“If Ronald McDonald were a real man, I’d marry him,” OPS Field Agent Abby Germain confessed.
Her partner, Lester Dawes, looked over his complimentary copy of USA Today at his partner, “Well, technically he is a real man.”
“Not the actor. I’m talking about the idea of Ronald McDonald. The personification of everything that is great about the restaurant that bears his name,” the tall, sturdy blonde unwrapped her second breakfast burrito and dredged it through a stain of picante’ sauce.
“This conversation has taken a Pulp Fictiony turn,” Lester shooed away a curious horsefly that was dive-bombing their table outside Abby’s favorite fast food chain.
“Ah, the only good part of that movie was Christopher Walken’s monologue.”
“Heresy,” Lester accused. Then he looked at his watch, “It’s five ‘til nine. You ready?”
Abby scrubbed her face with a wet-nap from her purse, “Let’s go.”
The duo dumped their trays into a nearby trash receptacle and went into the lobby of the huge smoked glass building that housed both the McDonald’s and the corporate offices of the Litchfield Life Insurance Company. Abby and Lester walked up to the security station that was built in the center of the lobby. Lester flashed his Office of Paranormal Security badge.
“I’m Agent Dawes. This is Agent Germain. We have an appointment to see Howard Gittes.”
Ten minutes later the two were ushered into a large conference room that was almost overwhelmed by a massive circular table. Gittes, his personal lawyer, and LLIC’s chief legal counsel were all present and talking quietly. All three stood when Agents Dawes and Germain entered.
Howard Gittes was a man of average height and unexceptional build. He wore his silver-grey hair parted in the middle and somewhat longish in the back, which made him look somewhat younger than his fifty three years.
“Mr. Gittes, I’m glad you could meet with us to answer a few questions,” Abby said.
“Hopefully it’s just a few,” Howard said, smiling, “I think today is going to be the day the bear gets me.”
The five sat, and after offers of coffee and danish were politely declined, the questioning began.
Abby went first, “How long have you been working here, Mr. Gittes?”
“Almost five months now. I’m the Executive Vice President of Claims Investigations. I help coordinate our company’s efforts to track down cases of insurance fraud. And before that I worked seventeen years for the Super-menace Prinicpal Undercover Directorate. You’ll have to get a Congressional subpoena for me to tell you the kind of work I did there. So far, so good?”
“Do you know a Randall Freehling?” Lester doubted the name would shake the former Director of SPUD’s Counter-Intelligence Division, but he tried anyway.
“Maybe. I don’t recall.”
“He was a former SPUD agent,” Abby offered.
Gittes’s lawyer spoke up, “Anything related to my client’s previous employment is confidential.”
“In the interests of national security,” Howard Gittes finished, not even bothering to contain his glee at being able to say that.
“Why did you leave SPUD so suddenly?”
“I don’t accept that my resignation was at all sudden. It was just time to go.”
Abby tried one last time, “Who owns Litchfield Life, Mr. Gittes?”
“Well, Ms. Germain, Litchfield Life is part of the Litchfield Insurance Group.”
“And is Zoxxon Oil one of the major clients of Litchfield?”
“What’s the relevance of this line of questioning?” LLIC’s counsel finally started earning his salary.
“It’s a simple question,” Abby shrugged, “One we can find out quite easily on our own.”
“You do that then,” the lawyer shot back.
“Do you know anyone who works for Zoxxon, Mr. Gittes?” Lester took up the charge.
“Just the man who pumps my gas,” Gittes still was unfazed.
“How about for their subsidiaries?”
“I don’t know. Name some of their subsidiaries.”
“Armordyne.”
Howard Gittes nodded, “I did at one point have contact with that organization, but it was in the capacity of my previous employment, and I’m afraid I can’t divulge any more information than that.”
Abby flipped her notebook closed, “Right. National security. Well, Mr. Gittes, thank you for your time.”
Everyone stood. Gittes asked, “Any chance you can tell us what this was about?”
“We’re tracking down some leads in a missing person’s case,” Lester gave the insurance executive their cover story.
“Is it the man you mentioned? Freehling?”
“Yes. He dropped out of sight last year. He might have ties to a terrorist group operating in the United States.”
“Really? Sorry I couldn’t have been more help.”
Abby thought she heard a bit of relief in his voice, but she wasn’t sure. His lawyers looked understandably nervous, though.
Once they got their car from the building’s garage they finally felt free to speak, “What a waste of time,” Dawes concluded.
“Had to be done, Lester. I hated tipping our hand to Gittes as much as you, but I think he bought our reason for asking about Freehling.”
“I just wish we had PC [probable cause] to tap his phone or computer.”
Abby squinted as she drove the OPS Ford Focus onto the Connecticut highway, “Get me my glasses, will you? The sun’s killing me here.”
When Lester reached into the car’s glove compartment, a folded piece of paper fell out. He picked it up. The message written on it was done in an elegant, feminine script:
Thank you for the distraction, dears. Let’s meet tonight to share what we’ve learned.
“Uh oh,” Agent Dawes said, “I think our partner has done something stupid. Or illegal. Or both.”
“Crazy foreign broad. We’ll never make the case with her acting like a Charlie’s Angel instead of real police.”
Maybe that’s been the goal all along, Lester thought.
*****
Mr. Epitome stowed what he thought he might need for the tasks ahead on the borrowed C-130 Hercules Transport Plane and flew off to Naples. The flight would take three hours, so in that time he contacted the city’s police and the American Embassy to guarantee cooperation with local authorities. He also read the faxed report describing the attack on the three OPS agents that brought him to Italy in the first place.
The men were in Naples to embed an undercover operative into one of the city’s Camorras. OPS knew that Factor X used these canny smugglers to help him transport stolen Russian technology to a number of clients. The particular gang being targeted was led by a Luigi Barbuscio. The plant, OPS veteran Roger Grasso, had begun his introductions to some of Barbuscio’s underlings. The reports indicated all seemed well.
Then the three men were executed while meeting in their car in a parking garage in the city’s business district. Someone had used some type of microwave projector and literally boiled them alive.
Epitome knew Factor X had to be involved. Barbuscio was a powerful caporegime, but was not suspected of using any type of meta weapons in his organization. Then there was the timing of the hit: the murder of 3 OPS agents who were of little threat to the Camorra dead or alive was a deliberate provocation directed towards the Exemplary Man. Normally Gregor Vassilych would not be so obvious, but perhaps he felt it was necessary to sacrifice one part of his organization to protect his client. This raised the issue of how much X had at stake in Sybia. The more the Russian was involved, the more potentially dangerous the situation was.
The pilot spoke from the intercom, “Sir, we’re approaching the field now. You’re going to want to buckle up.”
After the transport plane stopped on one of the tarmacs of the Naples Naval Base Epitome debarked, the file in his hand and a rucksack slung over his shoulder. A contingent of suits and naval uniforms met him almost immediately. One, a man from the Embassy, welcomed him.
“Mr, Epitome, it’s an honor to meet you. I’m Dwight Carson with the State Department. Just want to tell you you’re doing great things over there in Sybia,” the representative said.
“I don’t think our hosts agree with you, Mr. Carson,” Epitome kept walking, “There are a lot of protestors outside at nearly 3 a.m. waiting for a guest who was supposed to be unannounced.”
“Yes, well. The Embassy and the Neopolitan Police are looking to see how word got out. We have a car waiting at the terminal. Captain Seleasi and his men are going to escort us to the station. I know you want to get started right away-”
Mr. Epitome? a voice broadcast at hypersonic frequencies interrupted Dwight Carson. It was in English, dull, flat, and without trace of an accent. The Paragon of Power and looked towards the crowd of picketers.
Ah, good. You can hear me. Yes, my transmitter is among your adoring public, but I am afraid I am not. Follow my instructions though, and I will lead you straight to me.
Epitome did pick out the transmitter: a portable radio brought by one of the protestors.
“Who is this?” he whispered.
Are you speaking to me? Sorry, I can’t hear you. I only have a video link through one of the news cameras. We’ll get a chance to talk soon enough. Do you understand?
Mr. Epitome nodded, though he didn’t see any time for conversation when he and the mystery man finally met.
*****
….and this is the Palazzo Reale. Beautiful, isn’t it? My city is full of such sights. The Duomo. Castel Nuovo. Santa Chiara. A pity the Museo Archeologico Nazionale is still closed. I’m sure you’d enjoy the treasures within.
For the past hour Mr. Epitome had been rushing around Naples, following the directions of the man he believed was responsible for the death of three OPS agents; instructions that led to nothing more than an early morning tour of the city’s most famous sites.
This is my history. What honors your country’s past, Mr. Epitome? The Liberty Bell? *chuckles*. How quaint. I’m sure the rubes line up for miles to see a cracked musical instrument. You’re greatest monument was built by the French, for the love of God.
Epitome scanned the surroundings of the Royal Palace with his heightened senses for the radio transmitter that let his guide keep in contact with him. It was another portable radio, nestled in a tree.
I wanted you to see these things, to show you why we cannot fight here. Our battle will be epic, and I don’t wish to see my city damaged. There is a more appropriate place for gods such as ourselves to make war.
Finally he said something useful. Mr. Epitome ran west, out of Naples. It was ten miles to Pozzuoli, across the Campi Flegrei, the Phlegraean Fields where the gods of Greek legend battled the Titans to conquer back Olympus. He weaved his way past the fumaroles and steaming mud pits born by the Solfatora volcano and to the Flavian Amphitheatre commissioned by the Roman Emperor Nero nearly twenty centuries before.
Seeing the red, white and blue figure zoom into the coliseum that once seated 20,000 shut Cesare up. Briefly.
“Here already? We are impressed,” the man wore a navy blue doublet with open sleeves, high collar and gold trim, black breeches, and knee high boots. The duo that stood with him owned more modern attaire: the black leather and sunglasses look Epitome saw more villains and heroes wearing these days. He scanned the men with his X-ray vision, revealing that 75-90% of their bodies were replaced by metals, ceramics, and other inorganic compounds Epitome’s molecular vision did not recognize. They were cyborgs of a non-terrestrial design.
“I’m waiting to hear what you need to say so we can get this started,” the Paragon of Power clenched his fists.
The man in the Renaissance era clothing smiled, “Well, then, we won’t disappoint. I am Cesare. I lead the Camorra Machina. These are Alonso and Rodrigo. Lucrezia, recovering from surgery, cannot attend.”
“I don’t care what group of degenerate thugs you’ve named yourselves after. Tell me what I need to know.”
“I ordered the execution of your men.”
Mr. Epitome charged across the amphitheatre’s expanse, eager to face an opponent willing to openly defy him.
*****
Cesare raised his palm and the hyper-phosphorescent bulb concealed within discharged, flashing with the incandescence of a small sun. He then sprung 500 feet straight up.
Epitome was blinded momentarily, but could still hear the clicking of gears and hum of circuitry coming from the other two foes. He managed to clothesline the one with the corn rows (Rodrigo), knocking him to the ground. Then the super-patriot did a spin kick at the third. Alonso activated the akido program wired into what was left of his brain and blocked it with his forearm. He then grabbed Epitome by the ankle and twisted, sending the Exemplary Man spinning.
By now Cesare had reached his jump’s apogee, and in the brief moment before gravity reclaimed him, the cyborg refitted the weapon built into his left arm. The bulb shifted to a lens, focusing the energies the villain tapped into a pulse laser. Cesare strafed the hero as he still tumbled from the inertia of Alonso’s throw. Mr. Epitome was able to avoid half of the deadly blasts, while the remainder scorched and lacerated his skin.
Epitome’s vision had returned in time to make out that the figure rushing him was the recovered Rodrigo. He slashed a pair of machete’ in wide, elliptical arcs. The blades sang as micro-motors concealed in his digits vibrated the metal furiously. Cesare dropped to the earth behind Mr. Epitome and to his right. The Man of Might ducked inside Rodrigo’s swings in an attempt to disarm him. He slammed his foot down on his attacker’s own, grabbed his right wrist (an action that shredded his gauntlets and flayed the callused skin from his hand) and with his other hand jammed Rodrigo’s elbow upward. The force of blow shattered the mechanical arm and tore the upper leg from its knee.
Epitome lifted his boot off of Rodrigo and flipped him into Cesare. The two forms collided in a burst of vibrational and electrical energy. The leader of the Camorra Macchina tried to pull free from the tangled mess his cousin had become.
Alonso tried to help his allies. He kicked Epitome and followed that up with a barrage of strikes to the hero’s face and chest. Mr. Epitome bobbed and weaved his way out of the assault. He vaulted over his enemy when Alonso drew back to try another sweep kick. Landing in a crouched position the Star Spangled Splendor struck up and back with both of his legs. The “donkey kick” carried enough force to collapse the reinforced titanium chassis that protected Alonso’s torso and launch his inert form the length of the coliseum.
Mr. Epitome was on Cesare before he could charge his laser for a last ditch attack. He grabbed the cyborg by the neck and twisted. There was the sound of rending metal and blown fuses. Cesare lost his ambulatory control functions and collapsed in a heap when the American released him.
“Well, was it worth it? Being the sacrificial lamb for Factor X?” Mr. Epitome asked the spurting, leaking Cesare.
Cesare and his comrades did not respond. Instead they activated the program that would download their consciousnesses into an encrypted file deep within their mechanical cortexes. Their minds would be in hibernation until it was safe to be on line again.
Epitome, getting no reply, moved on. He pulled his communicator from one of his costume’s many pouches to contact the authorities. That was when he noticed his comm and all other electronics he possessed had been rendered useless by an electromagnetic scrambler. The link to the most important weapon he used, information, had been severed.
He should have noticed. It could have happened at any time since touching down at the airfield. The mad run around Naples made even more sense now. Emperor Scorpion wanted as much time as possible to mount a counterstrike against the American forces that invaded his country. Mr. Epitome hoped he hadn’t underestimated his enemies too much, because it would be another four hours before he could fly back to Sybia to confront them.
Next: The Gauntlet
cache-mtc-al08.proxy.aol.com (64.12.96.237) Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 6.0; AOL 6.0; Windows NT 5.1; Q312461)
