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 the house," 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 be even 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."

"I cannot 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, we are 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.

8 _______

"Excellent," said Drakov, watching Rizzo through the iron bars of the cell.

"He's young and strong, in peak physical condition. I was afraid he might not stand up to accelerated treatments, but he's doing splendidly."

Rizzo repeatedly threw himself against the bars of the cell, howling like a beast. His hairy, clawed hands reached between the bars, vainly trying to get hold of Drakov, his face was sprouting hair from the eyeball sockets down and his forehead was covered with new growth as well. His teeth were elongated and saliva dribbled down onto his torn shirt as he snarled, frothing at the mouth, biting his own lips with frenzy.

"He appears to be resisting the imperative programming." said the tall, dark, moustached man standing beside Drakov. He was wearing an elegant black suit and a long opera cape. There was a ruby amulet at his throat. He spoke with an Eastern European accent. "I thought you said that was not possible."

"It is always possible to t ry to resist," said Drakov, "but in the long run, such efforts prove futile. Most people would be unable to resist after the first full session, however, this one seems to be one of the rare exceptions. He is using pain and rage to fight the conditioning."

“It seems to be working."

"Yes. Volodya," Drakov said, using a familiar, Russian diminutive form of the name Vladimir, “but for how long?" He smiled. "He cannot keep it up forever. And if we become impatient with him, all it would take would be another session and he would become completely pliable, just like his friend, Ransome. Rizzo seems to be made of sterner stuff. One has to respect such determination. Let him resist. He is only prolonging the inevitable."

Rizzo growled and launched himself against the iron bars again, as if he could batter them down by such repeated assaults, but the bars were set deeply into the old stone of the castle dungeon and all he succeeded in doing was bruising and bloodying himself as he ran at the bars again and again.

"Keep at it, my friend," said Drakov, grinning at him. "The release of adrenaline and endorphins brought about by all this strenuous activity is only speeding up the change."

Rizzo screamed in anguish, but it came out as a prolonged, bone-chilling howl, like that of a wolf baying at the moon. The cry echoed in the cold, damp dungeons and became multiplied, as if joined by the howls of the tormented souls of all those long dead prisoners who had been tortured in the subterranean cells of the ancient castle.

They were not in London anymore. Above them were the ruined battlements of a medieval keep situated high in the Transylvanian Alps• a castle once occupied by the real Dracula, a warlord and a high-ranking member of the Order Draconis, founded by the Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund. Dracula meant "son of the dragon" and although the Dracula who stood at Drakov's side was not in any way descended from the warlord who had once fought the Turks and impaled thousands of them upon wooden stakes, he was in every other respect a true son of the dragon.

He was a genetically engineered creation, born of human DNA which had been radically modified and raised through the expedient of time travel. Nurtured within an artificial womb, he had been born in a laboratory and then sent back into the past and given to a childless family who had been carefully selected and paid well to raise their very special charge. At prescribed intervals. Vlad had been brought back from the past to Drakov's laboratory once again, so that Drakov could embark upon the next stage in the development of his creation. Programming through cybernetic implants, surgical biomodification, serum treatments . . . for the child who was the first true vampire. years passed between the times he saw his creator, but for Drakov, it had been only a matter of days, hours or even minutes. Once he had planted his seed back in the past, he needed only to program his warp disc to take him back five or ten or fifteen years later, any interval of time he chose, to see his creation literally growing up before his eyes and guide its physical and intellectual development. And now that he had what he referred to as his "breeding stock" in the ironically named Vlad Dracula and Janos Volkov (the name meaning "son of the wolf''), he could use them to create others through the medium of infection in a fraction of the time. It could he done via an infectious bite, as had been the case with Hesketh, or with an injection of the genome taken from one of the creatures. And they were creatures, human in a sense, yet at the same time both more and less than human. A new and different species.

With Tony Hesketh, Drakov had decided to go the "traditional route." as he referred to it with amusement, following the elements of folklore associated with the Vampire myth—the seduction, the mutual drinking of the blood, sleeping in coffins during the day and establishing a psychosexual rapport with the victim. He found it useful to follow the traditions of the legend, to take advantage of Hesketh's susceptible and superstitious mindset.

In time, Hesketh would discover that whether he slept during the day or night was purely a matter of setting his biological clock and that a bed with clean sheets would be far more comfortable and would work equally as well as a coffin lined with "native earth." He had already learned that there was no reason for him to avoid mirrors, since his image was obviously reflected in them, and he had learned that crossing running water posed no problem, either. He would be able to enjoy as much garlic in his dinner as he wished and, if he chose to, he could wear a silver crucifix without the least bit of discomfort. Try as he might, he would never be able to assume the shape of a wolf or turn into a bat and fly, nor would he be able to transform himself into a mist and seep beneath a doorway. And, if he was careless, he would learn that a wooden slake hammered through his heart would certainly kill him, as would a knife stuck between his ribs or a bullet fired into his brain. But for the time being. Tony Hesketh functioned as the vampire of folklore, believing only that there were inaccuracies in the myth, that since he had no need to fear the cross, a mirror or a string of garlic bulbs, a vampire was even stronger in his "powers" than the legend would have people believe. And in his new "eternal life," Dracula was his spiritual guide. Hesketh would make the legend real and it did not matter much if he was killed, so long as he was able to infect at least a few more victims. They, in turn, would infect others, and it would spread. Biological warfare combined with murder and superstitious terror would achieve the desired result. The craving and the need for blood was real and it was that which would perpetuate the plague.

With Rizzo, as with Ransome, it was a different matter. No trappings of vampiric folklore for them. There was no point to it. They were the first pawns taken in a far more intricate, and for Drakov, much more personal game. Ransome was already infected with the vampire DNA and brainwashed through the medium of cybernetic programming to function as Drakov's agent. Rizzo would be next. Through them, Drakov planned to attack the temporal agents and, if he was successful, they would each become infected with a frightening disease.

"I would love to see the expression on my father's face when he realizes that I've struck back at him through his finest agents," said Drakov. "I will have disrupted the timestream irreparably and, at the same time, I will have shown them all the ultimate folly of their conceit, their insufferable arrogance in flouting the laws of nature."

"And when you have done this," said the vampire hesitantly, "what will become of us, of Janos and myself?"

"What do you mean?" said Drakov, frowning.

"It is a question I never dared to ask before," said Vlad "hut I feel that I must ask it now. Janos and I have talked of this and it is a matter of great concern to us. All our lives, we have been prepared for this one moment and now it is at hand. What shall become of us when it is finished? What are we to do? You now have Hesketh, Ransome and this man, Rizzo. Soon you will have others. You will have no further need of us."

Drakov put his hand on the vampire's shoulder. "You and Janos are like my children," he said. "You are my firstborn, Volodya. Did you think I would abandon you?"

"I did not know what to think," the vampire said. "I have always known that you gave me life for a purpose and I have always wondered what would become of my life once that purpose was fulfilled."

"It will become your own," said Drakov. "You will be able to go anywhere you please, choose any time you wish, pick any identity you like. I will see to it that both you and Janos are well provided for."

"And we shall be able to live as normal people do?" said Dracula.

"As normal people? What do you mean?" said Drakov. "The craving for blood," said Dracula. "The change Janos experiences every month. You will remove these?"

"Remove them?" said Drakov. "Don't be absurd! How can I remove them?"

"But ... you have made us as we are," the vampire said.

"And you think I have the power to turn you hack into ordinary men?" said Drakov. He chuckled, then shook his head. "Volodya, you disappoint me. Have you learned nothing in all these years? You can never be ordinary. I have made you extraordinary! You are a predator! A superior being! The first of a new race! You are stronger than they arc, mom intelligent, quicker and with a far greater life-span. You are a wolf among !sheep. How can you even entertain the thought of being like other men? Whatever gave you this ridiculous idea?"

"Wherever we may go and whatever we may do, we shall always be hunted," said the vampire. "We shall be hated and misunderstood . . . indeed, how can we even hope for their understanding when our very nature compels us to prey upon them? You taught us to kill them, so that we could avoid creating others like ourselves before the time was ripe, but now that the time has come, where will it end? Now that you want us to create others like ourselves, will there come a time when there are no more humans, only hominoids like us? Where shall we turn for sustenance then? We shall have to kill each other, feed on our own kind. What will happen then? What will become of us'?"

"You have intelligence," said Drakov impatiently. "Use it. It will be up to you to control your population. I have shown you how. Besides, even if you were to fail in that, it would take many generations before you would have totally exhausted your food supply. Humans breed quickly and they will always be a dangerous prey. I have not made you invulnerable. Unlike the Dracula of legend, you are not immortal. Although your life-span is far greater than that of any ordinary human, you can be killed far more easily than the vampire of folklore. In order to survive, you and your kind will have to become canny hunters, keen competitors. Your greatest weapon will be that humans shall find it impossible to believe in your existence."

Drakov snorted with derision. "The fools have always lacked imagination. A few short centuries from now, they will have killed off all their predators and eliminated all the diseases which controlled their population, allowing themselves to spread unchecked until their cities are all choked with life and their wilderness despoiled, their water not fit to drink and their air no longer fit to breathe. They will crowd together in increasingly dense concrete warrens, too many people in too small a space, and the stress of such proximity will affect their emotional stability and they will all start going mad. They will become base unstable creatures who will understand only the artificiality of their own urban existence. They will have lost touch with nature, having brought her to her knees, and they will forget how to survive. And then they will begin to die."

He glanced at the vampire. "In creating you and Janos, I have introduced a predator into their midst that is at least their equal in intelligence, if not their superior. One that will not be easily destroyed. I have done them all a favor."

He looked back through the iron bars at Rizzo. The transformation was complete. The werewolf crouched on the floor of the cell, exhausted from its efforts, its chest rising and falling heavily, saliva dribbling onto the floor as it panted like a dog, staring at him balefully.

"What a look!" said Drakov.

"He hates you," said the vampire. "He would kill you if he could."

"I do believe he would," said Drakov, "and do you know why. Volodya?

Not because I have transformed him, but because I have revealed him to himself as he really is. A loathsome animal. A predatory beast."

As I am a loathsome animal and a predatory beast, the vampire thought, but he said nothing. He merely stared at the pathetic creature huddled in the cell and felt unutterable sadness.

"Arthur, it's good to see you," said Bram Stoker, rising to his feet. It was early evening and the pub was crowded. Conan Doyle had worked his way through the crowd unrecognized. He approached the table Stoker was holding for them and took Stoker's hand.

"How are you, Stoker?"

"Reasonably well, Don't know that I can say the same for you, however. You look a bit the worse for wear. Sit down. Are you all right?"

Conan Doyle sat down heavily and leaned hack wearily in his chair. Stoker waved for another pint of bitters. "I have not been sleeping well," said Doyle.

"These killings have all of my attention at the moment. I can think of nothing else. The matter is driving me to complete distraction. I sit up half the night, smoking pipeful after pipeful, filling the room with a latakia fog, racking my brain, attempting to arrive at some sort of rational explanation for the whole affair, but every line of reasoning I try to follow leads me nowhere. Nowhere, that is to say, near an explanation that is rational. I have just come from Scotland Yard. There has been yet another murder."

"Another one!" said Stoker. "When?"

"Apparently sometime last night," said Doyle, pausing a moment while the drink was set before him and then lifting the glass and drinking deeply. "A young man, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old, found in the most appallingly disgusting condition. Decency forbids me to describe it. Yet the cause of death itself was almost identical to that of Angeline Crewe. Insult to the system brought about by a profound loss of blood."

"Human teethmarks on the throat?" said Stoker.

Doyle sighed. "Yes, I am afraid so. It seems certain that we are faced with two separate fiendish killers, and yet I cannot help feeling that these killings are connected somehow, despite the fact that we are looking at two different methods of murder. I have no sound basis for drawing this conclusion, but I feel it as an exceedingly strong intuition. You said in your message that you had some information connected with this case."

"Well, I knew, of course, that you were involved in the investigation," said Stoker. "Inspector Grayson took me into his confidence. Has he discussed our last meeting with you?"

Doyle shook his head "Not beyond telling me that the two of you spoke about that young man, Tony Hesketh, whom Grayson has been anxious to question in this case "

Stoker pursed his lips thoughtfully. "He didn't mention the name Dracula to you?"

"Dracula?" Doyle frowned. "What, you mean Vlad the Impaler? Oh, I think I understand. No, actually. it was I who mentioned the name to Grayson, while telling him about—"

"No, no. I did not mean in that connection," Stoker said. "Grayson mentioned the name while telling me about the conversation that you had with him, about the vampire legend and how it may have come about. No, what I was referring to was the fact that it was a name I recognized as belonging to someone I had recently met. An Eastern European nobleman whose name is also Dracula.•'

"Coincidence," said Doyle. shrugging. "Doubtless that was why Grayson never mentioned it. You mean that was all you had to tell me?" He was unable to hide his disappointment.

"Not quite." said Stoker. "This Count Dracula was in the company of young Hesketh when I met him. Also a coincidence? Perhaps. They came backstage to speak with Angeline Crewe. The Count seemed quite attentive towards Miss Crewe. She seemed to know him. Hesketh invited one of the other young women in the company, Miss Violet Anderson, to join them for dinner. The Count seemed quite attentive towards Violet, as well, and she did not seem to mind. All four of them left together. Now Angeline is dead, Hesketh is missing, and no one has seen Violet for at least a week "

"I see. How very curious. Has anyone inquired after Miss Anderson?"

"Sh e had sent word that she was ill•" said Stoker, "and we replaced her with an understudy, but when there was no further word from her. I became concerned and sent round to her flat to see how she was feeling. She was not at home and her landlady has neither seen nor heard from her."

"And you mentioned this to Grayson?" said Doyle.

"Well, yes and no," said Stoker. "That is to say. I mentioned having met a man named Dracula, because it seemed a singular coincidence when he brought up the name in that context, but it wasn't until after I had spoken with him that it occurred to me to look into Violet's situation, so I did not discover that she was missing until only this morning. under the circumstances, I became alarmed and, knowing you were involved, I at once sent word to you."

"Why to me and not to Grayson?" said Doyle.

"Well, frankly, because I know that you have already predisposed him not to consider certain possibilities inherent in this case I thought we should discuss the matter further."

"Precisely what are you suggesting?"

"I am suggesting that perhaps the reason you have not been able to find a rational explanation for these events is that there is no rational explanation."

Doyle set down his glass and sighed, shaking his head "Really, Stoker!

Are you seriously suggesting that there is sonic sort of supernatural manifestation behind all of this? That we are dealing with a werewolf or a vampire?"

"Perhaps both." said Stoker. "According to legend. vampires often have servants, familiars of a sort, to protect them during their periods of' vulnerability."

"Oh, come now, Stoker!" Doyle said. "What utter nonsense! Do you honestly expect me to believe that a 15th century Wallachian voivode has been resurrected from the dead and is now among us as a vampire? With some sort of lycanathropic manservant, no less? I fear you have become carried away by your own imagination."

"What was it your detective was so fond of saying." Stoker said, "that if you eliminate all the probable explanations, what remains, no matter how improbable, MUM be the answer? Something like that, wasn't it'?"

"Something like that, yes," said Doyle irritably. "However, we are still a long way from eliminating all the probable explanations. For example, has it occurred to you that what we are dealing with may be a madman who, in his perverse dementia, believes himself to be a vampire?"

"No, quite honestly, that had not occurred to me," said Stoker. He grimaced, wryly. "I must admit, it makes more sense than my own theory."

"Well, don't feel too badly about it old fellow." Doyle said. "That was not something that just came to me. In the course of racking my brain over these murders, I considered a number of seemingly outrageous theories. One was that the murders were accomplished with the aid of a trained gorilla. Another was the possibility that we could be faced with a madman who believed himself to be a werewolf. Interestingly enough, those werewolf killings, as Holcombe and I have started to refer to them, took place during the time of the full moon and they have apparently stopped now. But in their stead. we now have these vampire-style murders. As if . . ."

"What is it?" Stoker said.

"I am not certain," Doyle said. "Perhaps I've been infected by your active imagination. Stoker, but what if, indeed, the killer were a madman who believed himself to be a werewolf? According to legend, werewolves are active only during the time of the full moon, so if his delusion were associated with the lunar phases, then it would follow that the killings would correspond accordingly. And the werewolf murders have stopped now. However, what if our madman's compulsion to murder were so strong that he could not bring himself to stop until the next full moon? He would have to find some sort of justification that would allow him to continue killing and since he already believes himself to be a werewolf, could he not also convince himself that he was a vampire, as well?"

"And you say my imagination is overactive?" Stoker said. "Still. I must admit that it is a fascinating hypothesis. One that certainly sounds more rational than my own."

"Well, in any event," said Doyle, "I would say that, all things considered. our first order of business must be to speak with this Count Dracula of yours."

"Our first order of business?" Stoker said. "You mean I am to join you in this investigation?"

"You have already met this Count Dracula, whereas I have not," said Doyle.

"And surely you wish to get to the bottom of this matter."

"Indeed, I do!" said Stoker.

"Then we must seek out Count Dracula and confront him to see what we can learn. Do you have any idea where he may be found?"

"He has a box at the Lyceum," Stoker said. "lie attends our performances with regularity. I expect that we may find him there tonight. The curtain should be going up on this evening's performance within the half hour."

"Then there's no time to lose," said Doyle. "Come, Stoker! The game's afoot!

We must make haste to the Lyceum "theatre!"

• • •

Scott Neilson had left the crime lab early, much to the disgust of Ian Holcombe, who was rapidly coming to the end of his rope as a result of all these killings. Neilson had begged off on a pretext, anxious to get back to the command post at the Hotel Metropole and report the latest developments, so he was no longer there when Linda Craven arrived with Dick Larson to warn him that their cover had been blown and that they were moving the command post. Neilson had wanted to waste no time. There had been another murder, but this time Neilson had no doubt as to who the killer must have been. The corpse had been that of a young male, about nineteen years old, found nude in the bedroom of his boarding house. From the state of the body on the bed when it was found and the subsequent examination in the crime lab, it was obvious that the dead man was killed during a sexual encounter and the autopsy left no doubt as to what sort of sexual encounter it had been. It seemed certain now that Tony Hesketh had become a vampire and he had claimed his first victim.

A gay vampire, thought Neilson. What a diabolical creature to release upon Victorian London! Hesketh would be able to prey upon the male homosexual population of London with relative impunity. In Victorian England, with homosexuality still largely locked up in the closet, it would be almost impossible for the police to gather evidence about such murders. And those Hesketh victimized but did not kill would not be wry likely to report the assaults. Given the sexually repressed Victorian morality, a young man trying to make his way up in society would hardly admit to having been bitten in the neck and had his blood sucked by another young male. So he would doubtless hide the wound, and soon he would sicken as the infection spread within his body and a new craving began to manifest itself—an insatiable appetite for human blood.

Neilson also wanted to report that Conan Doyle had received an urgent message from Dram Stoker and had rushed off to meet with him. Doyle had crumpled up the note he had received from Stoker and thrown it into a wastebasket. Neilson had retrieved it at the first opportunity. From the message, it seemed that Stoker had stumbled upon something. lie was very anxious to discuss the case with Conan Doyle. The significance of these two meeting and discussing the murders could not be overlooked. Neilson felt that Steiger had to know at once. Only Steiger was not at the command post. No one was.

Neilson stood inside the empty suite in the Metropole Hotel, puzzled, uncertain what to do. The team had not checked out of the hotel, but the suite was abandoned. He could make no sense of it. Something must have happened, but what'? The arms locker had been opened and it was empty. There were no signs of violence, nothing had been disturbed, there simply wasn't anybody there. Neilson started to feel apprehensive. Something told him he should get out of there, fast. Just as he turned to leave, there came a knock at the door.

Neilson quickly reached inside his jacket and removed the Colt Model 1873

from its specially made leather shoulder rig. It was similar to the gun carried by the other members of the mission support team, a single action .45 with a 7 1/2 inch barrel. a primitive weapon by the standards of the 27th century, but Neilson was deadly with it. Trick shooting with antique firearms was his hobby, something he had learned from his father during his childhood in Arizona. and he felt far more comfortable with the heavy Colt than he would have with a laser His "fast draw" had been clocked at over a hundred miles per hour and, in one smooth motion, he could cock and tire a single-action revolver like the Colt faster than most people could fire a more modern double-action handgun. For safety's sake, the revolver's cylinder held only five rounds, so that the hammer could rest over an empty chamber. Otherwise, a dropped gun could easily go off. Having only five shots did not worry Neilson. If he could not get the job done with live rounds, he had no business carrying a gun.

He stood just to one side of the closed door, just in case anyone fired at him through it. The knock was repeated. "Who is it?" Neilson said cautiously.

"H. G. Wells."

Wells! It could be a trap.

"Just a moment," Neilson said, and at the same time, he yanked open the door, grabbed Wells with his free hand and pulled him hard into the room, ready to fire at anyone who stood behind him. But there was no one there and Neilson immediately shifted his aim to Wells, who had fallen sprawling on the carpet.

"Don't shoot.'" said Wells. Remaining motionless upon the floor, he raised his hands up in the air, his posture comical and awkward.

Neilson checked the hallway quickly, then closed and locked the door. He glanced at Wells and put away his gun.

"Really, you Americans!" said Wells, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. "I see you've brought some of your Wild West with you to London. Loaded for bear, I see. Or perhaps for werewolf? I have come seeking your three compatriots or whichever of you is in charge."

"Mr. Wells, my name is Scott Neilson. You obviously know a great deal already, but 1 have a feeling that we may be in danger here. Everyone else seems to be missing and it's not like Colonel Steiger to leave the command post unmanned. It is imperative that we go somewhere where we can speak safely."

"Have you a place in mind?" said Wells.

"For the moment," Neilson said, "the best solution seems to be to keep in motion, at least until I can figure out what's happening."

They left the hotel and hailed a coach. Neilson held the door for Wells as he got in, looked around quickly, then got in after Wells and told the coachman to drive them to Trafalgar Square.

The coach headed down Northumberland Avenue towards the intersection of Strand and Charing Cross Road, the central point of London, at the southeast corner of Trafalgar Square, where the monument to Lord Nelson stood. The coachman drove slowly, sitting atop his scat and smoking a bent Dublin pipe. Inside the coach, Neilson leaned back against the scat and drew a deep breath.

"I hardly expected to see you, of all people," he said to Wells. "How did you escape from Moreau?"

"Escape?" said Wells. "There was no need of escaping. I was never a prisoner of Phillipe Moreau. He is my friend."

"I wonder how much you know about your new friend," said Neilson wryly.

"I know that he is from another time," said Wells. "More specifically, from another time line, as I believe you people put it, a universe which exists alongside this one. I know that he had developed the techniques to create the creatures that you seek as part of a wartime laboratory effort known as Project Infiltrator and I know that he abandoned that project to work with Nikolai Drakov, whom you people from the future are pursuing. I have met three of you before, you are the fourth, but I do not know for certain how many of you there are. In any event, I have come to offer you my help and that of Phillipc Moreau."

"Jesus “ Neilson said, "he told you everything!"

"And I am satisfied that he was telling me the truth," said Wells. He had decided not to mention his trip into the future. "Your reaction merely confirms it."

"Only you don't realize that Moreau is the one behind all this."

"Apparently. Mr. Neilson," said Wells, "it is you and your compatriots who do not realize that Phillipe Moreau had nothing to do with these killings. He blames himself for having taught Nikolai Drakov the art of creating these creatures, but they were solely Drakov's work and not Moreau's. Moreau had tried to stop him when he realized what Drakov had done, how he had used him, and they fought. Drakov left him for dead, but Moreau survived and has been on his trail ever since. We met utterly by accident, when he came to the offices of the Pall Mall Gazette, in search of more detailed information about one of the murders. He had tracked Drakov to London and he was convinced that a hominoid had been responsible for the murder! He had no idea that he would find me there and, in fact, he did not know who I was at first. When I became suspicious, he tried to leave, but I would not let him. Then he found out who I was and decided to take me into his confidence. When I mentioned to him that I had heard the name of Nikolai Drakov before, and the circumstances in which I had heard it, he immediately realized who my three visitors had been and he told me that they were law enforcement agents from the future and that there might be more of you than just the three I met. He also told me that he was enormously relieved to hear that you were on the scene, because it meant that the chances of stopping Nikolai Drakov and his creatures were increased."

"And you believed all this?"

"Implicitly," said Wells. "Moreau warned me that you would be incredulous and I see it as my responsibility to convince you that what he told me was the truth."

Neilson exhaled heavily. "If all that's true, then why didn't Moreau come to us himself?"

"Would you have listened to him?" Wells said.

Neilson recalled Steiger's order to shoot Moreau on sight and shook his head.

"No, probably not. We would have killed him. And chances are it would probably have been the right thing to do."

"Chances?" Wells said. "You would take a man's life merely on the chance that it was the right thing to do? I see Moreau was right in not coining to you himself. What sort of people are you?”

"Not very noble ones, apparently," said Neilson. "And not very trusting, either, I don't think you fully understand just what it is you've become involved in, Mr. Wells. Liberal principles are something we just plain can't afford. There's far too much at stake. Even if what Moreau told you was the truth, and he has obviously convinced you, we simply could not afford to trust him. As reprehensible as it may seem, we could take the chance that killing him would be the right thing to do, but we could not afford to take the chance that trusting him would be. In the case of the former, if we were wrong, only one life would be affected and it would be a life that does not belong in this timestream. In the latter case, it could affect billions of lives and I am not exaggerating. We are at war and Moreau is the enemy. Given such a choice, what would you do?"

"War," said Wells reflectively. "Do you know what Oscar Wilde said about war as it may take place in the future? He said, 'A chemist on each side will approach the frontier with a bottle.' And from what I understand, he was far closer to the truth than he ever realized. I don't think I will tell him. He would be aghast at the thought of one of his cynically ironic observations reduced to a mundane reality." Wells shook his head. "And now it is I who am becoming cynical. I, who have sought to kindle a love of science in students, look about me now and see that we in this time are in the midst of a sort of 'disease' about technology and industry, that we are not certain what to make of it exactly, that it frightens us more than a little, and then I look at you and think perhaps that it should frighten us a great deal more. The forceps of our minds are clumsy forceps and they crush the truth a little in taking hold of it. That is why every scientific generalization is tentative and every process of scientific reasoning demands checking and adjustment by experiment. But you seem frightened by the process, afraid that the truth may not justify the risk. You would rather pulverize the truth in your clumsy mental forceps rather than take the chance that it may not bear out your hypothesis. What would I do if I were in your place, Mr. Neilson? I tell you frankly that I would take the risk, because to destroy a life so casually, merely on the chance that it might endanger others, whether it be millions, billions or even trillions, is to place all those other lives in jeopardy of the direst sort merely by the fact of setting a precedent for such a draconian philosophy."

Neilson sat silent for a moment. "You argue most persuasively. Mr. Wells," he said at last. "However, the decision is not mine to make. I am a soldier and I am under orders to shoot Moreau on sight."

"In that case," said Wells, "I shall have to make certain that Moreau stays out of your sight, at least until I am able to convince your superiors of the truth."

"But how do you know it is the truth?" said Neilson. "Have you any proof?

Isn't it possible that Moreau is actually in league with Drakov, as we suspect, and that they are using you as a pawn in their plan? Either way, we have to find Moreau. I have explicit orders concerning you, as well. You have been exposed to things that you have no business knowing. I have to take you back with me to my superiors."

"Only it seems that you do not know where they are,•• said Wells. "That would appear to pose something of a problem."

"And I can think of only one solution." Neilson said. "We have been keeping your house under surveillance. Unless something has occurred to change that, we're sure to encounter at least one of our people there. Whatever happens, I can't let you out of my sight. You know too much and you could be in danger.”

`"Am Ito take it, then, that I am your prisoner?" said Wells.

`"I would prefer if you thought of me as your bodyguard," said Neilson. "At least for the time being, until we can sort things out."

Wells nodded. "It really makes no difference. We both want the same thing. You want to deliver me to your superiors and I want very much to speak with them. I will put myself into your hands. Shall I direct the coachman to take us to my home?"

9 __________

The curtain had already gone up on the play by the time the coach pulled up in from of the Lyceum Theatre. Bram Stoker led Conan Doyle backstage, to a place where they could stand in the wings and peck out from behind a curtain at the audience in the theatre. Stoker pointed up towards a section of box seats to stage left.

"We're in luck," he said. "'There, you see? Third one over. in the welltailored evening clothes and opera cape, the chap with the downward pointing black moustache and widow's peak."

"I see him," Doyle said.

They spoke in low voices while Henry Irving declaimed his lines as Becket. performing as usual in his highly idiosyncratic, mannered style, his voice rising to the rafters, his gestures elaborate and flamboyant.

"Your count does not look very dead to me." said Doyle wryly. "However, there is, I must admit, a certain malevolence about him. The intensity with which he stares down at the actors .

"He has seen the play half a dozen times, at least," said Stoker, "and yet he keeps returning, seeing it again and again."

"Me

rely an avid theatregoer?" Conan Doyle said. "Or is there something about this play in particular which so impresses him?"

"I cannot say," said Stoker. "Henry noticed him about the third time he came back and asked me to find out who he was. When I discovered that he was a nobleman. I suggested to Henry that it might be a nice idea to invite him to the Beefsteaks. Henry thought it a capital idea, but the chap refused. He gave no explanation, he simply declined. He did so politely, but, well, after a response like that, one simply does not press the issue. I mean, after all--

"Yes, I quite understand." said Doyle absently, staring up at the man intently. Stoker suddenly had the impression that Doyle wasn't even listening to him, that he was completely absorbed by the man in the box "I want to speak with him."

"Perhaps we should wait until the intermission," Stoker said.

"It might be a bit awkward in the crush," said Doyle.

"Not at all,” said Stoker. "The Count has yet to leave his box during an intermission. He either remains there and converses with some guests or, more often, sits there by himself, staring fixedly at the curtain until it goes up once again. I'll take you up and introduce you."

They waited, watching from the wings. The audience was highly receptive to the play, and Irving's performance in particular. Irving's formula for success at the Lyceum was historical themes and the story of Thomas Becket was a familiar one to the English theatregoing public. He had adapted the play with Stoker's help from Lord Tennyson's work and Stoker had consulted with the great man himself in the process of bringing the drama to the stage. Irving spared no expense when it came to set design and costumes. His productions were lavish and the effort paid off in packed houses Shortly before the curtain came down for the intermission, Stoker led Conan Doyle around to the lobby and up into the tiers of box seats. They waited outside until they heard the audience applaud as the curtain came down, then went into the box. The sole occupant heard them enter and rose to face them as they came in.

"Good evening. Count," said Stoker. "I trust you are enjoying the performance? It has not palled on you by now?"

"Good evening, Mr. Stoker." said the vampire, inclining his upper body forward slightly in an abbreviated bow. "No, the play is as fascinating to me now as when I first saw it. There is something noble and compelling in its theme, the redemption of the soul. Mr. Irving's performance is inspired, as usual. I seem to find something new in it each time I attend."

"I am sure he will he pleased to hear that," Stoker said. "Allow me to introduce a friend of mine, Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle. Dr. Doyle, Count Dracula.—

"How do you do, sir," Doyle said, extending his hand.

Dracula took it and repeated his short bow. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Doyle, Are you, by any chance, the same Arthur Conan Doyle who wrote those fascinating stories about the consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"I am," said Doyle. "I am surprised that you would be familiar with them. To my knowledge, they are not available in the Balkan countries and I perceive by your name and accent that you are from Transylvania."

"An excellent deduction, Dr. Doyle." the vampire said, smiling wry slightly. He did not bare his teeth when he smiled. "No. regrettably, your work is not available in my homeland, but I have read your stories here, in the editions published by George Newnes, Ltd. I was sorry to read about the unfortunate demise of Mr. Holmes. Perhaps he may yet return from the dead, no?"

Doyle smiled. "An interesting turn of phrase," he said. "Return from the dead. No. I do not think so. After all, once people die, they stay dead don't they?"

"Except, perhaps, in fiction or in legend," Dracula said. "And the abilities of your Mr. Holmes are certainly legendary. Dr. Doyle. It would not surprise me if you were to inform us all that he had somehow cheated death and come back from the grave."

Doyle pursed his lips, maintaining eye contact with the Count. "Indeed. Speaking of legends, I am familiar with one from your own homeland, that of a certain Wallachian prince whose name you share. Vlad Dracula, also known as Vlad Tepes, the Impaler."

"An ancestor of mine," said Dracula. "Much maligned by history. I am afraid."

"You are saying that he did not kill all those thousands of people he is reported to have done away with so savagely?" Conan Doyle said.

"My ancestor lived in savage times," said Dracula, "and savage times demand savage measures. There are times when it is necessary to kill in order to survive. My ancestor was at war against the Turks. How many people has your British Empire killed in its wars for survival and colonial expansion?"

"A great number. I am sure," said Doyle. "Still, there is a difference between killing in wartime, on the field of battle, and torturing people in dungeons and impaling them on wooden stakes. I would find it difficult to justify such barbarous acts."

"Would you find it easier to justify the acts of your English privateers, pirates with a license from the Crown to pillage, rape and torture on the high seas and in the West Indies?" said Dracula. "And what of the acts of your English kings, such as Henry VIII and Richard III? Or the acts of your crusaders, for that matter? What of all the implements of torture that I have seen in your Tower of London? The thumbscrew: the rack: the iron maiden. Is your English history so free of bloodshed that you can throw stones at that of my own country?"

Doyle cleared his throat. "Your point is well taken. Forgive me. I did not mean to be rude. It is only that the senselessness of violence has been much on my mind of late, becoming something of an obsession. Apparently, I cannot even enjoy an evening at the theatre without dwelling on them. I am referring to these crimes in Whitechapel, the hideous murders the police have been investigating. I have been consulted by them, in a purely medical capacity, as they have been quite baffled by the manner in which the unfortunate victims met their deaths., As it happens, one of them was a girl who was a member of this very company. You knew her, Stoker, what was her name again?"

"You mean Miss Angeline Crewe?" said Stoker, picking up his cue.

"Yes, that was her name." said Doyle. “I understand you knew the young woman, Count Dracula."

"Yes, I knew her slightly," said the Count. "I had the pleasure of her company at dinner with some friends. A charming creature. A tragic loss. So young. So beautiful. So innocent. Have the police made any progress in their investigation'?"

"Well, I am not privy to all the details," said Doyle, "since they consulted me only in my capacity as a physician, but I understand that they are seeking several of her friends to question them about the case. A Mr. Tony Hesketh and a Miss Violet Anderson, I believe. I do not suppose that you would be familiar with them'?"

"Miss Violet Anderson was the other young woman in the aforementioned dinner party," said the Count, “and Mr. Hesketh was the other gentleman. I have attended the theatre with Mr. Hesketh on a number of occasions, as I think you knew already. Dr. Doyle. However, I have not seen him in some time. I think that he has gone abroad on business of some sort."

"And Miss Anderson?" said Doyle. "Have you seen her recently?"

"No, I have not," said the Count. "And I have already said as much to the police. Or are you pursuing your own investigation, Dr. Doyle?"

"I was merely making conversation," Doyle said. "It was you who asked me if the police were making any progress.”

Stoker pulled out his watch and held it up in front of him. "The second act will be starting in a moment," he said, holding the watch out almost level with his eyes. A small silver crucifix dangled from the watch chain.

"How interesting.” said Dracula. "You arc a Catholic, are you not, Mr. Stoker?"

"I beg your pardon?"

“I was merely noticing the little crucifix upon your watch chain." said the Count, smiling slightly. "It is of Eastern Orthodox design. A lowly little cross, may I see it?"

He reached out and touched it as Stoker held on to the watch, staring at him. He turned it slightly.

"Beautiful engraving. Was that purchased here in London?"

"I . . . I found it in an antique shop," Stoker said, his face flushed. "I took a fancy to it and . . . and had my jeweler attach it to my watch chain."

"Yes, well. I see the play is about to start." said Dracula. "Perhaps we shall speak again later."

The lobby emptied as the signal for the conclusion of the intermission was given and Stoker and Conan Doyle stood outside alone, Doyle smiling slightly.

"Couldn't resist, could you?" he said.

Stoker grunted. "I feel like a bloody fool.”

"Perhaps you should have eaten some garlic before we came and worn some wolfsbane in your buttonhole,” said Doyle, grinning.

"All right, no need to rub it in," grumbled Stoker. "I was obviously wrong, carried away by my own imagination. I made myself out to be an utter idiot. I hope you're satisfied."

"No need to be so hard on yourself. Stoker," Conan Doyle said. "I believe your instincts were correct. I strongly suspect that Count Dracula may be our murderer. However, what we lack is proof and that is what we must obtain and soon. We are dealing with a savage, brutal killer, a maniac, one so certain of himself that he plays at word games with us, teasing us like a coquette. I think we should follow our Transylvanian friend when he leaves the theatre tonight. Whatever we do, we must not let him out of our sight.••

"Who are you people?" Amy Robbins said. "How dare you force your way into this house! Get out this instant or I shall summon the police!"

Steiger took the woman by her arms and gently, but firmly, forced her down into an armchair. "I'm sorry. Miss Robbins, but I'm afraid we can't do that. We don't mean you any harm, but if you attempt to resist or cry out, I will be forced to restrain you."

"I remember you!" she said. "You're one of the Americans who came to see Bertie!"

"That's right." said Delaney, "and I was here, too, remember? Please don't be frightened, Miss Robbins, no one is going to hurt you. We've come here to protect you. Mr. Wells is in great danger and we need your help."

She looked from one face to another, panic-stricken, not knowing what to do. "Bertie's in danger? How'? Why? From whom? I don't believe you! Where is he?"

Christine Brant knelt down beside her. "It's a long story." she said gently,

"and one that you're going to find very hard to believe, but we can prove it to you. My name is Christine Brant. Sgt. Christine Brant. We are all special agents of our government, on the trail of a wanted criminal, a very dangerous man named Nikolai Drakov. He has an accomplice named Moreau and I'm afraid that H. G. Wells has fallen into his hands."

She shook her head, her eyes wide. "No, I don't believe it! Why would anyone wish to harm Bertie? He's done no one any harm. You're lying!"

"I'm not lying," said Christine. "It's true. One of our agents saw him being abducted. It has to do with the murders you've been reading about in the newspapers. We're here to try and stop them. Several of our people have already been killed. Now listen carefully. What I have to tell you is going to sound incredible, but it's very important that you believe me and try to understand. You must, if you want to help Bertie. Will you try?"

Mutely, Amy Robbins shook her head.

Christine took a deep breath and while the others checked out the house and set about making it ready as their new command post, she started to explain to the frightened and bewildered woman.

"Now what?" said Dick Larson.

"We go back to the Hotel Metropole," said Linda Craven.

They were standing outside Scotland Yard, having just been informed by an impatient Ian Holcombe that Scott Neilson had left for the day and that he might not have bothered coming in at all, for all the use he was being. Holcombe had no time for them, but they had learned all they needed to know. Scott Neilson had left early; he hadn't received word that they were blown and that the command post at the Hotel Metropole was being abandoned as a security risk.

"Not smart," said Larson. "We shouldn't risk it. What we should do is report back to Steiger."

"And meanwhile Scott goes back to the hotel, finds no one there and has no idea what's going on," said Linda. "I don't know about you, but I'm not about to leave him sitting there, vulnerable, waiting for someone to show up."

"What if he's not back at the hotel?" said Larson. "Then what?"

"Then we report in," she said. "The point is, Scott's wide open and it's our fault. Actually, it's Steiger's fault. He should have left someone on duty at the command post, just in case."

"He wanted to, but Delaney was against it and he was right," said Larson. "It would have been too risky. There was no way of knowing Neilson would leave the crime lab early. In any case, it doesn't matter now. We don't know where he is and we'll be taking a hell of a chance if we go back there now."

"And what about the chance Scott will be taking'?" she said. "Without even knowing it?"

"Neilson's a big boy," Larson said, "and he's not stupid.

When he sees there's no one on duty at the hotel suite, he'll put two and two together and figure something went wrong. He'll get out of there.•'

"Maybe," Linda said. "but I don't want to take that chance."

Larson gave her a questioning look. "You letting personal feelings get in the way?" he said.

"What if it was you?" she said.

"I wouldn't want anybody taking any needless risks on my account." he said.

"And I don't think Scott would, either. We've already got one member of the team at risk. If we go back to the hotel, that'll make it three."

"Fine," she said. "You don't have to go. Report in to Colonel Steiger. I'll go back to the hotel alone and if Scott's there, line. If not. I'll leave a message that we're blown and get right out of there and meet you back at Wells' house."

"And if anything happens to you, then Steiger will have my ass." said Larson. He sighed. "All right, we'll take a chance. I'll go back with you. But if he's not there, we report in, understood? We don't go running all over London looking for him."

"Fair enough," she said.

They went into an alley, out of sight, and programmed the transition coordinates for the suite in the Hotel Metropole into their warp discs. They clocked out together and appeared inside the suite, weapons held ready. The suite looked empty.

"Scott?" said Linda.

There was no response.

"There's no one here," said Larson.

"Maybe we should check the adjoining suite," she said. "Linda, there's no one here." said Larson.

The door to the adjoining suite suddenly flew open and Volkov fired. The dart struck Linda Craven in the chest. She collapsed to the floor before she knew what hit her. As Volkov quickly brought his gun to hear on Larson, Larson fired his resolver. The .45 slug took Volkov in the shoulder and threw him backwards through the doorway, into the adjoining suite. Larson felt the dart whiz by his neck, missing him by millimeters. He cocked the hammer on his revolver and started towards the doorway that led into the adjoining suite, but just as he approached it, Volkov came out in a flying leap, snarling hands outstretched towards Larson's throat. Larson fired again just as Volkov hit him and they both went down. Larson dropped his gun. They grappled, but even with two .45

slugs in him, Volkov's strength was superior to Larson's. He lifted him up off the floor and hurled him across the room. Larson struck the wall hard and fell down to the floor, stunned. Volkov grabbed him and lifted him high over his head. Then, with a roar of rage, he threw him through the windows. The glass shattered and Larson screamed as he fell to his death on the street below.

The blood was pouring from Volkov's shoulder and from the wound in his chest. He brought his hand to it and it came away wet with blood. He staggered and braced himself against the wall, his breath rasping in his throat. Even though he was in human form, Volkov started to whimper like a dog. Linda Craven lay unconscious on the floor. Volkov moved towards her, unsteadily, gasping for breath, blood frothing on his mouth. He collapsed just as he reached her, falling down on top of her.

Moreau wasn't taking any chances. He did not think Wells would betray him to the temporal agents, but there were ways of making men talk who didn't wish to and if they put Wells through a debriefing session, Wells would have no choice but to reveal Moreau's hideout above the apothecary shop. It was time to move. Lin Tao would accompany him, leaving the apothecary shop in Jasmine's hands. If the temporal agents questioned Jasmine, she would not be able to tell them anything, since she had been kept ignorant of the whole affair. Or at least so Lin Tao and Moreau believed, not realizing that since the first time she accidentally overheard them talking, she had made a habit of going upstairs to bed and then sneaking hack down quietly to eavesdrop on their discussions. They told her they would be away for some time and that, if she needed any help, she could count on Chan, a young member of the Green Dragon tong who would stay with her while they were gone. Chan would protect her and just to be on the safe side, they made sure he did not know where they were going, so even if Wells proved unable to convince the temporal agents and they traced Moreau to the apothecary shop, the trail would end there. However, neither of them had counted on Jasmine's growing sense of independence, nor had Lin Tao anticipated the full effect of western culture on his late-blooming granddaughter.

To both men, Jasmine was no more than a child, sheltered and naïve, and in some respects, she was just that. But at nineteen, she possessed the body if not the emotional development of a full-grown woman. And though, in some respects, Jasmine had led a sheltered life, she had lived in two widely divergent cultures and knew more about the world than many other young women her age. What she didn't know, she filled in with her imagination, fueled by her private fantasies and by the novels she purchased without telling her grandfather—for fear that he might disapprove—and read at night in the privacy of her room above the shop.

And Lin Tao would indeed have strongly disapproved of the works his granddaughter had chosen to complete her western education, novels such as Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary and Thomas Hardy's Return of the Native and Tess of the D'Urbervilles, works that were highly controversial in the atmosphere of Victorian morality, works which dealt openly and frankly with themes such as lust, adultery, illegitimate birth and murder. Flaubert had been brought to trial on the basis of his novel's alleged immorality and narrowly acquitted and Hardy's work had scandalized proper Victorians. Jasmine had even read Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde, but it was Hardy who had captured her imagination, with his tragically romantic heroines. Their grand frustrated passions became Jasmine's own. In her mind, she and Moreau were lovers linked by destiny, despite the fact that Moreau was completely ignorant of her feelings towards him. That made it even more romantic and now there was the added impetus of her "lover" being in danger. Like her literary role models. Jasmine was prepared to throw everything else aside and give way before the torrent of her feelings. But unlike the women of Hardy and Flaubert, she was Chinese, with oriental values, and her outward delicacy was not an indication of fragility. She was not going to remain idle at home while the two people she caredl about the most went out to risk their lives. The decision made, escaping from the watchful gaze of Chan was simple. She made an infusion of spearmint and chamomile, sweetened with honey. Into Chan's cup, she stirred ten drops of her grandfather's favorite sleeping draught—a tincture of opium and belladonna. The honey masked its bitter flavor and the opium-laced tea quickly did its work. The moment Chan dozed off, she ran upstairs and changed her clothing, then slipped out of the shop. She had heard them talking and she knew where they had gone. What she did not know, exactly, was what she would do when she arrived there. She had never before been to a house of prostitution.

The last thing Neilson expected when Amy Robbins opened the door of the house on Mornington Place was to find Sgt. Christine Brant standing just inside the doorway, armed with a disruptor pistol.

Amy Robbins rushed up to Wells and threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, thank God!" she said. "Thank God you're safe! They told me that you had been abducted!"

"I'm perfectly all right," said Wells. "What's happening here? Who is this woman?"

"She's one of us," said Neilson quickly. "What's going on? There was no one at the command post—"

"We're blown," she said. "We've moved the command past here."

"What?How?"

"Didn't Larson and Craven tell you? Where are they'?" "I haven't seen them," Neilson said, frowning.

"What do you mean, you haven't seen them? Didn't they contact you at the crime lab?"

Neilson shook his head, mystified. "No, something came up and I left early. There's been another murder, a nineteen-yearold male. It looks like Hesketh was responsible. 'The deceased was gay.”

"The deceased was gay?" said Wells.

"It's just an expression, Mr. Wells," said Neilson. "It means the dead man was a homosexual."

"Is that what you Americans call it?" Wells said. "I shall have to remember that if I ever go to America. If someone asks me how I'm feeling, I would not wish to give the wrong impression."

"Please, Mr. Wells," said Christine Brant impatiently. "Go on, Scott. –

"Well, Doyle was at the lab. He received a message from Brant Stoker and rushed out. The note said Stoker had some information about the murders. I thought I should get back right away and let Colonel Steiger know, but there was no one at the hotel. I saw that the arms locker had been opened and I was afraid something had gone wrong. I was just about to leave when Wells arrived, looking for us."

"Looking for us?" Christine said. "Did you search him?" "Search him'?" Neilson said, glancing at Wells and then back at her. "What for?"

"They've been picking our people off one at a time." she said. "Davis is dead, Rizzo’s gone, and now Larson and Craven are missing! Moreau could have planted a homing transmitter on him! You could have led them right to us!"

She spun the astonished Wells around and shoved him up against a wall, then started frisking him quickly and professionally.

"Really, madame!" Wells said, blushing. "I must protest! This is highly improper! I assure you that I am concealing nothing!"

I'm sorry, Mr. Wells." she said. "I just can't take that chance.•'

"You're probably going to have to," Neilson said. "If Moreau was going to do that, you can be sure he'd plant a bug you'd never find without a full body scan. Besides, if what Wells told me is true, Moreau is on our side."

"What?"

Quickly, Neilson recounted everything that Wells had told him, glancing at Wells from time to time for confirmation. "So with nowhere else to go," he finished,

"we came here. Unless something had gone seriously wrong, I figured the house would still be under surveillance and I could contact whoever was on duty here to find out what the hell had happened. When I didn't spot anyone outside, I started to get a little worried, but—"

"I knew I was forgetting something!" Brant said, rushing to the window. She parted the curtains and gazed outside for several moments, then turned around to face them once again, a grim expression on her face. "Ransome was supposed to be on surveillance duty outside. I was wondering why he didn't warn me you were coming. Now there's no sign of him. He wouldn't leave his post. Something must have happened to him."

Neilson glanced quickly at Wells.

Wells shook his head. "If anything has happened to your friend." he said, "I swear to you that I did not have anything to do with it. Neither did Moreau."

Neilson's .45 was in his hand. "I wish I had your confidence." he said.

"Oh, Herbert!" Amy said. "What's happening?"

"You two had better go into the study," Bram said to them, checking the windows once again.

Wells quickly sized up the situation. "If my home is about to be invaded, I am not about to hide quaking in my study while--"

"Mr. Wells, please. I don't have time to argue!" she said. "Scott, get them in there and make sure they stay in there until I tell them to come out!"

"Please, Mr. Wells, do as she says," said Neilson. "Above all else, we have to keep you safe."

Reluctantly, Wells complied.

"Anything?" said Neilson, glancing at her quickly while he crossed the room to check the other windows.

She shook her head, "Nothing. I hope like hell it stays that way, but I've got a nasty feeling that it won't."

"Where the hell is everybody?" Neilson said.

"Delaney left awhile ago to cover the docks," she said. "You and Craven were supposed to cover Stoker. Along with some newspaper clippings of the Whitechapel murders, we found a copy of Stoker's book in Drakov's abandoned headquarters. It had obviously been left there for us to find. Andre left to cover Conan Doyle. You didn't see her?"

Neilson shook his head.

"Terrific," Christine said wryly. "Well, it looks like it's just you and me, kid. Steiger clocked ahead to Plus Time just before you came to see if Forrester could send us any reinforcements. You'd better hope like hell that he gets back with some and soon.”

"I can't do it, Creed," said Moses Forrester, sitting behind the large mahogany desk in his well-appointed office. He was a massive man, completely bald and wrinkled with age, but he was in superb physical condition. His arms were as big around as most men's thighs and his thick chest filled out the blouse of his black base fatigues, unadorned except for his insignia of rank and his division pin. "I'm sorry. I just haven't got the available manpower."

"You've got a battalion of commandos in reserve on standby duty," Steiger said. "All I'm asking for is some additional personnel, let me have ten commandos, just ten—"

"I can't do that," Forrester said, cutting him off. "You know that just as well as I do. I'm required to keep the counterinsurgency battalion at full strength in case of a temporal alert, a crossover by troops from the alternate universe. Besides, they're all combat commandos. None of them are trained temporal adjustment personnel. Even if my hands weren't tied by regulations—••

"Screw regulations!" Steiger said, losing his patience. "Who the hell is going to miss ten soldiers? I'm telling you—"

"And I'm telling you, Colonel," Forrester said, rising from his chair and towering over Steiger, "that I am in no position to spare you any additional personnel!"

Forrester was the most informal of commanders and it was always a danger signal when he started addressing his junior officers by their rank.

"Now I made you my executive officer and I sent you out to do a job," he said. "I expect to see you get it done. I sent you out on this assignment with more support personnel than I ever gave your predecessor, Major Priest. You're not the senior covert field agent for the TIA anymore. The days of the agency being able to function without justifying itself or its expenditures are over. It's been made part of the regular army and placed under my command and I have to account to the Referee Corps for every single soldier I send out to Minus Time. I was originally allocated only one adjustment team for this mission, but I fought to get you a support unit. Now you're telling me that's not enough. If you can't take the heat, get the hell out of the kitchen and I'll appoint somebody who isn't so sensitive to pressure."

Steiger stiffened. "That's not how it is and you know it," he said. "You sent us out on an investigative mission, but it's become a great deal more than that. We're faced with a terrorist infiltration by genetically engineered creatures capable of spreading a contagion that's a far greater threat to temporal stability than any invasion by enemy troops. We're looking at a biowar aimed at making our species self-destruct, for God's sake. And you know who's behind it."

Forrester's eyes went hard. "I don't need to be reminded of that, Colonel."

"Maybe you do." said Steiger, losing his temper. "After all, it's your mess we're trying to clean up!"

The color drained out of Forrester's face and Steiger instantly regretted his outburst.

"Damn it," he said. "I'm sorry, sir. That was way out of line." Forrester seemed to deflate. He sat down slowly. Steiger gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, wishing he could take back what he had said.

"Sir, I—"

Forrester held up his hand and Steiger clamped his mouth shut, his jaw muscles working.

"There's no need to apologize." said Forrester. "You're absolutely right.”

He took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. "My son is my responsibility. I should have killed him when I had the chance. I couldn't bring myself to do it. There's no excuse.”

"Sir, I had no right to say that. I know what you must have been going through—"

"Do you, Creed?" Forrester said softly. "Do you really? How could you possibly know? People have died because of my mistake and all I've done is pass the buck. I can't remember the, last time I had a good night's sleep. It just keeps eating away at my guts, chewing me up . ."

Steiger stood there silently, hating himself. There was nothing he could say. The Old Man was right, the pressure had been getting to him and he had lashed out, thoughtlessly, hitting Forrester below the belt. It was hard enough knowing you had a son who was insane and hated you without having to send people out to hunt him down and kill him.

"I've seen my son face-to-face just once in my entire life," said Forrester,

"and that was over the blade of a knife. And even then, I don't believe he was a criminal. He was angry, hurt, confused, but he wasn't evil. He wasn't insane, at least not then. Whatever's happened to him, whatever he's become. it's my responsibility and I'm going to have to live with that."

He opened the top drawer of his desk, took out a warp disc and strapped it on.

"Sir," said Steiger, "what are you doing?"

"What I should have done a long time ago," Forrester said. "Take responsibility. Clean up my own mess."

"Sir, with all due respect, you can't do that," Steiger said. “That would be abandoning your post in wartime. Under the regulations, the penalty for that is—"

"To use your own words, Steiger," Forester said. "screw regulations."

He summoned his administrative adjutant. Lieutenant Cary.

"I'm clocking out to the Minus Side," he told the startled young woman.”I’m not sure how long I'm going to be hack there, but I'm programming my disc for clockback coordinates rive minutes from now. Cover for me, If anything comes up, I'm relying on your best judgment to issue orders in my name. Wait six minutes. If I'm not back by then or if a crossover alert comes down while I'm away, get on the horn to Director General Vargas and report me A.W.O.L. on the Minus Side."

Her eyes grew wide. "But, sir—"

"That's an order. Cary."

"Yes, sir," she said, swallowing hard, "I understand that, but if I report you A.W.O.L. to Director Vargas, do you realize what that means'?"

"It means I'll probably be dead," said Forrester, "so I guess it won't matter much to me one way or another." He strapped on his sidearm and glanced at Steiger. "Let's go.”

10 _______

"I shall ask you one more time, madame," Grayson said, pacing back and forth across his office at Scotland Yard, "what is your real name and what is your purpose here in London?"

"I've already told you," Linda Craven said. She was sitting in a straightbacked wooden chair placed against the wall. A uniformed policeman stood beside her. "My name is Craven, Linda Craven, and I am an American citizen. I am part of a research group preparing a series of texts—••

"You're lying," Grayson said, stopping directly in front of her. He did not raise his voice.

"Inspector, I resent your accusation," she said stiffly. "Why am I being treated like this? I have been assaulted and the gentleman I was with was murdered in a horrible manner, yet you are questioning me as if I were the criminal! What possible reason' would I have for lying to you'?"

"That is precisely what I am attempting to discover, madame," Grayson said.

"I have been in touch with the American consulate and they have no knowledge whatsoever of any research project such as you describe. I would think that if there really were such a project, the American embassy would be aware of it. Additionally, there is the matter of your passport. It is an extremely clever forgery. And let us not forget that singularly unacademic revolver of yours. Quite a large revolver, too, especially for a woman. Mr. Larson also had such a revolver. A Colt .45 Peacemaker, as I believe it's called. Hardly the sort of item one might expect to find among the personal effects of an American research scholar or a British newspaperman. A British newspaperman who seems to have no past. I might add. It seems that prior to his being hired on at the Police Gazette. Mr. Larson appears not to have existed. I find that very curious. But it becomes still more so.

"Members of the hotel staff report having seen the late Mr. Larson at the Metropole on numerous occasions, visiting that very suite where you were found unconscious, pinned beneath the body of your assailant. Now why would a British newspaper reporter investigating a series of brutal murders in Whitechapel be paying frequent visits to a group of young American scholars engaged in writing a textbook concerning the social history of England?"

As it happens, we were seeing each other socially," said Linda.

"Entirely possible,” said Grayson, "but. I think not very likely. I have here a list, kindly supplied by the hotel, of the names of individuals who were part of this supposed 'research group' of yours. The name Richard Larson does not appear on this list, but interestingly enough, the name Richard Locker does and several members of the hotel staff have positively identified the remains of the unfortunate Mr. Larson as those of Mr. Locker. Remembering that Mr. Larson had been working very closely with the late Mr. Thomas Davis of The Daily Telegraph, it occurred to me to show a photograph of the remains of Mr. Davis to the hotel staff and, lo and behold, we discover that Mr. Thomas Davis was apparently also Mr. Thomas Daniels, whose name appears right here on our list of members of this

'research group.' Further inquiries lead us to the realization that prior to being taken on by The Daily Telegraph. Mr. Davis also appears not to have existed. We begin to uncover a tissue of lies and misrepresentation, forged credentials, faked references, all pointing to sonic sort of ambitious and illegal undertaking.

"Now," continued Grayson, "I find it very fascinating that two British newspapermen are also apparently members of an American research group, headed by two so-called 'professors' named Steiger and Delaney, whom the American consulate has never heard of and who are nowhere to be found. I also find it fascinating that both you and Mr. Larson visited the crime lab here at Scotland Yard earlier today, asking after Mr. Scott Neilson, and when you learned that Mr. Neilson had left early, you apparently went directly to the Metropole Hotel. Now, having an inordinately suspicious nature, I decided to question some of the hotel staff about our Mr. Neilson. It seems they had never heard of anyone by that name. But when I described him, lo and behold once more, comes the reply, 'Why, that sounds like Mr. Nelson, one of those nice young American scholars!' The plot, it seems, grows thicker. Mysteries abound and the trail keeps leading us back to the Hotel Metropole, all roads leading to Rome, as it were. That it was a headquarters of some sort I have no doubt, but a headquarters for what, specifically? An academic project? No. madame, I think not."

He went around to his desk and opened one of the drawers. He took out the plastic dart pistol Volkov had used and a pair of black bracelets Craven and Larson's warp discs.

He picked up the plastic pistol. "I have never seen anything even remotely like this weapon before," he said. "I cannot even identify the material it's made from. Lightweight, yet incredibly strong. It dot; not appear to be metal, at least none such as I have ever seen. What is it?" She shrugged. He put it down and then picked up the warp discs. "And would you mind telling me what these peculiar items are?"

"They are only bracelets," she said. "Jewelry, nothing more."

"Indeed?" said Grayson. "And what, then, is the purpose of all these little numbered knobs? Mere decoration?"

"Here," she said, reaching for the warp disc. "I'll show you." Grayson handed her the bracelet. "It's merely part of the catch, that's all. There's a little trick to opening it. . . ." As she spoke, she tried to activate the disc, but she quickly realized that Grayson must have already played with it, because the failsafe designed into the disc had fused it, melting the particle level chronocircuitry and rendering it useless. Her spirits sank.

"Yes?" said Grayson.

She shook her head. "It seems to be broken now," she said.

He reached out his hand for it and she returned the useless warp disc to him.

"I was examining it earlier and it suddenly became quite warm," he said, watching her carefully. "How do you account for that?"

She shook her head, staring at him as if he were speaking Greek. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Inspector."

"Don't you? Apparently, there is no way to disassemble it or to break it open. You still maintain that it is merely a piece of jewelry and nothing more?"

She nodded.

"And this peculiar little pistol, which tires some sort of strange, envenomed darts'?"

"It isn't mine." she said. "I have no idea what it is." "You are lying again, Miss Craven, or whatever your name really is," said Grayson. "Who was that man who attacked you and murdered Mr. Larson?"

"I don't know."

"Why did he attack you?"

"I don't know."

"What is your connection with Mr. Scott Neilson?"

"Mr. Larson wanted to question him on some point concerning a story he was writing for his newspaper."

"Mr. Larson? I thought his name was Locker."

"It was Larson." she said. "I never knew him by any other name."

"And he was a member of your research group?" "He was a reporter for the Police Gazette."

"Then why is it that several members of the hotel staff have identified him as Richard Locker. a member of your research group?"

"I have no idea. I never really noticed any particular resemblance."

"I see. So if Mr. Larson isn't Mr. Locker, then where is Mr. Locker?"

"I don't know."

"Is it merely a coincidence that they had such similar names?" said Grayson.

"I suppose it must be," she said. "I had never really thought about it."

"And is it also a coincidence that they happened to resemble one another?"

"I suppose it must have been. I never thought of them as resembling one another."

"What about Mr. Thomas Davis and Mr. Thomas Daniels? Does the same coincidence apply to them?" "What do you mean?"

"The names are similar."

"Yes. I suppose they are."

"And the photograph of Mr. Davis was identified by members of the hotel staff as that of Mr. Daniels."

"Well, I suppose they were similar types, but I personally don't think they looked very much alike."

"Yours appears to be the minority opinion. You've met Mr. Davis, then?"

"I met him once in the company of Mr. Larson. I didn't really know him very well, which is to say, not at all, actually. He was Mr. Larson's friend."

“Then where is Mr. Thomas Daniels?"

"I don't know."

"Were they not, in fact, the same person?"

"Of course not, Inspector, I really do not see what you are driving at." she said. "You are browbeating me as if I were a common criminal. I am guilty of no offense! I have done nothing! I was in the company of a gentleman friend and we were brutally attacked. My poor friend was killed. I might have been killed myself, and set you are interrogating me as if I were the one who had committed the assault. I don't understand you! Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because. madame. I intend to get at the truth." said Grayson. "And we shall remain here until I start to hear some of it."

There was a knock at the door of his office.

"Yes?"

A policeman came in and handed him a wire. Grayson read it, nodded to himself, then held it up so that she could read it.

"This is a wire I have just received from the Boston Police Department in answer to my inquiry." he said. "There is no record of the existence of a Foundation for Educational Research in Boston, Massachusetts. You still maintain that you were employed by this fictional organization?"

"I don't understand," she said. "There must be some mistake."

"You maintain that there is such an organization?"

"Yes, of course! I am employed by them. What else would I be doing here?"

"Where are their offices?"

"I don't know," she said. "I was taken on by Dr. Steiger. I was hired through the mail, in response to a newspaper advertisement."

"Indeed? And where is Dr. Steiger?"

"I don't know.”

"Where is Professor Delaney?"

"I don't know that, either.•"

"Where is Mr. Nelson?"

"I don't know."

"But you expected to find him at the crime lab?"

"No. that was Mr. Neilson we were looking for," she said, not falling for the trap. "I don't know where Mr. Nelson is."

"Another coincidence, I suppose, the similarity of names? And the fact that they both answer to the same description?"

"I have no idea what you are implying, Inspector. You seem to think that everyone resembles someone else. Am I being accused of something?"

"Where is Mr. Neilson?"

"I have no idea, Inspector. I don't even know the man! He was Mr. Larson's acquaintance. Why am I being kept here? Why are you hounding me like this? What am I being accused of?

"Of being an accomplished liar, madame." Grayson said. "And a very clever actress. Of those facts, I have no doubt whatsoever. We are here to determine precisely what else you are.

Grayson kept hammering away at her, but she stubbornly stuck to her story. She was an American citizen, employed by a research foundation based in Boston, in London to participate in a research project aimed at producing a series of textbooks. She had been attacked by an unknown assailant, whom Larson had shot before being killed himself. She had no idea where the other members of the research group had disappeared to. They were supposed to be at the Hotel Metropole. The fact that they weren't there coupled with the fact of the assault on her obviously suggested that there was some sort of foul play involved in their disappearance. Why wasn't Grayson investigating that instead of hounding her? She maintained that she had no idea why her passport had turned out to be a forgery. It was a complete surprise to her. She didn't understand it at all. It had been obtained for her by the foundation and she had assumed that it was all in order. Nor did she have any idea why the Boston Police Department had reported that there was no such organization. There had to be, she insisted. How else could she have been able to afford coming to London?

No matter what Grayson said to her, she played the innocent, sticking to the same story, refusing to change it in spite of the fact that it was obviously lame. She knew that the moment she changed so much as one small detail of her story, all hope of deceiving Grayson would vanish utterly. It was precisely what Grayson was trying to get her to do. He wanted to trap her in an inconsistency and then batter away at her with it until her entire story fell apart. She could not afford to make the least little slip. Grayson was far too good a cop. He had almost completely unraveled it all; it was a war of nerves, a battle of psychology. If she slipped, Grayson would come at her like a hungry shark and it would be all over. But if she was careful, if she maintained her innocence and stuck to the same story. if she answered as many questions as possible with "I don't know" instead of inventing things off the top of her head, she might avoid being trapped and Grayson might start to believe that she actually was an innocent victim, duped by this mysterious foundation and used in some sort of criminal plot of which she knew absolutely nothing. It was a question of who would wear whom down first.

She pretended to be growing more and more tired, more and more confused, all the while staying on the alert, wary of being trapped in a contradiction. She cried: she complained of ill treatment: she called Grayson a heartless brute. Grayson fought to keep his temper under control, keeping his voice level, never raising it, not abusing her verbally so much as addressing her in the tone of a strict, paternal disciplinarian. He was certain she was keeping something back from him, but he could not trick her into deviating from her story. He couldn't understand it. No woman could hold up to such determined questioning for so long. Was it possible that she really was telling the truth?

There was a knock at the door.

"Not now," Grayson said.

"Thought you'd want to hear this right away," said Holcombe, coming in without being invited.

"For God's sake, what is it. Ian?"

"You must have a guardian angel whispering in your ear." said Holcombe. "You were right. I compared those hair samples of Dr. Doyle's with some samples of hair from the man killed in the Hotel Metropole. Identical. No question about it. Whoever that chap was, we've got our Whitechapel killer right here in the morgue. Thought you could use some good news for a change."

"You're absolutely certain?" Grayson said. "There can be no mistake?"

"Feel free to confirm my findings with Dr. Doyle if you like," said Holcombe. "I can understand your wanting to be certain, but he'll tell you the same thing. I guarantee it. This one's our man, all right. No doubt about it."

"Thank you. Ian." Grayson said.

"Pleasure to be of service." Holcombe said. "If you feel like celebrating, I'll buy you a drink."

"Sorry. Ian, I'd like to, but I still have a great deal more to do and I simply cannot spare the time. Thank you just the same,"

"Right. Another time, then."

"Another time."

Holcombe left with a casual "Evening, miss" to Linda. Grayson stared at her, frustrated, his stride broken. He was getting nowhere and he had no real grounds on which to hold her except for the forged passport, but if he detained her on that basis, that might be the end of it and he was certain that she knew more than she was telling hint. Somehow, all these things were interconnected and he felt that if he could only locate the main thread, he could unravel the tangled web.

"Very well, madame," he said wearily, "I see no point in detaining you any longer. Perhaps you really are innocent of any wrongdoing, but I would be far easier to convince if you were to contact me the moment you saw any of your fellow 'research associates' again. I would very much like to speak with them. I am afraid that I shall have to hold on to your forged passport. I suggest that you contact the American consulate in regards to obtaining a genuine one. Might I inquire as to where you will be staying?''

"I—I don't know yet," she said, looking relieved and confused at the same time. "I shall have to make other arrangements. I really don't understand any of this. Right now, all I wish to do is rest, then see about my passport and return home as quickly as possible. I think I have had about enough of England!”

”Try not to think too harshly of us, madame." Grayson said. "And do please let me know where you will be staying the moment you make your new arrangements.”

"Yes, I will. I don't want any more trouble. Am I free to go now?"

Grayson indicated the door. "One of my men will escort you out."

The moment she left. Grayson went to the door. ""Thorpe!" Constable

Thorpe came rushing over. "Sir!"

"That young woman who just left, follow her. Don't let her see you. Let me know where she goes and everything she does. And if you lose her, I'll have your guts for garters, understand?"

"Yes, sir. You can count on me."

"Right, Go to it."

He watched Thorpe hurry off, wondering what the young American woman's connection was to the horrible events in Whitechapel. It wasn't over yet. There were still linkages to follow. Little by little, he was collecting the pieces of the puzzle. There were many more than he had thought. The difficulty was in making them all fit together. The dead man had no name as yet, but Grayson had an excellent memory for faces and he felt certain that he had seen that face before.

There were already vampires and werewolves abroad in Whitechapel, so Finn Delaney was not greatly surprised to see a ghost. He was searching the warehouse district when Dr. Darkness materialized in the fog-shrouded street before him, his body not quite substantial. The lamppost across the street was visible right through him. Dressed in a long grey wool Inverness, carrying a blackthorn walking stick and wearing a shapeless felt hat with a wide brim, he seemed to be a creature of the mist.

With a loud clatter of horses hooves upon the street. a coach suddenly came careening through the fog. The man who was faster than light stood motionless upon the cobblestones. The driver of the coach suddenly saw a man standing before him in the street and shouted, trying to rein in. Too late, The horses, blindered and unable to see well directly ahead of them even under conditions of good visibility, barreled right through him.

Darkness tached. translating into tachyons and disappearing, reappearing beside Delaney even before his image several yards away had vanished from Delaney's sight. The horses reared and the coachman fought to get them back under control, but the animals bolted, panic-stricken, running away with the coach, the clatter of their hoofbeats receding quickly in the fog.

"Where did that idiot learn to drive?" said Darkness irritably.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite deus ex machina," Delaney said. "Evening. Doc. Come to lend a hand? We sure could use the help."

"You're beyond help, if you ask me," said Darkness. "Why on earth would anyone wish to wander around in the middle of the night in this godforsaken slum?"

"Well, if it were up to me, I'd rather be in the Caribbean," Delaney said, huddling in his coat against the chill, "but as it happens. I've got a job to do. I'm looking for a needle in a haystack, only in this case the needle happens to be a werewolf. A werewolf and a vampire, to be exact. At least two vampires, at last count."

"I knew it," Darkness said. "It was bound to happen. You've lost your mind at last."

"No, I haven't, but the man who's responsible for this mess has." Delaney said.

"Our old friend Drakov has teamed up with the former head of S.O.G.'s Project Infiltrator and he's whipped up some monsters to release on Victorian London. A werewolf created by genetic engineering. If you survive an attack, you come down with a case of lycanthropy you just wouldn't believe. And he's created a genetically engineered vampire, as well, don't ask me how, whose bite is equally contagious. They've been killing people in this area and half the city believes they've got another Jack the Ripper on their hands. There'll be mass hysteria if they discover the truth. We're supposed to get the whole thing hack under control somehow and Drakov knows we're here. We've already lost several members of our team. We're getting nowhere. Steiger's clocked ahead to ask the Old Man for some reinforcements. We've had some bad ones, Doc, but this mission is particularly nasty."

"I see," said Darkness. "Well, that explains why Forrester has clocked out to the Minus Side."

"He's done what?' Delaney said.

"He's here, somewhere," Darkness said. "I tached in to headquarters to see him and he was nowhere to be found. Lieutenant Cary informed me that he had clocked out to Minus Time with Steiger, leaving her with instructions that if he had not returned within five minutes, Plus Relative Time, she was to report him Absent Without Leave to Director General Vargas. She was beside herself with worry and begged me to go after him. Unfortunately, the reason for my visit was that I had discovered a problem with the symbiotracers I gave you. Apparently, they are not quite perfected. Their cellular chronocircuitry is subject to organic degeneration. Steiger received his before any of you did and I can no longer home in on him. I was able to track you down, but I have no way of telling how long your symbiotracer will remain active. I shall have to issue new ones to you periodically until I can solve the problem of the degeneration. In the meantime, I have no way of finding Forrester and Steiger."

"They'll be clocking back to the command post we've established at H. G. Wells' house," said Delaney. "Don't ask, it's too complicated to explain now. We'd better get back there right away. If the Old Man's clocked back, disregarding wartime regulations, it can only mean one thing. He had a chance to kill Drakov during the Zenda mission and he couldn't do it. He's been blaming himself for it ever since. It looks like he's determined to make up for it. Only if Vargas discovers that he's left his post, he'll have no choice but to break him and I'm not about to let that happen."

"You think Forrester will go back just because you insist upon it?" Darkness said. He shook his head. "Not the Moses Forrester I know. There is only one solution. Drakov and his creations must be terminated."

"Sure," Delaney said. "But first we've got to find them."

"Can you see anything?" said Neilson, glancing briefly towards Christine Brant before turning back to the window. She was keeping watch at the window on the other side of the room, her weapon held ready.

"Nothing." she said. "I wish to hell Steiger would—"

Paul Ransoms suddenly materialized in the middle of the living room.

"Christine . .." he said, sagging down to his knees and clutching at his stomach, "help me . ."

She rushed over to him as Neilson turned around. The window behind him suddenly shattered in a rain of glass and a dark shape came flying through. Neilson was hit from behind and was brought down to the floor. His revolver was ripped from his hand and thrown across the room and he Ibund himself flat on his back, staring up into the slathering face of a werewolf. Christine Brant cried out as Ransome grabbed her and threw her to the floor. She screamed as he fastened his teeth in the soft flesh of her throat.

Neilson fought against the creature with a strength born of desperation as they wrestled on the floor, knocking over furniture, but the werewolf's strength was greater and within seconds, Neilson was pinned. And then a shot cracked out.

The .45 slug took Ransome in the back. Wells cocked the hammer of Neilson's revolver and aimed it at the werewolf. The creature leapt off Neilson and launched itself at Wells. Wells fired. With a doglike squeal, the werewolf fell to the floor. Wells cocked the hammer and fired again.

At that moment, Steiger clocked in with Forrester and Wells quickly recocked the weapon and aimed it at them, but Steiger shoved Forrester aside and yelled, "It's me, don't shoot!"

Wells almost shot him, but the revolver was suddenly plucked out of his hand as if by an unseen force and Wells gaped at the ghostly figure that suddenly materialized before him.

"Jesus Christr Delaney said as he clocked in. "What happened?"

Amy Robbins, who had been watching thunderstruck from the doorway to the study, fell to the floor in a faint. Wells rushed to her side.

Christine sat up slowly, her hand pressed to the wound in her throat. "Oh, damn," she said, wincing with pain. "I've had it now. He got me."

"Ransome?" said Delaney.

"Rizzo," Steiger said.

"What?" said Delaney.

"Look." said Steiger. Neilson and Delaney joined him where he stood over the body of the werewolf. Before their eyes. it was slowly changing. reverting in death to human form. "It's Rizzo."

"Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?” Forrester said.

"We've been hit," said Steiger. "He's turned our own people against us."

"Christine, no!" shouted Neilson.

She had picked up her disruptor pistol and before any of them could move, she stuck the barrel in her mouth and squeezed the trigger. For a brief moment, she was enveloped in the blue aura of Cherenkov radiation and then she was gone.

10 _______

The House of Blue Lights was located in an unassuming, soot-blackened building off the Limehouse Causeway, near the River Thames and not far from the East India Docks, It was not among the more elegant of London's bordellos, but it was still a far cry from the tawdry whorehouses of Whitechapel. Madame Tchu's young ladies were of considerably higher quality than the Cockney streetwalkers who plied their trade in Whitechapel's cribs and alleyways. There were gentlemen among the clientele, as well as sailors, dock workers and merchants, but despite the rough character of many of her patrons. Madame Tchu maintained the house in a refined and genteel style. Few people knew that the House of Blue Lights was, in fact, operated by the Green Dragon tong and was one of the secret organization's major sources of revenue.

Jasmine did not know Madame Tchu. Their paths had never crossed before and there was no one in the House of Blue Lights who would know her, unless she were to identify herself as Lin Tao's granddaughter. Part of her wanted to walk boldly up to the front door, announce herself, demand to be taken to her grandfather, confront him with what she knew and insist on being allowed to help, while part of her was afraid of what her grandfather would do when he discovered that she had followed them and had been eavesdropping on their private conversations. She hesitated, thinking perhaps it would be best if she were to remain outside and watch, but watch for what and for how long? There was no telling when they might come out again. And meanwhile, even though the idea of going inside the house of prostitution frightened her, she was fascinated by the prospect. She wondered what it would be like inside, what sort of women they were, how they dressed and spoke and acted.

She was still debating what to do when she saw her grandfather come out with three young Chinese males. The small group stood in front of the entrance for several moments and she could see her grandfather talking to the three young men and making gestures, but she could not hear what he was saying. Finally, Lin Tao finished talking and two of the young men bowed to him and left. The third one remained with him and they walked off quickly in the opposite direction, Lin Tao moving with a sprightly energy that belied his age. That meant Dr. Morro was still in there, alone. Or was he, in fact, alone? What if the man she was secretly in love with had decided to sample the pleasures of the house? That decided her. Taking a deep breath, Jasmine started across the street.

Once she reached the door, however, her resolve faltered once again. She was walking back and forth in front of the entrance to the building when she noticed an open window on the third floor, on the side facing the alleyway. And some fifteen or twenty feet away from it, running down the side of the building, was an iron drain pipe.

She looked up and down the alleyway and then, bracing herself against the brick wall with her soft-soled shoes, she started to climb hand over hand up the drain pipe. The pipe was fastened solidly and she did not weigh much, but years of martial arts discipline had given her wiry body suppleness and strength. She made the climb quickly, like a monkey, and within moments she had reached the cornice at the top of the building.

She reached out with her right hand and grabbed the ledge of the cornice just above her, then let go of the pipe with her other hand and quickly clamped her lingers over the ledge, allowing her legs to swing out and away from the wall. Both hands clamped over the cornice ledge, she slowly started to inch across towards the open window, her forearm muscles feeling the strain as her lingers pressed down hard against the stone. Dangling high above the ground, she moved slowly, so as not to start her body swinging. When she reached the open window, there was a distance of about two and half feet separating her from the building wall and the window ledge. She licked her lips and pulled herself up slowly, allowing herself to swing outward a little. Then she swung her legs up and dropped at the same time, shooting her arms straight out in front of her, like a gymnast on the uneven parallel bars making the transfer from the top bar to the lower one. She grabbed on to the window ledge and winced as her body struck the side of the building, then she grunted and pulled herself up. She looked inside the room quickly and was relieved to see that it was empty. A second later, she was inside.

She straightened up, massaging her forearms and flexing her lingers, and looked around with wonder at the room she had entered through the window. The floor was covered with soft, thick Oriental rugs and the walls were hung with tapestries, there to hide cracks and peeling paint as much as to provide decoration. Everything was red and purple and gold, from the upholstery on the chairs to the canopy above the bed, which dominated the small room. She walked around the bed, marveling at the size of it, and saw with surprise that there was a mirror fastened just below the canopy. She heard footsteps approaching outside and quickly looked around for a place to hide. Briefly, she considered diving down underneath the bed, but then she realized that the bed would be the first place they would come to and instead she chose to duck behind the curtains on the other side of the painted wooden screen standing in a corner.

The door opened and a couple entered. The man was middle-aged, dressed in a dark frock coat, an elegant waistcoat with a gold watch chain and a howler hat. The girl was young. Chinese, no older than Jasmine, wearing a formfitting, bright red dress slashed deeply up the side with green and gold dragons embroidered on it. The man had a red face and a huge handlebar moustache and sidewhiskers and the girl had long black hair hanging straight down to her waist. Jasmine watched wide-eyed from her hiding place as the man closed the door behind them and then swept the girl up in his arms, crushing his lips to hers. The girl lifted her bare leg and rubbed it against the outside of the man's leg, hooking it around him.

It was nothing like what Jasmine had imagined from the novels she had read. Instead of whispered words of endearment and loving, affectionate caresses, it was an impatient, clumsy pawing and clutching, a hurried, awkward shrugging out of clothes and a playful, adolescent wrestling. Instead of emotion-laden sighs and languorous moans, there was panting and giggling and squealing. Instead of a transcendent, blissful floating in one another's arms, it was a grunting, bouncing, spring-creaking thrusting and groaning and when it was over, the man lay spent for several moments, then immediately got up and started to dress while the girl came behind the screen and. while Jasmine held her breath behind the drapes, she quickly cleaned herself using the washstand that the screen concealed, slipped into her dress, straightened it, brushed the stray strands of hair away from her face with a completely indifferent air and then went out to escort the gentleman back downstairs. Jasmine was at the same time both fascinated and incredibly disillusioned. Was that all there was to it?

Somehow, she had imagined something much more spiritual and romantic. The sight of the man's unclothed body had repelled her. He had looked so much better in his clothes! Without them, his stomach had hung down like a buddha's and his chest had sagged. He had been covered with unattractive, thick, coarse, curling hair and his legs looked spindly, grotesquely out of proportion with the rest of him. Naked, he had looked ugly, comical, ungainly, and as for his manhood, it was all Jasmine could do to refrain from giggling at the sight of it. She could not believe that Dr. Morro would look so silly and pathetic with his clothes off, but at the same time, a telling blow had been delivered to her romantic fantasies. She was not embarrassed by what she had witnessed. She was merely surprised and disappointed.

She slipped out from behind the drapes and moved quickly to the door. She opened it a crack and peeked out into the hallway. She could hear sounds coming from behind several of the closed doors, but for the moment, the hallway was clear. However, she had no idea which way to go. She stepped out into the hall uncertainly and, at that moment, a door opened right in front of her and an old woman carrying a pile of bedclothing stepped out. Startled, Jasmine gasped.

The old woman smiled toothlessly. "I haven't seen you before," she said, speaking in Chinese. "You must be new."

"Yes, I ... I am not sure which way to go," said Jasmine, forcing a smile.

The old woman looked at her questioningly. "Is there a gentleman wailing for you?"

"Yes, he has only just arrived,” said Jasmine. and she described Moreau.