Yesterday
Basin City, Nevada
"They didn't torture me. Well, they did, slapped me around a lot, threatened to kill my family, but I don't have any. But they didn't water board me or anything."
Like everything that had happened in the last month, from her discoveries regarding Senator McNeil to her dubious incarceration and subsequent violent liberation, Lana Lang was having a hard time adjusting to the newest in a series of odd characters she'd come to meet.
"Did you talk?" asked Nemo.
"I didn't have anything to talk about." Said Lana, "I made sure of that beforehand. They hooked me up to a polygraph and I passed."
"How?"
"I stashed the evidence so well that no even I know where it is. After that they left me alone, days passed with no contact with them, except for a couple of crappy tuna sandwiches a day."
"What kind of compromising evidence do you have?"
"The career damning kind." Said Lana.
"And you don't know where they are?"
"Somewhere safe. I just don't know where."
"But you'll be able to track them down, should you choose to."
"I'm not telling you."
"We're on your side, Miss Lang." said Al-Sheikh, "You need to trust us."
"Trust you?" asked Lana, "I don't even know who you are. All I know is that your people freed me from a bunch of other people I don't know about, and they drugged me and took me to this shithole of a city.
"None of them let me out of the house and they won't answer any of my questions. I look at you people and I see three Arabs and a German woman, now forgive me for not being politically correct but that doesn't sound like a bunch of people I'm going to trust."
"I'm Indian." Said Nemo, "The people who previously held you captive are part of a conglomerate of political lobbies and corporations trying to land a lacky in the white house to do things their way.
"Quite simply, we're the competing entity. We're trying to complicate their plans as much as possible, so McNeil's campaign running into trouble is in our best interest."
"Do you expect me to believe any of that?"
"If your findings are anywhere near as damning as you claim they are, you definitely would." Said Al-Sheikh, "In complete honesty, our people wouldn't have bothered freeing you if it was half as hard and you were completely useless. But here we are, not your friends, but rather the enemies of your enemies' friends."
Lana crossed her legs as she leaned back in the battered arm chair, sizing up the two men standing in her room, trying to judge their metal.
"Let's assume I believe you, which I don't, I still wouldn't just hand you the evidence. Just let me go; let me walk out that door and in two weeks McNeil will be making Nixon look like a guy who got caught stealing office supplies."
"You'd no doubt be arrested halfway before getting to Kansas. And even if you did, you have to understand that the other side will spare no effort in stopping that story from being published, they no doubt have your paper under watch, and everyone you work for. You'd be endangering their lives."
"Alright, then. What do you suggest?"
"We can protect you." Said Al-Sheikh, "And we can get you in touch with someone who can help you, who can get your story out there."
"Who?"
"A high ranking employee of the American Government."
"Do I really have a choice in the matter?"
"I could say that you do, if that makes you feel better."
Lana smirked.
"I really don't, do I? Fine, we'll do it your way."
"We'll be leaving shortly." said Al-Sheikh and Nemo walked out, "For what it's worth, this will all be ever soon."
"If you want me to tell you where to find what you want, you'll have to answer my questions.
"Mister Dakkar will answer your questions."
"Just tell me on thing, who is it that's going to get my story published?"
Al-Sheikh smiled faintly as he turned around and headed for the door.
"Some people call him Deep Throat."
Now
Zenda, Rurtania
Illya Kuryakin wiped his glasses clean with a smooth handkerchief as he sat on a piano stool in a dimly lit corner of his cottage. A window was open, letting in cool night breeze.
"Do you know what Tennyson said about treason?" he said, speaking in Russian.
"It doesn't prosper," said Priest, also in Russian as he spilled the contents of a bottle of vodka onto a sofa, "And when it does no one will admit it."
"Hm. That is indeed the essence of it, though you've done a good job of ruining its profound poetry. So tell me, what do I call you?"
"I don't care, you can call me Kate if you like."
"Alright, will you tell me just how long you've been with the opposition? Will you grant me the courtesy?"
"Since last November." Said Priest as he poured gasoline all over the floor while the Russian watched.
"November." Mused Kuryakin, "You haven't even been with the opposition for a year."
Priest tossed the empty can aside, and then picked up a briefcase off of the ground.
"Is it time?" asked Kuryakin, eyeing the bulge under Priest's jacket.
"It is time."
"Seeing as how I am not allowed a Priest to hear my last confession, will you hear it?"
"Heh. Funny you should say that."
"Why?"
"Forget it. I'm afraid I'm the eager type, I'd like to be done with this as soon as possible."
"You're an old man." Said Kuryakin in perfect English, "I can tell. Your Russian is good, but antiquated. I'd say you learned the language at the turn of the previous century. I also assume you're an American, based on your murder of Tennyson. And seeing as how yu've penetrated my residence, I suppose the some fifteen Agents scattered in a one kilometer radius are all dead. My guess is you were perhaps one of the CIA's special operatives from the 50s and 60s, the monsters and science oddities pressed into service."
"Is there a point to this?"
"We're a similar breed; old school spies, dark knights of the cold war. Some courtesy would be in order."
Priest considered what the aging spy said, before putting the briefcase down.
"Did they tell you who I am?"
"You were one of the masterminds behind the opposition in eighties." Said Priest, "You're the one who brought Mason into the fold. And then you defected."
"In my life, I believed in two ideals; Marxism and the destruction of the league, and I had relinquished both."
"Why?"
"I opened my eyes, saw the world and mankind for what they truly were. Marxism couldn't work, because it anticipated such qualities in mankind in general than simply did not exist. The same could be said of the League's destruction. Humankind has always been under the thumb of the betters, and those who become better often opt to join than to beat, that is how it has been since long before Alan Quatermain left Kenya for that last time.
"It's not unfair, it's not fascistic. It is the great détente. The world doesn't go on in spite of the League. It goes on because of the League."
Priest reached into his coat, unholstering a handgun and thumbing back the hammer. Kuryakin looked down and said,
"You're not in Iraq or Afghanistan, interrogating a poor farmer for connection to terrorism; you're no longer with the CIA. How long do you perceive it will be before you open your eyes, Kate?"
Priest pulled the trigger. The silencer made a pop out of the gunshot, and a red shot exploded in Kuryakin's chest. The Russian looked up at Priest in shocked misery, and with another pull of the trigger, a second bullet shattered his glasses, and plunged into Kuryakin's cranium.
The body slumped toward the piano, knocking the lid down. The piano's wires vibrated with a final blare as Priest holstered his gun and picked up the briefcase, then struck and match and flicked it onto the couch, setting it ablaze before heading for the door.
Two Hours Later
Priest pulled over in the Airport's parking lot and got out of his stolen car, carrying the briefcase with him.
He walked toward the nearest phone booth and following a drop of a few coins, made an international call.
"Naif?"
"Do you have the briefcase?"
"Yes. I'm about to U-P-S it."
"Good. And Kuryakin?"
"Suffled off his mortal coil."
"Good, that's one down."
"Yep, six more to go."
"Good luck. Vienna awaits, Mister Priest."
"Goodbye."
"A minute."
"What?"
"Did Kuryakin tell you anything?"
Priest rubbed his eyes and didn't say anything.
"Mister Priest?"
"No. I came in through the bathroom window, asked him if he was Kuryakin, and as soon as he said yes, I shot him. Goodbye."
Next Chapter finds Priest nearing the end of his Eastern European Tour, he descends upon F.S.B. headquarters to learn the location of a particularly dangerous individual. While back at the Yellow Submarine, Lana Lang and Shaun have a chat.
R&R.