TW08 The Dracula Caper NEW (18 page)

"That's a lot of territory to cover," said Delaney.

"We've got no choice." said Steiger. "We were counting on the advantage of surprise, but Drakov's turned it around on us. Damn it, I wish to hell we could get some reinforcements." He took a deep breath. “Hell, it's worth a try. I'm going to clock back to base and see Forrester. We've got to have more manpower. In the meantime, if anyone catches sight of Hesketh, take him. Alive, if possible. The same goes for Moreau, but if you can't take him, burn him. As for Drakov and any of his creatures, they're to be killed on sight, regardless of the risk. Any questions?"

There were none.

"All right. Let's move out. We'll rendezvous at Wells' house."

Something was happening. Jasmine had no idea what it was, but something was clearly happening. She was far from ignorant of her grandfather's activities, the ones that had nothing to do with running the apothecary shop. Lin Tao was the head of the Green Dragon tong, a secret society of overseas Chinese which he had founded shortly after they first arrived in London. The organization had grown quickly and it had become the most powerful fighting tong in London. Its aims were primarily to help smuggle Chinese into England and to protect those already there. Even before he had left China, Lin Tao had learned how Europeans often looked down on Orientals and he knew that Chinese immigrants were frequently taken advantage of. And despite his advanced age, Lin Tao was not one to suffer insults meekly. He had once been a powerful man in his own country and now, in Limehouse, he had become a powerful man again.

From time to time, it became necessary for the Green Dragon tong to exert some influence. The police were familiar with the Green Dragon tong. That is, they knew of it and they had seen the results of some of its actions, but they knew almost nothing about its membership, much less who its leaders were. More often than not, the actions of the tong were never reported to the police. One such case was that of a factory owner who hired Chinese laborers, refused to pay them the same wages he paid his occidental workers and frequently had his foreman beat the "heathens," as he called them. "for good measure.” He also had some of the younger Chinese workers brought to his home, where his wife directed them in their household duties with the aid of
a
braided leather riding crop. The factory owner was requested to desist from these practices. He not only refusal but he redoubled his efforts.

One night, a group of masked men broke into his home. The factory owner awoke in his own bed to find himself bound and gagged his terrified wife beside him, likewise restrained. Neither the servants nor the children were disturbed. They were never even aware of the late night visit. The uninvited guests stayed for just under an hour, long enough to leave a souvenir of their visit tattooed on the lower abdomen of the man's beautiful young wife, just above an extremely private part of her anatomy. It
was
a very intricate tattoo of a coiled green dragon, about three inches long and beautifully executed. Thereafter, each time the factory owner attempted to have sexual relations with his wife, the sight of the tattoo brought home the memory of the late night visit and he was rendered impotent. Eventually, his beautiful young wife became quite proud of the tattoo. She delighted in showing it to all her lovers.

Of course, Jasmine knew nothing of such things. She knew the tong existed; she had long ago surmised that her grandfather was its leader, but she knew little of the actual workings of the secret group. She had never discussed the subject with her grandfather and his manner indicated that it was not a subject that was open to discussion. Jasmine had been raised in the traditional ways of her people. She did not question her elders. She did not speak unless she was first spoken to. But some things had changed from the way they might have been back in the old country. Jasmine no longer kept her eyes downcast when she was speaking to a man, unless that man was her grandfather, though in most other respects, she still followed the old ways—western influence was coming to her very slowly.

Every day now, men were coming into the apothecary shop—young Chinese men, men who were not customers—and they were asking for her grandfather in the most respectful tones. Her grandfather would peek out from behind the curtains and beckon them into the back room, where they would converse for a short while in soft, low voices, almost whispers, and then the young men would leave, bowing to her grandfather, some to come back the next day, some a day or two later, some only several hours later, and then the process would repeat itself.

Something was happening. The men of the Green Dragon tong had been mobilized. They were searching for something— or someone—and Jasmine was certain that it had something to do with Dr. Morro and the new gentleman, the Englishman named Wells. And somehow, Jasmine knew, the man named Drakov had to be involved, the evil man with whom Dr. Morro was obsessed.

She wanted to help in some way, but it was not her place to offer, much less admit that she even knew anything about it. Her sense of helplessness and frustration was causing her to lose sleep and it was because of this that she had overheard a conversation between her grandfather, Dr. Morro, and Mr. Wells.

She had been coming down the stairs, on her way down to the shop to get some herb tea that was good for sleeping. She had been barefoot and she was walking softly, quietly, so as not to disturb anyone else, when she heard the low voices of her grandfather and the two men coming from the back room. The man named Wells had raised his voice briefly, but was quickly silenced by Dr. Morro.

"Absolutely not!" said Wells, his voice lower, though no less intense.

"Herbert, please try to understand," Moreau said. "There really is no other way."

"I cannot and
will
not be a party to murder,” Wells said vehemently. "No matter what the man has done, we still have laws—"

"Which cannot possibly avail us," said Moreau. "What would you have us do, call in Scotland Yard and tell them that an insane renegade from another time has created a vampire and a werewolf, perhaps several of them, and released them in the East End? That the reason he has done this is that he wishes to create a disruption in the flow of time and alter history? That right here, in Victorian London, there are agents from the future, on the trail of this man and undoubtedly on my trail, as well, a fugitive from another time in a parallel universe? How do you think they would react to that?"

"Granted, if we told them that, they would be sure to think us mad," said Wells. "but we do not have to tell them everything. We need only tell them that it is Nikolai Drakov who is behind these murders and—"

"And where would be our proof?" Moreau said. "Even if we could supply it to them, don't you see, they would be as children to a man such as Drakov. They simply do not possess the skill, the intelligence, the experience or the technology to deal with such a man. There is not a jail in this time period that could hold him and even if there were, he is far too dangerous to be allowed to live."

"And who are
we
to make such a decision?" Wells said. "If we take the law into our own hands, then we become no better than Drakov. In that event, we must abandon reason altogether."

"Listen to me. Herbert," said Moreau, "I understand what is troubling you, but think a moment. This curious phrase, 'taking the law into our own hands,' what does it mean? What is the law, after all, but an agreement reached by men such as ourselves who, in the act of formulating the law, have taken matters into their own hands? It is not my intention to become embroiled in a philosophical debate with you. I have neither the time, the energy, nor the inclination. Drakov must be stopped and his creatures destroyed along with him.

“We are bound by an imperative far greater than any British law. But if you must have some form of justification for what I am proposing, then consider this: if a citizen of another country were to come to England, someone who is a wanted criminal in the nation of his origin, and if officials of that nation were to request his extradition so that this criminal might be tried under the laws of his own land, then there is a process whereby such a thing might be accomplished, is there not? Well, the three people who came to see you at your home are representatives of the law in their own time and they have come here to bring Drakov to justice for his crimes. For obvious reasons, they cannot approach the officials of your government and ask them for assistance.

“However, we are in a position to give it to them. It is our moral duty to do so, mine because I have given Drakov the means to do what he has done and yours because you respect and believe in the laws of your country, but have no recourse to them. If you will not take the law into your own hands, then avail yourself of the law enforcement agents from the future. In either case, it would make no difference, I can promise you. Either Drakov dies, by their hand or by ours, or we all die by his. The question is not one of principle, but of survival."

"The first question is that of finding the one we seek," Lin Tao said. "It may serve to consider the example of the Siamese fighting fish. When two males are present, they must inevitably do battle to the death. But if a third male should be present, he will wait until one of the first two combatants has died and then he will engage the weakened winner, thereby greatly increasing his chances of a victory. We would do well to emulate his example. Let us pit Drakov and these agents from the future against each other while we wait and watch. If these agents from the future should succeed, so much the better. If they fail, then we shall be fresh, strong and prepared to act. Let us not attract too much attention to ourselves while these other fish do battle. Our turn will come. In the meantime, we must locate our adversary's sanctuary and identify his minions. In that regard, we have already made some progress.

"I have had my people making discreet inquiries," Lin Tao continued, "and every Chinese man, woman and child in London has been enlisted to help us in our cause. Now it has come to my attention that a certain unused warehouse near the docks has been the site of some unusual activity. Although it is locked and apparently still empty, it has been visited by several people, always wry late at night, most notable among them being a certain wealthy gentleman. Sometimes he brings servants with him and they carry large sacks from their coach into the warehouse.

“One of these sacks was heard to moan. On two separate occasions, I have had men attempt to search this warehouse. They have not been seen again. I have had this gentleman followed and it has been reported to me that he has rooms at the Grosvenor Hotel. He does not answer to Drakov's description, yet his name is curiously similar. It is Count Dracula.”

"Dracula!"
said Moreau. "Are you absolutely certain?"

"Yes," said Lin Tao. "The name means something to you?"

"It does, indeed!" Moreau said. "Your people must be very careful, Lin Tao. They have found our vampire!"

Jasmine had listened, awestruck by their conversation, and then she quietly tiptoed back upstairs, all thoughts of sleep-giving tea forgotten. Sleep would now be an impossibility. She remained awake all night and by the time the morning came, she knew what she would have to do.

"Excellent," said Drakov, watching Rizzo through the iron bars of the cell. "He's young and strong, in peak physical condition. I was afraid he might not stand up to accelerated treatments, but he's doing splendidly."

Rizzo repeatedly threw himself against the bars of the cell, howling like a beast. His hairy, clawed hands reached between the bars, vainly trying to get hold of Drakov, his face was sprouting hair from the eyeball sockets down and his forehead was covered with new growth as well. His teeth were elongated and saliva dribbled down onto his torn shirt as he snarled, frothing at the mouth, biting his own lips with frenzy.

"He appears to be resisting the imperative programming." said the tall, dark, moustached man standing beside Drakov. He was wearing an elegant black suit and a long opera cape. There was a ruby amulet at his throat. He spoke with an Eastern European accent. "I thought you said that was not possible."

"It is always possible to
t
ry
to resist," said Drakov, "but in the long run, such efforts prove futile. Most people would be unable to resist after the first full session, however, this one seems to be one of the rare exceptions. He is using pain and rage to fight the conditioning."

“It seems to be working."

"Yes. Volodya," Drakov said, using a familiar, Russian diminutive form of the name Vladimir, “but for how long?" He smiled. "He cannot keep it up forever. And if we become impatient with him, all it would take would be another session and he would become completely pliable, just like his friend, Ransome. Rizzo seems to be made of sterner
stuff. One has to respect such determination. Let him resist. He is only prolonging the inevitable."

Rizzo growled and launched himself against the iron bars again, as if he could batter them down by such repeated assaults, but the bars were set deeply into the old stone of the castle dungeon and all he succeeded in doing was bruising and bloodying himself as he ran at the bars again and again.

"Keep at it, my friend," said Drakov, grinning at him. "The release of adrenaline and endorphins brought about by all this strenuous activity is only speeding up the change."

Rizzo screamed in anguish, but it came out as a prolonged, bone-chilling howl, like that of a wolf baying at the moon. The cry echoed in the cold, damp dungeons and became multiplied, as if joined by the howls of the tormented souls of all those long dead prisoners who had been tortured in the subterranean cells of the ancient castle.

They were not in London anymore. Above them were the ruined battlements of a medieval keep situated high in the Transylvanian Alps, a castle once occupied by the real Dracula, a warlord and a high-ranking member of the Order Draconis, founded by the Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund. Dracula meant "son of the dragon" and although the Dracula who stood at Drakov's side was not in any way descended from the warlord who had once fought the Turks and impaled thousands of them upon wooden stakes, he was in every other respect a true son of the dragon.