Agent Omega: You Only Live Forever

by Schaffer, Bernard

  He jumped up from the bed and ran at the door, slamming his fists against it, shouting, "Let me out! I remember! I remember!"

  Footsteps raced down the hall toward his cell. Scott dove to the meal slot and said, "I have a wife! I need to see her. I need to tell her I'm alive."

  Sergeant Finley slapped the door with his stick and said, "Shut up in there. You know the rules. No getting out until morning for your tests."

  "I have a wife, you bastard! She needs to know!"

  "You don't have squat. James Scott had a wife, but he's dead and buried. Subject 129 just has the generator, and if you thought today was bad, just wait till you see what they've got in store for you tomorrow. They're gonna sizzle your bacon for sure."

  He roared in anger and backed up, staring at the heavy metal door. Finley was standing just on the other side of it, sneering at him through the open slot. Finley opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he realized Subject 129 was about to rush him. Or rather, rush the door. Finley stared in amazement as the moron ran headfirst at the steel metal and found himself actually raising his hands to cover his face. There was no need to, he told himself. There wasn't going to be anything but a loud thump and the sight of Subject 129 rolling around on the floor holding his busted face.

  I'm gonna let him lay there until morning too, just to teach him a lesson, Finley decided.

  He chuckled as he stood up, leaning close to the door to see if he could hear the prisoner moaning inside. "You're gonna look real pretty with no teeth, you dumb son of a bitch. I hope you don't expect me to come in there and help you."

  Finley turned to leave and found himself staring directly into Subject 129's bright blue eyes. "How the hell did you do that?" Finley sputtered.

  The man grabbed Finley by the face and slammed him against the metal door so hard, Finley's eyes rolled back into his head. The next thing he knew, he was looking up at the prisoner's bare ass. Subject 129 dragged Finley by the leg across the floor, taking him somewhere, taking him into a room. Finley tried to call out for help but the prisoner reached down and grabbed him by the shirt and belt and hoisted him effortlessly in the air, planting him down in the center of the asylum chair so hard it knocked the air out of Finley's chest.

  The generator was still in the room, parked next to the chair to be used the next day. Someone had even replaced the rubber suction cups that had melted before, making sure they would be good and ready.

  Subject 129 ripped open Finley's shirt and held him in place with one hand as he quickly worked the straps, cinching them down around the guard's stomach and waist.

  "Stop," Finley said. "You can't do this. I was just doing what I was told! I didn't want to! Let me go!"

  Subject 129 slapped several of the cups onto Finley's bare chest and face, making sure they were fitted tight to his skin. He wheeled the generator toward the door and ran several extra wires from the machine out to nearest research stations. He stuck the suction cups to the machines and then found a fuse box on the wall and one in the center of the main junction.

  Finley begged and begged for mercy until finally the prisoner jammed the wooden dowel into his mouth. "Bite down, sergeant. We wouldn't want you to hurt yourself, now would we?"

  Subject 129 grabbed the generator's handle and gave it a tremendous heave, spinning it so fast it whirred around in one continuous blur.

  The wires attached to Finley burst into flames and the flames set fire to the straps and the chair. Alarms sounded almost immediately and hooded researchers came running in every direction, only to crash into one another in the smoke and darkness. They were all bunched against one another in the confusion, scrambling to find a way to escape, when one of them touched the electrified surface of the nearest machine.

  Subject 129 watched with dull satisfaction as the men screamed from inside their masks, slobbering and convulsing as the electrical current raced through their bodies. He looked back at the smoking corpse of Sergeant Finley and suddenly felt ill, then unplugged the generator and decided to leave.

  Major William "Wild Bill" Donovan stepped out of his car and told his bodyguard to stay put, he was going into the cemetery alone. Rain spilled off his umbrella as he quietly made his way past the rows and rows of graves and mausoleums, heading for a hill where a man was standing alone in the darkness, looking down at a tombstone. Water cascaded off of every part of him and he stood so perfectly still, Donovan mistook him for a statue at first.

  The hill was slick with mud, making it hard to walk up, but Donovan kept at it until he was close enough to the man to call out, "I'm coming to talk to you. I mean you no harm."

  He got close enough to be able to hold his umbrella over both of their heads and turned to look down at the tombstone. It was unnecessary. He already knew which one they were standing over.

  It was a couple's tombstone. One rock carved with two names for two graves.

  The one on the left said Technical Sergeant James Scott, beloved husband, killed in service to the United States. The one on the right said, Maureen Scott, beloved wife.

  Donovan grunted and shook his head. "Why in the hell they didn't tell you, I don't know, son. It's a goddamn crime. It makes me sick." Donovan felt the shivers coming on but wasn't sure if it was from the cold, the rain, or the man standing next to him. "You've been on the run for quite a while, I gather. Are you hungry?"

  The man shook his head.

  "How about a cup of coffee and a smoke?"

  "What do you want?"

  "Well, to be perfectly frank, I came to ask for your help," Donovan said.

  The man laughed and said, "I've seen how the men from the government ask for help. You lay one finger on me or try to put me in another laboratory and I will kill every person I see. You people woke up a monster. I can control my powers now. I can do things you can't imagine."

  There was true menace in the man's words, but they were tainted by powerful regret. Donovan knew, he believed that he could reach this man, if only he said the right thing. He took a deep breath and said, "Son, I won't put you anywhere you don't want to be for as long as I live, and that's an oath I'll keep before God himself. The only thing I have to offer you is hard work and serious danger. But it's good work. Necessary work, that saves lives and protects people. It's the kind of work that we need a special person to do. Someone who can really make a difference."

  They looked at one another then, in the rain and in the dark, and the man said, "I guess I could go for a cigarette."

  Donovan pointed at his car down the hill. "I left my smokes in there. It's my way of bribing you to let me get out of this damn rain. What do you say, James? Will you hear me out?"

  The man looked back at the tombstones and said, "Don't call me that. James Scott is in the ground next to his wife. Let them both rest in peace."

  Wild Bill Donovan shook his wet jacket and patted the man on the arm, telling him to follow him toward the car. "Those sons of bitches out in Arizona did a real number on you. I'm glad you taught them a lesson. That was inhumane what they did to you. People will hear about what you can do and be jealous as hell, I'd imagine, but they'll never know it came with a price. A terrible, terrible price."

  The man cocked his head to the side and looked at Donovan, "Can you get me a new name?"

  "Son, I can get you five new names. Pick anything you like."

  Chapter 3: What is the OSS?

  "Does the name Wild Bill Donovan mean anything to you, Sean?"

  Price shook his head and said, "Nope. I've heard of Wild Bill Hickock, though."

  Beckett pulled out a notepad from his suit coat's pocket and made a quick notation, muttering the word, "Interesting." He looked up at Price, "Does that name hold any particular interest for you, by any chance? What about that time period? Do you feel a particular affinity for the Wild West?"

  Price checked his watch and said, "Listen, this has all been real interesting, but I have to get going. Thank you for the story, Mr. Beckett."

 
Beckett held up his hands as Price started to stand up and said, "Wait, wait. Please, I beg you. Not yet. I just need a little longer. You have to hear the rest."

  The detective put on his jacket and said, "I talk to a lot of crazy people, Mr. Beckett, and they tell me all sorts of amazing, fantastical stories. You don't seem particularly crazy, so I'll just assume you are lonely and desperate for attention. Believe me, the NYPD Robbery Squad is not the place to get it. You don't want my attention. Bad things happen to the bad people I pay attention to. Now, maybe one of the other guys will humor you, but I don't have any more time."

  Beckett watched the detective heading off and, as a last ditch effort, called out, "Erinnerst du dich an Obersturmbannführer Kramer und Hillersleben, Sean?"

  Prince stopped cold, his eyes widening just as the secretary turned to look at him. He smiled self-consciously and muttered, "This guy thinks I speak Russian or something." Price turned directly around, heading for Beckett. He grabbed Beckett by the arm and dragged him past the desk, into one of the interview rooms where he pushed the older man through the door and closed it shut behind them. "All right, spit it out you spooky son of a bitch. How do you know me?"

  "I don't," Beckett said.

  "Then how did you know I would understand what you just said."

  "I wasn't sure you would," Beckett said softly.

  Price walked toward the man, eyes narrowed and said, "Who in the hell is Obersturmbannführer Kramer? Why do I want to puke when I hear that name?"

  Walter Beckett pulled a metal chair out from the table and sat down, indicating that Price should do the same. "I'll tell you everything I know about him and what happened at Hillersleben. Admittedly, it's not much. I assume you are familiar with the OSS?"

  Price stared at him blankly and said, "Let's pretend I'm not for a minute."

  Beckett nodded, playing along and said, "Just prior to World War II, in the shadow of the Nazi threat, President Roosevelt finally came to the realization that America was hopelessly behind the times in terms of military intelligence. Countries all around the world had elaborate spy agencies and we were stuck in this kind of puritan refusal to 'read other people's mail,' and so forth. Roosevelt authorized the formation of our first spy agency, called the Office of Strategic Services. Or, rather, OSS."

  "All right," Price said.

  "And to head up the agency, he chose a man particularly well-suited to the task. A man named 'Wild Bill' Donovan." He watched Price carefully as he said this, hoping for some sign of recognition. There was none. Beckett smiled softly and said, "The year is now Nineteen Forty-Two. We are at war."

  Chapter 4: Wondrous Weapons of the Third Reich

  The handle on the building's front door turned and Elma Sink reached down under her desk and pushed in the red button hidden there. She pressed it several times to make sure it worked, then folded her hands back on top of the desk and smiled politely at the pudgy, middle-aged man in a dull suit. Elma made him out to be a politician, or someone who moved in political circles, but that was an easy deduction. They were in the heart of Washington DC. Everybody moved in those circles, no matter how fetid. "Good morning," she said. "How can I help you?"

  Both armed guards standing at either side of the door were stiff and at attention, their rifles tucked high on their shoulders. The weapons were for decoration, mainly. The building was protected by much greater things than any M1 Garand.

  The man's smile was placating and tolerant of her lowly station and he said, "Yes, dearie. I'm here to see Wild Bill."

  Elma pushed her glasses up on her nose and said, "I'm certain I have no idea what you mean, sir. We don't have anyone in this building named Wild Bill."

  He waved his hand at her, laughing. He was in on the joke. He was in the know. "You don't need to use that old cloak-and-dagger stuff on me, sweetie. All right, I'll play along. I'm looking for William J. Donovan, Director of the Office of Strategic Services. Tell him a personal friend of Senator Doxey would like a moment of his time."

  "I'm sorry, sir," she said again. "But I assure you there is no one named Donovan in this building."

  The man's smile turned cold and he glared down at Elma, stubbing the surface of her desk with his pudgy finger, "Now look here, I didn't come all this way to be made a fool of. I demand to see Donovan this instant!"

  He would have kept yelling, but one of the guards had already come up behind him and hooked an arm around his neck in a choke hold, dragging the man backwards toward the door while he bellowed, "I know Senator Doxey! We play golf together! You can't treat me like this!"

  Elma watched the guard shove the man through the door and took a long, slow breath to steady herself. The phone on her desk rang, loud enough to make her lift out of her seat, and she picked it up immediately. "Yes, Director?" she said. The guard closed the front door again and resumed his place, standing beside it. "Yes, the man is gone now. He's in the parking lot."

  Across the courtyard, from the fifth floor of a much less-grand looking building, a building with a crumbling facade and dirty windows, William Donovan looked down. He lifted a pair of field glasses to his eyes and checked the ornate front door of the building Elma Sink was sitting in. There was detailed landscaping and ornate statuary leading up the steps. Justifiable accoutrements for what was the official address of America's first spy agency.

  Shame the whole building is empty except for a secretary and two guards, Donovan thought.

  "Do you want the men to put him in his car, sir?" Elma said over the phone.

  "No thank you, Miss Sink. We'll take it from here."

  Donovan lifted the glasses again and found the man standing in the lot, fumbling with his suit and tie, spinning around like a dog. He was glaring at the other buildings surrounding him, and somehow, as if he sensed he was being watched, he turned and looked at the one Donovan was standing in. The actual headquarters of OSS.

  "Don't do it," Donovan whispered. "Just get back in your car and leave. Whatever you wanted today, it isn't worth it."

  The man took a step toward the building, his face changing shape then. He was too smart to be fooled by any spy tricks. After all, he was friends with a Senator. He would show them.

  From high above, Donovan cursed under his breath, knowing the snipers on the building's roof were already zeroed in on the target. He could practically hear them adjusting the sights of their Mosin-Nagant rifles, getting ready to blow a hole the size of a phone book out the back of the man's head.

  "Turn around, goddammit," Donovan hissed.

  The man stopped walking then and stood there, scratching his head. He turned and looked at the other buildings, convincing himself there was no way a powerful man like Wild Bill would ever allow himself to be placed in such decrepit conditions. It was unthinkable.

  Donovan watched the man give up and return to his car. He lowered his field glasses and felt his heart rate slow and return to normal. He walked back to his desk and sat down in the plush leather seat, one of the few luxuries he'd allowed himself in the building, and smiled warmly at the beautiful young woman sitting across from him.

  She didn't look bothered in the slightest, he thought. She either had no clue how close they'd just come to shooting an American citizen in the heart of the capital, or she knew and it didn't bother her. Donovan wasn't sure which option he liked least.

  He pressed the tips of his fingers together and said, "I apologize for that little distraction, Miss Brevot. People don't come here often, but when they do, we have to address the situation. I asked President Roosevelt to let us build a compound deep in the Virginia woods where no one could find us. He told us people don't trust the idea of an American spy agency enough as it is."

  "Amelie," she said softly.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Please, call me Amelie." She uncrossed her legs and crossed them again, showing Donovan long lengths of perfection wrapped in sheer black stockings. She swept a length of chestnut hair behind her ear and smiled, her lower lip permanently
fixed in the pout of a bad girl. The kind who got caught doing something wrong. The kind willing to work her way out of it.

  Donovan wasn't buying the act. He had dealt with too many female spies to see her as anything more than a functional asset. "So tell me, Amelie. What type of assignment does my good friend Charles place you on normally? I am sure you are simply devastating in the honey trap."

  Amelie blushed and put her hand to her cheek in mock-horror, "Non, Monsieur! Le General would never insult a woman in such a way."

  "Then you do not know de Gaulle like I do." Donovan glanced down at his watch and said, "It's time to go."

  Amelie's eyes widened, "He is here? Already?"

  Donovan got out of his seat and headed for the door, stopping to hold it open for her. "He's right downstairs. All he needed was time to put some clothes on."

  "But he was in California this morning. Our people confirmed it," she whispered.

  Donovan wagged his finger at her and said, "Friends aren't supposed to keep tabs on friends, Miss Brevot. Or at least, we aren't supposed to talk about it."

  "He's here now, though?" she said. "Then it is true. All of it?"

  Donovan shut the door behind her and said, "You're going to see for yourself as soon as we get downstairs."

  She swallowed and stopped to check her hair in the reflective surface of the elevator doors. "I am so nervous," she said. "I cannot wait."

  Donovan pressed the button on the wall and said, "Listen, do yourself a favor. He just came back from a bad break overseas. I'm expecting him to be a little agitated. Let me calm him down before you say anything. Try to hang back and stay out of the way.

  "Oui, Director," Amelie said. "Thank you again for having me. Le General wanted me to express our admiration for what you have accomplished in such a short time, considering."

  "Considering what?"

  "Well, the spy business has always been so beneath you Americans. 'We do not read other people's mail,' no? And now, you have already caught up to the rest of us."