Enemies & Allies (9 page)

A
S THE MAJORITY CORPORATE SHAREHOLDER, BRUCE
Wayne occupied the most desirable corner office in Wayne Tower, complete with leather-upholstered furniture, mahogany desk, thick carpeting. An engraved holder with a pen and a letter opener graced the olive-green desk blotter. The few papers in his in-box were neatly stacked. Nothing was marked urgent.

Behind him, the wood-paneled wall was covered with civic awards, thank-you letters, a framed crayon drawing from a child whose cancer had been treated at the Thomas Wayne Memorial Wing. He had recently hung (partly as a joke) the framed glossy photograph of himself with Clark Kent.

No one expected a man like Bruce to keep regular hours or to spend a lot of time at his actual office. He rarely put in a full day’s work—after all, a playboy millionaire had many other things to do. However, he intentionally adhered to an eccentric schedule so that no one would think twice if he came in at odd hours, stayed late or wandered the halls. It worked to his advantage now.

His suspicions about the Wayne Enterprises directors were growing; the time for quiet observation had passed. Bruce decided to take a more active role in uncovering the blight at the core of his father’s company….

Shirley, his executive secretary, guarded the gates with utmost professional courtesy and tact. “Will you be staying late tonight, Mr. Wayne? Shall I order you dinner?” Both beautiful and efficient, she endured his whims, produced memos whenever he felt like issuing them, maintained his stack of telephone messages, and most important, maintained his privacy.

“I’ll be fine on my own, thank you. Close up, put out the lights, and go home. Have a good weekend.”

As a gracious gesture, Bruce had decreed that anyone who took public transportation was allowed to leave a half hour early on Fridays. His employees had readily embraced the habit, and Wayne Tower emptied out as dusk set in. Ostensibly, he was staying behind to work on the donations from the polio benefit, which had raised $47,862. He had upped the amount to an even $50,000, then matched it from his own fortune.

Tonight, though, he had other things to do.

He waited as darkness fell and the lights winked out in the other offices. Since he couldn’t begin to prowl until the building was silent and empty, he sat pondering in the dark, running through his plan….

Bruce was very troubled by what Alfred had learned from Richard Drayling during their conversation that afternoon. The butler’s gaunt face had shown clear distaste for the news he had to relate. “Mr. Drayling resigned because he is concerned for his family, sir. He fears for his life and theirs.”

Bruce hadn’t expected that. “In what way?”

“At first it was an offered bribe, a substantial amount of money. Naturally, Mr. Drayling declined. Next came blackmail, which he also brushed aside. Finally, they made overt threats.”

Bruce felt a storm growing inside him. “Alfred, what are you talking about? Who are ‘they’?”

The butler sniffed. “Lex Luthor, sir. He has been systematically corrupting your board of directors, getting them in his pocket. Mr. Drayling is certain that most of the others have already succumbed.”

Bruce felt cold. “And what does Luthor want from them?”

“Mr. Luthor has bribed, or otherwise coerced, the directors to pass along crucial Wayne Enterprises research. Several of LuthorCorp’s major technological breakthroughs originated in your own divisions.”

Bruce’s hands clenched into fists. “Five times in the past six months, LuthorCorp edged out our bids on large government contracts. Now I know why.”

Maybe he had bided his time too long, played his part too well as a carefree heir only marginally interested in business matters. He was disappointed that Drayling had not felt comfortable enough to talk to the son of Thomas Wayne, but perhaps the older man had seen Bruce as part of the problem, no different from the corrupt board members.

He knew full well that Gotham City ran as much on graft and blackmail as it did on electricity and heating oil. During the years of Bruce’s absence, the Wayne Enterprises directors had gotten more complacent and less adept at covering their indiscretions.

Alfred continued, “Mr. Drayling resisted LuthorCorp’s advances out of respect for your father. When his refusal led to direct threats against his family, however, he could not tolerate the situation. Therefore, his only alternative was to resign. I explained that he should consider giving you the benefit of the doubt…but actions speak louder than words, if you will forgive the cliché.”

With a heavy heart, Bruce understood the man’s decision. “Starting tomorrow, I’m hiring private security to watch over Drayling’s entire family. The time has come to show the board members that I’m not completely harmless or incompetent. Once I do some housecleaning, maybe I can convince Drayling to come back.”

But first he had to gather his ammunition and investigate exactly what the nine remaining directors were up to.

AS THIS WAS WAYNE ENTERPRISES, BRUCE COULD HAVE WALKED
into the sealed Records Room and requested any folder he liked, but he didn’t want to tip his hand. For the moment, he preferred that his inquiries remain unnoticed—until he had all the proof he needed. Bruce hoped that the directors, believing him to be disengaged from the day-to-day administrative details of his own company, would have let down their guard.

After waiting until midnight, Bruce slipped out of his office and made his way down the dim halls. Most of the fluorescent lights overhead were off for the weekend; only a few flickered now, shedding an uncertain light. He moved through the shadows, cloaked only in his business suit. He could have donned his Batman outfit and returned to break into the building to do his detective work, but he had a better disguise here. Bruce Wayne had every right to be in Wayne Tower.

He had full knowledge of the building’s upgraded security systems; he had, in fact, studied every detail of the plans when he’d decided to install covert surveillance kits as well as adding back-door combinations to allow him to go anywhere throughout the building. He had also created a master key for himself that permitted access to any of the executive offices.

He began with Thomson’s.

The metal file cabinets were locked, but he picked the locks easily. He rattled open the first drawer and shone a penlight down on the neatly labeled manila folders. Recognizing project code names, he skimmed correspondence files, private calendars, and meeting notes, then inspected some of the more problematic categories. He flipped through memos, carbon copies, photostats, and handwritten notes on legal pads, items that Thomson had not even trusted to his secretary.

Bruce’s speed-reading ability was phenomenal, as was his retention, but his miniature camera was faster and more reliable, so he took microfilm shots of the pages that appeared important.

What were these men
really
up to? He needed to obtain proof of the LuthorCorp connection. He found copies of drawings for the jetpack prototype, body armor, reinforced structural suit, small rocket launchers—the projects he had quietly initiated as a surreptitious investigation into Superman’s abilities. Thomson had collated all of the projects from various divisions, putting the pieces together, probably for delivery to a LuthorCorp representative.

But Bruce didn’t see the smoking gun he needed. Not yet.

He prowled through each office one by one—Buchheim’s, Huston’s, McDonnell’s, Fitzroy’s. As he dug into their private records, he saw that some of these men had been embezzling the Wayne fortune, while others were using the guise of his legitimate corporation to engage in unsavory or illegal activities.

He knew it was just the tip of the iceberg.

He had spent so much time developing his Batman persona and fighting street criminals that he had ignored these white-collar thieves right in front of his face.

When he finished with his inspection in Wayne Tower, Bruce returned to the Cave with all the evidence he had gathered. He still needed rock-solid proof, not just innuendos. When he challenged the board of directors, he wanted to deliver a coup de grâce. He knew he could eventually find the proof he needed.

The night was still young, after all.

A
N IMPOSING FIGURE IN BLACK WINGTIP SHOES AND A
gray suit, Lex Luthor stormed down the corridor of his munitions factory. Seeing the expression on his face and the angry flush that bloomed along his bald pate, even his personal bodyguard Bertram gave him a wide berth.

Luthor much preferred the civilized comforts of America to the rough and raw Siberian wilderness. He had been in a good mood in the several days since his return to Metropolis. All of his plans had hummed along like good tires on fresh blacktop.

And now this gaping pothole.

He took the elevator from the administrative offices down to the manufacturing floor and walked briskly through the maze of hallways, past laboratories, noisy high bays, assembly lines, and shipping docks. He hadn’t spoken a word since learning of the infiltrator who’d been caught red-handed, and the men trailing him at a prudent distance prompted none. As far as Luthor was concerned, they didn’t exist. He despised people who didn’t respect his boundaries or his privacy. There would be an extensive shakeup in his security department for allowing this breach; he’d have Bertram look into the matter personally, and then he would take any necessary action.
Any
action, so long as it could be cleaned up later. Luthor despised mistakes. But that would have to wait for another time.

He finally arrived at the closed door of an employee lunchroom. Two straight-backed guards stood outside. “We didn’t want to do anything until you got here, Mr. Luthor.”

“At least
someone
is thinking.” He flung open the lunchroom door.

Lois Lane sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair, looking completely relaxed. She had served herself coffee from the percolator. Luthor took a moment to let his rage dwindle to a semblance of calm. He liked to appear in control at all times. Gadfly reporters—especially
this
woman—were a cross he had to bear, but now it was time to do some crucifying of his own.

On the lunchroom countertops sat thermoses, packs of cigarettes, lunch pails. When the whistle blew in an hour, workers from assembly line number five would pour into this room, gobble their food, relax for fifteen minutes, and return to work. Like drones, they performed their tasks adequately day in and day out. But people like Lois Lane made him angry. She didn’t know her proper place.

Seeing him, Lois flipped open her notepad and gave him an icy, expectant smile. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Luthor. Thank you for seeing me at last. As you know, I’ve been trying to get an interview for some time.”

“How did you get inside, Miss Lane? This is a heavily guarded industrial center working on U.S. military contracts. Did you fail to see the ‘No Trespassing’ signs?”

Lois shrugged. “Did you fail to read my numerous requests for a meeting? Our readers want to know what you’re up to.”

“The American public has no business looking into my private affairs.”

“The American taxpayers have
every
right to know how their money is spent. The defense of the United States is hardly a ‘private affair.’”

He scowled. “Since you have infiltrated this facility, I gather you’ve seen with your own eyes that we are manufacturing new models of tanks, artillery shells, and missile components for the Defense Department.”

Bertram shuffled forward to hand Luthor a small camera he had taken from Lois. With a stern frown, he accepted the camera, opened the back, and removed the film, unspooling it into the light. “I’m afraid your photographs didn’t turn out, Miss Lane. A shame.” He let the exposed film drop to the lunchroom floor, where someone else would clean it up later. He leaned closer, placing both hands on the lunchroom table. “Are you a Communist spy, Miss Lane?”

She laughed at that, pointedly ignored her camera and ruined film, and scribbled something on her notepad. “Let’s not waste the opportunity here, Mr. Luthor. You’re a very powerful man, and like most powerful men, you’re also very mysterious.
Daily Planet
readers are keen to hear all about one of Metropolis’s wealthiest and most influential citizens. For instance”—she tapped pen on paper as though considering what must have been a well-rehearsed question—“you often go on secretive trips to undisclosed locations. Why is that?”

“Your precious taxpayers aren’t entitled to know my social schedule. That’s why I own a private jet.” Luthor turned to a different and time-proven tack. With fake self-deprecation, he pointed to himself. “I’m not a rich playboy bachelor like Bruce Wayne, I’m not a celebrity, and I’m not some…man of steel—I’m just a business executive making a living.”

“I agree, Mr. Luthor—you are
no
Bruce Wayne. And certainly no Superman.”

He smiled with acid benignity. “That’s all I have time for, Miss Lane. I’m a busy man, and my hardworking employees will be going on their shift break in a few minutes.”

“Your young
male
employees.” If Lois Lane had a major fault, it was a poorly developed sense of tact, and she did not know when to stop pestering.

“
My
employees. Shouldn’t a woman your age be married, Miss Lane? Having children, starting a family? You aren’t getting any younger.”

He snapped toward the guards at the door, “Gentlemen, please escort this woman off the property. And that notebook will have to remain here along with the camera—this is a top-secret, classified facility. We can’t allow any possibility of espionage.”

The burly men grabbed her arms, and for a moment it looked as if she would actually thrash and struggle. But Lois apparently realized she would make an amusingly helpless spectacle as they dragged her off kicking her heels and flailing her arms. Instead, she angrily allowed herself to be marched out.

Once they had disappeared down the corridor, Luthor’s composure began to crumble. Extracting his handkerchief, he wiped a single bead of sweat from his smooth brow. Yes, he was greatly relieved that she had seen only the assembly line, the tanks, the large-caliber artillery guns, the missile nose cones. All those projects were perfectly legitimate.

Not far from where she’d been apprehended, though, Luthor maintained his secure administrative room, which held a large wall map, illuminated radar screens, and the information about his isolated Caribbean island base, not far from the Cuban coast.
If she had managed to get one floor higher in her prowling,
he thought,
that nosy bitch would have seen everything.

AFTER BEING GIVEN THE BUM’S RUSH OUT, LOIS BRUSHED
herself off, regaining her dignity. “Well, that went about as well as I expected.”

Blanche Rosen had been right on the money. Lois had infiltrated the facility through a delivery dock when all the men had been on their coffee break. She had slipped up the fire-escape stairwell and gone directly to the secret rooms. She had taken a roll of film already, stashed the small canister inside her waistband, and then sneaked to the lower assembly levels, where Luthor constructed his legitimate munitions for the army. There, she had allowed herself to get caught.

She returned to her rented car—another Ford convertible, but chartreuse this time—which was hidden in the trees outside the fence. Now that he knew he had a weak link in his outer perimeter, Luthor was bound to crack down. She wouldn’t get inside again, at least not that way.

Lois climbed into her car and slammed the door. The white canvas top was up, keeping the interior cool. She opened her glove compartment and extracted another notebook, then quickly wrote down everything she could remember, from quotes to details. She hoped the hidden roll of film would yield enough explicit information about what she had seen inside Luthor’s locked control room—the outline of the Caribbean island base, strange military plans, blueprints for exotic, high-powered weapons.

She felt in her bones that this could be the story of the decade, hopefully enough to take Luthor down once and for all.