The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (14 page)

"If I didn't know better, I'd swear I already had," Jekyll said, shaking his
head. He looked at his fretful hands, expecting to see his nails blacken and
coarse hair sprout from his knuckles. But they remained his pale, damp, weak
hands and fingers…

He looked inside the case, afraid it might snap shut and bite his wrist. He
stared in surprise, then rooted around among the small glass bottles and
cylinders.

Jekyll looked sharply at his cabin door, expecting to see someone there. The
door was closed, and he was safe. But someone had been here.

One of the vials of his elixir was missing.

In Minas cabin at night, Gray produced a flask and a pair of delicate glass
cups. He poured a shot of the rich, tan liquid for Mina, then one for himself.
"Nightcap? It's the finest Spanish amontillado, very old. I found it inside a
walled-up cellar in an old villa."

"I'm not much of a drinker," Mina said. She licked the corner of her lips.
Unless its hot and fresh and red
…

She remembered strolling with Dorian Gray after dusk through the streets of
London, long, long ago. Her husband Jonathan had been dead for five years
already, slain while defeating the evil Dracula. Her own life had been filled
with shadows since then, her days of dazzling sunshine and carefree laughter
gone—

Dorian had seemed so suave, so self-assured… so full of himself. They had
walked through the gardens, playfully hiding and seeking in a convoluted
shrubbery maze, but Mina had had an unfair advantage over him, an animal
instinct that always allowed her to track her
prey. Dorian had quickly lost
interest in the activity, and next they had gone to the zoo after dark. Very few
other visitors walked the paths, and the animals themselves dozed, either
overfed or simply resigned to their fates. But as he and Mina strolled along,
the caged beasts grew restless. Tigers growled and paced, gorillas snorted and
hooted, an ibex and a wildebeest withdrew skittishly to the far corners of their
pens.

At the time Mina had thought it was her scent, the cloying air of death
around her, the dark aura of vampirism… but perhaps the animals had been just as
nervous about Dorian Gray.

The two of them had gone to the opera very late, dressed in their finest
clothes. Dorian had a private box, one of the plushest and most expensive in the
opera house. Mina had felt everyone staring at them, then turning away. She knew
of Mr. Gray's numerous dalliances with exotic women of all kinds, from dark
Abyssinian princesses, to beauties from China or Sumatra, to veiled Arabic women
who exuded tantalizing perfumes. By comparison, Mina Harker must have looked
terribly plain and mundane.

If she had shown her fangs, though, she supposed she might have been
sufficiently exotic.

Dorian had sensed the intriguing, special quality within her. Mina doubted he
knew the truth about her; but even if he had, she didn't think he would have
shown fear or loathing—only amused fascination.

They had eaten a large dinner at a very late hour, the darkest and most
comfortable time before dawn. Two thick steaks, rare and dripping—exactly the
way Mina liked them, since her change.

Afterward, Dorian had poured them each a glass from an ancient squat bottle
coated with dust from the deepest alcove of his cellar. The port wine was deep
crimson, thick and sweet. Like the blood of a nobleman…

Now, in her cabin aboard the
Nautilus
, he offfered her another
drink. "Just a small one, then." He passed the glass to Mina, and she took it,
absently clenching her powerful, alabaster hand. The fine glass broke, spilling
the amontillado and cutting open her palm.

"How clumsy of me." Her green eyes flashed as she looked at the open
wound.

Gray took her soft hand and dabbed it with his handkerchief. "We don't want
blood everywhere." He pressed the cloth hard against the cut.

"No," Mina said, her voice growing hoarse. "Not blood." She pulled away the
reddened handkerchief and looked at her own bloody hand, which quickly healed
itself. Her pulse began to race, her cold skin flushed, as if from some inner
fever. Her mouth was very dry.

Then! Mina looked up at Gray with clear intent. Their eyes met.

She let the red-stained handkerchief fall to the floor, her wound already
gone. They kissed passionately as they bumped the table, rattling but not
breaking her chemistry paraphernalia.

Seeking a safer place, they fell together to the narrow cabin bed.

While the engines hummed and an enclosed clock ticked on the curved metal
wall, Quatermain and Sawyer worked in the
Nautilus
library, digging
through the extensive reference material Captain Nemo had compiled in his many
voyages.

Sawyer scratched his head and tried to concentrate on the files, open books,
and hand-drawn maps he had retrieved from the submarines shelves and cabinets.
He had laid out everything that seemed remotely relevant to the Fantom, to
Venice, and to the secret meeting of the world leaders. In spite of staring at
it all for the better part of an hour, however, he still hadn't figured out how
everything connected.

Quatermain paced and drank a brandy, meditating on the problem at hand. "I
rarely have the opportunity to
ponder
a problem. In my day, I was
usually too busy either running or shooting or grabbing up treasure."

The young man had not touched again on the sensitive subject of Quatermain's
dead son, but he worked quiedy and diligently. He was also a member of the
American Secret Service, and he had an important mission. The old adventurer
appreciated his assistance, but did not open the doors of friendship more than a
crack.

"You know, Mr. Quatermain, when I was younger I served time as a detective,
solving crimes, unraveling mysteries." He flipped pages, but saw no revelations
there.

"Impressive," Quatermain raised his eyebrows. "Especially if you were just a
boy then."

Quatermain sipped from his brandy, then returned to the files M had provided,
as well as Nemo's extra material. "I'm sure solving our little mystery here is
well within your means." He bent over copies of the da Vinci plans, pondering
what possible advantage the Fantom could gain from knowing the details of the
submerged foundations. And what part did the kidnapped structural engineer Karl
Draper play?

Sawyer did not seem overly flattered by the adventurers confidence. "I prefer
to think of myself as a man of action, Mr. Quatermain. Book learnin' was never
my especial skill."

Quatermain sighed and set down his empty brandy glass. "Ah, yes, a man of
action. Adventure. I remember the lure, when all the mysteries of Africa were
impossible to resist. King Solomon's mines, the Lost City of Gold, the holy
flower, the treasure of the lake, and most especially Ayesha…" His voice trailed
off. "She was beautiful, immortal, insidious. Her followers called her
She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. Reminds me a bit of Mrs. Harker, in a way."

He paused, and Tom Sawyer looked at him with wide eyes. "I don't reckon Mina
would be too happy with the comparison."

"No, I suppose not. And then there was my Zulu friend and companion
Umslopogaas. Never met a braver, more loyal man in the face of outright danger,
whether it be lions or sorcery…"

He blinked shining eyes and suddenly brought himself back to the present.
"Sorry, lad—long ago I made up my mind to let Nigel tell all the stories. I
don't want to think about them anymore… and now Nigel is dead at the start of
this whole nasty business. I just want to bring it to an end."

Captain Nemo entered the library, bringing the conversation to a halt.
Beneath his blue turban, his eyebrows had drawn together in grim realization.
"We have been thinking along the wrong lines, gentlemen." He went to the book of
da Vinci drawings, pointing out key junctures. "The world leaders themselves are
mere pawns, not at all the target of this terrible scheme."

He quickly explained what he had realized, while Quatermain and Sawyer bent
over the plans, following the captain's rationale. Quatermain looked up gravely.
"So the Fantom doesn't intend to attack the secret talks at all."

"Not precisely." Nemo closed the book of plans with finality. "With da
Vinci's blueprints and Karl Draper's knowledge, he can set a bomb to blow
Venice's foundations to rubble."

"The Fantom's going to sink the whole city!" Sawyer cried. "He'll knock it
under the water."

"Yes, and thereby spark his world war," said Quatermain. "That's what he
really wants." His sinewy fist clenched. "With the most vital leaders gathered
there trying to reach an accord, there can be no other outcome."

The young American blurted the obvious. "Well, that's a lot worse than simply
shaking up a dull old meeting any day!"

The news didn't get any better as Jekyll appeared in the doorway. His voice
was shaky, his face flushed, his brow dotted with perspiration. "That isn't the
sum of our problems." He swallowed hard and ran a hand through his limp hair.
"Skinner has taken a vial of my formula!"

Tom Sawyer set his jaw. "I never trusted that invisible man."

"Are you sure it was him?" Quatermain said.

Jekyll's eyes darted from side to side. "Who else? You've seen how the sneaky
blackguard operates." His reedy voice rose, as if he'd caught just a flicker of
Hyde's personality.

A wall unit on the side of the
Nautilus
library chattered, and a
ticker-tape message reeled out of a thin slot. Nemo tore it off and scanned the
text. "Mr. Skinner's crimes will have to wait for the time being. Duty calls— we
have arrived at our destination."

Venetia, a picturesque city built on 118 islands in a lagoon on Italy's
Adriatic coast, boasted more than a hundred and fifty canals and four hundred
bridges. The proud history of the area stretched back more than fourteen
centuries, spawning world-renowned artisans, including the glassmakers of Murano
and the lace makers of Burano.

Tonight, the looming facades seemed to haunt the sluggish canals of
green-black water. Even the festive lamps and flower boxes overhead could not
dispel the ghostly, brooding impression. In the narrow, time-worn architecture,
specters seemed to hide in every shadow.

The distant music of Carnival throbbed from stages and plazas deeper in the
city, but the revelry didn't reach this eerie quarter of calm waters and fetid
smells. The
Nautilus
slid silently into the labyrinth of Venetian
canals, following a shadow of menace and urgency.

A potbellied gondolier, dozing beneath the meager shelter of his boat's
caponera, hardly stirred as the huge vessel passed him like a deep prehistoric
sea monster. The submarine boat left no sign of its passage other than a ripple
and a languid splash. The gondolier snorted, sat forward and blinked his eyes
wearily, then spat into the canal before settling back into his slumber.

The
Nautilus
dropped deeper underwater, to the sodden base of the
canals built many centuries before. The propellers turned, driving the armored
vessel past Venice's cavernous foundations, the same monolithic structures that
had been shown neatly in da Vinci's blueprints. Over the years, the caverns and
thick supports had become crusted with algae, silt, barnacles.

Looking strikingly fresh and shiny in the murk, a huge bomb had been bolted
to one of the largest stone blocks, its location precisely chosen according to
the da Vinci drawings and the calculations of Karl Draper. Here, it would cause
the most damage.

The device was wrapped in sheets of thick rubber that kept the deadly
explosives dry. Wires extended upward to the surface. A faint trail of tiny
silver bubbles rose through the murky water…

At the street level, deeper in the city, noisy Carnival celebrations ranged
from villa to villa. The crowds roared and laughed; many of the people didn't
know the reason for the particular festival, celebrating which saint or holy day
or medieval tradition. They simply drank and sang and enjoyed themselves.

Revelers crossed vine-strewn bridges, strumming musical instruments, drinking
from bottles of wine, singing slurred songs. Torches and banners were carried
aloft. Tumblers and minstrels evoked laughter from gathered spectators.
Streetlights shone around them, casting a bright glow over the all-night
celebrations.

Inside one of the impressive stone structures, though, the lights were
dimmer, the mood serious and somber. Wearing Carnival costumes to hide their
identities, a group of important ambassadors and world leaders entered according
to the secret agenda. Alert guards showed them to a secure conference room,
which was lit by large candelabras.

Suspicious of each other despite the reassurances of diplomacy, the men
removed their feathered hats and sequined domino masks. Outside, they had not
been noticed; the meeting would be completely discreet.

Three street-level windows had been shuttered for privacy. The room had been
a third-floor chamber when the villa was built, but now because of the
waterlogged city's sinking, it was at the level of the canals and the raised
cobblestone street. The lower rooms had already drowned, and the air smelled of
rot and mildew.

The important delegates representing France, England, Germany, Spain,
Portugal, Italy, and Russia, exchanged subdued greetings. Many of the men spoke
several languages; they had kept the number of interpreters to a minimum, to
help assure secrecy.

"Now, gentlemen," said the British representative when they were all seated,
"each one of us knows that the fate of the world may very well hang in the
balance this night."