knife.

Then, covered with cream and jam like a monster from a mad bakers nightmare, the last assassin broke from beneath the tea trolley, where he had lain stunned. He lunged forward, frothing frosting, and picked up his own gun.

Quatermain spun, now that he was free of the knives. With a roar, he hefted a table as a shield, scattering checkers. He charged the pastry-clotted killer at full hitting the man hard and driving him back toward the trophy-covered wall.

The blow spiked the assassin on a curved rhino horn mounted for show over the fireplace. The man’s eyes bulged and he coughed powdered sugar, then oozed a bright red that was definitely not raspberry jam.

The impact knocked loose a large British flag hanging overhead; it floated down, smartly shrouding the assassin in his final death throes.

“Rule Britannia,” Quatermain said, standing back and lifting his chin in satisfaction. He wiped perspiration off his forehead, catching his breath.

Reed shook his head, amazed by what he had just seen. “Well, Mr. Quatermain, I believe that only verifies”

Impatient and still angry, the adventurer looked around. “Wait. Wasn’t there one more of these buggers? I don’t think I lost count”

The black valet gestured at the door, calling out in high-pitched alarm, “Mister Quatermain!”

He looked to see the last killer running for his life. He’d been wounded in the scuffle, but that hadn’t slowed him in the least. The assassin had already left the Club grounds and sprinted some distance down the dirt street toward the milling villagers, vegetable stands, shacks, and rickety cattle corrals.

“Bloody jackrabbit,” Quatermain said, and turned to the bartender. “Bruce, it’s time for Matilda.”

The barman reverently pulled an elephant gun from behind the bar. “Matilda, sir.” He tossed the long weapon to Quatermain, who caught it in mid-stride on his way to the Club doorway.

Quatermain glanced down at a small leather case that he thought one of the four assassins had been carrying when they’d entered the room. He frowned, wondering why the killers would have tucked it under a small table by the barbut he turned his attention to the immediate problem at hand. The last of the four assassins was getting away.

Eyes gleaming, Reed followed him through the doorway onto the shaded porch of the Club.

“Our bolter may have answers.” Quatermain inspected and then shouldered the elephant gun.

“But he’s so far away,” Reed said. “You’ll never hit him.”

Quatermain ignored the remark, taking aim. He squinted, shook his head and lowered the gun.

“Yes, I thought he was” Reed said, nodding with a trace of smugness.

But Quatermain wasn’t finished. He took a pair of wire glasses from his shirt pocket. “God, I hate getting old.” He put the glasses on, adjusted them, and took aim again. The elephant gun belched a roar like a cannon, and Reed flinched, squeezing his eyes shut and clapping his hands over his ears.

The bullet covered the distance to its target at incredible speed. The wounded assassin glanced back, thinking he’d gotten awayand the projectile slammed into his unprotected shoulder, shattering bone and flesh. He yelped and fell to the ground, sprawling on the trampled dirt of the road.

Quatermain lowered his gun and put his glasses away. He cracked his neck, surprised and exhilarated. “Well then, let us see what that fellow has to say for himself.” He went to the hitching post and swiftly untied one of the waiting horses. He handed the reins of a second to Reed. “Nigel wont mind if you borrow his horse.”

The two men approached the downed assassin, riding hard. Many locals had already left their market stalls and huts, gathering to stare at the bleeding killer, who was dressed as an Englishman.

Reed shook his head, his face paler than usual. “They must have learned I was coming for you. They wanted to kill you before you could offer to help.”

“Obviously,” said Quatermain.

They dismounted, striding forward like conquerors. The wounded assassin looked at them with fanatical determination, then used his one good arm to fumble desperately in his pockets. His other shoulder was a smashed and bloody ruin from the elephant gun.

“It’s no use, man,” Reed told him. “We’ll get you to a doctor, and then to jail.”

Finally, the assassin found a pill in his rumpled pocket and pulled it free with blood-spattered fingers.

Quatermain rushed forward. “Step him! We need the information!”

He grabbed the mans wrist, but it was too late. The assassin bit down on the pill with a smug smile that instantly transformed into a pain-wracked grimace as he died.

Cursing, Quatermain dropped the man’s wrist in disgust. The crowd looked at him in awe, but the old adventurer wanted no part of them.

After all that had happened, Reed did not forget his primary mission. He cleared his throat. “You may have no love for the empire, Mr. Quatermain, but I know you love Africa.” He gestured around him, as if there might be something admirable to be found in Nairobi. “A war in Europe will spread to its colonies”

Suddenly, behind them, the Britannia Club exploded.

Flames erupted through the door and roof; windows shattered. Splinters flew up into the air. The support beams toppled, and the whole structure groaned, then collapsed into an inferno.

Quatermain stared, his lips curled downward in a frown.

No longer interested in the assassins motionless body, the crowd of natives turned their attention to the explosion. Shouting with excitement, they rushed toward the Brittania Club to help, or at least watch from up close.

Quatermain’s eyes were steely as he watched his home burn.

“It appears the war has already arrived here,” Reed finished. “You cant hide from it, Quatermain.”

“All right. I’m in,” the old adventurer said. “Damn&”

Reed smiled. “Excellent. Pack for an English summer.”

With a smug look, the young bureaucrat strode away to the waiting buggy. The driver hadn’t moved from his seat, watching all the excitement with bemused interest.

As he took two steps to follow, Quatermain hesitated, then looked back toward the African veldt, with its open skies and waving grasses. Thunderheads were gathering over the windswept plains.

Near the burning wreckage of the old Britannia Club, the forlorn, crumbling graveyard stood against the magnificent vista, and Quatermain thought of all the friends, acquaintances, lovers he had buried there.

It was time to leave.

FIVE

London, Albion Museum
 Tottenham Court Road

Under torrential rain, a hansom cab drove north from Oxford Street. The driver tilted his derby, and cold water poured off the brim onto his already drenched lap. The rubberized fabric of his mackintosh was proof against the downpour, but the water found ways to creep between the folds of his coat and down his trouser legs into his shoes.

Nevertheless, the driver maintained his good cheer. His grin was sincere as he called down into the cab at his fare. “Nice day for doing, eh sir?” As if anyone could carry on a conversation with the din of the drumming rain and the clopping and splashing of the horses hooves on the wet cobblestones.

“Yes& absolutely idyllic,” said Quatermain. His voice was the only dry thing on the whole street.

The cab had as many leaks as it had uncomfortable lumps on the seat, and more than its share of groaning, creaking noises. He felt very far from home, and comfort. After his long journey from Africa, he had hoped to nap in these last few moments before attending the meeting that Sanderson Reed had arranged.

But as with so many others, those hopes had been dashed.

The hansom cab pulled up outside the stately Albion Museum in London, where Reed waited, holding an open black umbrella. Moving as if he was afraid of being attacked at any moment, the bureaucrat hurried forward into the rain. He opened the cab’s door, and muddy water sloshed from the sideboard. “You made good time getting here, Mr. Quatermain.”

“Not as good as Phileas Fogg.” The old adventurer stepped out of the cab and stood in the rain, taller than Reed’s umbrella. “Fellow went round the world in eighty days.”

He had been in monsoon seasons before, and had spent many a night in swamps or huddling under baobab trees for shelter. Monsoons on the veldt had a purity, cleansing the air with fresh moisture; here, confined in the city, the downpour simply turned the grime into muck.

“No need to go around the world. Coming to London is sufficient, sir.” Reed paid the driver, meticulously counting out the appropriate amount in coins and intentionally forgetting a tip. Then he took the umbrella’s protection for himself, even if Quatermain didn’t want it. “This way, please. Your contact is waiting.”

Quatermain had the impression he was being watched, a sense he’d developed from long years as a hunter and explorer. A glance over his shoulder showed him a young man across the street who wore an overcoat and cap to keep the rain off him. The clothing also succeeded in hiding the young mans face, making him seem up to no good; he was clearly enduring a soaking just to catch a glimpse of Allan Quatermain.

Alas, he no longer had Nigel’s playacting to cover him.

“If you please, Mr. Quatermain?” Reed said, urging him along.

They ascended the steps toward the museum. Passing between the museums stone columns, under the ornate arches, and through the door into blessed dryness, the two men walked with echoing, squeaking footsteps on the polished floor. Reed snapped the umbrella shut and shook it. Rainwater running off their clothes made the marble tiles treacherously slippery.

Quatermain looked around the Albion’s dim displays illuminated by gas lamps that had been lit early this afternoon because of the rains gloom. He saw proudly displayed antiquities, statues, and assorted treasures. He felt a pang, reminded somewhat of the dreary trophies hanging in the Britannia Club.

Brisk and officious, Reed led him directly to a wooden doorway marked NO ADMITTANCE TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC. Fumbling with a fistfull of keys, he unlocked the door and swung it open on groaning hinges. “This way, please. It’s down just a few levels.”

The two men descended staircase after staircase into the bowels of the stodgy museum. It was like stumbling through the prison caves of Ayesha, and with each new level, Quatermain lost a bit more of his patience. “How deep are we going? Has one of your explorers found a passage to the center of the Earth?”

The winding stairs finally terminated in a low brick corridor that looked as if it had been modeled on the Paris sewers. A closed wooden door at the far end blocked the hall. “I have done my part, Mr. Quatermain, and I will take my leave of you now. Perhaps we will meet again.” He motioned for the old adventurer to enter through the door. “My employer will explain the rest.”

The old hunter felt a prickle of hairs on the back of his neck similar to what he experienced the times he’d entered the rank-smelling den of a lion. Perhaps he would find predators even here, though of a different sort. He hesitated, suddenly wary.

Reed stood at the door and waited, then cleared his throat impatiently. Quatermain finally stepped inside, and the bureaucrat closed the door, plunging the hidden private room into shadow.

To most men, this darkness would have disguised the rooms secrets, but Allan Quatermain knew how to make full use of all his senses. He sniffed the air. “I’ve come a long way to be playing childrens’ games. Who are you?”

The red dot of a glowing cigarette gave the smoker away on the far side of the room. His chuckle sounded like desiccated, rattling bones. “After Africa’s dry and sunny veldts, London’s weather isn’t improving your mood, I see.”

With the turn of one knob on a small panel, blue-orange gaslight flickered up close to a fiftyish man so gaunt that the shadows turned him into a skeleton. His head seemed overly large for his thin neck, his brow heavy and solid. His cigarette holder angled jauntily upward.

Quatermain was not impressed. “I asked for your name, not speculations on my mood.”

Slim and self-assured, the man sucked on the black end of his cigarette holder and blew a long, gray breath. “I am known by many names, Mr. Quatermain. My underlings call me sir. My superiors call me& M.”

“M?”

“Just M.”

“Not very adept at spelling, I suppose,” Quatermain grumbled. “I hope your superiors don’t boast diplomas from Oxford.”

“Charming.” M was neither particularly annoyed nor amused. “I must say, the delight is minemeeting so notable a recruit to this newest generation of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Thank you for joining us.”

“League of& what?” Quatermain asked.

M turned more gas knobs, and the isolated chamber was fully illuminated in dramatic pools of flickering gaslight. A long table was surrounded by sumptuous leather chairs. “This is a most exclusive society, Mr. Quatermain. Membership is rather difficult to come by.”

The old adventurer was not enamored with the honor. He had just left the destroyed Britannia Club and had wasted many days and nights in travel; he had no intention of coming all this way to London just to become part of another gentlemens’ society. “I believe I’ve made a mistake in coming here.”

“You will make a bigger mistake if you leave.” M did not rise from his chair. “Come, look around. It will give me a chance to explain.”

The meeting room of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was filled with exquisite sculptures, priceless paintings, the finest furniture. The paraphernalia seemed more mysterious and intriguing than the pompous relics in the main halls of the museum above.

“You see, Mr. Quatermain,” M said, “there have been many times when a danger upon the world required the service of singular individuals.” With a cadaverous smile, he gestured to group portraits of various adventurers from history lumped together in their approximate eras. Quatermain recognized many of them, and saw that he was in distinguished company indeed.

“The task has fallen to me to assemble another group of heroes for our modern age. I am pleased to count you among them.”

“It’s like a shrine,” the adventurer said, not liking the idea. He looked up at a portrait of swarthy Richard Burton dressed as an Arab. “How very curious.”

“In its main exhibit halls and here in the private chambers, this museum is full of the curious.” M looked over Quatermain’s shoulder, suddenly smiling as another man entered. “And the extraordinary. Allan Quatermain, please meet Captain Nemo.”

Quatermain turned to see a thin and shadowy man quietly closing the door. He moved with the silent grace of a cat, and his face wore the hard expression of an age-wearied man, though he looked to be only about fifty years old. Nemo was very distinguished in a blue uniform that combined elements of naval captain and Indian nabob, with a sash tied at his waist. His skin was dark tan, and his full dark beard extended to his heart. The blue turban on his head further marked his Indian heritage.

“I know of Mr. Quatermain,” Nemo said, without giving further details. His voice was deep and smooth, like cool molasses.

“And I know of you, Captain,” Quatermain countered. “Rumor has it that you are a pirate.”

Nemo turned a set of black eyes on him. He crossed his arms over his uniformed chest. “I’d prefer a less provocative title.”

“I’m sure you would.”

M watched the two men, bemused, as if he saw visible lines of tension in the air. He smiled.

“From one such as you, certainly, who stands as a symbol of the British Empires domination of foreign lands” Nemo began.

“I am neither a symbol, nor a slaver,” Quatermain interrupted. His nostrils flared. He himself had seen the excesses of colonial oppression, downtrodden natives, cultures and societies railroaded into conformity “for their own good” by the White Man’s Burden.

Nemo noted his reaction with approval and reconsidered his initial assessment. “Perhaps I have made a premature assumption. I have sufficient enemies in the world. I do not need to make more.”

Quatermain backed off and turned his attention to another portrait. “I’m rather surprised, Nemoknowing your historythat you agreed to this enterprise. You struck me as being an& independent sort.”

“Independence? Yes. I seek my peoples release from the British Empire.”

From his overstuffed chair, M explained, “In return for Captain Nemo’s aid, we’ll open a dialogue with the Indian government.”

“That is reason enough, I suppose,” Quatermain said.

“One reason,” corrected Nemo.

“And the other?” Quatermain asked.

“Is my concern.” Nemo stood rigid, clearly not intending to volunteer any further information.

M stubbed out his cigarette in a terracotta ashtray. “Gentlemen, shall we get started?” He tossed a large manila folder in front of Quatermain. It slid across the polished table, and the adventurer picked it up, flipping through the papers. Inside were pictures and dossiers of three people.

“What did Reed tell you, Mr. Quatermain? How much do you know?”

“He spoke of unrest.” The old hunter paced back and forth beneath the impressive portraits of his League predecessors as he perused the dossiers. “I recommended laudanum.”

M folded his bony, long-fingered hands together. “This trouble can’t be medicated, I’m afraid. Nations are striking at nations. England is on the brink of declaring war against the Kaiser. Germany has vowed revenge against the British Empire. France, Italy, Belgium, they all have swords drawn and armies rallied. The slightest spark will set them off. It will be like a street brawl on a global scale.”

The dossier held intelligence illustrations of heavily armored land ironclads, streamlined cannons, rocket launchers, and countless other machines of war. Quatermain flipped through the pictures, his frown deepening.

M explained. “Many of the recent attacks were marked by the use of highly advanced weaponry, amazing technological breakthroughs that have caused unprecedented destruction. Each country denies its actions, despite clear evidence to the contrary and many witnesses that firmly place the blame on other governments.” He cracked his bony knuckles with a sound like gunshots. “Europe is a tinderbox. A world at war is a genuine possibility.” Then M calmly remembered his duties as host. “Sherry?”

“Always thought it a woman’s drink,” Quatermain said.

M poured himself a sherry, despite the other man’s deprecations. “I’ll alert the servants they should begin brewing gin in the bath for you, shall I?”

“One doesn’t brew gin. One distills it,” Quatermain muttered.

Captain Nemo stood straight and silent, watching and listening. M took the folder from Quatermain’s hands and spread the pages on the table so they all could see. “Our boys abroad have been hard at work to obtain all this information.”

“You mean your spies,” Quatermain said.

“They’ve discovered that, despite the accounts of witnesses, these widely separated attacks are all the work of one man who calls himself the ‘Fantom.’”

“Very operatic. Does he wear a mask? Have a scarred face?” Quatermain asked.

“As a matter of fact, he does.”

The old adventurer’s surprise and sarcasm deflated. He took one of the leather seats around the table. “What’s in it for him?”

“Profit. Sheer profit.” M pointed to the illustrations. “Those ingenious machines are the Fantom’s creations, the work of experts he holds imprisoned. He has captured the greatest scientists and engineers from various countries, forcing them to develop new methods of absolute destructionand his sham attacks may be little more than extravagant demonstrations of his wares.”

“Worse, the Fantoms’ provocative strikes have every nation clamoring to acquire the very weapons that assail them. England demands to possess them before the Germans do. Portugal wants them before Spain. The French insist on having them before the British. An endless circle.”

“Then it is a race for arms.” said Quatermain.

“While millions perish,” Nemo said with an angry, resigned sigh. “My struggle against War itself has accomplished little, after all these years.”

“There’s one last chance to avert war. The leaders of Europe will meet secretly in Venice. They will expose the Fantoms’ plans and reach an accord against him. This summit meeting must remain hidden from all the patriots and local warmongers who are ready to go to war. The greatest threat, though, comes from the Fantom himself.”

“Then you believe this Fantom will attack the conference?” Quatermain said.

“If he can find itand I would not doubt his ability to obtain such information. By striking the secret meeting and assassinating the leaders of the anxious nations, he will surely trigger the world-scale war he desires so much.”

“The I-types don’t trust us, gentlemen, so we can’t send in conventional forces. We need a team to get to Venice and stop the Fantom.” He closed the dossier. “You have four days.”

“Four days to reach Venice? From London? Impossible!” Quatermain cried.

“Let me worry about that,” Nemo said.

Quatermain glanced at Nemo’s file and understood. “Well now, four days it is.” He looked at the Indian captain with new respect. “Extraordinary gentlemen, indeed.”

“And in that four days you must also assemble the rest of your team.” M removed a pocket watch, flipped it open, and glanced at the time. “One of them is late: Harker, the chemist.”

“Well, he’d better learn how to tell time,” said an unseen man, a new voice that seemed to come from the air itself. “Its not so much to ask.”

Quatermain looked about, mystified. The gaslight was bright, and he saw no convenient shadows or alcoves in which a man might hide. “My eyesight must be worse than I thought.”

A new dossier dropped out of the air onto the others strewn across the tabletop. “Your eyesight’s fine. Heh!”

“No games, M,” Quatermain warned.

“I told you our members were extraordinary, Mr. Quatermain,” M said. “A while ago a talentedalbeit misguidedman of science discovered the means to become invisible. A Mr. Hawley Griffin. Perhaps you’ve heard of him, even in Kenya?”

“Yes, I recall the tale. But& didn’t he die? Something about a mob reaction?”

The unseen man continued. “He died, but his invisibility process didn’t. I stole the formula& and here I stand for all to see.”

“Is this some parlor trick, M?” Quatermain, scowled, then abruptly flinched as something invisible slapped him in the head.

“Boo!” said the unseen man. “Believe it.”

“Enough, Ghost,” Nemo said.

“Oooh, he speaks!” the invisible man chortled. “I thought for a moment the nefarious captain had been stuffed. Pleased to meet you both. I’m Rodney Skinner, gentleman thief.”

M frowned in the direction of the voice. “Skinner, make yourself presentable.”

The invisible thief’s coat, draped on the back of a chair, started to move by itself. It took shape as the man got dressed, tugging arms through the sleeves. Next, a pot of white greasepaint rose into the air.

Skinner continued to chat as he dressed. “You see, I thought invisibility would be a boon to my work, being a thief and all. Heh! You can imagine.” His grease-painted lips blew out a sigh. “My undoingonce you’re invisible, it’s bloody hard to turn back.”

The transparent hand continued to dab greasepaint on his face, distributing smears so that his physiognomy took shape eerily as he spoke. “And it’s bloody hard to spend your money if no one can see you.”

“In the end, we finally caught him,” M said. “He’ll be a valuable member of your team.”

“And they’ll provide the antidote if I’m a good boy,” Skinner said, explaining the real reason for his cooperation.

“And are you a good boy?” Quatermain asked.

“I guess you’ll find out, won’t you?”

The door quickly opened again, and all eyes turned toward the voice. “Am I late?” A beautiful woman stood at the door, carefully pushing it shut.

Quatermain blinked at her stunning appearance. She was slender and fit-looking, dressed in a stylish but not gaudy dress. She appeared to be in her early thirties with startlingly green eyes and dark hair; a white silken scarf was chastely tied around her throat. Her skin was ivory pale, as perfect as milk.

“Why, being late is a woman’s prerogative, Mrs. Harker.” M showed no trace of annoyance at all.

Quatermain groaned quietly. This meeting had grown worse with each new revelation. “Please, M, tell me this is Harker’s wife with a sick note.”

Her green eyes flashed at him with a surprisingly feral light.” ‘Sick’ would be a mild understatement, sir. My husband’s been dead for years. At the moment, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Gentlemen, this is Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker,” M said. “Please welcome her to our League.”

“And you couldn’t find a chemist with” Quatermain began, remembering all the times and all the adventures where women had caused him trouble.

“With the right to vote? Alas, no,” Mina said.

M was unruffled. He sucked on the end of his cigarette holder again. “In addition to her chemical abilities, Mina’s& prior acquaintance with a reluctant team member may also be of use to us.”

Mina grimaced slightly, as if she didn’t look forward to meeting her “prior acquaintance” again.

“And that’s it? Chemistry and an old friendship?” Quatermain raised his eyebrows. “Come on, I’m waiting to be impressed.” Many lives would depend upon the abilities of the members of this team.

“Patience& is a virtue,” Mina said, then added in a sultry, eerily hypnotic voice, “Are you virtuous?”

“The clock hands turn, gentlemen,” said M, gathering all the dossiers. “As I said earlier, we have very little time. You have other members to recruit before you depart for Venice.”

“Kicking us out, already?” the now greasepainted Skinner asked. “A moment ago it was all sherry and giggles.”

 SIX

London

Still uneasy in their partnership, Quatermain, Mina, Nemo, and Skinner emerged from the museum onto the street, where it was still raining.

The invisible man wore a long coat, slouching hat, dark pince-nez, and full white makeup on his exposed skin. He opened an umbrella to shelter himself from the downpour. “Care to snuggle close?” he asked Mina. “Heh.”

“I’d rather get drenched, thank you.” She lifted her chin and turned away from his greasepainted leer.

“Come now, you’re not still upset about that little incident at Miss Rosa Coote’s Correctional Academy for Wayward Gentlewomen, are you?”

Mina turned to him regarding his unreadable mask coolly. “That is only one of the many despicable things about you, Mr. Skinner. Getting girls pregnant by claiming to be the Holy Spiritindeed! How am I to choose only one reason to avoid you?”

As they walked down the wet stone steps toward the street, Quatermain stopped in his tracks. Instead of a hansom cab, a strange vehicle waited for them at the curb, massive and six-wheeled with a brute engine under its expansive hood. “What in God’s name is that?”

Mina Harker and the invisible man also looked surprised and puzzled, but Nemo simply strode forward. “It is mine.”

“Good one, Nemo. It really helps when you’re so bloody mysterious,” Skinner said. “What is it?”

“The future, gentlemen. The future.”

“I believe it is an unorthodox design of an automobile,” Mina said. “I notice several fundamental similarities to the contraptions currently being marketed by Karl Benz in Germany and Henry Ford in America.”

Nemo regarded this as somewhat of an affront. Although Karl Benz was indeed selling automobilesand would probably become the most successful manufacturer of the vehicles within a year or twoFord had yet to do more than build a prototype. If Ford didn’t begin a marketing program soon, Nemo doubted the man’s work would ever amount to anything.

The captain, a consummate designer and inventor in his own right, had researched the capabilities of every model in the world to date and found them all wanting, so he had created his own design. He was proud of the innovations his vehicle represented, but he did not intend to share them with other money-hungry industrialists.

Nemo stepped up to the side of the muscular automobile. Its steam exhaust vents and swirling lines were marked out in elegant Hindu style, functionality with a veneer of ornateness. Though spattered with the dirt and soot of London’s streets, the metallic adornments showed gleaming gold, silver, and chrome over colorful alloy body plates. The vehicle’s six wheels would allow it to drive overland as well as down the smoothest streets.

A tough-looking older man stepped away from the car and saluted Nemo. “Waiting for you, Captain. Ready to go.” He opened the side hatch and bade them enter.

Nemo nodded politely to the man and introduced him. “This is my first mate.”

“Call me Ishmael,” said the old man.

Curious, Skinner clambered into the dry car then reached out his gloved hand to help Mina in, but she pointedly entered without his help. “I wouldn’t want you to smear your makeup.”

“What, Missy? You were intending to give me a little kiss? Aheh!”

“I meant to smear it with my knuckles, not my lips.”

Nemo entered the car, and Quatermain came last, taking a final wary glance at the street. From the far corner, he once again saw the suspicious looking young man lurking on a sheltered stoop, still watching them. Quatermain frowned, then ignored the observer who was so painfully obvious about being unobtrusive. “If the Fantom hires only amateurs like that, then we don’t have much to worry about,” he muttered.

The vehicle’s engine rumbled loudly, then the six tires began to turn, moving them at increasing speed along the streets. “Our destinations not more’n a mile away,” Ishmael said. “Hang on.”

“What a cheerful fellow,” said Skinner.

Uncomfortably silent, Quatermain, Nemo, and Mina sat in the car.

The invisible man turned to Quatermain. “So how did M get you?”

“It’s none of your business. For a thief you certainly talk a lot. No wonder you were caught.”

Skinner snickered. “Oh, I see! Found something to hold over you. Saucy daguerreotypes? I’ve heard that jaded travelers find the long-limbed boys of North Africa a delicious respite”

“Do shut up.”

Skinner turned back to Mina, grinning behind his face paint. “Ah, that’s nothing compared to how the League got me, eh Ms. Harker? Hell! Aheh!”

“A sordid business theme is no need to relate, so as Mr. Quatermain said, do shut up.” Her mouth formed a tight rosebud of annoyance. “I have no wish to revisit it.”

Now the invisible man seemed to be pouting, though it was difficult to tell behind his greasepaint and dark glasses. “Just making conversation, Ma’am, and Quatermain. Hold onto your pith helmet. If we’re all supposed to work together, and risk our lives together, what’s wrong with a little healthy curiosity?”

Nemo brooded, looking at the others with intense dark eyes. “The thief’s question was perfecdy acceptable, Mr. Quatermain. Why are you here?”

“I have been pressed into service to resolve a situation in which you are all participants,” Quatermain said, which answered nothing at all.

“A little testy, Mr. Q,” said Mina.

“Please call me by my full name, Mrs. Harker. Let us leave the mysterious single letters to our friend M, all right? Besides, I doubt if a woman would measure danger the way that I do.”

Mina retorted, “And I imagine you with quite the library, Mr. Quatermain. All those books you must have readmerely by looking at their covers& ?”

The confines of Nemo’s car seemed to be oppressively close. Quatermain felt defensive. “It is not an assessment I make without basis. I’ve had women along on past exploits, and I’ve found them to be either a nuisance or outright trouble. At best, they are a distraction.”

“Oh?” Mina said. “Do I distract you?”

“My dear girl, I’ve buried two wives and many lovers. And I’m in no hurry for more of either.”

“Well, aheh, you can send them my way” the invisible man said, leaning forward.

“Skinner, shut up,” Quatermain and Mina rang out simultaneously.

Nemo sat stock-still, his back rigid in the seat, as if he heard nothing of the silly quarrels.

Ishmael brought the car to a gliding halt, and the engine puttered and hissed. “Here we are, Captain. Tiger Bay, East of Limehouse.”

Only too happy to be out of the odd looking car, and the company it contained, Quatermain fumbled with the latch and eventually figured out how to operate the door. He stepped out and took a deep breath of the damp air as mist rolled in after the rain. He could smell the mud of the river and fish from the markets. Warehouses large and small lined the Thames bank. Water lapped eerily against the nearby docks,

Nemo emerged and waited for Mina and Skinner to join him. They all stood together in the street.

“Shall I wait, Captain?” Ishmael called from the driver’s compartment.

Nemo’s eyes narrowed beneath his turban. “No, Ishmael. Bring my Lady to me.”

The first mate nodded and drove away. The evening fog had already begun to thicken, and people were hurrying home for the night.

Ignoring the invisible thief, Mina primly touched her hair, regained her composure, and looked about at the buildings. “Yes, this is the place.” She pointed a chalky pale hand toward an ominous house that spoke of ancient, moldering wealth.

As Thames fog rolled in, the building seemed to groan with menace and the weight of years of unforgiven sins. Mina looked far from happy.

“That’s where we will find Mr. Dorian Gray.”

SEVEN

London
Dorian Gray’s Residence

The door of Dorian Gray’s house was a massive wooden barricade with ornate panels and a heavy brass knocker. The invisible man hung back as the other League members approached, not out of fear but from lack of initiative; Mina Harker hesitated for an entirely different reason.

Quatermain looked at Nemo, but the dark captain simply stared implacably, as if the door would have the good sense to open by itself. It was left to the old adventurer to step up to the entrance, grasp the handle of the ostentatious knocker, and rap hard several times. It sounded like a hammer battering a piece of thick hull plating.

After the resounding echoes died away, Quatermain waited, staring at the door instead of his fellow recruits. Finally he heard soft, delicate footsteps padding like a lion approaching prey. The door opened to reveal a suave man shrouded in shadows and lingering sweet tobacco smoke. “Hello?”

Quatermain squared his shoulders, facing him. They were of the same height, but the other man seemed much more full of himself. “Gray? Mr. Dorian Gray?”

The man stepped forward into the light. He was a dashing fellow with unruly hair and a smile that seemed just the faintest degree away from an outright sneer. He wore a deep purple smoking jacket and exotic slippers. “I am indeed.”

“We& came by way of M.”

“Ah, M for mystery& or perhaps it’s for melodrama& or mediocrity.” Dorian Gray looked at the old adventurer on his doorstep as if he was nothing more than a speck. “Well, I told him and I’m telling you whoever you areI’m not interested.”

He finally deigned to notice the odd company on his doorstep: Nemo in his outlandish semi militaristic uniform and colorful turban, Skinner in his dark glasses and white face paint.

And Mina.

“Hello, Dorian,” she said, seeing his eyes go wide with sudden recognition.

“Mina? Mina Harker! It’s been ages& though perhaps not long enough”

Without comment, she pushed past Quatermain, her skirts rustling, and entered Gray’s front hall. The elegant man backed up to let her inside.

Before the other League members could follow her, she grasped the edge of the door and flung it shut in Quatermains’ face, leaving them standing alone outside on the rain-damp step. He blinked, at a loss. “She who must be obeyed,” Quatermain muttered under his breath. “I’ve heard that one before. And she already thinks she’s our captain. Trouble. Plenty of trouble.”

Skinner snickered. “I knew she was a sassy one.  Aheh!”

Nemo had not moved. “Another demonstration of the much vaunted British civility.”

The three men stood there in uncomfortable silence, then the door opened again. Now Gray wore a more friendly expression, smiling so that his youthful face appeared ready to crack. “Please, gentlemen, excuse my bad manners. Come in.” He extended a welcoming hand.

Mina stood in the foyer behind him, looking satisfied.

“Mina tells me that an intelligent man, an open-minded and cultured person such as myself should do his guests the courtesy of listening to thembefore turning down their request.” He shot a sly look at Mina, whose green eyes reflected the challenge back at him.

Dorian Gray seemed full of life, but in the way a piece of spoiled fruit is full of flavor. His eyes were wide and bright, as if dazzled by harsh lights, despite the gloom of the day and the dimness of the foyer. His skin was vibrant, almost feverish, but when Quatermain shook his hand, Gray’s grip felt dry and cool.

Strolling with unhurried grace after they had all made introductions, their host led them up a flight of creaking stairs. The wood of the rail was the most expensive mahogany, polished to a fine luster, no doubt by the sweat of many servants, though the house seemed quite silent Gold-framed mirrors hung in prominent positions on the walls, implying that the man often liked to inspect his general appearance.

The walls were covered with portraits, all of them originals and no doubt quite valuable. The people featured on the canvases looked dark or oddly unhappy, possibly malformed in an indefinable way. Not being an art critic and unschooled in such things, Quatermain could not pinpoint exactly what was wrong with all these people. Perhaps the artist had been playing a malicious trick on his subjects, or perhaps he simply saw deeper to an inner rot in Dorian Grays ancestors.

Farther along the wall, though, a single portrait was prominently missing. The vacant spot was like a shout.

“You seem to have lost a picture, Mr. Gray,” Quatermain said.

“And you don’t miss a thing, do you, Mr. Quatermain?” Gray walked along, running fingers through his thick hair as if admiring it; he didn’t seem to feel that any additional answer was necessary.

“Maybe someone stole it,” Skinner muttered under his breath.

They entered an impressive library, lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves and shelves of leatherbound books. Sliding ladders on rails ran up the walls, extending to even higher alcoves, and a spiral staircase led to a loft in the immense room. The chairs, vases, and furniture were all of the most stylish and expensive variety. Dorian Gray certainly enjoyed his material pleasures.

Removing his rain-wet hat and leaving a gaping emptiness where the top and back of his head should have been, Skinner zeroed in on the drinks trolley. “Scotch, anyone? Ah, an excellent double-malt. Pricey!”

“Yes. Please. Help yourself,” said Gray.

Gaslight radiated through the invisible man’s greasepaint mask. With gloved hands he poured a large tumbler of scotch and drank it in gulps. The fluid was visible as it poured down his throat and pooled in his stomach. “Ah, nice and smokey! Burns as it goes down. Care for a snort, Quatermain?”

“At least it isn’t sherry.”

Nemo watched the transparent thief’s performance, but seemed more curious about Dorian Gray’s complete lack of surprise. “You take Skinner’s uniqueness in your stride.”

Sounding bored, Gray led them to a sitting area where a roaring fire blazed. “Yes, well, I spent many years seeking new pleasures and unique experiences. And I did them all. By now, I’ve seen too much in my life to shock easily.” He picked up a poker and stabbed at the burning logs like a hunter slaughtering his kill. Sparks flew from the grate as he turned to Mina, who stood behind a high-backed leather chair. “Although, I must say, I was surprised to see you again.”

Mina answered with equal parts venom and sarcasm, “When our last parting was such sweet sorrow, Dorian?”

“Meow,” Skinner said, dutifully handing a drink to Quatermain after pouring a second Scotch for himself. Both glasses were very full of the amber liquid.

Their host looked as if nothing in the world could penetrate his cool composure, or bother him in the least. “Ah, so you’re merely meant as an enticement to me, Mina. M must be losing his touch.”

Skinner said, “I read the papers, Mr. Gray. Wasn’t there some sort of business with you and Oscar Wilde? Before his numerous& er, troubles with the press, eh?”

“Mr. Wilde and I are no longer on speaking terms, and I’m afraid it ended badly.” Gray turned with a flicker of anger that made him look incalculably old, but the invisible man did not know when to stop.

“Was it his fondness for the highlife?”

Gray snapped at him. “I have no fear of hedonism. I simply lost my tolerance for Mr. Wilde’s immeasurable ego. Nothing about him warrants my further interest.”

He seated himself in the comfortable chair in front of the fire and crossed a leg over his other knee, dangling his exotic slipper close to the flames. He looked up at the older adventurer, raising his eyebrows. “Nevertheless, your presence intrigues me, Mina. And Quatermain. They say you’re indestructible. They say you ve survived enough exploits to kill a hundred men.”

“A bit of hyperbole.” Embarrassed, Quatermain took another sip of his Scotch, noting that it was indeed quite good, far superior to anything Bruce at the lamented Britannia Club had ever served. “Well, a witch doctor did bless me once& I saved his village. He said that Africa would never allow me to die.”

“Ah, but you’re not in Africa now,” said Gray.

“No. Therefore, I’d best be careful.”

Mina leaned over Gray’s chair and looked down at his full head of hair. She ran her fingers lightly through it, seductively, as if she had a purpose. “So will you join us, Dorian?”

He sighed long and slow, staring into the flames. His expression was a mask of utter disinterest. “Ah, there was a time when my love of experience would have drawn me to this adventure. I would have enjoyed it, no doubt. A lark But now I have other priorities. I seek to& tame my own demons. Therefore, I must decline. Sorry. I’m sure M can dredge someone else out of his extensive files.”

Nemo turned from studying the spines of the extravagant books in the library. “Yes, his files. I confess a curiosity as to what those files say about Mr. Gray. And why he is considered so important. We, all of us, have obvious traits useful in this endeavor. Quatermain is a hunter, and Mrs. Harker represents science. I myself am quite skilled with technology, and Mr. Skinner has stealth.” Crossing his arms over his blue uniform, he scrutinized Dorian Gray. “What of you?”

“I have& experience,” he answered with an undertone of great weariness. “A vast amount of experience.”

Nemo looked at the man’s boyish appearance, and his lips turned down in a skeptical frown. “How could one as young as yourself have experienced more than Quatermain or I?”

For the past several minutes, Quatermain had been staring at the man, ransacking his memory. Finally, the answer came to him, unlikely as it seemed. “Because Gray and I have met before. I didn’t recall it at first, but I remember now. Many years ago at Eton College.”

“A lecture, no doubt?” Mina said. “You the nations hero, telling of your exploits in Africa, King Solomons mines, the lost city of gold. Dorian the eager listening boy.” She seemed amused.

“No, quite the reverse, Mrs. Harker.” Quatermain seated himself in the second leather wingback by the fireplace, leaning closer to their host. The suave man in the other chair looked at him, secretly amused. “It was Gray visiting Eton, giving his lectureand I was just a boy. Isn’t that right, Mr. Gray?”

Their host pointed a finger at him. “Touché.”

Quatermain shook his head, turning back to Mina and Nemo. “He hasn’t changed a bit in all those years. Not a bit.”

“Must be a healthy diet and virtuous living,” the invisible man said snidely from the drink cart.

“Hardly,” Gray said.

Skinner finished his Scotch with a slurp and poured a third, very full glass for himself. “Anyone?”

The others were still trying to make sense of Quatermain’s remark when the old adventurer suddenly snapped to attention. He surveyed the room’s upper levels, peering toward the high bookshelves, the railed alcoves above, the loft filled with shadows. Everyone felt his tension.

“What is it?” Mina whispered.

Without a word, Quatermain slowly rose from his chair. The old leather let out a rustling sigh, but when he held out a hand for silence, no one dared to ask what he sensed. The others stared into the shadows, noticing nothing. The tension grew, accompanied only by the crackle of the fire and the quiet breaths of the waiting companions.

Gray seemed to think he was overreacting. “Really, Mr. Quatermain. You must be on edge”

Then they heard a creak, the faintest sound. Dust sifted downward from the loft railing. Mina instinctively crouched; she moved like a panther, despite the tight, confining bodice and voluminous skirts of her dress.

Quatermain reached inside his linen jacket and eased out his Webley revolver. It felt heavy but comforting in his grip.

Before he could cock the hammer, though, a flurry of marksmen appeared like a startled flock of birds from every shadow on every level. Long rifle barrels extended, ominously reflecting the gaslights and the library fire.

“Gray?” Quatermain growled. “What is this? Your own brand of home security?”

“They’re not mine.” Finally, a note of interest had crept into Grays voice, altering his usual bored demeanor.

“They are mine.” The voice was rough, powerful, and slightly muffled.

As one, the members of the League whirled. At the top of the library’s spiral staircase, a thin man stepped forward dressed in a heavy overcoat and black gloves. His hair was wild, and a silver mask concealed his upper face and part of his cheeks, leaving only his chin and twisted lips exposed. Hideous scars covered the visible portions of his face, implying terrible disfigurement beneath the mask.

The Fantom looked even worse when he smiled, seeing them so helpless.

EIGHT

Dorian Gray’s Residence

No one dared exhale. The Fantom took a step down the metal stair. He moved like a heavy shadow, powerful and completely confident in his control of the situation.

Quatermain took half a step forward. “First meetings usually warrant introductions.” All the threatening rifles shifted slightly, tracking him. He ignored them, concentrating on the real enemy. “Do you have a name, or just a mask and a costume?”

“Fine. I am the Fantom. And you are the League of so-called Extraordinary Gentlemen.” Firelight shimmered like quicksilver on his mask. “There, introductions made. Now we can be about our vital, and possibly deadly, business.” He continued down the spiral staircase. “And while I may be scarred, Mr. Quatermain, I am not blind. Drop the gun.”

Quatermain lifted his eyes to the numerous marksmen stationed all around the library. Reluctantly, he dropped his Webley revolver.

All of the Fantoms’ rifle bearers wore long leather coats, handkerchiefs tied across their faces, and wide steel hats that made them look like drones. The identical marksmen all had an anonymous quality, as if they had been stamped out of a factory lineall except for one young man on the upper level.

He wore the same helmet and leather coat, but the young man didn’t seem to fit in with the other henchmen. Quatermains’ hunter sense picked him out, and the mysterious marksman raised his head so that light fell on his determined blue eyes. His face was young, handsome, flushed with excitement. He had been trying to catch Quatermains’ attention; noticing that he had finally succeeded, the marksman actually winked at him.

Suddenly, Quatermain recognized the suspicious-looking young man who had been ineptly following and watching them all afternoon, slouching on doorsteps and attempting nonchalance. He was not surprised to see the stranger among these enemies. But something wasn’t right. What was the young man doing here?

The Fantom, reveling in the moment, continued his grand entrance. “Your mission is to stop me. That, of course, I cannot permit.” He reached the bottom of the staircase and faced them in the library. “So I give to you all a one-time invitation. Join me.”

Not wanting to draw attention to what might be a potential ally, Quatermain did not look again at the mysterious young marksman. He met the Fantom’s masked gaze. “Join youor die? I’m familiar with that ultimatum. Not very original.”

His revolver lay on the floor, but he would never be able to reach it before all the marksmen riddled him with bullets.

The Fantom raised his arms and spread his black-gloved hands, “And I am familiar with men such as you, Mr. Quatermain. You walk the knife-edge of law and disorder. An individual, not a blind soldier to march empty-headed into battle. What do you owe England? Come, undo the stuffy waistcoat of tyranny. Why remain loyal to an empire that uses you, but can barely abide you? Bring me your talents and I’ll”

“add us to your collection of lackeys and kidnapped scientists?” Mina finished for him. “How appealing.”

“Don’t you see?” The Fantom stroked his silver mask, tantalizing them, threateningor promisingto yank it off and reveal his horribly disfigured face. “We’re all of us outcasts, society’s dregs.”

“Heh, he’s not exactly wrong about that,” said Skinner, still holding his full glass of Scotch, as if about to propose a toast.

“As much as I despise the conflicts of nations, you think we’ll help you start a war that will consume the planet?” Nemo said. His stern face could barely contain the outpouring of disgust he felt for the suggestion.

“While you profit from your ‘arms race’?” Quatermain added. “How noble.”

The Fantoms’ laugh was like breaking glass. “I cannot deny that fortunes are made in war, gentlemen. Not the politicians or kings, not the hapless fightersit is the businessmen and visionaries who profit from such a situation. Imagine the riches a world war will yield!”

Quatermain glanced up again at the odd young marksman, who seemed to be anxiously trying to get his attention. The imposter gestured slightly with his rifle barrel; from his own familiarity and expertise, Quatermain identified a customized Winchester with exotic aiming sight, decorated barrel, and carved stock. Very interesting. The mysterious young man seemed to be bidding him to act when the time was right.

None of his companions had noticed the misfit henchman above. Quatermains’ mind raced, and he tried to stall for time. He stood up to the black-garbed Fantom. “I have held the treasure of King Solomon in my hands, sir. It taught me that happiness can’t be found in mountains of gold, nor in visions of power.”

From across the library, Skinner cleared his throat nervously. “Aheh! I, on the other hand, find gold to be a beautiful hue.” He lifted his glass. “Like this Scotch.”

When Quatermains’ glance flicked down at his Webley lying on the floor, the Fantom noticed at once. “Remind me to play you at cards one day. Your face is like an open book.” With his polished shoe, he kicked the revolver far away. It skittered and spun, coming to rest under the library ladders.

Impatient now, he squared his shoulders and raised his voice to address the League. “So what’s it to be? Does Quatermain speak for all of you?”

“Your evil is palpable, sir,” Mina said. “Even a so-called ‘dreg’ such as myself must maintain her standards. I have associated with vile men before,”she shot a quick glance at Dorian Gray, who had not even bothered to rise from his chair at the fireplace”but I do have certain standards.”

“Personally, I don’t care for guns in my home.” Gray sounded bored again. “And I don’t recall extending an invitation to any of you.”

“I, on the other hand, always side with superior force.” The invisible man stepped forward. His white face paint showed his grin. “Take me, Fantom. I’m yours.”

Nemo was at his side so fast that Skinner barely had time to take another step. He placed a firm hand on the invisible man’s shoulder, squeezing so hard that the thief winced and squirmed. “Skinner is with me. And I am with them.”

The Fantom let out an exaggerated sigh. “Then I’m truly saddened. I had hoped you would take advantage of an obvious opportunity.” He lifted a black-gloved hand. “Men!”

The marksmen aimed. With a loud click, the firing bolts of sophisticated breech-loading rifles were drawn back.

Just then, with a fierce yell, the young imposter turned his modified Winchester on his fellow marksmen. He blasted away, killing two of the unsuspecting henchmen, then dove for shelter.

The Fantom wheeled, surprised.

Everything happened in an instant. All the members of the League had tensed, looking for any last-chance opportunity, and they flew into action. Nemo and Mina leaped for cover.

Quatermain launched himself at the nearest library ladder, grabbing the rungs and running. He shoved it along its rail, smashing the marksmen’s protruding rifles aside as it went. Several weapons, wrenched free, tumbled to the library floor.

The marksmen on the other side of the library did not hesitate to fire, though. Gunshots blasted out like a dozen firing squads, and the air filled with bullets. Dorian Grays paintings, lamps, and ornaments shredded or shattered. With muffled thuds, dozens of books exploded; some tumbled off the shelves, as if trying to escape the fusillade. Paper fragments filled the air with a parchment blizzard.

The dapper Dorian Gray, looking incongruously elegant in his purple smoking jacket, staggered and jittered from multiple impacts. His body was riddled with bulletholes, and his face wore an expression of surprised displeasure.

“Dorian!” Mina struggled to run to him, but Captain Nemo snagged her and pulled her behind a pillar. A bullet struck the pillar, sending a spray of wood splinters near their faces.

With a sharp yelp, Skinner ran the opposite direction. He tossed the full glass of Scotch onto his white-painted face, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily; the alcohol dissolved his makeup coating, making it easier for him to wipe away with a piece of cloth, and by the time he had thrown off his coat, the invisible man had completely vanished.

After reloading his Winchester, the young imposter advanced on the other marksmen, opening fire again. He cocked the customized weapon one-handed while yanking the bothersome handkerchief from his face. Then he blasted again. But, to his disbelief, his shots ricocheted off the Fantom’s marksmen. These were wearing body armor, much like the assassins who had attacked Quatermain at the Britannia Club.

With remarkable strength and determination, Mina Harker struggled free of Nemo’s grip. She took an urgent step away from the shelter of their hiding placeand gasped in a new sort of shock at what she saw: Gray stood in front of the fireplace, still on his feet and apparently unhurt. He snatched up a long cane resting beside the fireplace implements and pulled away its covering to reveal a thin, wickedly sharp sword. He stormed into the fray, showing no evidence of wounds, despite all the bullets that had struck him.

At this sudden turn of events, the Fantom turned and sprinted for the staircase that would take him to the house’s exit and the street.

“Not one for a bit of a fight, are you, Fantom?” Quatermain called after the masked villain. In a blurred sequence of movement, he retrieved his revolver from where his opponent had kicked it, cocked the hammer, aimed, and fired. His shot passed directly through the bookcase, striking the Fantom squarely in the right shoulder. But the impact only spun him around. He hit a column, caromed off, and kept running, though in the opposite direction now. His black overcoat was torn, but no blood oozed from the wound.

“Damned body armor,” Quatermain mutterered, then ran after him, heedless of the danger. As he zigzagged through the lethal gauntlet, he passed Dorian Gray coming the other way, furiously slashing right and left with his cane-sword.

From above, the mysterious young marksman covered Quatermains’ pursuit, using his Winchester to pick enemy shooters from their high perches around the library.

Upon seeing Quatermains’ insane act of bravery in charging after the Fantom, Captain Nemo stepped out of the shadows himself. He glared at one of the enemy henchmen and rushed toward him.

“No gun, darkie?” said one of the marksmen. “What’s the matter?”

Nemo turned with slow poise, gathering his concentration and his energy. His voluminous black beard bristled as he smiled. A group of marksmen had drawn a bead on him, considering the unarmed captain an easy target. “No gun. I walk a different path.”

Before they could open fire, Nemo exploded into astonishing action, using his entire body as a weapon. He became a blur of limbs, landing crushing blows with his hands, elbows, knees, and booted feet. His spinning kicks carried a lethal force against which body armor was no use. Caught in the hurricane of martial arts destruction, enemy marksmen fell and scattered like ninepins.

The Fantom reached a rickety stairway and scrambled up it with Quatermain in hot pursuit. Though panting, the old adventurer seemed intent on not letting his enemy escape. Hand over hand, clutching the rail, the Fantom climbed higheruntil the stairs ended abruptly against a trapdoor.

His gloved hand grabbed at the handle of the trapdoor, but it was locked. Taking little pleasure but great satisfaction, Quatermain charged forward and was almost upon him

When the Fantom’s Lieutenant Dante dropped from nowhere and slammed into him. Quatermain staggered, losing his balance.

“Run, James!” Dante shouted.

The Fantom smashed at the trapdoor with his armored shoulder, broke it open, and hauled himself up to the next floor.

Recovering himself, Quatermam slammed a heavy fist into Dante’s chin, and the lieutenant reciprocated with punches of his own. Finally, the old hunter, impatient to be after his true quarry, delivered a decisive head-butt, which sent Dante reeling. Quatermain shoved the other man aside and pushed forward, silently cursing Dorian Gray. “Why does one man require such a ridiculously large house?”

Bested for now, Dante stumbled into the shadows.

From across the upper level of the library, the imposter marksman saw the Fantom about to escape. He kicked an advancing marksman aside and clashed off to help Quatermain.

Reaching the edge of the upper level, he did not pause but took a flying leap over the railing of the alcove and landed on the same floor. Panting, and grinning, he joined in the pursuit of the Fantom.

Meanwhile, Nemo ducked, rolled, and leaped. He seemed untouchable, unshootable. He broke limbs without mercy. The marksmen had never seen anything like him. They could understand bullets and knives and clubs& but not this. The captains face wore such an intense and merciless expression that the henchmen turned to run away in terror.

Instead, they ran into Dorian Gray and his wicked, slender sword.

The suave man stabbed and slashed, looking uninterested even as the henchmen fought back, howling. He was oblivious to the wounds that the men inflicted on him. “Ow,” he said, though his tone of voice was less than convincing.

A skewered marksman fell to his knees before Gray and took a death grip on Grays shirt beneath the smoking jacket. It tore open, affording the man a dying glimpse of Grays wounds as they healed completely before his eyes.

“What are you?” the henchman gasped.

Gray pulled his long blade from the man’s body and kicked him aside like a discarded pillow. “I’m& complicated.”

Across the room, the invisible man had found a blade of his own and went to work. His hovering knife floated and swooped like a flying projectile. The nearest henchman didn’t understand what he was seeing, until the blade swung down to slash his throat.

Leaving blood droplets dancing in the air, the invisibly wielded blade struck sideways beneath the marksman’s raised left arm to exploit the opening in the bulletproof armor. The knife dealt a lethal blow to the man’s heart.

Pulling ahead of Quatermain, the imposter marksman chased the Fantom up two more flights of decaying stairs. “I sure didn’t think a man in such fancy duds could run like a greased pig!”

Cocking his Winchester one-handed again, he let loose another booming shot up through rotted floorboards. Splinters and dust flew from the blast, but the hoped-for cry of pain from the Fantom did not come.

The masked villain smashed through a thin barricade to reach the dim, topmost level of Dorian Gray’s old dock house. Every window in the attic was bricked up, leaving no escape.

Face flushed, his rifle extended, the young imposter cornered the evil mastermind. The Fantom backed against the grimy wallboards, which had been weakened by age and decay.

The masked villain turned and with fearless resolve threw himself against the thin patch of wallboards. Engulfed in dust and cobwebs, he broke completely through the attic wall and plunged out into the night.

“Hey!” The imposter marksman cursed and raced for the broken opening. He peered through it, desperately trying to get a glimpse of the escaped man, but saw nothing.

A moment later, Quatermain reached a window on the floor beneath the attic. He threw open the sash and stuck his head out, hoping to catch sight of his quarry. He saw debris still falling, broken boards, loose shingles, dust, and shards of glass. Far below, there was only a fogbound dock and empty streets.

And no sign of the Fantom at all.

NINE

Dorian Gray’s Residence

In the aftermath of the fight, Nemo checked for survivors among the bodies strewn in the library. He moved methodically from man to man, ears cocked for a groan of painthough it wasn’t clear from the grim set of his face whether he intended to succor or execute any of the Fantom’s men he found alive.

One severely wounded marksman looked up into Nemo’s angry face and fierce black eyes and died with a sudden whimper, before the black-bearded captain could even check his injuries. Nemo was neither pleased nor disappointed.

Taking care of important business, Skinner finished applying fresh greasepaint over his features. He donned his dark-lensed pince-nez spectacles over the empty craters of his eyes, shrugged on his long-sleeved coat, then carefully tugged his hat over the hollow top and back of his head.

Though he was completely visible now, Skinner still managed to startle Dorian Gray out of his preoccupied thoughts. “Heh, Mr. Gray! And I thought I was special. You’re invulnerable to harm.”

“And also invulnerable to the sands of time, if indeed you’re older than Quatermain,” Nemo mused, looking up from another victim on the library floor. “As we were discussing before our unexpected interruption.” The captains implacable expression demanded answers, but their host was not forthcoming.

“I don’t like to boast,” Gray said dismissively. He frowned at the numerous punctures and bullet holes in his fine smoking jacket; he seemed unsettled, even disappointed. “By the way, what happened to Mina?”

A fuming Allan Quatermain returned with heavy footsteps to the main library chamber. Without a word, he tucked his revolver into his interior jacket pocket. “She’s probably hip-deep in some kind of peril. Expecting us to rescue her, no doubt.”

Mina reappeared, her auburn hair perfectly in place. She casually brushed at a few small blood spatters on the colorful fabric of her dress. “Oh, don’t be such an old alarmist, Mr. Q. And my hips are none of your business.”

She sensed someone behind her, but before she could turn, one of the last marksmen lurched out of an alcove. Although he knew he was outnumbered and trapped, all of his fellows slain, the Fantom gone, the marksman grabbed Mina with a powerful grip and held her before him as if she were a shield. He rammed a gleaming knife within a hair’s breadth of her pale throat. The silk scarf she always wore would offer no protection from the sharpened steel.

Quatermain drew his revolver, and Nemo dropped into a fighting stance, while the invisible man froze in the process of pouring himself another drink. Faster than any of them, though, the mysterious young imposter leaped down from the upper levels of the library. His boots slammed on the floor with a crack like thunder. He aimed his flamboyant Winchester at the marksman’s face. “Let ‘er go, Mister, or I’ll shoot ya!”

Cornered, the Fantoms’ marksman had nothing to lose. “Shoot! Go on! I’ll kill her on reflex!” The hand that held the knife twitched against the hollow of Mina’s throat, and she remained very still. Her head lolled forward, obscuring her face. Her hair fell into disarray.

In the frozen standoff, the young imposter lowered his Winchester. Nemo remained tense, but took a step backward to a safer, nonthreatening distance. Quatermain lowered his revolver with an angry sigh. “I told you from the beginning she’d be trouble.”

The cornered marksman fairly crowed with triumph. “I guessed as much! They’d do anything to protect you.” He cinched his muscular arm tight around her narrow waist.

“That’s your biggest mistake., sir,” Mina said in a quiet, threatening voice. “Thinking I need the likes of them to protect me.” She turned on him, her eyes demonic red and pulsing now with an unearthly glow. She opened her mouth to show the long, ivory sabers of vampire fangs. Then she was upon him.

Though still holding the knife, the marksman gasped in terror and tried to squirm away, but she easily sank her extended fangs into his throat. He struggled, beating futilely at her. She bit deeper. Arterial blood sprayed.

Then, with a savage twist of her jaw, she ripped out his windpipe. His dagger slid harmlessly away from her throat, then clattered to the library floor.

At the drink cart, Skinner gulped down another Scotch.

As if she were discarding a dirty handkerchief, Mina let the dead marksman drop to the ground.

Quatermain looked at Nemo, stunned. “Extraordinary,” the captain said.

Mina’s features rapidly returned to her cold pale beauty. Dorian Gray watched her without surprise. She flicked open her vanity mirror, withdrew a soft white cloth from her pocket, and calmly dabbed blood from her mouth.

“Boy, they told me European women had funny ways,” said the handsome young imposter, propping his modified Winchester at his side. “There, Ma’am, you missed a spot.” In a gentlemanly fashion, he pointed out a drop of blood on her ivory-pale cheek.

“Excuse me& and you are?” Mina regarded him with piercing green eyes now. Quatermain also turned to the unexpected ally, waiting for the young mans answer.

“I’m Special Agent Tom Sawyer, Ma’am,” he said proudly, “of the American Secret Service.”

TEN

Dorian Gray’s Residence

While the others in the library stared at the young man in surprised silence, a chuckle came from the invisible man. “So you’re a& spy?” Skinner sounded slightly drunk. “I thought spies get shot.”

“Not if they shoot first. Which I did,” Sawyer said with exaggerated pride. “I followed you all. Knocked out a straggler and took his place.” He rapped on his wide-brimmed metal helmet, then took it off. “Darned silly outfits.”

Despite his frenetic exertions in the fight, Captain Nemo had not broken into a sweat. He adjusted his blue turban, seating it on his head, then looked in barely veiled dismay at the countless books that had been ruined in the recent battle. Paper and bindings lay scattered and mangled on the floor. When he noticed the subject matter of many of the volumes, howeverdetailed analyses of the Marquis de Sade, drawings and daguerrotypes of numerous people in bizarre and painful-looking sexual positionshe turned away with a frown, reassessing the magnitude of the loss.

Gauging Sawyer, Quatermain said, “So Americas aware of the situation?”

Sawyer gave an emphatic nod. “War starts in Europe, how long until it’s crossed the Adantic? We already lost one good man trying to nail this maniac. The man who fell victim to the Fantom was another agentand a darned good one, too. A close friend of mine. He believed in what he was doing.” The young man seemed amazingly earnest, and optimistic. “And now I’m going to finish the job.” His customized Winchester seemed to be all he needed.

Gray noticed Mina sizing up the handsome young American and clearly wasn’t happy about it. He sniffed. “Very noble. But this is a private party. You’re not invited.”

Sawyer stubbornly squared his shoulders. “I intend to find the Fantom. So do you all.”

Mina came closer to the young spy, smiling seductively. “Actually, since Dorian has already declined to join our little effort, we are one shy of a full deck.”

Remembering the incident moments earlier in which she had used her fangs to rip out the throat of the last hapless marksman, Sawyer swallowed hard and flinched from her close attention. “Uh, Ma’am&”

Gray took up the challenge. “On the contrary, that unexpected battle was just the spur I needed. Very exciting, for a change, with the promise of more to come. And the thrill of an old, sweet friendship renewed.”

Mina rolled her eyes.

Gray plucked at his smoking jacket, frowned again at all the bullet holes. “I will have to change my attire, however.” He turned to Sawyer and made a shooing gesture. “So, as you can see, young man, you’re not needed here.”

While Sawyer glared at him, Quatermain came forward to inspect the American agents customized rifle. “Winchester?”

“Modified, American style,” Sawyer confirmed, proud to show off his piece and purposerully ignoring Dorian Gray.

Quatermain took it and sighted on the narrow spine of a book on a high shelf. “American style of shooting, too.”

“Whatever it takes.” Sawyer grinned at the old adventurer, nodded toward the Winchester. “Like it? I brought two of’em.”

“He’s in,” Quatermain said.

ELEVEN

The Thames, London
Night

Leaving the bodies and wreckage behind, the League exited from Grays opulent residence into the foggy streets. Dark river water lapped against the nearby docks, but a thick mist hid the Thames from view.

Tom Sawyer looked behind him. “I sure hate to leave such a mess in there. My Aunt Polly would give me a tongue-lashing I’d never forget.”

“Leave it.” Gray was not concerned. “My private staff has had considerable experience in dealing with messes that were far worse.” He didn’t explain further.

“We don’t have time for house cleaning.” Nemo led the way toward the unseen docks, striding ahead in his elaborate blue uniform. “We had best be about our business. According to his instructions, the League has one final member to recruit before we can be off to Venice.”

“Recruit? Capture is more the word. It will be quite a hunt,” Quatermain said. “Though I prefer the open savannah to the streets of Paris.”

“You make him sound like an animal,” said Mina.

The old adventurer glanced at her with undisguised curiosity. “Speaking of which, Mrs. Harkeryour conduct in there& let’s just say the attacker wasn’t the only one who had his breath taken away. Would you care to explain yourself?”

“Indeed, we’re aquiver with curiosity,” Skinner said, edging forward with a grin on his painted face. “After all, you have plenty of dirt on me, dear ladyas you are so keen to remind me over and over again. Heh!”

Mina looked at the men, each one a member of the odd team sworn to save the world from a devastating war. “Very well, in the spirit of cooperation.” She touched the corner of her lip, possibly feeling a speck of dried blood still there.

“My husband was Jonathan Harker. Together with a professor named Van Helsing, we fought a dangerous evil. It had a name: Count Dracula. He was& Transyivanian.” Mina lifted her delicate eyebrows, but saw no sign of recognition from her companions.

“European? One of those radical anarchists the newspapers love to report on?” Skinner said.

Mina pulled down her ever-present scarf, exposing two pale puncture marks that scarred her otherwise perfect throat. “I don’t know, Mr. Skinner. Is the vampiric sucking of peoples’ blood considered radical behavior?”

Tom Sawyer turned away with a mixture of embarrassment and horror. Quatermain studied the scars, trying to guess what kind of animal would have made such wounds. Dorian Gray simply seemed interested in admiring Mina’s neck.

“In the course of battling Dracula, I was brought under his influence. Rather violently. That monster has been destroyed now, and I have recovered. Partially, at least. However, if I ever appear cold to you, it’s because I am filled with enough of Draculas essence that I fear where unbridled emotion would lead.” She turned to Quatermain, as if implying that he had passed some sort of judgment on her. “Put that in your file.” She tucked her white scarf back into place and strode purposefully after Nemo to the end of the dock.

“Enough stories,” Nemo said. “We must be off on our journey.”

Seeing nothing but the fog-shrouded pier and the murky Thames, Dorian Gray crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “Now what?”

At that moment, the jetty started to rumble. Bubbles began to boil in the black waters, accompanied by a bright submerged glow and a loud throbbing like massive muffled engines.

Nemo walked to the edge of the jetty, as if he meant to leap into the river itself. Instead, he stood at the brink, waiting. “Our transportation is forthcoming.” As the splashing, churning noise increased, he turned to look at them with a secretive smile. “We will be in Paris soon.”

“Is it a boat?” asked Sawyer. “I’ve been on a big paddle-wheel steamer on the Mississippi.”

“Not that sort of boat, Mr. Sawyer, though it goes on water, if that’s what you mean,” Nemo said, facing the gathered companions. “And beneath it as well.”

Behind him, a huge black conning tower broke the surface like a breaching whale. Nemo didn’t flinch. The plated vessel rose up, gushing water as it climbed higher and higher, until its shape loomed over them.

“Whoa,” said Sawyer.

But the conning tower was just the tip of the iceberg. High and long with elegant seafaring lines, the submarine boat surfaced majestically, splitting the surface of the Thames. Like the scales of an aquatic dragon, it was plated with white ceramic derived from the shells of mysterious crustaceans and encrusted with golden statues of Vishnu, Ganesh, and Shiva.

While the invisible man hung back from the mammoth boat in nervous uncertainty, Quatermain and Sawyer stepped forward together, amazed. Dorian Gray did not seem impressed, but Captain Nemo showed obvious pride. “Behold, Nautilus. The Sword of the Ocean.”

The members of the League stood together at the end of the dock and watched the amazing colossus ease against the jetty. Massive rudders worked with exact precision, guiding it perfectly into place.

Once it had come to rest, exhaust vents opened with a sigh, and the Nautilus let out a breath of air.

So did each member of the League.

TWELVE

Rue Morgue, Paris, France
Night

The creature bounded across tiled roof slopes, eaves, and chimney pots. His broad, bare feet slapped on the slats, and he made an impossible leap over a deep alley to an adjacent building. His clawed hands grasped for a hold on the gutter, and then he hauled himself onto the angled rooftop. A beasts brutish shadow momentarily showed in the moonlight, eclipsing the Eiffel Tower, then it sprang onward.

Its breath was heavy and wet, its grunting halfway between a howl of rage and a roar of victory. But first it had to escape the hunters. Its every muscular movement expressed exuberance for the chase, the hot pursuit