Don't Be a Hero: A Superhero Novel (26 page)

She ignored him and continued to pace. She had to work out how this all fitted together. Quanta dressed like he was trying to sneak into a royal wedding, but there was ruthless logic behind those cold eyes. It didn’t make sense. His demands were pure insane supervillain, but her gut told her he was neither psychotic nor a psychopath. Even those dead eyes were an act; she saw that when he leapt onto their car. Then his eyes had blazed with excitement.
And admiration
.

Solomon continued to munch on his apple in silence. She gave the van another kick, half-hoping something useful would dislodge. All she got was a sore toe.

“If you’re going to sit there,” she said, “at least help me think.”

He took another bite of the apple. “All right,” he said with his mouth full. “How about the timing? It’s all wrong. Sam’s what, thirteen? If his dad really was Dr Atomic, the kid should be in his twenties.”

She nodded. That had been bothering her as well. Oppenheimer’s wife and children were killed by German agents around 1950. Oppenheimer retired and disappeared from the public eye, and died a few years later. It was 1969 now. None of it added up. “But the guys in the picture are Robert and Frank Oppenheimer. No doubt about that.”

“Doesn’t make the kid Dr Atomic’s son.”

“So you think Frank Oppenheimer picked up a stray and gave the kid that picture? Why? It doesn’t make sense.”

The Carpenter grinned. “None of it makes sense. That’s what makes it so fun.”

“You’re a pain in the arse, Carpenter, you know that?”

He finished the apple, tossed the core into a rubbish bin, and rose unsteadily to his feet, leaning on the van for support. Niobe stopped pacing to watch him.
The thing with the tree. It took more out of him than I thought
. She made to help him, but he waved her off. Her frustration faded. He wasn’t as strong as he used to be, she realised.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I ain’t dead yet. But these questions are too hard for me. If you’re finished getting huffy, maybe it’s time we found someone to ask.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said, smiling.

“Does he happen to be a balding American ex-superhero?” she said.

He tipped his hat to her. “See, this is why you’re the brains of the operation.”

They got back in the car, Niobe behind the wheel. She lit up a cigarette and drove out of the parking garage.

“I wasn’t getting huffy,” she said after a minute.

He pulled his hat over his eyes. “Drive, Sherlock.”

After an hour dodging the police cars that still roamed the streets, Niobe and Solomon found a good vantage point to check out the television studio. The place was under full lock-down. A radio broadcast they tuned into was buzzing with words like “radiation poisoning” and “suspected nuclear device”. Maybe it was true. The only people brave enough to venture into the building were dressed in full-body hazard suits, and they only stayed in for ten minutes at a time.

Whatever he was planning, this Quanta wasn’t screwing around.

The radio advised people to remain in their homes, and for the most part, it looked like the public agreed. The sun rose on a city that was remembering what it was like to be afraid.

When they figured there was nothing else they could learn from staking out the television studio, Niobe drove on. A few minutes later, they pulled into an alley near the Starlight Hotel and changed into civilian clothes before getting out of the car. Solomon had stuck on a fake beard and run some white powder through his hair to make himself look older, while Niobe had painted on a thick layer of makeup. She hated wearing makeup, but it was that or masks, and they agreed that appearing in costume in daylight was a good way to get themselves shot right now. The radio said Met Div were already conducting investigations in the Old City, trying to shake out some leads. Niobe’s mind went to Gabby, sitting alone in their apartment. If the cops came again….

No. Gabby had probably built new security measures for the apartment already.
She’ll be fine,
Niobe told herself for the millionth time. She almost believed it.

She activated the car’s security system and they walked the short distance back to the street. No dramatic entrance this time. She peeked in at the hotel lobby. Nearly empty except for the clerk on duty. No chance of sneaking to the lifts unnoticed. They went to the payphone just outside the hotel entrance.

“You wanna do the honours?” Solomon asked.

Niobe peeked through the hotel’s revolving door again at the reception desk. “It’s a female clerk. Middle-aged, no wedding ring. Do you still have any charm left in your old age?”

He raised an eyebrow and picked up the phone. “I think that was a challenge. Gimme the number.”

She dialled for him while he fed coins into the slot. She heard it ringing, then she ducked back to the door and watched as the hotel clerk picked up the phone. She could just make out her lips moving.

“Hello, Rose,” Solomon said in the smoothest voice she’d ever heard him use. “What a lovely name.”

Niobe snorted.

“I’m Officer Peters from the police,” he continued. “Sorry for calling so early. Is it just you on duty this morning?”

Niobe watched the woman speak into the phone.

“That’s fine,” Solomon said. “I need you to do me a favour. You’ve heard the news from last night? We’re trying to track down one of the vehicles used in the attack, and we’ve received a tip that it might be in the area. We’re a bit busy, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

She said something, and Solomon laughed good-naturedly.

“No, no, nothing like that. I just need you to go outside and check the car park for a white van with the plate E-O-nine-zero-five-four.” Silence for a moment. “Sorry, I know you’re not supposed to leave the desk. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent. You could help me track down some very bad people. Tell you what, you nip outside and have a quick look, and I’ll come by tomorrow night when things have quietened down a bit and take you to dinner. It’s the least I can do.”

The woman touched her hair, and her lips spread in a smile. Niobe couldn’t believe it. She shook her head. “The world’s gone mad,” she muttered.

“You will? That’s great. Thank you very much, Rose. I’ll stay on the line.”

He let the handpiece dangle from the phone and grinned. “Done.”

“Show-off,” she said. They ducked around the side of the hotel just as the clerk came through the doors and hurried towards the car park. Her cheeks were pink.

“You’re going to break that poor woman’s heart,” Niobe whispered as they snuck through the revolving doors and crossed the hotel lobby.

“I know. I’m pure evil.” He winked. “I’ll send her some flowers.”

Niobe slipped into the lift, pressed the button for the fourth floor, and held the door while Solomon stepped in behind her. The doors slid closed and the lift began to move.

Niobe took off her glasses and pulled on her mask and goggles. Solomon put his mask and hat on as well, tearing off the fake beard as he did so. They didn’t have time for a full costume change, but hero or not, she didn’t trust Frank Oppenheimer. He’d kept too much from them.

The elevator doors opened. No one in sight, not even cleaning staff. Silently, they made their way to room 408.

She grew tenser as they approached the door. Frank Julius—or Frank Oppenheimer—had taken on a new persona in her mind. He was Omegaman, the ghost of Los Alamos. In his prime, he’d been the perfect antithesis to his brother, Dr Atomic. In his black and grey costume he went places the rest of the Manhattan Eight couldn’t reach, neutralizing Nazis or supercriminals and their minions.

Niobe inserted her pick in the door to room 408 and worked the pins. Next to her, Solomon cracked his neck and pulled back his jacket to touch the handle of the hatchet hanging there. It wouldn’t do them any more good than her gun if it came to that. If Omegaman retained even a tenth of his previous speed and power, he could best them easily. But if they knocked, they’d alert him to their presence. And if he fled before they could talk to him, they’d be left with nothing. He wasn’t going to give up information easily.

No one ever does.

The last pin gave in to her pick, and she licked her dry lips. She glanced at Solomon, nodded once. He swallowed and gave her a smile. The effect was spoiled somewhat by the twitch in his cheek.

With a twist of the torsion wrench, the lock clicked and the door swung open.

The light struck her like a bomb going off. She flinched and twisted, her hands going to her eyes. The goggles did nothing to stop the searing pain in her retinas. No chance of turning to shadow under the light’s onslaught. She heard the Carpenter grunt, but she was too blinded to see where he’d gone. Blinking away the purple afterimage, she took a step back and reached for her gun. Something moved to her right. A figure passed
through
the wall, like a ghost of black and silver. And then it came for her.

The figure was behind her before she could move. A strong arm embraced her almost tenderly, and something sharp pierced the side of her neck. She was falling. By the time she hit the ground, she was out.

Niobe woke to light piercing her eyelids. She could sense it all around her, leaving no room for shadows. A flex of her wrists was all it took to determine she was tied to the chair. Tight, too. They hadn’t skimped on the quality of the rope that bound each of her ankles to the chair legs. Without opening her eyes, she tested the range of movement in her hands. There was no way she’d be able to reach her utility belt, if it was still in place. Mentally, she checked herself for any signs of injury. She was still a little sore from her fight with Avin, but no new pains stabbed at her.
That’s something, I suppose.

She opened her eyes into slits, still feigning unconsciousness. Her goggles were still in place; another small mercy. A dozen lamps and torches pointed at her from every direction, propped up on tables and chairs. Whatever wattage the lights were putting out, it was way above the manufacturers’ specifications. In the glare, it was difficult to see, but she’d bet good money she was in Frank Oppenheimer’s hotel room. A figure was silhouetted in the chair beside her, the brim of his hat drooping over his face.

“Carpenter,” she whispered. “You okay?”

He lifted his head an inch, and she caught the glint of his eyes in the reflected light. “You know, I’m starting to think we may not be the master tacticians we thought we were.”

She wriggled in her seat. “I think this chair’s wood. Can you get me out?”

Something moved in the corner of her vision. Silver flashed, and before she could react, the point of a thin dagger touched her throat. No, not a dagger. A sword-cane.

“Don’t try it, Carpenter,” a man’s voice said. “Who do you think is faster, you or me?”

Her body screamed at her to suck in air and turn to shadow. Not an option. She pushed the urge aside. Bugger it all, she was stuck.

“G’morning, Frank,” she said.

The blade stayed in place, but Frank Oppenheimer slowly moved into her line of vision. Squinting through the light, she saw he wore civilian clothes: a grey shirt tucked into a pair of black trousers. His movements were fluid, with none of the creakiness she’d seen last time. It had all been a damn act.

“Bit early in the day for all this, isn’t it?” the Carpenter said. His voice was thin. “We just came for a chat.”

For a moment, Frank said nothing. He leaned forwards a little, until he was close enough for her to see that his face was drawn and his forehead was creased with deep wrinkles. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Her palms grew damp.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet and measured. “I’ll ask you this once and once only. Do you work for him?”

Him?
“You mean Quanta?” she asked.

“Funny,” the Carpenter said. “We were about to ask you something similar. To be honest, you’re not exactly doing a great job convincing us you’re not.”

Frank scowled, and the blade’s point dug into her skin.

“Carpenter, shut up,” she said. “We don’t work for Quanta. We don’t work for anyone. We’re just trying to find your nephew, Frank. Or do you still prefer Omegaman?”