The Batman had been terrorizing the criminal empires of Gotham for just over a year. The Batman had busted up three major drug smuggling rings, broken the Irish mob's gunrunning schemes in Gotham harbor, taken down three capos in the Italian mafia along with twenty of their street level soldiers, exposed three corrupt politicians, and interrupted two bank robberies in progress. This tally does not take into account the many petty thieves, muggers and dealers he had neutralized but who had no effect on the grander scheme of things in Gotham.
More than all that, though. Every thug he took down was taken with incriminating evidence. Every capo and boss and gang leader who went to trial because of the Bat was convicted in a court of law. In a city like Gotham, that was unheard of.
And all of it was down without a single confirmed fatality.
In times of crisis, crime syndicates call in their troubleshooters.
Grovenor leaned in close across the table and said, "The Batman is a myth."
Brezhnev leaned in close and said, "No, he fucking isn't."
They were in a small café in the middle of a relatively good neighborhood; Grovenor was sipping hot tea from a small cup and Brezhnev was smearing cream cheese into a sourdough bagel. The area was considered by many of the ignorant taxpayers to be good because there wasn't graffiti and trash everywhere and the concrete wasn't destroyed. Gang violence was rare and you could leave your car there overnight without worrying.
There was no graffiti because the last tagger Brezhnev caught was found in three different trash bins. The upkeep of the area was because Brezhnev owned two city councilmen outright and liked an orderly neighborhood. And there was no violence or petty vandalism because Russians know better than to shit where you eat.
Brezhnev took a massive bite and sat back, breathing heavily through his nose. He wiped some cream cheese out of his mustache and said. "The Batman is no myth. I have seen him. With my own eyes."
Grovenor said, "Tell me."
"This was about two months ago. We were down the docks, Vasily and I. The blacks, they had shot at some of my men who were selling product near their territory. I had ordered two of the blacks shot in retaliation, and so I expected a war with them. And who do you go to when you are about to go to war?"
"The Irish."
"Yes. So, Vasily and I were down at Pier 11 meeting with the Irish. They had imported some grenade launchers from who knows were, and were anxious to get them off their hands before whoever they robbed came looking for their merchandise. They also had my resupply of 7.62 ammunition."
"Okay."
"Just after they had packed the last crate into my truck, I was giving them the money."
"Wait, you brought the money to the pick up site?" Grovenor raised one eyebrow. The Brezhnev he knew wouldn't take that risk.
"I trust Johnny Farrow not to fuck me. I make him rich, and make him look good in front of his bosses. He will not kill a goose that shits gold just for a good dinner."
Grovenor said, "Okay. Continue."
"I handed off the briefcase of cash to Johnny and was just saying my farewells when the lights went out in the warehouse. The lights went out, and I hit the floor and rolled between the connexes to my right. I heard someone scream."
Brezhnev fell silent. After a moment, he took another bite of his bagel and chewed slowly, staring at the table top.
Grovenor didn't press him.
"It was like I was back in Afghanistan. Transported back in time in a blink of an eye. The Irishmen were shooting at shadows, screaming at random. The muzzle flashes blinded me, removing my night vision. I low crawled toward the door along the wall. I did not wish to meet whoever had killed the lights, and I knew the Irish would kill me by accident if they saw me walking. I got to the door and sprinted for the edge of the pier. I swam, perhaps, three hundred meters south to Pier 12. The next day, I found out that all the cash and merchandise was confiscated, and all six Irishmen were arrested, as was Vasily. Someone had worked them over. Professionally, even. There were bruised organs, broken wrists, ribs, collar bones, that sort of thing. But nothing fatal. And somehow the police knew exactly when to show up after the Bat left."
Grovenor finished off his tea and began refilling from the ornate porcelain pot. "But you said saw him."
"Yes. Before I reached the outer doors of the warehouse, I turned to check my rear. I saw him. He had crept up on one of the Irishmen. I think it was Tom Roy. Johnny's cousin."
"I've never met him."
"Of course. He was shooting his Armalite, though at what, I could not say. The flashes silhouetted him against the shadows. I turned and watched as the Bat throttled him from behind and dragged him away into the darkness."
"You didn't shoot? You trusted Johnny enough to not bring a piece?"
Brezhnev shook his head. "I was armed."
"Then why didn't you shoot?" Grovenor's eyes bored into Brezhnev's. There was an accusation there. Confusion, too. Brezhnev shrank from it.
"I don't know," he said. "I had my pistol out, of course. But when I turned and saw him, I froze. I couldn't shoot."
"Why not?"
"What if I missed? I was almost out of it. If I shot, he'd see me. And then I'd be the one dragged off into darkness. By the time I had my sights lined up, he was gone. As was Tom Roy. It was like they'd never been there at all. Just like a sentry on a night guard when the mujahedeen come."
Grovenor frowned and scratched his head to gain a few moments to think. "Alright. Describe him for me."
Without a second's delay, Brezhnev rattled off the information. He was tall, over six feet, though he might have worn boots. He had worn a cloak, but he seemed to have a fairly broad chest underneath it. He wore a mask with two horns or long ears to disguise his face, though Brezhnev thought he caught a glimpse of white jaw line. He moved like an athlete, as good as if not better than a Spetsnaz. He hadn't been carrying any gun that could be seen.
"Alright," Grovenor said. "So we're looking for a white male, approximately six feet tall, broad shouldered, athletic. That narrows it down a bit."
"Well, fuck you too, Grovenor, or whatever you choose to call yourself this year. It was dark and he was quick. I had no time to ask him to pose for mug shot."
"Understood. However, I'm afraid you misunderstood my when I said that the Batman is a myth. I do not believe that Gotham's underworld has had a collective hallucination."
"Tell me."
Grovenor tapped his forehead and nodded. His mouth quirked up in a knowing smile.
Brezhnev said nothing. When a man like Brezhnev chooses to say nothing, the silence is deafening and one has trouble looking him in the eye.
Grovenor was made of sterner stuff, though. "Allow to explain. I believe that the idea of a supernatural creature of the night who has chosen to wreak havoc among the criminals of Gotham is ridiculous. More over, I believe the idea of a single man, a single vigilante, enjoying that level of success is also ridiculous. The Batman is a highly skilled, highly trained, well funded operation. He is a team of American Special Forces, working in conjunction with some spook show from start to finish."
"Impossible."
"Far from it. It is the most rational answer. Do you truly believe that there was only one man ghosting the Irishmen that night?"
Brezhnev bit his thumb and thought, his eyes never leaving Grovenor's. Grovenor removed his smart phone from his pocket, tapped the screen a few times, then flipped it around and slid it across the table. He returned to his beverage while Brezhnev scanned the screen.
It was a story from the Gotham Times, from back when the Batman was just a quirky sideline, one that could fill in space during a slow news week. Giant Bat Attacks Local Toughs: Fact or Fiction? That sort of thing.
Brezhnev asked, "And what is this?"
"Go to the last paragraph. Kid named Waylon Jones swears that he shot the Bat twice, but it didn't kill him."
"Ah?"
"I say that's bullshit. Jones shot someone twice, but because there's another bat attack the next day everyone assumes he missed. Or they think the Bat is immune to bullets. I say that a member of the Special Forces unit was hit, but his team kept on with the mission."
Brezhnev snorted with obvious contempt. "I've never known a black who knew what the sights on his gun were used for. And all the blackasses in this city are very quick to claim a body count whether they earned it or not."
"True, but irrelevant. The Batman has been fighting in this city for a year- unarmed, too!- and in that time he has never once been hit? Never twisted his ankle? Never broken a rib? Let me tell you a little bed time story, Brezhnev."
Slowly, over the course of the next hour, Grovenor laid out his case. This is the image he painted.
Gotham is known worldwide for being at the top of all the wrong lists. Drug addiction, gang violence, petty crime, poverty, political corruption. You needed to go to an actual war zone to find higher levels of gun violence, to visit Colombia or Afghanistan to find more drug trafficking, to visit Thailand or Korea to find more prostitution. When it comes to sin and suffering, Gotham was a jack of all trades.
Enter the CIA. Or the Department of Homeland Security. Or the FBI. The actual organization doesn't matter, they are all spooks. They know of the connections that bind organized crime to the drug trade, the drug trade to terrorism. They see Gotham as America's Achilles Heel, and they decide to do something about it. This was the beginning of "Operation Bat". They bring in the Navy SEALs, or Delta Force, or whoever they had on tap. Call it a team of ten guys. Maybe more, but not possibly less.
Their prescribed tactics would be the same as they'd use in a real war- they'd slip into a region and begin destabilizing the local warlord through lightning raids, sabotage, and the removal of high value targets. They'd remain shadows, unseen until they were ready, invulnerable to counter attack because the enemy would never know where they rest their heads. They would terrorize the warlord's soldiers, demoralize them, pick them off one by one. And when the warlord's grip was loosened in a given area, they'd work with the new government to hold on to the freed territory. They'd support the new pro-American forces to keep the old regime's influence at bay.
"Does this sound familiar, friend?"
Brezhnev closed his eyes and shook his head. "Chyort, what a fucking disaster."
"Yes."
"One thing though. The Batman- this special forces team- they have not fired a single shot. Why aren't they using their guns?"
"I don't know, I'm not in charge of them."
"I've never heard of Green Berets being gun shy."
"If I had to guess- and this is only a guess, because I don't know- if I had to guess, they want to keep this on the down low. The spooks cannot afford to tell their citizens that they are attacking and imprisoning American citizens under false pretexts, and without warrants or a court's supervision. The Americans get anxious when they hear of Iraqis and Afghans being dragged away to Cuba. They wouldn't tolerate citizens receiving that treatment too."
"Reasonable."
"And they can't keep it quiet if there's a blood bath every week. Or if there's another Mogadishu down in the Narrows."
"So these operatives are then ordered to not use guns. Doesn't seem likely."
"Maybe not. But I don't need to know every detail about their plan to beat them."
Brezhnev let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "Then you'll do it."
"Of course."
"How?"
"The same way anyone gets rid of the Americans. Kill a couple, cause an ugly scene, and they'll withdraw on their own when the home front collapses. That's how the Viet Cong beat them. That's how the Somalians beat them. And it's how I will beat them."
"When?"
"As soon as I can. I must go set the wheels turning. Thank you for the tea."
"Of course."
Few people knew the history of the man calling himself Grovenor, and none now living knew all of it.
He was a KGB trained Cold War throwback. While he had been born outside of the Soviet Union, his parents were ardent communists who had briefly worked as telegraphers for the Russians in the Second World War. By the age of 16 he was used as a mule for a local Soviet spy network, carrying messages and packages between conspirators. Being both cunning and ruthless, his rise through the ranks brought more intensive training and greater responsibilities.
Under another name, he had made a small reputation for himself among the western intelligence services when he assassinated a Soviet defector before she could cross the Berlin Wall to sanctuary. Under that same name he had cracked a British spy network in Leningrad.
His real claim to fame was in October of 1980, almost a year after the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, when he and six other gunmen aborted a CIA financed counter coup. Three agents were killed and two others were captured alive and sent to Moscow to have their minds wrung dry. Three months later a hit team tried for him in Kabul and failed.
He spent the next seven years in Afghanistan, working under the name of Ivan Kuznetsov- a sham meant only to hide his real name, it being the rough Russian equivalent of a CIA agent introducing himself as John Smith. His tasks were to hunt down the mujahedeen with the Spetsnaz to back him up, and to scour around for solid evidence that the CIA were funding them. This is where his relationship with Benedikt Brezhnev began.
However, after the Soviet Union collapsed the man now calling himself Grovenor vanished. This surprised no one on either side of the Iron Curtain. He had dozens of fake IDs, birth certificates, passports, and other tools of espionage, as well as numerous contacts in the underworld to provide him with more on demand. In addition to Russian and Pashto, he spoke Spanish, German, French, and English with a midwest American dialect. His fingerprints he had burned off more than a decade ago. A manhunt on either side might have found him before he disappeared, but there was no motive to look for him in particular.
He himself felt like an old man, though he was younger than fifty. He had all his youthful enthusiasm ground out by more than twenty years of fighting the secret war against the West, and the man who crossed the Berlin Wall to the free world had not a shred of ideology left in him. But training and instinct remain long after the motivation is gone. The world still required men to play the game, and would pay top dollar for an experienced gunman like him.
The only thing that really interested Grovenor by the time his old friend Brezhnev contacted him with a Bat problem was proving that he was still the best in the game.