The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (29 page)

But as Quatermain straightened, knowing he had made the right choice,
Moriarty sprang at the old adventurer and plunged Quatermains' own Bowie knife
deep into his back. He twisted the hilt, grinding the blade farther into the
hunter's lungs, questing for his heart.

With a disbelieving gasp, Quatermain dropped to his knees. Sawyer ran to him,
distraught to see his mentor fall, torn between attacking the Fantom and staying
beside Quatermain.

"I thank you for the game." Wiping his bloodied hands on his trousers,
Moriarty dashed over to where a wide crack in the tower wall offered escape.
Carefree, he jumped out into the open sky, soaring high above the ground.

With an angry shout, Sawyer rushed to the crack, seized the edge of the
broken stone, and pushed his head out into the cold daylight. He expected to see
the evil mastermind falling to his death at the base of the fortress.

Instead, Moriarty sailed gracefully toward a safe landing far below, his
black cape extended into a wind-resistant barrier, billowing out like the skin
of a flying fox.

"Not… over… yet," said Quatermain.

Sawyer turned to see the deeply wounded hunter staggering toward him. The
Bowie knife still protruded from the middle of his back; his shirt was soaked in
blood. But he'd had the strength of mind to retrieve his elephant gun. He
cradled Matilda in his hands.

He lurched forward. Sawyer grasped his arm and steadied him. "We need to get
you help. Got to find Mina, or Dr. Jekyll."

Quatermain shrugged him off. "No. No time for that." He reached the gap in
the tower wall and peered out through the crack. He reeled, struggled to focus
his eyes. He saw the black Fantom sailing to the ground. "There's the
bastard!"

Moriarty skidded to a landing and took off running across the snow-swept
field toward the half-frozen Amur River, where the curve of the stolen Nautilus
still poked up through the ice.

Quatermain held his rifle with trembling arms and tried to aim, but he
couldn't see. Slumping, barely able to stay on his feet, he fumbled in his
pocket with bloodstained fingers. When he drew out his spectacles, both lenses
were broken, the frames twisted.

With a sigh, he pulled Sawyer close so that they could stand together. "It's
on you now, boy." He guided the young man to help him take aim. "Look there,
find him. Show the bullet where to go."

Sawyer was uncertain, wracked with grief for his mortally wounded friend, but
Quatermain clenched him tightly until he submitted to the hunter's intensity.
The American agent leaned in and sighted down Matilda's long barrel.

"So, take your time. Last… chance."

Sawyer squinted, aimed, and adjusted the elephant gun. He concentrated, but
finally hesitated, unsure. "It's too far."

"No, you're ready," Quatermain said, urging Sawyer to aim again. "Got to be
ready."

Moriarty kept running, his black cape flapping like a bats wings behind him.
Every step carried him farther away, closer to the small submersible.

"Take. Your. Time." Quatermain squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the pain
and the tide of weakness as his life continued to bleed away.

By now, Moriarty was so far away that he seemed barely a black dot. Exactly
centered on the sight line. Sawyer accounted for breezes, the movement of the
target—and took the shot.

With a loud crack the bullet whistled away from the rifle. An eternity
passed.

Then… far off, Moriarty fell face first into the snow at the rivers
ice-crusted edge. The leather satchel filled with vital, stolen secrets
skittered along, teetered on the thinnest ice, then broke through and sank
forever into the frigid water of the gurgling Amur.

The Fantom's mask spun away, it's polished silver surface spattered with
blood. It came to a rest, the empty eye-holes staring up at the clear sky…

Up in the tower, Quatermain smiled with satisfaction. Then he collapsed with
a dying gasp. Sawyer knelt by his side. The young man's eyes filled with tears,
but there was nothing he could say, no way to help.

Quatermain clutched the front of Sawyer's shirt. "May this new century be
yours, son—as the old one was mine."

"Allan," Sawyer said. "No, wait—"

And with that, Quatermain died.

In front of the smoking, crumbling fortress, a British soldier raised his
head over the snowy slope. Beside him, another head appeared, peering at the
destruction. Then another, and another.

Finally, two hundred soldiers in winter uniforms marched together through the
snow: a combined British and American force that trudged across the wind-swept
steppes.

Several heavy icebreaker ships were moored in the far distance at a wide
point of the frozen Amur River. Slabs of white ice had ground up against their
armored hulls as they had battered their way up the half-frozen channel, until
they encountered the
Nautilus
. Soldiers and officers continued to
disembark, though all that remained were the mopping-up chores.

A few surviving henchmen and Mongolian guards fled into the distance across
the empty hills, searching for peasant settlements to pillage or take refuge in.
Black, greasy fumes curled into the sky from a collapsed chimney. With a low
rumble, another minor explosion blew out a side wall.

On their way back to the submarine vessel, the
Nautilus
's crew had
corralled hundreds of Moriarty's escaping workers and guards; other crewmen now
tended to the rescued scientists who were reunited with their hostage family
members.

An elegant portly gentleman disembarked from the largest icebreaker and
brought up the rear of the marching soldiers. He had a neat mustache and goatee,
a handsome face that had gained a fair amount of weight due to lavish living.
His clothes were elegant, a fine dinner jacket, plaid waistcoat, a pocket watch
on a chain. Reaching the top of the rise, he placed one ringed hand on his hip
and studied the spectacle of the Fantom's fortress.

Bandaged and battered, the remaining members of the League of Extraordinary
gentlemen, no longer part of the military action, waited for the soldiers to
meet them. They eyed the arriving troops coldly.

Quatermain's body lay nearby, wrapped in cloth. Tom Sawyer and Skinner had
carried it out of the tower and into the open.

"Coming to rescue us, are you?" Mina said with undisguised irony. "It's about
time."

The elegant gentleman smiled a warm greeting at her. "Sorry. Took us longer
to get here than we expected. Russia was none too keen on the sight of our
gunboats." He extended a hand to Mina and introduced himself. "Bond. Campion
Bond. British Secret Service."

"Dollar shy, day late, I'd say," Sawyer said, his voice raw.

"Ah, you must be the American," Bond said. "How… quaint. Though I must say
you've done quite a respectable job."

"Yeah. That's right." Sawyer was surprised that the elegant man knew him. He
imitated the others introduction. "I'm Sawyer. Tom Sawyer."

Bond glanced at his pocket watch to make sure the whole mop-up operation
continued on schedule. "Yes, I know who you are. We've had a spy among you for
the whole time." He snapped the pocket watch shut. The League members looked in
unison at Skinner.

"Rodney Skinner. On her Majesty's Secret Service." Skinners proud smile was
only visible because of the smears of grime that covered his transparent
face.

"Now I don't know what to believe." Minas' usually neat hair was disheveled
from her battles; her dress was in tatters.

"Or who to trust," Jekyll added, looking cold and miserable.

Uniformed scouts and army engineers scoured the remains of the fortress. Even
though the battle was already over, they were still needed for their muscle.
Groups of men carted equipment, engines, and war machinery out of the smoking
fortress and delivered them to the icebreakers. Campion Bond watched the work
with glee, as if he could barely wait to inspect all the new toys in his
possession.

Another contingent of soldiers took over tending to the former prisoners.
Nemo nodded his permission to his crewmen, and the soldiers led the hapless
scientists away, including Karl Draper, who refused to be separated from his
daughter Eva. They looked haggard, but comforted to know that their ordeal was
over at last. They had all seen the Fantom's body lying motionless on the
riverbank.

Sawyer watched the scientists go. "Taking them into care? They'll need
hospitalization."

"Oh, they'll be taken care of, all right." Bond beamed, looking immensely
satisfied. "Just so long as they keep up the good work—for us, of course."

Racing across the snow and panting white steam in the cold air, an aide ran
up from the nearest icebreaker. He clutched a flapping telegram in his hand.
"Mr. Bond, sir! We just received this in the radio room."

Bond scanned the message, his smile broadening. "Gentlemen, Mrs. Harker. The
Queen herself would like to congratulate you for your extraordinary actions, and
she proposes to induct you as a real league. What an honor!"

Sawyer wasn't entirely overwhelmed. He looked down at the wrapped shape of
the old adventurer's cold body. "I'd like to suggest a greater honor. Allan
Quatermain should be buried in Africa, next to his son." His voice was now hard
and determined. He raised his chin. "I aim to see that happen."

"And I would be honored to take you there," Nemo said. "My
Nautilus
is at your disposal."

Sawyer felt relieved, a small portion of the weight lifted from his
shoulders. He turned to his fellow League members. "Who else is coming?"

Mina smiled at the young man. She took his hand as they moved toward the
armored submarine vessel waiting at the edge of the Amur. After hesitating a
second, Jekyll joined them.

Skinner stayed with Campion Bond, though. Sawyer looked back, frowning in
disappointment. The other man shrugged his barely visible shoulders. "I am
nothing if not a servant of my Queen."

"Skinner," Sawyer said sternly.

The invisible man quickly changed his mind. "Coming!"

Bond's brow furrowed with sudden concern as he read the second half of the
lengthy telegram from London. He gasped. "Wait! You all may be needed anew!" He
raised the sheet of paper. "Scientists have discovered hot flares on Mars, green
flashes as if from launches of massive cylinders. The astronomer Ogilvy has
theorized it could be the sign of a Martian invasion."

Jekyll's watery eyes widened, then he chuckled. "That's ridiculous."

Sawyer scoffed. "Martian invasions like world wars are the stuff of fantasy."
Together, he and Skinner respectfully lifted the shrouded body of Allan
Quatermain and carried it toward Nemo's waiting vessel.

As the snow blew harder and harder, the League turned their backs on Bond and
began their trek back to the
Nautilus
.