Dickson cleared his throat and looked directly into M’s eyes. The agents stopped their actions and gathered near their superior. “The man we’re dealing with is the most vicious kind of fiend. One without scruples, nor code of honor. He is totally ruthless. He is clever and manipulative and cloaks himself with deception. I have not known his like in some time… I used to call him friend…” Dickson’s voice trailed off.
“Oh damn,” whispered M. “Fascinax–I knew it. He’s the only one who could have done it. He could kill these women quickly and efficiently as he knew them from the academy. He knows poisons and his heightened senses could pierce the security measures. He’s gone rogue.”
Dickson looked around at the agents. All young and unspoiled. He held their gaze as he spoke. He hesitated to do this for it would change everything they had been taught. Everything they believed.
“No, M. It wasn’t Fascinax, old friend. It was you.”
M arched back a bit. He looked first at his agents, then at his accuser.
“Listen, Dickson,” he chuckled, “this is no time for jokes.”
But Harry Dickson wasn’t laughing. His face was cold and calculated, grim beyond measure.
“The evidence is right before us. This location is secret, known only to those who have held, or now hold, the title of M. None of you have ever been here before today, correct?” the detective asked the agents. He studied their faces. No, none of them had. They began to look at M, who grew more frustrated.
“Dickson, this is preposterous. Recant before this turns into a bad serial cliché,” said M. “There’s no reason for me to steal anything. I already am the only one with access.”
“Yes, but unless this was done stealthily, you would have been accompanied here, as proper procedure requires, and there would have been witnesses to your arriving here, and more inconveniently, to your removing whatever it was that you removed.”
“I removed nothing!” shouted M.
“Correction, you removed nothing last night. By means of stealth and guile, you came here and made it appear that someone with unique abilities had indeed penetrated your security. You murdered your operatives with efficiency as they had no reason to fear harm from their leader.”
The agents said nothing but closed any chance of escape.
“This gave you legitimate cause to enter the archive today, in plain sight, to investigate the break-in, and complete your scheme with the perfect alibi. A perfect gambit for treason.” The words launched from Dickson like knives from a circus performer. Deadly accurate.
“You dare accuse me of treason?” roared the spymaster. “Hunter, I will see to it that you are jailed for this! No, you will be thrown in Seward’s Sanitarium and never heard from again!”
The detective reached and pulled open M’s overcoat. He grabbed the lining and ripped it open, revealing two files nestled inside. “Gentlemen, I believe this is the evidence we seek.”
M’s agents immediately moved in and held their superior in place as Dickson grabbed the files.
“I followed you inside because I needed convincing proof, though there was already sufficient circumstantial evidence to launch an inquiry,” Dickson stated flatly. “You remember the tall, red-headed girl whose hand was twisted in spasm? The girl you murdered? She named you with her dying breath–three fingers twisted–forming a perfect M.”
Dickson laughed a heartless laugh as his eyes bore into M’s. “I saw it at once, but had to confirm my suspicions. That’s why I shook your man’s hand.” The agent came forward and held open his hand. In it was a piece of paper with the words: M GUILTY. STAND BY.
“You bastard!” M roared. He lunged at Dickson, but the agents held him fast. He lashed out with his fists, but the detective stepped into the fray and punched him squarely in the face, sending him reeling.
Dickson followed with another punch to the solar plexus, sending the spymaster to the floor. The detective picked him up by the lapels and ever so softly, so coldly whispered into the spymaster’s ear, “You won’t fool us any longer. I have found you out, and soon, I will find your master.”
M stopped struggling and looked into Dickson’s piercing eyes, and, for the first time in a long time, the spymaster knew true fear. What he saw in the detective’s eyes wasn’t justice served, but revenge.
“Hunter?” he cried. “No, you’re not...”
“Take him away. I’ll see to it these files get to the Ministry,” ordered Dickson. “Get out of here before we attract attention.” The agents quickly latched onto M and quickly wrapped a rag over his screaming mouth as the chloroform took him to slumber. Dickson stepped out of their way as the agents hustled him into the lorry and closed the door.
Dickson watched as the truck disappeared down the maze. He grinned, then turned away and hurried toward the opposite end of the alleyway. Things were going perfectly.
At the corner of the main thoroughfare, a long black Daimler pulled up. Dickson stepped inside and closed the sedan door. He was greeted by a mirror image of himself. Same manner, features and dress, but somehow paralyzed and lying across the long black leather seat of the automobile.
Dickson leaned over the face of his doppelganger who lay rigid. Only the man’s eyes indicated he was wide awake, yet somehow unable to move an inch.
“You will be glad to know that I was successful,” said the detective to his paralyzed double. “After all, am I not Harry Dickson, the American Sherlock Holmes?” Dickson, or the man who appeared to be Dickson, loosened his collar and reached for his throat. The detective ripped the latex mask off his face, revealing the equally handsome, yet dark features of Dr. George Leicester–known to the world at large as Fascinax!
Fascinax tapped the pane of glass separating them from his driver. The Daimler pulled away from the curb and wound its way down the streets.
The true Harry Dickson stared out the darkened windows, not daring to meet Fascinax’s gaze. Fascinax removed the last vestiges of his disguise, wiped his face and looked at the detective.
“Don’t look that way, Harry. I couldn’t take a chance.” Fascinax studied Dickson’s eyes as if his very thoughts somehow spoke to him. “I could not allow you to get your hands dirty, Harry. I owe you that for what you did for me in China. If I had failed, it would be on my head alone.”
Fascinax reached into his coat and pulled out the files he had appropriated from M. He opened them and quickly began flipping through the pages. Fascinax read the reports while listening to Dickson’s racing heartbeat with his super-sensitive ears.
Fascinax quickly read one page then another, his unique mind checking facts and correlating the data at ultra speed. As the sedan slowly cruised through London, Dickson watched the pieces of the puzzle form together in Fascinax’s mind. He wondered what horrors the files contained.
“Yes, Harry, these files do contain horrors.“ said Fascinax, who looked up. He reached for a brandy from the sedan’s bar. He poured the drink and held it up, toasting Dickson. Then he gulped it down. Finally, the words came from his lips, with cold disgust.
“Yes, Harry. It was as bad as we feared.”
Dickson watched Fascinax’s countenance go from the warm, confident face of a friend to cold, resolute face of an avenger.
“M sold himself–not to a foreign power, but to a terrorist of the highest order–Numa Pergyll,” said Fascinax, gathering his anger. “This is the evil we’re dealing with, Dickson–an evil that doesn’t play by the Marquis de Queensberry rules, like our old sparring partners. An evil far greater than that of Zenith, Fantômas or even our old friend, Professor Flax. This is evil on a global scale, organized and institutionalized. Evil that revels then profits in mayhem and destruction, Evil that takes no prisoners–not my Françoise, nor your Irene.”
Fascinax moved over on the seat and placed his hands on Dickson’s neck and head. He adjusted his fingers until his ultra-sensitive fingers found their mark. He pressed hard, and suddenly Dickson relaxed. His fingers twitched and h
e slowly began to flex each muscle as it came out of its paralysis.
“You asked me for proof, Harry. Now, I have delivered that proof to you. Who do you think followed orders and killed James and Irene Oldfeld?”
Fascinax refilled the brandy glass and held it out to Dickson who took it into his shaking hands, and downed it. He was still in shock–not only from the paralysis visited upon him by Fascinax, but by the news he was hearing. He downed the brandy.
“The names are all in there. The games are over now, Dickson. Your days of chasing after petty thieves, mad doctors, thuggees and bored aristocrats are over. The stakes that are much higher and greater than ever–this is war.”
Disgusted, Fascinax tossed the files to Dickson, having already committed them to memory. Dickson studied the files. He could hardly bring himself to believe it, but the clues were all there, pointing toward the most bitter poison–the truth.
M was a traitor. Intelligence reports that would have led to Numa Pergyll’s capture were buried in that archive. Alongside Pergyll, there were others, perhaps even more fearsome, even more bloodthirsty. The new Lords of Chaos. Leonid Zattan. Dorje. Benedict Stark. Dr. Natas. Dr. Mabuse. Roxor... working together, building a new, secret empire that crossed all borders.
The sedan pulled to a stop. Fascinax reached for the door handle and opened the door for his friend. Dickson, still on shaky feet stood by the car. “What will you do?” he asked his friend.
Fascinax’s blue eyes projected his hurt for the burden he was about to lay at his friend’s feet. “Like you. Prepare for Armageddon. First I must deal with Numa. He will fool us no longer.”
Dickson froze as the words plunged daggers through his heart. Understanding, he simply nodded, turned and walked away in the fog.
The dark sedan had barely turned the corner when the fiery explosion went off in the archive.
Fascinax had made sure the monsters stayed buried.
In the sixth Madame Atomos novel, which takes place in early 1966, author André Caroff threw out a casual reference to the infamous East Coast blackout of November 9, 1965, attributing it, of course, to his nefarious heroine, but without providing any further details. Our regular contributor, Win Scott Eckert, takes a closer look at that incident and throws new light, no pun intended, on the subject in a report he had to entitle…
Win Scott Eckert: The Atomos Affair
New York City, November 1965
The city was in darkness. An eerie silence pervaded the decaying brownstones on a block somewhere in the East Forties. At one end of the block was a public parking garage. At the other, a three-story apartment building. No electric lights came from any of the buildings, although candlelight flickered from behind some curtains and shutters. Streetlights were out. The only noise came from the occasional automobile or stray dog.
In the middle of the deserted block was a small, ordinary tailor shop.
Or was it ordinary?
Madame Atomos and her two black-clad underlings swept into the darkened storefront of Del Floria’s Tailor Shop, one floor below street level. She and one man went into the fitting booth and turned the coat hook on the back wall. The other man activated a mechanism on the pressing machine, releasing the back wall of the fitting booth. He settled back to await his mistress’ return.
The wall swung inwards, admitting Madame Atomos and her confederate to the high-tech lobby. Two guards went down quickly under her knockout darts, and the interlopers entered the headquarters of U.N.C.L.E.
Due to the power outage, the agency was running a skeleton crew tonight, as she had anticipated.
Madame Atomos had caused the blackout, of course. The entire Eastern Seaboard was down, but her concern was this particular building. Reaching the control room was a cakewalk. Only four more agents barred their way, and were easily dispatched.
The lights in the control room were out, although glowing switches and indicators from large computer banks along the wall twinkled and reflected off a Plexiglas dome in the center of the room. Underneath the glass was a blurred shape hidden in the shadows.
Madame Atomos’ man went to a control panel, flipping switches and knobs, raising the Plexiglas. He aimed a small penlight into the center area.
Madame Atomos raised her hand, revealing a dart gun. The Plexiglas rose to the top and she called, “Come out! Show yourself!”
“Indeed, indeed I shall,” came the British-accented reply. Emergency lights flared, and a weathered, avuncular gentleman wearing a tweed jacket stood up. He shuffled forward into the light, a pipe clenched firmly between his teeth.
Madame Atomos was astounded. “You!” she exclaimed.
“Hmm, what? Ah, yes. Me. Gentlemen, if you please?”
Two agents stepped out of the shadows created by the emergency spotlights, covering Madame Atomos and her guard with modified Walther P-38s. One was a dark-haired man in a neat grey suit and dark tie. The other was blonde and wore a black turtleneck sweater.
The latter spoke briefly: “Don’t move,” he said in a Russian accent, and relieved them of their weapons.
Ignoring the two agents, Madame Atomos spoke to the intelligence chief. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here, of course. Number One, Section One. In charge of this, our New York headquarters.” He paused. “You’re here to kill me. A final seal of your alliance with the self-styled ‘Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity.’ ”
“And how do you know that?”
“Hmm? Well, it’s obviously not a friendly social call, but beyond that, this is an intelligence agency, after all. We’ve known for several days.”
“It was too easy, then. The opportunity to cause the blackout, breaking in here… All too simple. You planned all of it.”
“Ah yes, well, my top enforcement agent here did the planning, but yes. Although you were only supposed to cut power to this city block, not the–ahem–entire East Coast.” The chief turned to the black-haired man. “Too simple, she says. You’ll do better next time.”
The agent nodded, embarrassed. “Yes, sir.”
Madame Atomos smiled triumphantly. “So, you were not expecting such a widespread power failure. Very interesting. Such a lapse could leave the United States… what is the word I am searching for? ‘Vulnerable.’ Yes, extremely vulnerable to an attack. Is that not so?”
The chief faced Madame Atomos once more. “Yes, that is so. Kanoto Yoshimuta… You were a young woman in ’45, when I pulled you from the wreckage in Nagasaki. It’s a bit personal, I suppose, but I feel somewhat responsible. In saving your life, back when I was with Z5, I unleashed you on the world. Now you are ‘Madame Atomos,’ criminal mastermind. What shall we do with you, Madame Atomos? We appear to have a stalemate.”
“What do you propose?”
“The organization you’re dallying with will not treat you honorably. You still care about such things as honor, Madame Atomos?”
She nodded, stiffly.
“Then you acknowledge your debt of honor to me.”
“What do you require?”
“Firstly, sever your alliance with THRUSH. Secondly, abandon any further plans to… ahem… assassinate me, or any of my agents. And third, withdraw your plans to attack the United States.”
“Done,” Madame Atomos replied, and fired three paralyzing darts from her false fingernails. The drug in the darts took effect within seconds, rendering the men conscious, but unable to move.
Madame Atomos spoke once more to the intelligence chief. “I do recall you, of course. I could not forget. You were kind to me 20 years ago, Mr. Waverly, and so I shall not kill you and your men tonight, or any other night. You may consider there to exist a permanent state of truce between your organization and mine.
“However,” she continued, “do not fool yourself that honor has been satisfied. You may feel that a balance has been restored, that your…error in saving my life has been rectified. In this, you overlook the larger imb
alance, the wanton destruction visited upon my homeland by your Western powers. Honor must also be satisfied for this atrocity, and I shall continue to pursue it.”
“Honor… or revenge?” the older man managed to grit out.
“That is, in this case, a distinction that hardly matters.”
With that, Madame Atomos bade them good evening, and disappeared into the blackout.
Michel Zevaco (1860-1918) is somewhat forgotten, even in France. He was a journalist, a publisher, a film director and a well-known anarchist who passionately defended public figures such as Captain Dreyfus and Ravachol. But it is for his prodigious swashbuckling saga pitting the indomitable Chevalier de Pardaillan against the Milady-inspired Fausta that he might still be remembered today. The Pardaillan novels span from the 1550s to the 1610s. They were first published in serialized form in La Petite République, starting in 1902, and eventually collected as ten volumes: Les Pardaillan (1907), L’épopée d’amour (1907), La Fausta (1908), Fausta vaincue (1908), Pardaillan et Fausta (1913), Les amours de Chico (1913), Le fils de Pardaillan (1913), Le trésor de Fausta (1913), La fin de Pardaillan (posth. 1926) and La fin de Fausta (1926). Micah Harris selected Zevaco’s anti-heroine as a worthy enemy (and perhaps more) for Robert E. Howard’s nototorious Puritan Solomon Kane in a historical tale of political intrigue and clash of civilizations over…
Micah Harris: The Anti-Pope of Avignon
Avignon, 1576
The tall, gaunt man in simple black, girded by a heavy chain, sat on the stone floor of his cell in the old Papal palace of Avignon. For centuries, the fortress-like edifice had been a rumored haunt for unclean spirits. But now other shades were seen to stir through windows once again lit at night. The people of Avignon were perplexed by what these omens meant, but not the man in black. His intent in coming to this place had been to abort a malevolent scheme while yet inchoate. Unfortunately, events had developed far past what he had been led to believe.
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 5
