“Thanks, but to be perfectly honest, I’m not one of the crew here. This is the address I was given to meet an old associate of mine. What is this place, exactly?”
“This is basically what it looks like—a pleasure-boating wharf. United Nations delegates and their friends can come and go as they please on these waters.” The Frenchman waved an arm at the river, which sparkled despite the overcast sky, the layers of leaked gasoline, and the beer cans, wood, tires, and other assorted garbage. “But perhaps I can help you,” he said, returning his attention to Banner. “Who are you looking for?”
“Wittenborn. Dr. Maxwell Wittenborn.”
The Frenchman looked startled then turned wary and then confusion muscled in.
“You cannot mean you haven’t heard? But we were all informed . . . ah . . . you must not be a delegate? Ah, no wonder . . .”
“Heard? Heard what?”
“Maxwell Wittenborn disappeared last night. All the police found were his broken glasses in an alley near here.”
A vivid picture suddenly burst into Banner’s brain with the fury of his alter-ego. He saw again the face of the black man, torn and pleading.
“That?” he gasped. “That was Wittenborn?”
“What? Are you all right?”
The Frenchman had taken Banner’s elbow and was looking into his face. Bruce’s despair diminished under the man’s concerned gaze, and he pulled himself together.
“Yes . . . I’m fine, just surprised, that’s all. I . . . ah . . . suddenly remembered I saw a man, with glasses, around here last night. He looked like Wittenborn, but I couldn’t be sure in the dark.”
“Of course, of course. This city spends millions to set up illumination to make the streets safe, then nothing to keep the lights working. Ah, but this all must be a shock to you. I could have sworn you turned sort of green just now.”
Both men laughed uncomfortably.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said a monotonal voice behind them. The two turned to face another two men dressed in look-alike suits of blue doubleknit. Physically, the duo was completely different. One was of medium build and had sandy hair, like a beach bum-gone-establishment, and the other was a big blond kewpie doll, like a Campbell’s soup kid-turned-weight-lifter.
“I’m Agent Stevens,” said the sandy-haired one. “This is Agent Hill. C.I.A.” The two seemed to nod slowly in unison as they showed their government identification. “We have instructions to search your boat.”
“My boat?” uttered the Frenchman. “Why?”
“We have reason to believe that a foreign power is about to embark on a rather extensive exercise in espionage,” Stevens reported with admirable candor. “We are empowered to extensively examine every entry.”
“Is this about the Wittenborn disappearance?” asked Banner.
The agents’ eyes narrowed in unison. “Why do you ask?” queried Hill.
“I . . . uh . . . had an appointment with him this morning,” Banner said with as much sincerity as he could muster.
“Dr. Wittenborn always gave out cards as affirmations of his appointments,” said Stevens. “Did you acquire one?”
Banner’s heart leaped. His earlier supposition could have been true, then! He quickly reached for his wallet in his back pocket, and the C.I.A. agents just as quickly reached inside their coats.
“Just a billfold, just a billfold!” cried Banner as the Frenchman hastily reached for the sky.
“Slow . . . go very slowly,” said agent Hill.
Banner pulled out his wallet in slow motion and he displayed the card with the address on it. The agents took one look at it, then immediately pulled their guns out all the way and pointed them at Banner’s torso.
“Don’t move,” they both said.
Banner remained frozen in position with his wallet open. The Frenchman fainted.
“I don’t believe it,” she said with vehemence. “This is not the man my father met with yesterday!”
The young man in the peach-colored three-piece suit giggled.
“What’s so funny?” asked the girl.
“You,” said the giggling man. “You’re always funny when you get angry—the way your nose crinkles up like a little pixie’s and the way your lips get all white and thin.”
Agents Stevens and Hill looked up at the ceiling.
Banner couldn’t believe it, either. He had been trundled off the wharf under the guns of the C.I.A. and into the United Nations building itself. After a silent trip through some subterranean catacombs, he was led into an opulent elevator the size of a Greenwich village apartment and the three of them had sped up to the U.N. penthouse at dizzying speed.
He was then led into a sumptuous suite overlooking the river where two young people—a decidedly foppish man the size of Wilt Chamberlain and a petite young lady who resembled a dark elf—were waiting. The man’s demeanor was one of elaborate boredom, but the decidedly attractive girl was in the midst of a temperamental fit. Her attitude was only heightened by Banner’s entrance and the C.I.A. agents’ theories.
“Tony,” she said, “if you can’t help, just keep still. Our father’s missing and all you can do is sigh loudly and lap up the booze.”
“That reminds me,” said the man, “I’m thirsty.”
“Then make yourself a drink and keep out of the way.” The girl returned her attention to the agents as Tony ambled over to the oak bar across the room. “Now go through it again,” she instructed.
“Your father disappeared, Miss Wittenborn, yesterday, after a meeting about which his secretary knew nothing. We are under the impression that it was with the representatives of a certain South African nation in which the bulk of your family still resides,” said Agent Hill.
“The leader of that certain South African country has never forgiven your father for what he terms ‘this traitorous defection.’ He has made it public knowledge that he would consider Dr. Wittenborn’s return to his country a wise diplomatic move for the United States to make,” said Agent Stevens.
“While the U.S. considers that such a move would be like slitting its own throat,” said Tony Wittenborn, sipping his Scotch at the bar, “putting one of the greatest radiation specialists in the world today back into the hands of that murderous madman would be ridiculous.”
“That is not the government’s official position,” chastised Stevens patiently.
“Ignore him,” said the girl as Tony laughed lightly. “Go on. Where does this guy fit in?” She stabbed one finger in Banner’s direction.
“He arrived on the wharf today with a card remarkably like the one the leader of that certain South African state uses,” said Agent Stevens, handing the card in question to the girl. It was a simple gray card with raised gold lettering and six stars in the upper righthand corner. The only words spelled out the wharf’s mailing address.
“We are inclined to believe that this man may be a contact with your father’s kidnappers,” said Agent Hill.
For the first time the girl came around from behind the couch. As she approached, Banner took her in. She was only about five feet two inches tall. Her lightly curled hair was pulled back from her forehead by a rose-colored ribbon. She wore a cotton gauze skirt, which swirled around her calves, and a matching sleeveless top. Her eyes were cat-like, almost like teardrops falling at each other from opposite sides of her face.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“An . . . associate of your father’s.”
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to see him about a problem of mine.”
“Where is he?”
“I have no idea.”
The two agents flanked Banner without expression while Tony looked on with amusement from across the room. The girl looked at Banner for a few seconds more, then turned away.
“I still don’t believe it,” she said. “Why should he play games with us?”
“Why shouldn’t he?” Tony put in. “The General’s a sadistic, perverted maniac.”
<
br /> Agents Hill and Stevens cringed. “I wish you wouldn’t use proper names,” said the blond.
“Why not? What’s all the cops and robbers? If this white boy’s from the General, then I don’t have to keep secrets from him, do I? We all know what we’re talking about, don’t we? Anybody listening in knows what we’re talking about, don’t they? Then why not call a spade a spade?”
Tony turned and shouted at Banner, “Where did you get that card?”
“I don’t know,” said Banner helplessly.
“Who gave it to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you get it?”
“I don’t . . . last night sometime.”
“How? Through the mail? Did you find it? What?”
“I don’t know,” Banner answered truthfully.
Tony Wittenborn pegged Banner with one bright eye, then returned his attention to his drink. “I’d torture the sucker,” he said. Then he fell over.
The girl looked disgusted, as if she was used to his drunken displays, but the agents’ guns were out and Stevens was already prowling around the room. Hill had his hand on Banner’s upper arm and his gun at his neck.
“Window’s unbroken,” said Stevens as he moved quickly about the suite. “Doors closed. Latches secured.”
“What are you doing?” asked the girl. “What’s the matter?”
“Your brother did not drink enough to lose consciousness, Miss Wittenborn,” said Agent Hill. “The General may be trying to make his threat of taking you back into a reality.”
Stevens stepped below a wall air vent. “Gas,” he said through clenched teeth. “Get out!” Hill immediately motioned the girl ahead of him as he swung Banner around to the door, and Stevens began to pile Tony onto his back.
Just as the girl gripped the knob, the door flew outward. She had time only to shriek once before she was thrown into the arms of a man covered completely in black. He held both her hands with one strong one of his own as he pushed a large pad across the lower half of her face. Hill only had time to pull his weapon away from Banner’s neck before he was blasted back onto the white fur couch by a silenced machine gun. And Banner was too stunned to be frightened—or angry.
He watched in amazement as several more black-garbed men jumped into the suite, riddling the room with bullets as they came. The only sound was of breaking glass and the muffled clicking of the specially built machine guns. Agent Stevens pulled Tony Wittenborn up as a shield, since he was sure the attackers wouldn’t want to hurt their quarry, but the nearly seven feet of slickly dressed unconsciousness was too much for him to hold while trying to aim his gun. The limp body tumbled back to the floor as Stevens’s big pistol went off.
The deafening roar made Banner cringe. It echoed through the room as bullet after bullet poured into the C.I.A. man. Stevens did a macabre death dance, then smashed into the bar, sending a shower of crystal and liquid spinning out to the floor before him.
Two men grabbed Tony from the rug and a rough glove clubbed Banner on the shoulder. “Move,” said an accompanying voice near his ear. “And no sound.” Banner didn’t have to be told twice.
“The pig’s gun will bring everyone else,” Banner heard another voice say as he was hustled down the hall to the elevator over the strewn bodies of other guarding agents.
“We all know that,” said Banner’s new captor. “Keep quiet.”
The now-unconscious girl was held in the arms of a huge man who led the procession, and Banner saw several black-garbed men leaping down an open-air grate up on the wall. Turning his head for a moment, he saw two more men carrying Tony. The group stopped before the elevator.
“Sixteen, eight, three,” said the voice beside Banner. “Stairs. Fifteen, seven, two—airshaft. Seventeen, nine, four—elevator roof. Eighteen, ten, five—outside building. Nineteen, eleven, six—fire escape. Everyone else, let’s go.” The man holding the girl, the two carrying Tony, and the two shepherding Banner moved into the elevator with their captives. Seconds later they were in the basement catacombs, where a gun battle was already in progress.
Since no one dared to shoot at the girl or her brother, Banner felt safe, but it was a strange feeling. The C.I.A. agents blasted away with their big pistols, while the black-suited assault squad quietly bumped the concrete, metal, plastic, and flesh with silent lead. It was almost like a passionate ballet of death in which Banner was the only member of the audience.
They finally moved across the pipe-filled hallway and came out into a huge, window-lined warehouse. This was directly connected to the river by a sheet-metal door which was even now opening. More three-piece-suited adversaries appeared, and the two groups simply shot one another while the captors and captives moved toward the water.
For in the middle of the warehouse floated a biplane on huge water skis, piloted by two more black-suited men. The side door opened and even more black-garbed murderers hopped out, covering the approaching prisoners. The area was filled with light and fire as more and more C.I.A. agents and marauders had at each other. Bullets, oaths, and screams reached a blood-curdling crescendo around them as the girl and Tony were bundled into the aircraft.
A harsh voice grated again in Banner’s ear: “Get in.” But Banner couldn’t hear him anymore. The shock had given way to disbelief and an unknown rage. Suddenly the rational half of his mind shut down, replaced by a screaming anger. A roaring noise from his subconscious tore forth until all he could think was that they were evil . . . they had hurt the pretty girl . . . they had cold-bloodedly murdered . . . they had trapped him . . . they would hurt him, too . . . they had to be stopped . . . they had to be taught a lesson!
Banner felt a tug at the edge of his mind, which opened the floodgates and turned on the high-energy current. He was hunched over in the plane’s doorway, but if anyone had seen his face, they would have stared into eyes of bright silver.
Somewhere, back in that part of his mind that was still Bruce Banner, he knew that all there was left before the Change was that slight sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. Then he would explode into his other incarnation—the Incredible Hulk. And by the time the Hulk was through, Banner wouldn’t be surprised if they were all at the bottom of the East River.
He felt himself falling, and a sudden petrifying fear overtook him. He was dying—he knew it. And he couldn’t do anything about it. It was all up to the Hulk now, but could even he face the veritable army of gun-wielding maniacs? Could even he fight a hailstorm of bullets?
Banner still didn’t hear the voice beside him spit, “Damn it! I said move!” But he did feel the pain as the gun butt ripped into the back of his head. Then a sickening pain of another kind filled his body, and Bruce Banner, with closed eyes, crashed to the floor of the plane.
Four
Banner awoke to whimpering. A broad insistent sobbing seemed to clog his dreamless sleep until his head felt like an echo chamber. The stuffiness almost suffocated him. The first thing he saw was hay.
“Oh, God,” said the high, sobbing, voice. “What are we going to do?”
Banner took a moment to orient himself. Before the Curse, his mind had been a wonder of nearly mathematical exactness. Thought had been neatly stacked on thought, theory on theory, until his mind was a model mansion of genius. But the gamma rays had wrecked the foundation, and the house that logic had built had come tumbling down. Now, unless he reacted by instinct, Banner found himself carefully examining every new environment, every new situation, with a care that matched that of a man in a mine field. He had to be extra careful where he stepped in his mental mine field. The damage could be irreversible, and the explosion would always be green.
“Someone must find us!” the voice gasped. “They won’t stop looking until they do. Oh, God . . .”
Banner took a deep breath and tried to picture who was making all the noise. The tone and temperament seemed to dictate a feminine source—the classic woman in distress. He sighed again and slowly turned over. Befor
e him lay a tall black man in a soiled three-piece suit. Next to him kneeled a diminutive vixen of a girl who was dabbing at his face with the hem of her long, loose skirt. It was the man who was doing all the complaining.
“So you’re finally awake,” said the man in the same whining tone. The scene came back to Banner then: the dead C.I.A. men, the unbelievable exodus from the U.N., the entrance to the hydroplane, and that one split second before the Change would have come.
“You’re Tony,” he said slowly.
“The boy talks,” the man said in smug disbelief to his sister.
“Oh, Tony,” she said, “at least he’s making more sense than you.” And with that she moved to Banner’s side.
“You’re Wittenborn’s daughter,” Bruce continued, pointing at her as she crouched down. “And we were taken by someone for some reason that I have no . . . ouch!”
She had been lightly pressing the back of his head. “Just lie still,” she instructed. “You got a nasty crack back at the dock, Tony tells me. At least that convinced us you weren’t one of them.”
“It also convinced me that you have one of the hardest heads in the world,” commented Tony snidely. “That blow would have decapitated most of my friends.”
“I have good genes,” said Banner dryly. The girl continued to probe the back of his head. “But who are ‘them’? And who are you, for that matter? What’s this all about?”
“Introductions are in order,” the girl agreed, still checking Banner’s wound. “I’m Rosanne Wittenborn. Tony you already know.”
Banner waved, painfully smirking. Tony sniffed and looked away. Banner took a moment to check out their prison. They were sitting in a thick wooden crate the size of a boxing ring. The wood was crisscrossed so that open spaces one foot square showed through. Beyond them were four solid metal walls, a metal floor, and a metal ceiling.
“Well,” said Rosanne, “I’ll be darned if I can find a major contusion or even a minor break anywhere back here. Even though you were conked hard enough to split a coconut, all you have is a slight bump and a tiny cut. Mister . . .”
Marvel Novel Series 03 - The Incredible Hulk - Cry Of The Beast Page 3
