The Dark Knight Rises (3 page)

Then he realized that the ominous black plastic bag was already occupied. Bane unzipped the bag to reveal the body of a stranger, who nonetheless looked vaguely familiar. It took Pavel a moment to realize that the dead man was roughly the same size and age as himself, with the same swarthy complexion and unruly white hair. There was even a distinct resemblance to their faces.

I don’t understand,
he thought.
What does this mean?

Bane didn’t waste time explaining. He tore open Pavel’s sleeve, then reached into a hidden pocket in his own jacket’s lining, removing a length of surgical tubing. Hollow needles sprouted from both ends of the tubing. Bane kept a firm grip on Pavel’s arm. He palpated a thick vein at its crook.

Wait,
Pavel thought.
Don’t…

But it was no use. Bane jabbed the needle into his arm, expertly threading the vein on the first try. Pavel winced in pain. He had never liked needles.

What are you doing?

Swiftly taping the first needle in place, Bane inserted the other end of the tube into the arm of the corpse. Dark venous blood began to flow through it toward the dead man. Confused and horrified, Pavel watched aghast as Bane performed compressions upon the dead man’s chest,
drawing the blood into the lifeless body.

The scientist felt sick to his stomach.

Less than a pint later, the obscene transfusion was over. Bane withdrew the needle from Pavel’s arm and gestured for him to apply pressure to the wound to keep it from bleeding out.

Meanwhile, an armed mercenary plucked the hoods from his comrades’ heads, then took hold of the first captive and hooked him to a cable. He hung on tightly as it pulled them both up through the cabin toward freedom. Within moments, they had disappeared from sight.

So there
is
a way out,
Pavel realized. Maybe there was still hope for him—if Bane didn’t kill him first.
I need to get off this plane before it crashes!

The second prisoner, no longer bound, started to clip himself to a cable.

Bane shook his head.

“Friend,” he said gently. “They expect one of us in the wreckage.”

The other man nodded in understanding. Without a word of protest, he unhooked himself from the life-saving cable. He clambered down toward Bane and clasped his leader’s arm. His eyes glowed with the fervor of a true believer.

“Have we started the fire?” the man asked.

Bane squeezed his arm in return.

“The fire rises.”

Evidently that was good enough, for the man handed Bane the line. He clipped it around Pavel,
checking to make sure it was secure, and then produced a knife that he must have taken from one of his men— or perhaps one of the murdered American soldiers. Pavel gulped at the sight of the gleaming steel blade, imagining it slicing across his throat, but Bane merely slashed through Pavel’s seat belt, cutting him loose.

Gravity seized Pavel as he began to fall forward at last. He flailed in panic, searching for something to grab onto before he plunged to the bottom of the cabin.

Help me!
he thought.
I’m falling…!

They slipped free of the seats, hanging in the chaos, several feet above the cockpit doors and the bodies heaped there. Smoke and blood filled the cabin. Pavel wondered if the pilot was still vainly trying to regain control of the wingless aircraft. Loose bits of ash and debris blew against his face. His ears still rang from the explosion. His legs dangled in the air.

Bane took out a small hand-held detonator, and looked him in the eyes.

“Calm, doctor. Now is not the time for fear. That comes later.”

He pressed the firing button. Pavel couldn’t hear the click over the roar of the wind, but he definitely heard the explosions that released the CIA plane from the grapples. All at once, the entire cabin dropped away, leaving them hanging thousands of feet above the mountains. The man who had sacrificed his life fell with what was left of the plane, along with the pilots and the dead bodies.

Pavel stared down at the heart-stopping drop beneath them. The wingless cockpit and cabin crashed into the rugged wilderness, throwing up a huge geyser of dust and rubble. Fuel tanks ignited, triggering a fiery explosion. Smoke and flames rose from the wreckage.

Leonid Pavel, distinguished scientist and engineer, screamed in utter terror as he was hoisted into the sky.

CHAPTER TWO

“Harvey Dent Day may not be our oldest public holiday,” Mayor Anthony Garcia declared, “but we’re here tonight because it’s one of the most important. Harvey Dent’s uncompromising stand against organized crime and, yes, ultimately, his sacrifice, have made Gotham a safer place than it was at the time of his death, eight years ago.” Behind him stood a large mounted photo of Dent.

A fashionable crowd filled the moonlit grounds of the Wayne estate. Elegant men and women, representing the cream of Gotham society, listened politely to the mayor’s speech as they mingled and chatted amongst themselves. Bright lights dispelled the shadow of the looming manor in all of its restored Gothic splendor, revealing not a hint that the entire edifice had burned to the ground several years before.

Expensive jewelry glittered on women in designer evening gowns, who were escorted by men in tailored silk suits and tuxedos. Champagne glasses clinked. Waiters wove through the party, offering fresh drinks and refreshments. It was a beautiful fall night, and the weather was perfect.

“This city has seen a historic turnaround,” the mayor continued from his position at the podium. He was a lean man whose slick black hair and photogenic good looks had survived several years in office. “No city is without crime. But this city is without
organized
crime, because the Dent Act gave law enforcement teeth in its fight against the mob.

“Now people are talking about repealing the Dent Act. And to them I say…not on my watch!”

An enthusiastic round of applause greeted his words. Everyone in the crowd had benefited from the city’s improved climate. One could confidently invest in Gotham again, and expect to reap a handsome profit. Small wonder the mayor had been re-elected to a third consecutive term.

“I want to thank the Wayne Foundation for hosting this event,” he continued, humbly accepting the applause. “I’m told Mr. Wayne couldn’t be with us tonight, but I’m sure he’s with us in spirit.”

Or maybe he’s closer than we think,
Jim Gordon thought. The commissioner sat alone at an open bar not far from the dais. He was an ex-Chicago cop in his late fifties, with graying brown hair and a mustache. World-weary blue eyes gazed out from behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Glancing up at the stately marble façade of the manor house, he spotted a solitary figure gazing down on the festivities from one of the upper balconies. The figure was so still and silent that he might have been mistaken for a chimney, or a gargoyle, but Gordon knew a lurker when he saw one. He suspected that this particular lurker owned everything in sight.

“Now I’m going to give way to an important voice,” the mayor promised, snagging Gordon’s attention away from the lonely shadow on the balcony. The commissioner’s heart sank, and he wished he had time to fortify himself with another stiff drink. He fumbled unenthusiastically with the sheets of paper laid out in front of him, reviewing his handwritten speech one more time. He’d sweated blood over every word, but still wasn’t sure he had the nerve to read them out loud.

Then he braced himself for what was to come.

Am I really going to go through with this?
he asked himself.
After all these years?

“Commissioner.”

A hearty voice intruded on his reverie. Gordon looked up to see Congressman Byron Gilly muscling his way toward the bar. Judging from the man’s ruddy complexion, Gordon guessed that Gilly had already tossed back a drink or two…or three. He was a stocky man, flush with prosperity. His haircut probably cost more than a beat cop’s weekly salary.

“Congressman.”

Gilly glanced around the sprawling grounds. Manicured lawns and gardens, adorned with tasteful stone fountains and statuary, played host to the annual celebration.

“Ever lay eyes on Wayne at one of these things?”

Gordon chose not to mention the figure on the balcony. He shook his head.

“No one has,” a third party cut in. “Not for years.”

Peter Foley, Gordon’s deputy commissioner, joined them at the bar. A real up-and-comer, he was half a decade younger than Gordon, but was already making a name for himself downtown. Dapper and well-groomed, with thick brown hair as yet untouched by gray, he wore his tailored suit more comfortably than Gordon, whose attire was already rumpled despite his halfhearted efforts to dress up for the occasion.

Gordon glanced down at his clothes and grimaced. There had been a time when his wife made sure he was presentable at these affairs. But, then again, times had changed.

The mayor’s voice continued from the podium.

“He can tell you about the bad old days,” he continued, apparently in no hurry to surrender the spotlight. “When the criminals and the corrupt ran this town with such a tight grasp that people put their faith in a murderous thug in a mask and cape. A thug who showed his true nature when he betrayed the trust of this great man.” He turned toward the large color
portrait of Dent. “And murdered him in cold blood.”

Ignoring the mayor’s speech, Gilly grinned as he spotted an attractive young server who breezed by bearing a tray of canapes. A black maid’s uniform, complete with a pressed white apron, cuffs, and collar, flattered the brunette’s slender figure. She froze as the congressman rudely grabbed her derrière.

“Sweetheart,” he scolded her. “Not so fast with the chow.”

She turned to face him, deftly extricating herself from his grasp. A tight smile belied the indignation lurking behind her large brown eyes. She held out a tray.

“Shrimp balls?”

Gordon repressed a smirk.

The dig flew over Gilly’s well-coifed head as he snatched a pair of the snacks and stuffed them into his mouth. The maid quickly made her escape, not that Gordon could blame her. Congressman or not, Gilly needed to keep his hands to himself.

“Jim Gordon,” the mayor said, “can tell you the truth about Harvey Dent—”

Talking with his mouth full, Gilly nodded at the sheets of paper Gordon had been reviewing.

“Jesus, Gordon, is that your speech?” he said, spewing crumbs. “We’re gonna be here all night.” Gordon hastily covered the papers.

“Maybe the truth about Harvey isn’t so simple, congressman.”

“—so I’ll let him tell you himself,” the mayor concluded. He stepped away from the podium. “Commissioner Gordon?”

Another round of applause rose from the assembled partygoers.

That’s my cue
, Gordon thought glumly. He gulped down the last of his drink and made his way to the dais, feeling like a convicted felon approaching the gallows. He stepped up to the mike and took out his speech, even as a battery of doubts assailed him.

“The truth?” he began.

Unwanted, an ugly memory flashed before his mind’s eye. He saw Harvey Dent as he truly remembered him. The left half of Dent’s face had been burnt away, leaving behind a hideous expanse of charred muscle and scar tissue. A bloodshot eye, ablaze with madness, bulged from a naked socket. A ragged gap in his cheek offered a glimpse of exposed jawbone, while a strip of raw gristle stretched vertically across what remained of Harvey’s smile.

By contrast, the right side of his face remained just as handsome as ever.

No longer the crusading district attorney, Harvey menaced a small boy with a loaded handgun. The boy, Gordon’s own precious son, trembled in the madman’s clutches, trying bravely not to cry, even as Gordon pleaded desperately for his child’s life.

Unmoved, Dent flipped a coin. . .

Gordon forced the ghastly memory from his mind. He gazed out at the audience, wondering if they were finally ready to hear what he had to say. Harvey’s portrait, the portrait of a hero, loomed silently behind him. Gordon pondered his options—and his motives. Was clearing his own conscience worth risking all that had been accomplished in Harvey’s name?

“I
have
written a speech telling the truth about Harvey Dent,” Gordon admitted, making up his mind. He folded up his papers and stuffed them inside his jacket, close to his chest. “But maybe the time isn’t right.”

“Thank Christ for that,” Gilly muttered at the bar, a tad too loudly.

“Maybe all you need to know,” Gordon said, “is that there are a thousand inmates in Blackgate Prison as a direct result of the Dent Act. These are violent criminals, essential cogs in the organized crime machine that terrorized Gotham for so long. Maybe for now all I should say about Harvey Dent’s death is this—it has not been for nothing.”

The crowd clapped enthusiastically—all except for the figure on the balcony, who silently turned away and disappeared into the upper reaches of the mansion. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Gordon saw him vanish.