Batman 6 - The Dark Knight (13 page)

“You’re a hard man to reach,” he told Batman.

Then the door to the stairwell slammed open and Gordon, gun in hand, burst onto the roof. He looked at Dent and Batman, holstered his weapon and, ignoring Batman, approached Dent.

“You
don’t
turn the signal on without my permission!” said Gordon.

“And you don’t move on the mob without telling
me
,” replied Dent. “Lau’s halfway to Hong Kong,” he continued. “If you’d asked, I could have taken his passport. I told you to keep me in the loop.”

“Yeah? All that was left in the vault were the marked bills. They knew we were coming. As soon as your office gets involved, there’s a leak.”

“My
office? You’re sitting down here with scum like Wuertz and Ramirez . . . Oh yeah, Gordon, I almost had your rookie cold on a racketeering beef.”

“Don’t try to cloud the fact that Maroni’s clearly got people in your office, Dent.”

Dent turned to Batman. “We need Lau back, but the Chinese won’t extradite a national under any circumstances.”

“If I get him to you,” Batman asked, “can you get him to talk?”

“I’ll get him to
sing.”

“We’re going after the mob’s life savings,” Gordon said. “Things
will
get ugly.”

“I knew the risks when I took the job, Lieutenant. Same as you.” Dent turned. “How will you get him back?”

But Batman wasn’t there.

“He does that,” Gordon said.

The next morning, Lucius Fox found his boss waiting when he arrived at his office just before seven. Fox nodded to Bruce Wayne and sat behind his desk.

“Our Chinese friend left town before I could tell him that the deal’s off,” he said.

“I’m sure you’ve always wanted to go to Hong Kong,” Bruce said.

“What’s wrong with a phone call?”

“I think Mr. Lau deserves a more personal touch,” Bruce said. “Now about my wardrobe problem . . .”

“Come with me.”

They entered a private elevator and descended to a subbasement, which housed the company’s Applied Sciences Division. On the way there, Bruce filled Lucius in on another task he had for him. Applied Sciences was an area Fox knew well; until recently, it had been his domain. He led Bruce to a space cluttered with workbenches, filing cabinets, and unopened cartons.

“. . . high-altitude jumps,” Fox was saying, “You need oxygen and stabilizers. I must say, compared to your usual requests, jumping out of a plane is pretty straightforward.”

He stopped at a cabinet, pulled open a drawer, and hauled out an oxygen tank and ribbed rubber hosing.

“How about getting back into the plane?” Bruce asked.

“I recommend a good travel agent.”

“Without the plane landing.”

“That’s more like it, Mr. Wayne.”

Fox shut the drawer and rubbed his chin. “I don’t think I have anything here. The CIA had a program in the sixties for getting their people out of hot spots called ‘Sky Hook.’ I’ll work on it. For now—”

He pulled open another drawer. Inside were the components to a Batman costume. Bruce lifted a sleeve that bore scalloped blades.

“Hardened Kevlar plates on a titanium-dipped fiber triweave for flexibility,” Fox said, pride in his voice. “You’ll be faster, lighter, more agile.”

As Bruce inspected the gauntlet, the blades suddenly-shot from the sleeve and spun across the room to embed themselves in a wall.

Fox chuckled. “Perhaps you should read the instructions first.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

Fox lifted the costume’s chest piece and bent and twisted it, demonstrating its flexibility. “There
is
a trade-off, however . . . The spread of the plates gives you weak spots. You’ll be more vulnerable to gunfire and knives.”

“We wouldn’t want things getting too easy, would we? How will it hold up against dogs?”

“You talking Chihuahuas or rottweilers? It should do fine against cats.”

Later, driving out of the city in his Lamborghini, Bruce called Alfred.

“I found a Navy cargo plane in Arizona,” Alfred said. “Very nice. The gentleman says it will take him a week to get it running. And he takes cash. What about a flight crew?”

“South Korean smugglers. They run flights into Pyongyang, below radar the whole way. Did you think of an alibi?”

“Oh, yes.”

Rachel and Harvey’s exciting night at the ballet became, instead, a quick cup of coffee at a café and an early return home. They had arrived at the theater to find it closed. Someone had taped the front page of a tabloid onto the box office window. There was a photograph of a smiling Bruce Wayne, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and a beaked cap under the headline:

LOVE BOAT—BILLIONAIRE ABSCONDS
WITH ENTIRE MOSCOW BALLET

B
ruce seemed to be enjoying himself. He stood on the deck of a ninety-foot yacht, watching the sunlight glittering on a calm sea, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at the dozen young women who wore swimming suits and were lounging around the deck on towels.

Alfred, standing next to Bruce, said, “The ladies seem to be quite healthy.”

“Ballerinas have to stay in shape,” Bruce said.

Both men looked upward, alerted by the buzz of an airplane, which was swooping in for a landing.

“I believe your transportation has arrived,” Alfred said.

“So it would seem. You look tired, Alfred. Will you be all right without me?”

“If you can tell me the Russian for ‘apply your own bloody suntan lotion.’ ”

Bruce stood and faced the sunbathing dancers. “Ladies,” he shouted, “something’s come up, and I must leave your charming company. I may or may not be back. In any case, Mr. Pennyworth is your host, and he’ll see to it that you get anything you need. Have a nice day.”

Bruce waved, kicked off his deck shoes, tossed a large, waterproof bag into the water, and jumped in after it. He snagged the bag and began to swim toward the plane.

Later, in the air, leaning against the plane’s curved bulkhead, Bruce found himself thinking of Rachel. She’d see the media stuff about his sojourn with the ballerinas—in fact, if she didn’t see it, he would have failed. And she would probably realize that it was some kind of ruse, but would she be at all jealous? And would she seek comfort with Harvey Dent? He did not want to think about the obvious answer to that . . .

The poolroom next to the Thomasina Arms was surprisingly deserted given its hip and trendy reputation. A sleek lamp, hanging from the ceiling was burning over a table as music thumped in the background. Gambol tried to sink the seven ball with a cushion shot, missed, and cursed. A burly man stepped into the light and told Gambol that someone had come to see him. Several someones, as a matter of fact.

“They say they’ve killed the Joker,” the man continued. “They’ve come for the reward.”

“They bring proof?” Gambol asked.

“They say they’ve brought the body.”

Two newcomers entered the poolroom lugging what was obviously a body wrapped in plastic garbage bags. They dropped it at Gambol’s feet and stepped away. Gambol’s men crouched near the body and Gambol tore away one of the bags, revealing the scarred face of the Joker. Gambol spat at it and turned to the bounty hunters.

“Dead, you get five hundred—”

The Joker sat upright and threw knives into the chests of Gambol’s two men.

“How about alive?” The Joker giggled.

Gambol turned and gasped. The Joker thrust an open switchblade into Gambol’s mouth and pushed against a cheek.

“Wanna know how I got these scars?” the Joker asked, moving his face forward until it almost touched Gambol’s. “My father was a drinker and a fiend. He’d beat mommy right in front of me. One night, he goes off crazier than usual, mommy gets the kitchen knife to defend herself. He doesn’t like that. Not. One. Bit.”

The Joker pivoted the blade to Gambol’s other cheek.

“So, me watching, he takes the knife to her, laughing while he does it. Turns to me, and says, ‘Why so serious?’ Comes at me with the knife—‘Why so serious?’ Sticks the blade in my mouth. ‘Let’s put a
smile
on that face’ and . . .”

The Joker stared into Gambol’s eyes. “ ‘Why so serious?’ ”

The Joker quickly moved the knife, and Gambol gurgled blood and fell to the floor.

Lucius Fox stepped from the helicopter, his hair ruffled by the still-whirling rotor. Two Chinese men dressed in business suits got out of a town car and trotted over to shake hands with Fox.

“Welcome to Hong Kong, Mr. Fox,” the older man said. “Mr. Lau regrets he is unable to meet you in person, but with his current legal difficulties . . .”

“I understand,” Fox said.

They all climbed into the town car and were soon gliding through the city, the men pointing out places of particular interest to Fox, The car stopped in front of a very modern building with two glass towers called IC1 and IC2. The men led Fox into the lobby to a desk where uniformed guards stood waiting.

“I’m afraid for security reasons I have to ask for your mobile phone,” a guard said to Fox.

Fox nodded, smiled, and gave the guard his cell phone. Then Fox and his escorts went to a second-floor dining room, where they were met by Lau. Lau and Fox took seats at a table that looked out onto beautifully tended gardens, and ordered lunch from a waiter in a meticulous white jacket.

“I must apologize for leaving Gotham in the middle of our negotiations,” Lau said. “The
misunderstanding
with the Gotham Police Force . . . I couldn’t let such a thing threaten my company. A businessman of your stature will understand. But with you here . . . we can continue.”

“It was good of you to bring me out here in such style, Mr. Lau,” Fox said. “But I’ve actually come—”

Fox was interrupted by the tinkling sound from his side pocket. He pulled out a phone identical to the one he had given the guard.

Lau said, visibly irritated, “We do not allow telephones—”

“Sorry,” Fox said. “Forgot I had it.” He turned off the phone and placed it on the table in front of him. “Where were we . . . Oh, yes. I’ve come to explain why we’re going to have to put our deal on
hold.
We can’t afford to be seen doing business with . . . well, whatever it is you’re accused of being. A businessman of your stature will understand.”

Lau rose. Fox put his phone back in his jacket and stood up.

“I think, Mr. Fox, that a simple call might have sufficed,” Lau said.

“Well, I do love Chinese food. And Mr. Wayne didn’t want you to think we’d been deliberately wasting your time.”

“Just accidentally wasting it.”

Fox laughed. “That’s very good.
Accidentally.
Very good. I’ll be sure and tell Mr. Wayne that he was wrong about you not having a sense of humor.”

Fox nodded pleasantly and went alone to the elevator. In the lobby, the guard tried to return his phone, but Fox shook his head no and pulled the identical working phone from his pocket. The guard frowned after him as Fox left the building.

Bruce Wayne stood on a public escalator aiming a camera at the skyline and behaving like a tourist. Lucius Fox joined him.

“There’s a better view from the peak tram,” Fox said.

“How’s the view from L.S.I. Holdings?”

“Restricted. Lau’s holed up there good and tight.”

Fox held out his cell phone.

“What’s this?” Bruce asked.

“I had R&D work it up. It sends out high-frequencies and records the response time to map an environment.”

“Just like a ba—

“Submarine,” Fox said quickly. “Like a submarine.”

“And the other device?”

“In place.”

Bruce began sauntering away.

“Mr. Wayne?” Fox called. “Good luck.”

Bruce spent the rest of the day behaving like a tourist and, to his surprise, actually enjoying himself. It wasn’t his first visit to Hong Kong, but it was far more pleasant than his earlier sojourn here. That had been a lifetime ago, when Batman did not yet exist, except as the dimmest of notions, and Bruce was hopping from country to country, city to city, learning the ways of the world’s criminals and occasionally—inevitably—participating in their activities. He had come late at night the hard way, by rowing a dinghy from a freighter anchored two miles offshore and tying the boat to a small pier sometimes used by fisherman. He was supposed to meet a Chinese national who would give him a package. He was to return the package to the freighter, and that would end the deal. But the man he was to meet never came. Bruce stayed near the pier until dawn. He rowed out to where the freighter had been and found the ship gone. He was alone in a strange country with no local currency, no identification, no resources. He was also shaggy. He had a long, greasy beard and hair that hadn’t been cut in six months. His clothes were greasy from his work in the freighter’s engine room, and he badly needed a bath. The next week was interesting, but he survived and eventually left Hong Kong by sneaking into the engine room of a luxury liner, where his appearance was actually an asset, and stowing away until the ship docked in Sydney, where he’d met a young American named Zachary Dabb, who was doing some kind of charity work with the Aborigines. Bruce left after a week, but Dabb was on his Christmas gift list, along with ten thousand other close friends. He sometimes wondered what Dabb did with the kind of gifts Wayne Enterprises mailed out.