The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (12 page)

"That's Kali, the Goddess of Death," said Mina's voice in a whisper. She had
crept up on the hunter with absolute, unnerving stealth. "Nemo worships death.
Can we trust him?"

Quatermain looked over his shoulder at the vampire-woman, embarrassed to be
caught observing the man's private devotions. "He's not the one I'm worried
about." He walked away, clutching his papers under his arm.

Mina looked back into Nemo's cabin, intent on learning what she could about
him. But the dark and mysterious captain rose, went to the door—obviously aware
she had been eavesdropping all along—and closed it coldly in her face.

Weary and troubled, very unsure about how well the members of this group
would manage together, Quatermain returned to his cabin and sat down. By the
light of a single lamp, he began once again to study his files and papers.

His research ranged far from the specific dossiers of the League members to
the activities of the Fantom. He perused Scotland Yard criminal reports and
several copies of
The Strand Magazine
. He compared information from an
illustrated article in one issue of the periodical, and made a note in his crime
files. He saw connections, albeit faint ones, everywhere.

Suddenly, Quatermain sensed something nearby: a breath, a presence. In an
instant he turned off his light and, with a single fluid motion, lunged from his
chair.

In the pitch black cabin, they were on equal footing. He heard movement,
touched skin, and caught a handful of hair. Quatermain struck out, responding to
a frantic struggle, and landed several blows, which resulted in a very rewarding
series of whimpers.

He reached the cabin door and flung it open, flooding the room with a shaft
of light from the hall. Quatermain stood there, glaring. "I want you dressed at
all times, Mr. Skinner—or it's my boot up your arse. Now get out!"

Without an apology, the invisible man hurried out. His bare footsteps hurried
down the corridor, and the door to his own cabin opened, seemingly by
itself.

Satisfied that he was truly alone again, Quatermain slammed the door shut and
went to bed.

Ancient stuccoed buildings loomed on either side of Venice's famous, sluggish
canals. The smell of floating garbage, wet stone, and old moss suffused the
night mists that crept along the pilings. Overhead, windows were shuttered for
the night, most of them dark; only a few denizens of the darkest hours remained
awake.

The following night there would be a spectacular Carnival, with dancing and
celebrations, music and drinking. Tonight, the people rested, content with
anticipation.

But the Fantom did not rest.

In the odorous, gently lapping water that rose and fell like the sleeping
breaths of the ocean, several dead fish floated belly-up, far from the reach of
the feral cats prowling the alleys. A rank of unoccupied gondolas, moored to
brightly striped poles near a boathouse, creaked and knocked .against each
other. The black-painted, curved hulls were slender and graceful, resembling
dark crescent moons; the single, long oar for each boat had been stored for the
night under a patched canvas covering.

The uneasy night silence only made the pained groans and gasps louder by
comparison as they drifted down to the water from the boathouse. The sound of an
open hand striking flesh was like that of a chef tenderizing a veal cutlet.

Inside the building, behind closed doors and barricaded windows, the Fantom
paced in front of the bespectacled German structural engineer. Karl Draper
writhed in misery, though he was drugged and only semicoherent. He didn't seem
to know where he was, only that he wanted to crawl away.

Beside the Fantom, Dante watched the captive as if the man were nothing more
than a smear of something unpleasant he had scraped off the bottom of his
shoe.

The Fantom turned his back, holding a wide-barreled syringe with a dauntingly
long, thick needle. "My truth serum isn't fully developed, Herr Draper, or I'd
know everything by now." In the lamplight that illuminated the boathouse, a
final droplet of greenish liquid glistened like a tear at the sharp end. "It has
had sufficient time to work."

In disgust, the Fantom dropped the empty syringe to the boathouse floor and
ground it to glass dust under his black heel. He slapped Karl Draper to
consciousness, aiming his blows at the bright red welts that already covered the
man's cheek. "Still, despite its deficiencies, I'm sure the serum doesn't feel
very pleasant coursing through your veins."

Dante unrolled a sheaf of thick, yellowed sheets of paper on a worktable made
of rough planks. Judging by the sticky stains and clumped flakes of silver
scales, the table had recently been used to gut and clean fish.

"Look at the plans and tell me what I need to know," the Fantom insisted. His
voice was low and quiet now, and much more threatening.

"No," the engineer croaked out in German. "I can resist your serum. Nothing
will make me tell."

With another backhand, the Fantom knocked Draper's spectacles loose. Dante
dutifully retrieved them, holding the glasses a bit too tightly, as if he wanted
to clench his fists and twist the frames. Instead, he gave them back to the
Fantom.

"You force me to rely on more proven methods," said the Fantom, swirling his
black cape. "Fortunately, they are just as effective." He turned to Dante, gave
a meaningful glare, and the lieutenant nodded.

Around them in the drarty boathouse room, the Fantom's henchmen worked
diligently on their tasks. Each man had his assignment, and they knew better
than to debate their masters orders. They worked quietly, muffling any
suspicious sounds that might attract too much attention in the still night. The
city of Venice would have no advance warning of its doom, and their party
tomorrow night would be much different from what they expected.

Two henchmen taped and waterproofed a set of wooden barrels while another
group of the Fantom's followers outfitted themselves in thick diving gear: oiled
leather suits, rubber-coated gloves, and heavy helmets with glass windows. They
strung weights around their waists to help them reach the foundations of the
centuries-old buildings and remain in place long enough to complete their
tasks.

The boathouse's back rooms and stalls held the Fantom's other prisoners,
bound and gagged. The captives crowded together like animals in pens, forced to
wait while the evil genius competed his preparations. So far, two of them had
died trying to escape; the Fantom had tossed the horribly mutilated bodies back
in among the prisoners as "an appropriate lesson." Since then, no one else had
made an attempt to break free.

Now, wearing a determined expression, Dante retrieved the German prisoner the
Fantom had chosen as his first bargaining chip. The lieutenant brandished his
weapon and pulled the man away from his comrades, who shrank back, praying they
would not be noticed themselves. Dante shoved the prisoner out of the holding
pen and dragged him into the main room. The man stood cringing, barely able to
remain on his feet.

The Fantom regarded the man, dismissed him as an inadequate specimen, then
returned his attention to Karl Draper. Like a stern mother, he replaced the
structural engineer's spectacles on his face, then let him blink at the hapless
prisoner until recognition clearly showed on his face.

"Herr Muller you know. I believe you worked together at the Valkyrie Zeppelin
Works? Were you friends?"

Predictably, Draper shook his head. The Fantom did not believe him. His
scarred lower lip curled. "Of course not. Muller's specialty is motors." He
turned his masked face toward the shaking prisoner. Muller swallowed hard, but
could say nothing through his gag. "Unfortunately for him, I have all the motors
I need. He is perfectly expendable."

The Fantom reached into his dark coat and removed a heavy handgun with a
strange, fat cylinder appended to its barrel. Muller's eyes went wide with
panic.

Draper, though, struggled to remain calm through the bleary effects of the
abortive truth serum. "You will not fire a gunshot here, Herr Fantom. The Venice
Polizia will hear you and come to investigate. The people in the buildings will
wake, and they will call for help."

The Fantom fingered the device at the end of the gun barrel. "Don't
underestimate my imagination, Herr Draper. My lab rats dreamed up this new
modification. It uses compressed air to silence the blast. No one will hear a
gunshot—or anything at all."

"Impossible," Draper said.

The Fantom aimed the pistol and silently shot Muller in the center of the
forehead before the motor specialist could flinch. His head snapped back, and
his body drooped to the floor.

Shocked, despite the last vestiges of the drug's effects, the architect
wailed and struggled to lurch out of his chair, but muscular Dante held him
down. Muller twitched once more, then went completely still.

The Fantom swirled his black cape and leaned close, towering in all his
monstrous deformity over the structural engineer. "The new twentieth century
will be a time when the word 'impossible' no longer has any meaning." His scars
looked like lumpy candle wax, his eyes behind the silver mask filled with demon
fire.

"Now, then—I have many more of your colleagues from the zeppelin factory, if
we are required to use them for further encouragement."

Hopeless and desperate, Draper struggled to lunge at his tormentor, but the
masked villain easily stepped out of the way. When Dante had the mousy architect
under control again, the Fantom opened a small closet door behind him. With a
theatrical flourish, he revealed a girl held inside, bound and gagged, and
isolated from the other captives.

"Or perhaps it would be best to use someone closer to you? Your daughter is
so very beautiful, Herr Draper. Eva? Is that her name?" He dragged her out into
the open, making her stand not far from the body of the slaughtered motor
expert. "I haven't had time to fully… interrogate her yet."

Draper crumbled, tears flooding his eyes. "All right, I'll tell you what you
want." His shaking voice could not contain the fullness of his misery.

Returning to the worktable, the Fantom tapped his fingers meaningfully on the
old parchment pages spread out before the structural engineer: the original da
Vinci blueprints of Venice stolen from the vault of the Bank of England.

"Of course you will," said the Fantom. "Now study these and give me your
expert advice."

Trembling, Draper adjusted his spectacles and bent to peer at the faded
original drawings, which showed the precise details of Venice's hidden
foundations. And all their vulnerabilities.

The engineer had a difficult time concentrating while the Fantom continued to
smile cruelly at his terrified daughter, Eva.

Making good time as it rounded the boot of Italy and cruised up the eastern
coast, the
Nautilus
ran at full power under a magnificent sky. Flying
fish swarmed in the churning white wake.

Below the conning tower, in the submarine vessel's control room, sunlight
penetrated the sea-splashed windows of the bridge. Wearing a deep frown and
scratching his stubbly chin, First Mate Ishmael examined the complex controls
and dials. Nemo stood next to him, curious, as Ishmael tapped the crystal plates
that covered compasses and heading gauges.

"They're not 'ow I left them, Cap'n. S'all I'm saying."

Nemo glanced down at the deck, then silently crouched to examine
something.

"You think it might be sabotage?"

" We ain't that far off course—I caught it in time," Ishmael said. "Still,
there's too many strangers aboard this boat, if y' ask me."

"Please don't refer to my Lady as a mere 'boat', Ishmael."

Nemo brushed at the floor and dabbed some of the residue onto his fingertips,
then spiffed them. "Powder. I don't recognize the smell. Perhaps Mrs. Harker
will be able to—" Suddenly, he felt an unexpected movement in the air, a faint
stirring in the control room. Nemo's dark eyebrows knitted together. "Mr.
Skinner? Are you here skulking about?"

The silence that followed gave him no answer. He and Ishmael heard nothing
more than the thrumming of the
Nautilus
engines and the rushing sound
of the waves against the hull.

Around the corner, Tom Sawyer sauntered up to the bridge, eager to go outside
to enjoy some fresh air and sunshine. He thought he heard quick, feathery
footsteps, someone passing unseen? For a moment he was tempted to thrust out a
foot to see if he could trip the invisible man, but he couldn't be sure he had
actually heard anything. There wasn't much room in the narrow corridor for
Skinner to go by, no matter how sneaky the thief might be.

A loud gunshot came from outside, above the bridge, and Sawyer started
running.

Already on edge, Nemo and Ishmael went to the observation windows, looking
around in alarm as another gunshot rang out from the deck overhead.

But Sawyer was grinning as he started to climb the conning tower. "He said he
wouldn't start without me!"

With a slap and a hum, the launcher shot its buoyant target. The colorful
shape sailed ahead through the air and landed with a splash far from the racing
Nautilus
.

At the edge of the foredeck, Quatermain adjusted his spectacles and squinted
out at the water. He drew a deep breath, shouldered the stock, sighted along the
line, and calmly aimed Matilda. The target bobbed in the water, and Quatermain
tracked it, aiming… aiming… aiming. Then, as the colorful floater drifted past,
he pulled the trigger.

The elephant gun made a sound like a crack of thunder, and the hunter braced
himself against the recoil that punched into his shoulder bone. The target blew
out of the waves, bright pieces flying up with a spray of water. Good enough for
practice. He called out again in Hindi, "Pull!"