Full Moonster [BUREAU 13 Book Three] (12 page)

"And exactly what is your business with Dr. Bolt?” the woman asked, speaking for the first time. She had a stern voice, and was clearly used to be being instantly obeyed.

"Private,” I said, letting the cold ring of authority enter my voice.

Stepping close, they held a private conversation, so I gazed at the stars overhead. Such a beautiful night. What was the chance of a meteor hitting this place? Sadly, none.

"If you would just wait a moment, Officer?” the man said, as the woman stepped into the gatehouse and started dialing the phone.

"Agent,” I corrected, sliding the commission booklet into my breast pocket so that the shiny badge was always visible. “Of course."

Personally, I sure hoped somebody got rude real soon. This artificial smiling was starting to make my jaw hurt.

In less than a minute, four more guards appeared on the other side of the fence, and I was informed that Dr. Bolt would be delighted to see me. Anything to assist the police! Yeah, right.

The gates opened with the sound of a bank vault, and if the new guards didn't quite frog-march me across the lawn, they sure came close. Naturally, I didn't get much chance to view the external grounds, but that was not important. I had already seen the aerial photos in the Bureau file room. Mostly it was plush lawns, manicured hedges, and splashing fountains. But lining the broad front walk was a double row of bronze statues depicting the signs of the zodiac: Aries the ram, Taurus the bull, the Gemini twins, Cancer the crab, Leo the lion, a nude woman for Virgo, another dressed woman holding a pair of scales for Libra, a scorpion for Scorpio, a nude man with a quiver and bow for Sagittarius, Capricorn the goat, a scantily dressed woman pouring water from a jug for Aquarius, and this really big fish for Pisces.

I'm not much of an art buff, but they were beautiful sculptures. Although it didn't take much surmise on my part to guess that in case of trouble the whole damn zodiac would come to life and the horoscope of any invader would read ‘Time to die, bozo'. Nuff said.

The front doors were made of aged seasoned oak, thick enough to stop a medieval battering ram. And while I wasn't wearing my sunglasses, somehow I could still tell that the butler was a zombie. Or else, truly British. Sometimes the distinction is difficult to make. I offered my hand, and he gave it the most perfunctory of clasps. Ha! Got you!

The foyer was Italian marble, a French crystal chandelier filled the ceiling overhead, and suits of olde German armor stood at rigid attention in recessed niches in the wall. I was starting to get the idea that Bolt was more paranoid than the Bureau. Did we actually rag his case this much, a pleasant notion, or did he have more enemies than just the Bureau, an even more pleasing idea. Hmm.

The guards stayed at attention in the foyer, and I shook their hands goodbye, then tagged along after the icy butler. At the top of the stairs, more guards were waiting and we shook hello. I am such a friendly guy. Then we formed a procession down a hallway full of locked doors and portraits whose beady eyes followed every move I made. Faintly, I heard the telltale noise of a machine gun bolt being pulled. Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea. Below, on the ground floor, the great front door boomed shut with the noise of a coffin lid closing.

Eek! I hate symbolism.

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As we strolled merrily along the corridor, the guards managed to accidentally-on-purpose bump into me several times as they attempted to take an inventory of what I carried. A partial inventory, anyway. I had more weapons and equipment than these yutzes could ever imagine. I only hoped it was enough.

Turning a corner, we passed through a cleverly disguised X-ray machine and ankled past a hidden machine gun nest and several infrared scanners. This might be more difficult than previously imagined, and I still didn't know what I was here for!

At the end of the corridor was a simple wooden door marked ‘office'. The four guards took positions outside the room, while the butler opened the door, and followed me in. Ah, at last.

Foolishly, I had half expected the private office of Mathais Bolt to somehow resemble a mad scientist's laboratory with bubbling experiments, a dissection table overflowing with blood-stained retorts, shelves made of human bones bowing under the weight of forbidden volumes of alchemy and black magic. Actually, the place was rather nice. A bit conservative for my taste, but not bad.

The walls were lined with bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes in a hundred colors and a dozen languages. The floor was a plush velour carpet which hid my ankles, and so soft it made you want to lay down with your best girl. Almost felt alive. Centering the left wall was a fireplace you could cook a car in, and the right was dominated by a Belgian tapestry large enough to hide almost anything.

Over by the far wall, bracketed by a pair of balcony windows, was a massive slab of mahogany pretending to be a desk. The flawless surface was polished mirror bright, the only items displayed were a gilt-edged leather blotter with green paper, and a gold pen and pencil combo set in a rectangle of white marble. I was sure that all of them were deadly weapons.

Behind the desk, Mathais Bolt was waiting for me. His eyes were the very first thing anybody noticed. They were overly large, set deep into his skull and never blinked. Creepy.

A slim dapper man, Bolt was wearing a velvet smoking jacket and silk lounging pajamas. Geez, who still made those things? If his mouth was too broad for smiling, he did it anyway. Mathais had hair coal black, with streaks of pure silver at each temple. Dr. Bolt was smoking what smelled like an herbal Egyptian cigarette in an ebony Chinese holder almost a foot long. Although wearing no rings or watch, Necro-Man had a plain band of copper adorning each wrist. Ah, magic bracelets. Same as mine. This could get interesting. Depending upon your definition of the word. Was a nuclear war interesting? In the movies, sure. Live? No way.

Puffing on his cigarette, Bolt reminded me of a big snake preparing to eat a small bird. And I was the guy wearing feathers. Briefly, I considered if he had forged the bands himself, or stole them from the cooling bodies of dead Bureau agents? Either way made him a man to be reckoned with. And disposed of as soon as possible.

As I walked towards the brooding, sophisticated killer, for a moment I toyed with the concept of gunning him down on the spot, but dismissed the notion. Not only was it illegal, and bad manners, but also he had yet to tell me what I was here for.

That was when I noticed the
Playboy
calendar on the wall. Wow. August was a good month. Maybe the old necromancer was sub-human at that.

Grandly, the leader of the Brotherhood of Darkness gestured towards a plush chair that was so softly cushioned it would be impossible to get out of in a hurry. Our battle had begun.
En garde
!

I parried by accepting the seat and snuggled in deep. That should put Mathias at ease, and put him off guard. Ha! Bureau 13 agents were deadly even if stark naked, upside-down, and chained to the wall, and that's the way we liked it! No, wait a minute, I hadn't put that quite correctly. Oh hell.

"Good evening, Agent Smythe,” Mathais Bolt said in a tone so soothing that I instinctively braced against Mind Control.

Then I came fully alert. Smythe? Yikes! A straight lunge to the heart! I hadn't used that name since my old Chicago days as a PI. Did this carrion magician actually know me? No, wait, I had used that name during a few Bureau missions. He only knew of me. Whew.

"Who?” I asked with a puzzled expression, dancing aside and keeping my guard raised. “I'm sorry. Your butler got the name wrong. Its Emmanuel Rodriguez, Special Agent, FBI."

"Of course,” he purred, oozing charm. “My mistake. I will fire the incompetent bungler immediately."

Slash, and miss. I covered a yawn as my riposte. Nice try, bozo. But if he was attempting to incur my sympathy and thus weaken my resolve, he had the wrong man. We Symthes are a fighting people.

"So why is the Bureau,” he stressed the word, “giving me a visit at 10:30 at night?” Thrust.

"Official business,” I said gruffly, placing my shoes on his desktop and deliberately marring the perfect finish. Parry and lunge.

Dr. Bolt turned red in the face, and then puffed himself to quiet complacency. “Indeed? And what is the nature of this business, pray tell?” Maintain guard, backstep.

Going for the kill, I gave him a death's head grin, honed from a thousand poker games and specifically designed to freeze the very blood in your veins. Had actually worked once on a naive vampire.

"Ever hear of a Bureau 13?” I countered bluntly.

Astonished, Dr. Bolt dropped his cigarette holder, and then yelped as he burned his foot. First blood!

"Why, ah, yes,” he responded, opening a drawer in the desk, and extracting a slim manila folder. “I have even been made privy to a file amassed on a quote Bureau Thirteen end quote."

Nice grammar, but whatever information was in that folder bode ill for me. There were a dozen defenses in my repartee, so I choose the classical best. Offense.

From the hum in the bracelet on my left wrist, I could tell that Bolt was protected by a magical forceshield a bazooka shell couldn't get through. The desk was ancient wood, hard as nautical nails. But the file was tagged with a red edge, denoting a non-duplicable original.

With the flick of a wrist, I activated the second function of my cigarette lighter and aimed a stream of liquid fire directly towards Dr. Bolt. A burning lance of chemical flame washed over the man, his prismatic shell deflecting the fiery onslaught, but the report flared into ash.

His eyes round as saucers, Bolt lowered his hand and stared at the charred stub of paper.

"Sorry,” I said, pocketing the lighter. “These darn things malfunction occasional."

"Who are you?” he demanded in a very quiet voice.

No more niceties, the game was over. I had openly displayed advanced technology and a knowledge of magic, and his shield spoke volumes about him. We each knew who the other was. This was it. Fast, I shook my watch activating the self-destruct mechanism. A lot depended on what Mathais attacked with next. If he used psionics, I was dead meat. But I would take this dirt bag with me, along with a good part of the mansion. Sure hope he had a lot of insurance.

"Ask me in Hell,” I snarled, placing my feet on the floor, and sliding to the edge of the chair. As I started to reach for my gun, he smiled. It was as pleasant a sight as a child's grave.

"Accepted,” Bolt whispered.

There was no other warning. Exploding across the desk came a boiling wave of intangible force, a hellish tsunami of primordial black magic that blew aside the blotter, exploded the pen and pencils, and engulfed me like a blast of live steam.

Frantically, I raised both hands, the copper bracelets tingling as they expended every erg of stored white magic in a desperate try to counter the lethal conjure. The very air seemed to seethe as the magiks met and battled it out in silent ethereal combat. Inside my aching skull, my beleaguered brain vibrated under the pounding command to:
Tell him everything I did not want him to know!
It was an old spell, but a goody.

Then my chest burned as the mystic rune painted there flared in response, absorbing the ethereal onslaught, containing it, controlling the spell, and violently throwing it right back in the face of the caster.

"Its in the desk!” he screamed, eyes wide with panic.

Grateful, I spat in his face. Outraged beyond words, Mathais started to rise and then slowly ground to halt like an old machine rusting solid. He froze, motionless, hands raised, trapped in the very act of casting some deadly spell. Aw, too bad, so sad. I win.

With a finger, I toppled him over into his chair and pushed it away from the desk. By necessity, the lotion on my hand must act slowly. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been allowed in here. Contradictorily, the swallowed potion reacted nigh instantly, but only for about ten minutes, so I had to move fast. I had made him angry enough to try and magically force the truth out of me. In return, it had forced the truth out of him. Black magic was something. I could not use and retain my soul, but I could outwit its caster. Bolt was out of commission for nine more minutes, and the item was in the desk. What else did I need? How tough could a desk be?

I soon found out. Underneath the hutch was a full control panel of hidden buttons, knee switch and foot pedals. Most were labeled, in cryptic symbols of some arcane language that resembled chicken droppings. However, off to one side, behind a sliding panel was a very modern computer lock keypad. Bingo!

From the burglar's kit in my coat pocket, I dusted the push buttons and found prints on only four of the numbers. Ha! That lowered the math quite a bit. Plus, two of the integers were more worn than the rest. Those had a high probability of the first and last numbers. Typical formation, start sure and end with a flourish. For all his faults, Mathais Bolt was still a human being. Well, probably.

Unfortunately, there was still a small problem. There was a Stuart Industries box around the keypad.

Originally, electronic boxes would be indelibly stamped with the name of the manufacturer to help promote sales of the product. But it was soon apparent that this advertising ploy worked against the client. A smart crook would have a library of plans stolen/purchased/copied from each manufacturer, and after reviewing the schematics of a particular keypad, would simply drill holes in the box at the precise critical points to cut crucial circuits and tremendously ease entry into the home or business. That is, until Stuart Industries Limited.

Stuart Industries didn't make alarms, security systems or even locks. What they made was boxes. Undecorated, steel re-enforced, dully identical boxes that could hold the works of a hundred other companies. With no brand name to work with, it became a crapshoot for the crooks. Thus, for only a few paltry bucks, a hundred thousand dollar security system could be massively augmented. State prisons were full of master thieves who could attest to the efficiency of the Stuart Box.