The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (5 page)

Quatermain had the impression he was being watched, a sense he'd developed
from long years as a hunter and explorer. A glance over his shoulder showed him
a young man across the street who wore an overcoat and cap to keep the rain off
him. The clothing also succeeded in hiding the young mans face, making him seem
up to no good; he was clearly enduring a soaking just to catch a glimpse of
Allan Quatermain.

Alas, he no longer had Nigel's playacting to cover him.

"If you please, Mr. Quatermain?" Reed said, urging him along.

They ascended the steps toward the museum. Passing between the museums stone
columns, under the ornate arches, and through the door into blessed dryness, the
two men walked with echoing, squeaking footsteps on the polished floor. Reed
snapped the umbrella shut and shook it. Rainwater running off their clothes made
the marble tiles treacherously slippery.

Quatermain looked around the Albion's dim displays illuminated by gas lamps
that had been lit early this afternoon because of the rains gloom. He saw
proudly displayed antiquities, statues, and assorted treasures. He felt a pang,
reminded somewhat of the dreary trophies hanging in the Britannia Club.

Brisk and officious, Reed led him directly to a wooden doorway marked NO
ADMITTANCE TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC. Fumbling with a fistfull of keys, he unlocked
the door and swung it open on groaning hinges. "This way, please. It's down just
a few levels."

The two men descended staircase after staircase into the bowels of the stodgy
museum. It was like stumbling through the prison caves of Ayesha, and with each
new level, Quatermain lost a bit more of his patience. "How deep are we going?
Has one of your explorers found a passage to the center of the Earth?"

The winding stairs finally terminated in a low brick corridor that looked as
if it had been modeled on the Paris sewers. A closed wooden door at the far end
blocked the hall. "I have done my part, Mr. Quatermain, and I will take my leave
of you now. Perhaps we will meet again." He motioned for the old adventurer to
enter through the door. "My employer will explain the rest."

The old hunter felt a prickle of hairs on the back of his neck similar to
what he experienced the times he'd entered the rank-smelling den of a lion.
Perhaps he would find predators even here, though of a different sort. He
hesitated, suddenly wary.

Reed stood at the door and waited, then cleared his throat impatiently.
Quatermain finally stepped inside, and the bureaucrat closed the door, plunging
the hidden private room into shadow.

To most men, this darkness would have disguised the rooms secrets, but Allan
Quatermain knew how to make full use of all his senses. He sniffed the air.
"I've come a long way to be playing childrens' games. Who are you?"

The red dot of a glowing cigarette gave the smoker away on the far side of
the room. His chuckle sounded like desiccated, rattling bones. "After Africa's
dry and sunny veldts, London's weather isn't improving your mood, I see."

With the turn of one knob on a small panel, blue-orange gaslight flickered up
close to a fiftyish man so gaunt that the shadows turned him into a skeleton.
His head seemed overly large for his thin neck, his brow heavy and solid. His
cigarette holder angled jauntily upward.

Quatermain was not impressed. "I asked for your name, not speculations on my
mood."

Slim and self-assured, the man sucked on the black end of his cigarette
holder and blew a long, gray breath. "I am known by many names, Mr. Quatermain.
My underlings call me sir. My superiors call me… M."

"M?"

"Just M."

"Not very adept at spelling, I suppose," Quatermain grumbled. "I hope your
superiors don't boast diplomas from Oxford."

"Charming." M was neither particularly annoyed nor amused. "I must say, the
delight is mine—meeting so notable a recruit to this newest generation of the
League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Thank you for joining us."

"League of… what?" Quatermain asked.

M turned more gas knobs, and the isolated chamber was fully illuminated in
dramatic pools of flickering gaslight. A long table was surrounded by sumptuous
leather chairs. "This is a most exclusive society, Mr. Quatermain. Membership is
rather difficult to come by."

The old adventurer was not enamored with the honor. He had just left the
destroyed Britannia Club and had wasted many days and nights in travel; he had
no intention of coming all this way to London just to become part of another
gentlemens' society. "I believe I've made a mistake in coming here."

"You will make a bigger mistake if you leave." M did not rise from his chair.
"Come, look around. It will give me a chance to explain."

The meeting room of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was filled with
exquisite sculptures, priceless paintings, the finest furniture. The
paraphernalia seemed more mysterious and intriguing than the pompous relics in
the main halls of the museum above.

"You see, Mr. Quatermain," M said, "there have been many times when a danger
upon the world required the service of singular individuals." With a cadaverous
smile, he gestured to group portraits of various adventurers from history lumped
together in their approximate eras. Quatermain recognized many of them, and saw
that he was in distinguished company indeed.

"The task has fallen to me to assemble another group of heroes for our modern
age. I am pleased to count you among them."

"It's like a shrine," the adventurer said, not liking the idea. He looked up
at a portrait of swarthy Richard Burton dressed as an Arab. "How very
curious."

"In its main exhibit halls and here in the private chambers, this museum is
full of the curious." M looked over Quatermain's shoulder, suddenly smiling as
another man entered. "And the extraordinary. Allan Quatermain, please meet
Captain Nemo."

Quatermain turned to see a thin and shadowy man quietly closing the door. He
moved with the silent grace of a cat, and his face wore the hard expression of
an age-wearied man, though he looked to be only about fifty years old. Nemo was
very distinguished in a blue uniform that combined elements of naval captain and
Indian nabob, with a sash tied at his waist. His skin was dark tan, and his full
dark beard extended to his heart. The blue turban on his head further marked his
Indian heritage.

"I know of Mr. Quatermain," Nemo said, without giving further details. His
voice was deep and smooth, like cool molasses.

"And I know of you, Captain," Quatermain countered. "Rumor has it that you
are a pirate."

Nemo turned a set of black eyes on him. He crossed his arms over his
uniformed chest. "I'd prefer a less provocative title."

"I'm sure you would."

M watched the two men, bemused, as if he saw visible lines of tension in the
air. He smiled.

"From one such as you, certainly, who stands as a symbol of the British
Empires domination of foreign lands—" Nemo began.

"I am neither a symbol, nor a slaver," Quatermain interrupted. His nostrils
flared. He himself had seen the excesses of colonial oppression, downtrodden
natives, cultures and societies railroaded into conformity "for their own good"
by the White Man's Burden.

Nemo noted his reaction with approval and reconsidered his initial
assessment. "Perhaps I have made a premature assumption. I have sufficient
enemies in the world. I do not need to make more."

Quatermain backed off and turned his attention to another portrait. "I'm
rather surprised, Nemo—knowing your history—that you agreed to this enterprise.
You struck me as being an… independent sort."

"Independence? Yes. I seek my peoples release from the British Empire."

From his overstuffed chair, M explained, "In return for Captain Nemo's aid,
we'll open a dialogue with the Indian government."

"That is reason enough, I suppose," Quatermain said.

"
One
reason," corrected Nemo.

"And the other?" Quatermain asked.

"Is my concern." Nemo stood rigid, clearly not intending to volunteer any
further information.

M stubbed out his cigarette in a terracotta ashtray. "Gentlemen, shall we get
started?" He tossed a large manila folder in front of Quatermain. It slid across
the polished table, and the adventurer picked it up, flipping through the
papers. Inside were pictures and dossiers of three people.

"What did Reed tell you, Mr. Quatermain? How much do you know?"

"He spoke of unrest." The old hunter paced back and forth beneath the
impressive portraits of his League predecessors as he perused the dossiers. "I
recommended laudanum."

M folded his bony, long-fingered hands together. "This trouble can't be
medicated, I'm afraid. Nations are striking at nations. England is on the brink
of declaring war against the Kaiser. Germany has vowed revenge against the
British Empire. France, Italy, Belgium, they all have swords drawn and armies
rallied. The slightest spark will set them off. It will be like a street brawl
on a global scale."

The dossier held intelligence illustrations of heavily armored land
ironclads, streamlined cannons, rocket launchers, and countless other machines
of war. Quatermain flipped through the pictures, his frown deepening.

M explained. "Many of the recent attacks were marked by the use of highly
advanced weaponry, amazing technological breakthroughs that have caused
unprecedented destruction. Each country denies its actions, despite clear
evidence to the contrary and many witnesses that firmly place the blame on other
governments." He cracked his bony knuckles with a sound like gunshots. "Europe
is a tinderbox. A world at war is a genuine possibility." Then M calmly
remembered his duties as host. "Sherry?"

"Always thought it a woman's drink," Quatermain said.

M poured himself a sherry, despite the other man's deprecations. "I'll alert
the servants they should begin brewing gin in the bath for you, shall I?"

"One doesn't brew gin. One distills it," Quatermain muttered.

Captain Nemo stood straight and silent, watching and listening. M took the
folder from Quatermain's hands and spread the pages on the table so they all
could see. "Our boys abroad have been hard at work to obtain all this
information."

"You mean your spies," Quatermain said.

"They've discovered that, despite the accounts of witnesses, these widely
separated attacks are all the work of one man who calls himself the
'Fantom.'"

"Very operatic. Does he wear a mask? Have a scarred face?" Quatermain
asked.

"As a matter of fact, he does."

The old adventurer's surprise and sarcasm deflated. He took one of the
leather seats around the table. "What's in it for him?"

"Profit. Sheer profit." M pointed to the illustrations. "Those ingenious
machines are the Fantom's creations, the work of experts he holds imprisoned. He
has captured the greatest scientists and engineers from various countries,
forcing them to develop new methods of absolute destruction—and his sham attacks
may be little more than extravagant demonstrations of his wares."

"Worse, the Fantoms' provocative strikes have every nation clamoring to
acquire the very weapons that assail them. England demands to possess them
before the Germans do. Portugal wants them before Spain. The French insist on
having them before the British. An endless circle."

"Then it is a race for arms." said Quatermain.

"While millions perish," Nemo said with an angry, resigned sigh. "My struggle
against War itself has accomplished little, after all these years."

"There's one last chance to avert war. The leaders of Europe will meet
secretly in Venice. They will expose the Fantoms' plans and reach an accord
against him. This summit meeting must remain hidden from all the patriots and
local warmongers who are ready to go to war. The greatest threat, though, comes
from the Fantom himself."

"Then you believe this Fantom will attack the conference?" Quatermain
said.

"If he can find it—and I would not doubt his ability to obtain such
information. By striking the secret meeting and assassinating the leaders of the
anxious nations, he will surely trigger the world-scale war he desires so
much."

"The I-types don't trust us, gentlemen, so we can't send in conventional
forces. We need a team to get to Venice and stop the Fantom." He closed the
dossier. "You have four days."

"Four days to reach Venice? From London? Impossible!" Quatermain cried.

"Let me worry about that," Nemo said.

Quatermain glanced at Nemo's file and understood. "Well now, four days it
is." He looked at the Indian captain with new respect. "Extraordinary gentlemen,
indeed."

"And in that four days you must also assemble the rest of your team." M
removed a pocket watch, flipped it open, and glanced at the time. "One of them
is late: Harker, the chemist."

"Well, he'd better learn how to tell time," said an unseen man, a new voice
that seemed to come from the air itself. "Its not so much to ask."

Quatermain looked about, mystified. The gaslight was bright, and he saw no
convenient shadows or alcoves in which a man might hide. "My eyesight must be
worse than I thought."

A new dossier dropped out of the air onto the others strewn across the
tabletop. "Your eyesight's fine. Heh!"

"No games, M," Quatermain warned.

"I told you our members were extraordinary, Mr. Quatermain," M said. "A while
ago a talented—albeit misguided—man of science discovered the means to become
invisible. A Mr. Hawley Griffin. Perhaps you've heard of him, even in
Kenya?"

"Yes, I recall the tale. But… didn't he die? Something about a mob
reaction?"

The unseen man continued. "He died, but his invisibility process didn't. I
stole the formula… and here I stand for all to see."

"Is this some parlor trick, M?" Quatermain, scowled, then abruptly flinched
as something invisible slapped him in the head.