The Dracula Caper

7

Sgt. Anthony Rizzo waited for his relief, warning his hands over the glowing coals in his pushcart. The sweet and musty aroma of roasting chestnuts rose from the cart, which had become a familiar feature to the residents of Bow Street over the past week. Each morning, he arrived at the corner with his pushcart, near the old Row Street Police Court, and many of the local residents had made a habit of buying a small bag of roasted chestnuts from him on their way to work. Dressed as an Italian immigrant, Rizzo addressed his customers in a sort of broken Cockney, a mangled dialect spiced with Italian phrases and delivered in a robust, gesticulatory manner. It was a "purloined letter” method of surveillance, based on the principle of being so completely obvious that one would be overlooked.

The streets of London were full of vendors and musicians. Around Covent Garden, it wasnot unusual to see entire string quartets playing in the street, collecting money in the battered cases for their instruments, which they placed open before them on the sidewalks. The costermongers were a prominent fixture on the city streets. There were ice cream sellers: fruit vendors; men selling various wind-up toys for children; balladeers who performed songs of their own composition, often based on headlines in the newspapers, then sold the sheet music: muffin men ringing their bells and the ubiquitous flower girls, who were usually not girls at all. but mostly elderly women wrapped in shawls. selling hunches of flowers or fresh buttonholes for gentlemen to wear in their lapels. Sometimes these street vendors were regarded as a nuisance, but no one ever objected to Rizzo's presence on Bow Street, because Rizzo did not disturb the residents with any vendor's street cries. He depended instead on the anima of the roasting chestnuts to draw his customers. It worked well enough and he usually did a nice bit of business in the morning, less throughout the afternoon, and towards evening, as people started to return home from work, business picked up once more for several hours. Meanwhile, he kept his eye on Tony Hesketh's apartment just across the street. Surveillance work was often very boring and Rizzo's stakeout was especially ennervating. Anything that could have made the long watch more bearable, such as reading a book or newspaper, was out of the question since it would distract him from his duties, so there was nothing for Rizzo to do except stand on his feet all day and sell his chestnuts, all the while keeping alert for any sign of Hesketh. By the end of the day, he was worn out. Someone would show up in the evening to relieve him, someone who could take advantage of the darkness and the fog for concealment and did not require a pushcart. Then Rizzo would go back to the Hotel Metropole command post to soak his feet and get some sleep. But now it was getting late and his relief had not yet arrived. His feet were tired and his back was sore. Rizzo was not especially worried. lie knew the team was being spread thin and relief would arrive as soon as they could spare someone, but just the same, he hoped they would send someone soon. He was tired and it would start to look unusual if he remained too late on the corner with his pushcart.

He sold a hag of chestnuts to a grey-haired gentleman in a long tweed Inverness and a bowler hat, apparently on his way out for the evening.

"Working a bit late tonight?" the man said with a smile.

Rizzo shrugged elaborately. "Aah. eez the wife, she 'ave 'er seezter comma to visit. All night long, ya-ta-ta-to-ta, like cheekens." He made rapid gestures with his hands, fingers together and outstretched, thumb and index fingers coming together and apart quickly in a representative gesture of ceaseless chatter. "Aah," he said. waving his hand in derision. I stay late anda sell my cheznoots."

" Don 't bl a me yo u on e b it, old ma n, " s aid t he ma n, grinning. "Know just how you feel. My sister-in-law's a bloody horror herself."

"Grazi," said Rizzo, accepting the man's money and putting. it in the little cash box on his cart. "Ciao, signori."

"Ciao to you, too, Sergeant Rizzo.”

Rizzo glanced up quickly. too late, his eyes focusing on the small plastic pistol held in the man's right hand. There was a faint chuffing sound, halfway between a cough and a hiss, and the tiny dart struck him in the chest. He

Simon Hawke

The Dracula Caper barely had time to realize he had been shot before he lost consciousness.

Pvt. Linda Craven crooned a Cockney song to herself while she sat on an overturned basket by the curb, making fresh buttonholes from some of her flowers. She wore a long dress made out of Connie black linsey-woolsey, lace- up ankle high boots with rundown heels, a black plush jacket, a long black shawl and a feathered hat. Every now and then, when someone would pass by, she would stretch out a handful of flowers and make a halfhearted, plaintive- sounding pitch, punctuated by a sniffle. and then she would return to her song, a song about how," loverly" it would be to have a room somewhere far away from the cold night air, with lots of chocolate to eat and an enormous chair to sit in. Sung in an ear-gratingly Cockney whine, it sounded perfectly in keeping with the time, even though it wouldn't be written for years to come.

There was still no sign of H. G. Wells. She felt utterly miserable about the whole thing. She blamed herself for having slipped up badly It did not occur to her that perhaps the mason Steiger hadn't given her hell was that there really wasn't anything she could have done about the situation. The odds of her having been able to prevent what happened would have been infinitesimal. Even if she had recognized Moreau, a man she had never seen before, it would have been necessary for her to notice him activating his warp disc, an action easily concealed, and move quickly enough to kill him before he could clock out with Wells.

It would have seemed rather incongruous, to say the least, if a Victorian woman had suddenly opened up on a man in a London teashop with a laser or a disruptor pistol, which was one of the reasons why she wasn't armed with one. If anyone in the teashop had wondered where the two men at the table by the window had suddenly gone, they would have been struck dumb by the sight of a man being killed by molecular disruption, briefly wreathed in the glowing blue mist of Cherenkov radiation and then disintegrating right before their eyes. Paranoia ran high at TAC-HQ. The warp discs they all wore were failsafed and, in ease of an emergency, there was an arms locker hack at the command post, likewise failsafed to self-destruct unless it was opened properly. To remain on the safe side, the team had been issued weapons more in keeping with the time. In her purse, Linda carried a Colt Single Action Army revolver, otherwise known as a. 45 Peacemaker. It weighed almost 3 pounds and it packed a wallop. It was an 1873 design and, although it would have been regarded as highly unusual for a young woman in London to be carrying such a gun, as a visitor from America, it was not beyond the realm of possibility that she might have one.

She knew what she would have to do if Moreau showed up again with Wells. She would have to make certain she could get a clear shot at him without endangering Wells or anybody else, which meant she might have to place herself in a position of vulnerability. She'd have to move fast and get in close, kill Moreau as quickly as possible and then either prevail upon Wells to return with her to the command post or take him by force. Wells would have to be debriefed. She had no doubt that she could handle Wells and she felt reasonably certain that she could take care of Moreau. After all, the man was a scientist, not a soldier. Still, it would be wry risky. There was a good chance that Moreau could return with Wells during someone else's shift on surveillance duty, but Linda hoped it would happen during her shift, so that she could redeem herself for having lost him in the first place. She didn't even want to think about what could happen if Wells never returned from wherever it was Moreau had taken hint.

She was only twenty-two years old, still a rookie, green and on her first mission. She was painfully aware of her lack of experience compared to the other members of the mission support team. She was thrilled to be working with the First Division's number one temporal adjustment team, but she also felt intimidated. Andre Cross was a legend in the service, as was Finn Delaney, already a veteran when she was still learning how to crawl. Steiger was Gen. Moses Forrester's second-in command and prior to that, he had been the TIA's senior field agent. She knew they couldn't have been happy to have a rookie assigned to their support team. None of them had said as much, but she was certain that on a mission of such importance, they would have preferred more experienced personnel.

Scott Neilson seemed to understand. Like her, he was a rookie, though he wasn't quite as green as she was and he seemed to think much faster on his feet.

"Look," he had told her one night while they were having dinner in a pub, "nobody's going to hold it against you that you're a rookie. They were all green themselves once. It's really very simple. You either learn fast or you don't make it."

"That's just what I'm afraid of," she had said. "It's not so much that I might not make it myself that worries me, but the idea that I might screw up due to my inexperience and it could mutt in temporal interference, a disruption or maybe even a timestream split. The idea of all that responsibility is simply staggering. The pressure's unbelievable. It gives me migraines:"

"And it makes you nauseous and upsets your stomach and you can't sleep and when you do sleep, you have recurring nightmares." Neilson said.

"I know, I've been there. They've all been there, except maybe Steiger. Nothing seems to bother him much, but then you've got to be pretty cold to be a TIA agent to begin with."

"So how do you handle it?” she said.

"You don't,” he said, "Believe it or not, after a while, it sort of handles itself. There's only so much pressure you can take before you either break or you just get used to it. You even become casual about it. You have to, otherwise you simply can't function. If you were the type who was liable to break, chances are it would have come out in your psych profile and you never would have made it this far. But almost everybody goes through what you're experiencing the first few times out to the Minus Side. Nobody expects a rookie to take it like a veteran. They're not going to cut you any slack, but they won't hold your inexperience against you, either. Anybody can mess up, even someone like Delaney, who's got more years in the service than both our ages combined."

“How long did it take before you learned to handle the pressure?" she said.

Neilson had laughed. "Are you kidding? I still have nightmares. Almost every night, except when I'm so exhausted that Idon't even dream. And I'll tell you a secret-I don't really believe that anyone ever learns to handle it. They just learn to live with it. It's no accident that the First Division has a reputation for being such a bunch of hellraisers in Plus Time. You get drunk; you fight: you fuck: you get into high risk sports: whatever it takes to give you an outlet for the pressure."

"What do you do?" she said.

"Well. I don't drink and I'm afraid I'm not much of a. fighter." Neilson had said. "I barely made it through combat training."

She had smiled. "So what does that leave?"

Neilson grinned self-consciously. "Well, actually, not what you might think. Iget into a lot of hand-eye coordination things.”

"Like what?"

"Quick-draw target practice with antique revolvers and semiautomatic pistols. Knife throwing, Darts. Sleight-of

"What's that?"

"Itused to be called close-up magic. Tricks with cards and coins and such." He had demonstrated by "walking" a coin across his lingers. "It requires lots of practice and concentration." he had said. "It takes your mind off other things and it sharpens your reflexes. Helps you think fast. Maybe you should give it a try."

"Well, antique firearms are noisy. I don't have any knives or darts. I'm not really in the mood for any magic tricks and Idon't much feel like getting drunk and waking up with a hangover." She smiled. "What does that leave? You want to run down that list again'?"

They had spent the night together and their lovemaking had been frenzied and intense. Afterwards, they went to sleep holding each other and, for a change, there had been no nightmares. But then Moreau had abducted H. G. Wells and now the pressure was hack on, savage and relentless. It felt as if her every nerve synapse were charged with adrenaline-induced, hair-trigger sensitivity. She was scared, yet at the same time, there was an intoxicating rush associated with it, almost an orgasmic high, the intense, heightened perceptions of a sword dancer. She didn't realize just how intense it was until someone came up behind her and addressed her in a deep voice. "Excuse me; Miss, how much for a buttonhole?"

It wasn't until almost a full minute later that she fully realized what had happened. None of it had taken place with any conscious thought. She had turned and, in a galvanizing, white hot blast of instinctual response, the sight of the gun had registered and she reacted, throwing herself to one side as the dart missed her by scant millimeters. She clawed for her revolver, fired-but he was already gone and the bullet passed through empty air where he had been standing just a second earlier and struck a lamppost, ricocheting off it and whining away into the distance.

“Damn!" she shouted. "God damn it! Jesus. And then she noticed several people on the street staring at her with astonishment and she felt the delayed stress reaction kicking in. She quickly hit her warp disc and clocked out, materializing in the Hotel Metropole command post just as the dry heaves began. At some point, she became aware of Delaney standing over her and holding her while she retched, gasping for breath.

"We're blown," she said. "Dammit, we're blown! Drakov almost got me!"

Delaney didn't even pause to wait for an explanation. He bolted into the other room to wake up Steiger and then Christine Brant was steadying her, helping her to the couch as the shakes began.

It did not occur to her until much later that she had survived an encounter with the Temporal Corps' worst nemesis. Nikolai Drakov had the drop on her and she had lived to tell the tale. She wasn't a rookie anymore.

Pvt. Dick Larson stood over the body numbly staring down at what was left of Cpl. Tom Davis. The corpse was lying in a crumpled heap next to a pile of refuse in the alley. Blood was everywhere, covering the chest and spattered on the alley wall. The head was barely attached by a few ragged threads of flesh. Someone… or something

… had twisted his head around completely, severing the spinal column, and then the body had been thrown across the alley. A large splatter of blood marked the spot where Davis had been killed and then another one marked the wall at about shoulder level where the thrown body had struck it and then dropped down to the ground.

"Thought you should sec this." Inspector Grayson said. "That's your friend Davis, from the Telegraph, isn't it'?" Larson nodded mutely.

"I'm sorry." said Grayson. "He seemed a decent sort. It looks as if he may have found our killer. Or the killer found him. I know the two of you were working together on this story. I thought perhaps you might be able to tell me what he was on to.'

Larson shook his head and turned away from the grisly sight. "I honestly don't know, Inspector."

"What was he doing down here?" Grayson said.

"Same thing I've been doing. I imagine,” Larson said. "Canvassing the pubs, questioning the locals. He must have stumbled onto something."

"Yes, apparently." said Grayson with a sour grimace. "Look, don't misunderstand me. I appreciate the restraint you've shown in writing about these killings and you've lived up to our bargain in keeping certain details confidential, but if you've discovered anything that you're not telling me, I want to know about it now."

"I wish I did have something to tell you, Inspector," Larson said, "but if Davis had uncovered something, he never had the chance to tell me."

"You're quite certain?" Grayson said, watching him carefully.

"Tom Davis was no fool," said Larson, "nor was he a hero. If he had learned the killer's identity, he would never have kept it to himself and he certainly would not have risked confronting him alone."

"Not even for the sake of an exclusive story?" Grayson said.

"Tom was much more than a colleague, Inspector," Larson said. "He was a close friend. I knew him. He wouldn't do anything like that."

"Well, I hope you're right," said Grayson. "I'd hate to think that a man died for something so foolhardy. I suppose the newspapers are truly going to scream about this. Losing one of their own and so forth. I don't wish to seem callous, Larson, but I do hope you will employ some discretion when you write your story. The manner of death is, after all, not quite like the others. There is no real evidence that the killer was the same."

"But you don't really believe that," Larson said.

Grayson looked down at the ground and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "No, I don't." he said after a moment. "Whoever killed poor Davis had to possess astonishing strength. Much like what happened in the courtyard, when those men were thrown about like so much chaff. Perhaps we'll be able to learn something from an examination of the body, but I'm almost beginning to believe that we may he faced with something beyond our ability to understand. There is some sort of horror loose in London, something that-" He caught himself and glanced up at Larson quickly. "I hope you will not quote me," he said.

Larson shook his head. "I have already forgotten what you said, Inspector."

Grayson looked relieved. "Thank you. My superiors are making things difficult enough for me as it is. For what it's worth, I promise you that I won't rest until I find this fiend and bring him to justice. And I shall find him. I swear it.''

Larson nodded and looked hack at the body. "I'll have to inform his… his family."

"Would you rather I do that?" said Grayson.

"No, I think it would be best if they were to hear it from me," said Larson. "I'd better go and see to it, before the news reaches them some other way."

"I understand," said Grayson. "Forgive me if I seemed a bit-"

“No need,” said Larson. "You have your job to do." "Yes, and I'd best be on about it," Grayson said. "Please pass on my condolences to the poor chap's family." "Thank you, Inspector. I'll do that."

Grayson looked at him strangely for a moment. ' Larson.. do be careful."

"God damn it, no!" Delaney said. "It's much too dangerous."

"We have no choice," said Steiger. "If we're blown, we've got to move the command post now and that means someone has to stay behind and get word to all our people."

"We know where most of our people are," Delaney said. "We could set up a rendezvous and clock out separately, pass the word on to everyone directly-"

"And what happens if some of them clock in while we're out looking for them?" Steiger said. "They'd have no idea that we're blown and they'd be sitting ducks if Drakov made a strike on the command post. Besides, I don't want to risk having everyone spread out all over the place. That makes us vulnerable. We have no idea where Davis and Larson are-"

"Davis is dead," said Larson, entering the room.

"What!" said Steiger. "How? What happened?"

"I've just left Grayson. They found Davis in an alley behind a pub in Whitechapel," Larson said. "His head was twisted around 360 degrees, practically torn right off his neck."

"Ransome must have talked," Delaney said.

"What about Ransome?" Larson said.

"He's missing," said Christine Bram. "He was late checking in and there's been no sign of him.”

"Drakov must have got a hold of him somehow," said Delaney. "We're blown. Ransome must have told him about the entire operation.'

"I don't believe it," Larson said. "Paul would never break." "The hell he wouldn't," Delaney said. "Be realistic. Anyone can be deprogrammed. How else could we have been blown?" "It might have been Rizzo," Andre said.

"Rizzo's missing, too?" said Larson.

Andre nodded. "I showed up to relieve him and there was no sign of him. I found his pushcart abandoned in the street. No one even had a chance to steal it yet."

"And Drakov made a try for Linda," Christine Brant said. "She got off a shot at him, but he was too quick."

"Jesus, — Larson said "tie's picking us off one at a time!"

"Which is exactly why I don't want everyone spread out now," Steiger said. "We've got to pull in and regroup. And the sooner we're out of here, the better."

The door opened and Paul Ransome walked in.

"What's going on?" he said.

"Ransome!" Steiger said. "Where the hell have you been?" "Checking out the estates on our list, as I was supposed to be doing," he said.

"You missed your check-in by four hours!" said Delaney.

"Yes, sir, I know," said Ransome. "I'm sorry, but I discovered something and I wanted to make sure before I pushed the button."

"What are you talking about?" said Steiger.

"I found Drakov's base of operations, — Ransome said. "He's at an estate in Richmond Hill."

The sprawling Victorian mansion stood atop the hill overlooking the Thames Valley in Richmond, Surrey. The furnishings were all still in place and the pantry was fully stocked, as was the wine cellar. Otherwise, the house was empty. If there had been any servants employed in the mansion, they were gone now. There was nothing to indicate that anyone from another time had been present in the house and. for that matter, the mansion didn't even look abandoned. It simply looked as if no one was home, but the clothes closets were all empty and toilet articles were missing from the bathrooms. On closer examination, they found where the security systems had been concealed and then hastily removed.

"That's it," said Steiger. He glanced at Ransome and nodded. "Drakov was here, all right, but he apparently cleared out in a hurry."

"Sir," said Larson, "take a look at this.- He showed Steiger a sheaf of newspaper clippings about the killings in Whitechapel. "They were lying on a table in the library. Along with this." He handed Steiger a handsome first edition of Dracula. by Bram Stoker. A book that Stoker hadn't even written yet.

"Cute," said Steiger. "Obviously left behind for us to find. He's awful goddamn sure of himself."

"It may not be safe for us to stay here," Andre said.

"You think Drakov would booby-trap this place?" Delaney said. "That's not his style. Much too impersonal."

"Maybe, but I wouldn't want to bet on that," said Steiger. "Be careful what you touch."

"So it was Rizzo, then." Andre said.

Steiger nodded. "It had to be. He's the only one left unaccounted for. We can probably assume he's dead by now. We'd better get someone down to the crime lab at Scotland Yard to warn Neilson. He'll be getting off duty there soon and I don't want him going back to the Metropole."

"What do we do about a new base-ops'?" Andre said. "If Rizzo's talked. we can't use any of our fallback safehouses." "I've been thinking about that," Steiger said, "and I have an idea. Probably the last place Drakov would expect us to use. And maybe it would let us kill two birds with one stone."

Ransome coughed and sagged against a doorframe.

"Ransome," said Delaney. "are you all right'!'

He nodded. "Yes. sir. I'm just tired, I guess. I'll be okay." "You look a little pale."

"Nothing to worry about, sir, I'm fine, really."

"We're all tired" Andre said. "And we're not getting anyplace. At this rate, we'll all be asleep on our feet soon. We need another safehouse. What did you have in mind, Creed?"

"Number 7 Mornington Place." said Steiger.

"But that's H. G. Wells' house!" said Christine Brant. Steiger nodded.

"Wells is the only really solid lead we've got. He's become the primary focus of temporal interference in this scenario. Forrester was right. We're going right back to square one. Moreau must have had a reason for abducting Wells. He's got to be in this with Drakov and they must have a plan for using Wells somehow,"

"But if Rizzo's been wrung dry, then Drakov knows we've been keeping Wells under surveillance," Brant said.

"And he also knows we've lost him," Steiger said. "He'll expect us to continue watching Wells' house and we won't disappoint him. Drakov won't expect us to be using a house we're keeping under surveillance."

"What about Amy Robbins?" Brant said.

— We'll have to keep her prisoner inside thehouse," said Steiger.

"But what are we going to tell her?" said Christine. "We don't tell her anything."

"I don't think that's wise, Creed," Delaney said. "I see what Christine's getting at. The poor woman will be terrified enough, it'll beeven worse if she has no idea what's going on. It would be easier if we could get her cooperation. If we get Wells back, he's going to have to be debriefed anyway and we can have her debriefed at the same time. And if we don't get him back. Amy Robbins will be the least of our problems."

"All right," said Steiger reluctantly, "but she doesn't leave the house for even a second. And she's to be watched every moment. "Sounds like you're taking yourself off command post duty." Andre said.

“You got that right," Steiger said. "We've lost two people and I'm not losing anymore. Brant, as of right now, you're in charge of logistics at the new command post. "Sir," she said, "with all due respect, regulations specify that the senior officer-"

"Screw regulations. I'm tired of sitting on my hands. Besides, since you're so concerned about Amy Robbins, you can babysit her. You're in charge and that's a direct order."

"Yes, sir."

"All right, Larson and Craven, you get to Scotland Yard and brief Neilson.

I'm pulling him out of there. If we're blown, then so is he. Wait till its dark and then get over to Wells' house. Make sure nobody sees you going in. We'll meet you there."

"What about Conan Doyle?" said Andre.

"I'm tempted to pull all surveillance off him," Steiger said. "We're spread too thin as it is. But if Drakov knows we've been watching him, he might decide to take advantage of our cancelling surveillance on him. No, it's too risky. And I want someone on Bram Stoker from now on, as well."

"I can handle that, sir," said Linda Craven.

"All right. You'll work shifts with Neilson," Steiger said. "Larson, cover as much ground as you can on your own and keep in close touch with Grayson. Andre, you cover Conan Doyle. Ransome will relieve you. Ransome, I want you to get some rest first. You look dead. Between the rest of us, we'll cover Wells' house, the docks and Whitechapel."

"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 heat 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 peck 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 voicesof 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."

"Icannot 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, weare 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 carne, she knew what she would have to do.