Showing posts with label the Great Gold Steal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the Great Gold Steal. Show all posts

Monday, July 19, 2021

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE GREAT GOLD STEAL "Chapter 13: Birds of a Feather"

CHAPTER 13
BIRDS OF A FEATHER

As dawn approached, Captain America had found his way back down from the rooftops. The heavy darkness of the unlit streets and the swirling fog that moved through them were allies. The fog muffled sounds and concealed his passage up the street.

Just ahead of him now was the vague shape of the parked Continental, its massive trunk facing him. He recognized the car and its diplomatic license; it was one of those near which he’d parked the Volkswagen at the U.N. It had to be the car he’d been kidnapped in.

The car blocked the end of Liberty Place effectively.

Droplets of mist, condensed from the fog, stood out sharply on its highly waxed surface. There seemed to be no one close by; the nearest guard was a man laboriously lighting his cigarette, his hands cupped around his face, twenty yards away. Rogers smiled. He’d never pass muster in the army! Sloppy stance, wandering attention, he was a lousy guard—which was just fine.

The trunk of the car was locked, but Rogers removed his shield from his left arm and pushed its edge under the lip of the trunk lid. The high-alloy steel did not even bend as his heavily muscled body applied pressure and leverage. There was a muffled rasp, and the trunk lid, counter-sprung, started to swing up and open. He grabbed it quickly, before the abrupt motion could catch the careless guard’s attention. Then, sliding the shield in ahead of him, he climbed into the trunk and pulled the lid down after him. There was plenty of room, room enough to stretch out and be almost comfortable. He slipped down his left gauntlet from his wrist and glanced at his watch. Almost five o’clock. They must be closing up soon. In another half hour it would be growing light. He relaxed, and waited.

Twenty minutes later, he heard voices approaching the car, but too muffled to be understood. The metal body of the car transmitted more faithfully, however, the sound of door latches and the heavy thunk of the doors slamming shut. The car shifted and settled as the three men took their seats, and then the engine was setting up a distant hum, and they were moving.

He felt the turns, and could guess the approximate distance traveled between them. The streets, forever being dug up for one reason or another, were jouncing and uneven all the way to the Brooklyn Bridge approaches, where finally the ride smoothed out. Rogers clung to the trunk lid, and waited.

The car followed the Beltway south, over western Brooklyn, taking the fork to the right that put it on the new expressway approach to the Verazanno-Narrows Bridge, Interstate 278. The fog was thick along the waterfront, but thinned as the route dodged briefly inland before swinging up over the bridge.

Sparrow was driving now, the seat pulled all the way forward to accommodate his short legs, much to Starling’s discomfort. Sparrow knew where the estate was, however, and had insisted on driving. It was, after all, a car the Eagle had obtained for their use, DPL tags and all, and therefore Starling’s rights to it were hardly proprietary, despite the fact that he had used it almost exclusively until now. This fact calmed him very little, however. He was feeling the head-pounding, stomach-cramping, adrenalized effects of extreme tension, the tension of trying to make this whole incredible operation work. His hands shook as he took out another cigarette and pushed in the dash lighter. They shook no less appreciably when Raven pointed out, with a certain sardonic tone to his voice, that he still had a half-smoked cigarette between his lips. The cigarettes were tasteless, anyway. He didn’t know why he was smoking them.

The traffic signals on the bridge were blinking yellow for all lanes. Fog swirled thickly over them. Sparrow drove in the extreme right-hand lane, keeping the railing barely in sight. Their speed had slowed to twenty miles an hour, and even then they almost collided with the rear of a large semi- that was climbing the bridge far slower, the tiny sprinkling of red lights on its trailer winking out at them only at the last moment.

Sparrow drove with implacable silence, his face showing no expression, even after they bad passed the truck. It was as though his face was only a mask. Starling felt almost like reaching out and ripping it off, just to be confronted by feelings, something on which to release his own bottled-up tensions. But there was nothing to do but light another cigarette.

They crept into the toll plaza, coasting up to the single booth still open at this hour. Starling felt an inexplicable rush of fear as Sparrow lowered his window and banded a ten-dollar bill to the man in the booth. He wanted to stamp down with his left foot, very suddenly, upon Sparrow’s foot hovering over the gas pedal; to stamp down and make the car move, to get away.

The man was counting the bills very slowly, counting them three times, the third time into Sparrow’s calmly waiting hand. Starling fought his panic. Did they usually take this long? Didn’t they usually keep packets of change ready for such an occasion? The small sign on the booth warned, “Count Your Change,” but did the toll taker normally count it out, like a clerk in a supermarket? Was he trying to delay them?

Then they were smoothly accelerating away, and Starling spoke. “I don’t like it,” he said nervously. “That man took too long.”

“Relax,” Raven said from the back seat. “It’s cold, clammy weather. His fingers were stiff. There’s no traffic now, he can take his time. Besides, why worry? We’re safe. There’s not an ounce of gold in this car, nothing to connect us up. They could stop us now for speeding, and we’d be clean.”

“They won’t.” Sparrow continued to stare ahead through the fog. “We’re not speeding.”

He took the ramp up to a local street, and turned left. The street led a curving path through an old neighborhood, past a private school. The road was red brick, damp and slippery in this misty fog.

The sky was lightening, but this only turned the fog a milkier hue, without thinning it. Sparrow pushed in the lights, leaving only parking lights, then pulled them back on full.

They drifted like ghosts through an abandoned traffic circle, and then were on a wide boulevard, Hylan Boulevard. The car moved effortlessly south, through clusters of haloed traffic lights, all green, past shopping centers, new apartment developments, open fields, and older villages. The boulevard cut south-west, roughly following the eastern shore of the island to its southern tip, a distance of some ten miles from the bridge.

Staten Island, even without the fog, was another country, another land, difficult to associate with New York City, although it was the fifth borough of the City. When a green New York City Transit Authority bus passed by, it was a jarring reminder, but seemed out of place, lost.

Until the completion of the bridge, Staten Island—the borough of Richmond—had been accessible to the rest of the City only by ferry. It had retained its bucolic character, its farms, indeed, supplying many of the vegetable bins of city supermarkets. It was an island of rolling wooded hills, of scattered townships and villages, some three centuries old, reminders that New York was first settled by the Dutch, not the English. The bridge had brought the city to the island, though, and now developers hastily sliced farmlands into miniature subplots, erected cheese-box houses of cardboard quality, and sold them in profusion to harried New Yorkers seeking suburbia.

But most of the land development was in the northern part of the island. As Sparrow drove south, they left the new construction behind. Here was an area mapped for streets and houses thirty years ago, fire hydrants standing alone in the woods, cracked concrete lanes all but covered by weeds and grass.

At the southern tip of the island was the village of Tottenville, a town with narrow, one-way streets, closely set old frame houses, and access, across the Outerbridge Crossing, to nearby New Jersey, where most of the town’s residents worked and shopped. Sparrow wheeled the car through near-empty streets, until he came to a high fence that ran along a weed-choked concrete road. The fence was of boards, and buried beneath years of vines. Behind it, not visible from the street side, was a wall of brick, much newer.

Sparrow touched his horn ring briefly, and the gates to a long drive swung open.

Once this had been a farm. They drove past the weathered old house along the rutted drive, and parked near a large barn. Inside the barn, Starling caught the glint of light on metal. The trucks were parked there.

“So at last we meet the elusive Eagle,” Raven said, climbing from the car, raising his arms over his head and stretching. He drew a deep breath. “Good air out here. I can’t smell the city at all.”

“You wait until the breeze is from New Jersey,” Sparrow smiled thinly. “It’s worse.” He led them up onto the back porch of the old house, and inside.

Captain America waited until the voices had receded, then inched the trunk lid open for a fast peek.

Fog lay heavily over the ground, making the house and nearby trees gray and insubstantial-looking. The trees dripped, drops falling irregularly upon the resonant trunk lid. A light went on in one window of the house, then two more. The light was warm and inviting. The humidity outside seemed to cut through to his bones.

No one was in sight. He wondered if the police had sealed the exits by now. He hoped they were standing by, he might well need their support. Cautiously, he stepped from the trunk and strapped on his shield.

The turf underfoot was damp and squishy, the remains of unmowed summer grass, littered with fallen leaves and twigs. Fortunately, it was too sodden to make any noise.

He crept to the nearest window, and looked in. He could see a tall, bald man, making nervous gestures with his arms. No one else could be seen. The window was closed. He could hear nothing.

The cold tip of a gun touched his spine.

“Okay, fella, ease back gentle now.” It was Randolph, one of the two men who had jumped him before.

He could have taken the man, standing right there. The gunman had been too close for his own safety; commandos were routinely warned never to get that close with a gun—only with a knife.

But he wanted to get inside, and this way was as good as any. As a prisoner, he would be taken for granted. He had no doubt he could handle the situation.

“All right,” he said calmly. “You’ve made your point.”

Randolph prodded him around to the back porch steps. There were over a dozen moments when he could have overpowered the man. But he bided his time.

“Boss? Got a surprise for you!”

The door opened and Marcus stood back, letting Randolph bring his prize in, through an antiquated kitchen and a long-unused dining room, to a parlor-type room.

Three men were in the room, and all turned to look at him in surprise. Two of them—the tall, thin, bald man, and a paunchy, friendly looking man with an overgrown mop of hair—were strangers, although he fitted them, from Robin’s description, with their cover names, Starling and Raven.

The third man in the room was John B. Gaughan.

The two locked eyes and stared at each other as though the room were empty but for the two of them.

“I should have known, ‘Sparrow,’” Captain America said. “You people always seemed to know just a little too much.”

“What’s he talking about, Sparrow?” Starling said. “What’s he mean?”

“What I want to know,” Raven drawled, “is how this sonuvva got here. Last time I saw him, he was tied up in my living room.”

Gaughan—Sparrow—said nothing.

“Your friend, the Sparrow,” Captain America told Starling, “also goes under the name of John Gaughan. He’s a Vice Director of the Federal Reserve Bank, in Manhattan.”

“It was Robin,” Sparrow said. His voice was high and abrupt. “She let you loose, didn’t she?”

“Let’s just say she acquired some sense.”

“I had misgivings about her from the start,” Sparrow muttered. “But she was too lovely to resist.”

“Wait a minute,” Raven said. “You had misgivings? You mean, you brought her in?”

Sparrow smiled a cold smile. “That’s right. I’m afraid the deception goes farther than you’d thought. Gentlemen, I am the Eagle!”

The other two stared at him, open-mouthed. But Rogers spoke.

“Let’s not stop there, ‘Sparrow.’ Why not pull out all stops?”

Sparrow’s eyes glinted. “So you recognized me from the sound of my voice, eh, Captain America?”

“It took me a long time. I didn’t catch on to you at all when you were just being John Gaughan, a fussy bank official. You changed your voice a bit for that role. Then, when you unmasked me—I was awake then—I thought your voice was familiar, but I wasn’t yet hearing too well. At first, when I saw you here, I thought I was just recognizing Gaughan’s voice. But I wasn’t.”

“Er, Sparrow—er, Eagle—what’s he talking about?” Starling was kneading his hands in tension.

“Yeah, what’s going on?” Raven chimed in. “So you were the Eagle all along? That’s cute. I’ll buy that. But what’s he”—he jabbed a finger at Captain America—“talking about? You guys know each other?”

“I’m afraid we do,” the small man said. “It’s an—ah—acquaintanceship that goes back many years. Many years. I wasn’t sure, when I unmasked you,” he said, speaking directly to Captain America. “You looked too young. You looked not much older than when we first locked horns—back during the Great War.”

“Your side lost,” Rogers said.

“But I have found another side,” the man said. “They pay well for success, and they allow me to operate as a free agent.”

“I thought as much. It was the only thing that made sense out of this fantastic robbery. But how well do they pay for failure?”

“Failure?” The little man’s voice rose an octave. “I have not failed! We have less than the whole thirteen billion, but we have taken a great deal. Three billion at least!”

“I doubt it. Do you know how much a billion dollars in gold weighs? Over eight hundred fifty-four tons. I don’t believe your small fleet of trucks brought out even one billion.”

“No! You lie!” He was screaming now. “It makes no difference, no difference at all. I have stolen a billion in gold! And I have Captain America in my grasp again!”

“Boss.” It was Randolph, speaking for the first time since he had pushed Rogers into the room. He was the only one there with a drawn gun.

“Silence, you fool! Look at you all, your mouths gaping, your eyes hanging out. You don’t understand. You can’t understand!” He lifted his hands to his throat.

“You don’t know yet who I am!”

With thin, facile fingers, he pulled loose the skin of his jowls, and pulled it up, over his head, stripping his face of its flesh, leaving only a bloody grinning skull.
The room was frozen, and in that moment, Captain America made his move. Somewhere inside him a hand clamped down, speeding adrenalin into his system, accelerating his metabolism, doubling his reflexes, and his speed. In one swift motion he stepped backward, stamping down hard with his heel on Randolph’s instep, pivoting on it, his elbow sinking into the man’s gut, and then chopping with his other hand at the gun. Around him, the room was still in a slow-motion crawl.

Randolph screamed. His foot was broken. Captain America caught the magnum 38 in his left hand, hefted it, and sidestepped to a corner of the room where he could command both doors and all the occupants. Blood pounded in his ears and he took two deep breaths to calm his system.

“All right, Red Skull,” he said, nodding at the man who still stood with John Gaughan’s face in his hand. “The show is over. The place is surrounded by cops. We’ve had you all under observation since you began this night’s insane work. As I said, you’ve failed.”

The Red Skull—a man scarred and misshapen in both mind and body, a Nazi, once Hitler’s ace terrorist agent—stood stock-still, as though stunned.

But Starling moved. He remembered once before, when he had faced a man with a gun. He had shot and killed that man. He could do so again. He understood nothing of this fantastic caricature who had been their leader except that it must be as Captain America had said. They had failed. His hand flashed into his coat.

He had the gun half out when the gun in Captain America’s hand spoke a single shot. The bullet drilled through his thigh as though through tissue paper, shattering his hip, throwing him to the floor.

But it did not kill him—not instantly. He squeezed off a shot in the general direction of where Captain America had been standing before the darkness closed in. The bullet ricocheted. Then he dropped the gun.

“Apparently this thing shoots high,” Rogers said, hefting the magnum. “Anyone else want to try his luck? You, Red Skull?”

Raven had his hands raised anxiously. “Don’t shoot, fella. I’m peaceable. I’ve never handled a gun in my life.”

Rogers smiled grimly. “Keep it that way.”

The death’s head visage of the Red Skull twisted in a horrible grimace. It seemed meant as a smile.

“You would not shoot us, Captain America. Not in cold blood. See, my hands are empty.”

Rogers sensed movement from the dining-room door, but, before he could move, a shot rang out.

“You lose, Red Skull,” said Marcus, stepping in through the doorway.

The Red Skull’s mouth gaped as his wide jawbone fell slack. He clutched himself. His eyes were wide and staring in their deep sockets as his knees folded and he fell to the floor.

As the Red Skull fell, Captain America trained his gun on Marcus. “Drop the gun,” he said.

Marcus let the gun fall. “You asked him the price of failure,” he said.

Rogers nodded. “You people never fully trust anyone, do you?”

“It was an insane idea to begin with,” Marcus said. “But when he brought it to us, we decided what was there to lose? He is a free agent, available to the highest bidder. If he fails, we have not been involved.” He gave a sarcastic laugh. “What made him think he could get away with it? If he had succeeded, your army and navy, your air force—everyone would have been combing the whole country, both oceans.”

“He expected cash for the gold?”

“Fifty percent. We have dollar reserves available.”

“And you were to have a freighter waiting offshore for the pickup?”

“That was his plan, yes. I…”

The sound of shattering glass swung them all around to the window.

The Red Skull was gone!

Captain America spoke first. “Don’t get excited and try anything. The place is surrounded. He won’t get far.” He mentally crossed his fingers, hoping.

A bitter fire burned in the Red Skull’s brain, an extension of the hot wire that ran through his shoulder. He panted as he ran, dodging through the wet underbrush. Failure! He’d failed! Worse. He’d been sold out. Twice he’d been sold out. First by that double-crossing vixen of a girl—damn her inviting figure—and then by that commie agent, Marcus. Sell him short, would they? Gun him down like a common American punk? He’d show them. He’d show them!

He made his way down to the wharf. They didn’t know about this! They didn’t realize that his property extended down to the waterline. He had his escape route ready, everything waiting. They’d be empty-handed yet, and some day, when they’d forgotten and he hadn’t, he’d be back—to settle the score.

He pulled at the ropes, and the slim, wave-hugging speedboat moved slowly out from under the rotted boards. He cast the line loose, and jumped down into the shallow cockpit. He threw out his right arm to steady himself, and almost screamed in pain as his shoulder gave.

But then he was settled, strapped into the tiny racing cockpit. He touched the starter, and the big engines throbbed into life. He throttled back on them quickly. They were unmuffled, their exhaust going into the water. He swung the wheel, and began edging the boat out into deeper water.

He was only fifty yards from shore when a heavy yellow beam impaled him and the boat.

“This is the Coast Guard,” spoke an amplified and disembodied voice. “We have you on radar and in sight. We have guns trained on you. Prepare to be picked up.”

“No!” he screamed. He shook his fist at the light. “No, I won’t!” he rammed the throttle all the way forward.

The tiny boat gave a great leap up onto the surface of the water and, engines roaring, shot out past the fog-shrouded Coast Guard cutter.

A siren sounded, the banshee wail sliding up and down the scale. Then there was the boom of a gun.

It was a direct hit. All they ever found were expensive hardwood splinters.

Of the already wounded Red Skull, there was no trace. They dragged the bay, but without success. The tides are fierce along that section of coast. The undertow might have dragged him miles out to sea.

And there was no one who shed a tear.

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Saturday, July 17, 2021

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE GREAT GOLD STEAL "Chapter 12: The Great Gold Steal"

CHAPTER 12
THE GREAT GOLD STEAL

Starling stood in the vault, holding the big twelve-cell hand torch, directing the operation. He was careful to keep the pool of light from the dead bodies of the bank guards. The vault had been locked on the inside. Now they were systematically stripping it.

Thirteen billion in gold is a great deal of gold. One billion was more than one thousand times the amount they had taken before. That eight-hundred thousand had been a tiny drop in the bucket. The total amount of gold here was over fifteen thousand times the amount they had taken before.

You couldn’t load a truck anywhere near its volume capacity with the gold. Even now the trucks were overloaded in terms of weight. They had fifteen trucks. That was nowhere near enough. He wondered if they could possibly carry off this fantastic, last-ditch operation. It would depend on doing it without being caught. It would depend on the trucks making, many round trips apiece. They were heading out to Staten Island. It would be a round trip of several hours. It would be daylight before too much longer. The fog might help. It might not. His stomach was cramped, and his hand holding the light shook, making the beam seem to flicker. Cold sweat stood on his forehead, his clothes were damp with it. They’d have to take what they could and leave it at that. Thirteen billion was impossible.

He wondered why they were doing this. How could they possibly hope to succeed? There was only one satisfaction. They would be taking the gold to Staten Island, to the Eagle’s retreat. At last he would be able to meet the Eagle!

Outside, Raven backed the last truck into place. He looked at his watch. 4:10. They couldn’t hope to succeed much longer at this. The first truck would be returning soon. He should give a message to the driver of this truck to tell the rest not to come back. He shook his head.

“This is a crazy thing, huh?” he asked the Sparrow.

“How much you think we’ve taken out?”

“I’ve been keeping a rough count,” Sparrow replied. “We’ve gotten maybe a couple of billion.”

“Is that all? I’m gonna tell the driver of this heap not to come back. It’ll be five by the time he gets there.”

“What?” Sparrow’s face twisted suddenly. “You dare to stop the operation?”

“Aw, come on! It’ll be light inna couple more hours. You think we can go on all day?”

“We must complete this job!”

“Look, Sparrow, be reasonable, huh? You tell me. At this rate, when will we be hauling out the last load?”

Sparrow didn’t answer the question. “We’ll barricade the street, if necessary. We have a small army here.”

“Sparrow! You crazy or something? How will we get the trucks out? They’re just ordinary trucks, man. You think we gonna get them over the bridge and on the expressway, with every cop in the city knowing what’s in ’em? Think! Our whole cover is darkness, secrecy. Like, we’d never get across one bridge, let alone two, if it got out what we’re doin’.”

Sparrow’s shoulders slumped. “You’re right,” he sighed. “We’ve been lucky so far.”

“Let’s not push it,” Raven agreed. “After all, ten percent of two or three billion ain’t so bad. We’re still millionaires. I can live on that.” He chuckled again.

Rogers tensed as she leaned over him, but Robin didn’t use the knife on him. Instead she cut his bonds.

He stumbled as he climbed from the chair. His legs were numb, and for a moment his ankles refused to support him. Then he was standing in the center of the room, looking down at the girl. Robin’s lips trembled.

“I—I’m throwing it all away, aren’t I?”

“On the contrary.” He put his arms around her shoulders. Her body was shaking. “You’ve done the right thing. You’ve reached a decisive turning point for your life.”

“I have, haven’t I?” Her voice was thin and small, like a child’s. “A—a second chance?”

“Yes.” He stroked her back, soothing her.

“I always wanted to get out of this. It’s like drugs—addictive. It catches you up and you can’t let go. It’s—it’s being what you’re not, and yet you can’t find who you really are.”

“It’s all changed, now,” Rogers told her.

“What do I do now?”

“The first thing is to wrap up this case,” Rogers said. He reached back with stiff fingers and pulled his hood up and over his head, smoothing the cowl over his face.

“Why do you wear that?” she asked.

“The mask?” He smiled. “It gives people something external to concentrate upon.”

“But…

“Without it, I’m just another ordinary-looking man. With it, I become a symbol. For some people, it creates awe; for others, fear. Look at me. I’m different now, aren’t I? With the mask on?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “You look—bigger somehow. Stronger. Fierce, implacable. You look a little scary.”

“Exactly. You no longer see me as a person, but as a thing—an Avenger. It can be a potent psychological weapon.”

“They were so disappointed, when they took your mask off. As though underneath they’d find a famous person.”

“Maybe that goes on TV—handsome playboys, and all that. But I’ve been anonymous all my life. Even my real name would be meaningless to you, to them. No, the mask is part of the uniform, a psychological device. That’s the whole story.

“Now let’s get out of here. You have a good deal more to tell me yet, and we can’t waste more time.”

A call brought a police car from the 68th Precinct to Raven’s Second Avenue garage. Captain America pumped the girl of what she knew, and left her in the custody of the police at the station. There he borrowed an unmarked car, and drove toward Manhattan.

The police had been alerted now, but if possible he would try to see the thing through to its end by himself. From what Robin had told him, two things demanded it.

First, Sparrow, Raven and Starling had a large gang of armed men. Any full-scale assault upon them would result in the possible loss of life of many brave policemen. He could not permit this if it was avoidable. Most of the fighting would undoubtedly have to take place in the tunnels. It would be too dangerous—a slaughterhouse.

Second, and equally important, a shadowy figure stood behind this entire criminal operation, the man known only as the Eagle. Robin had told him that none of them, not even the Sparrow, had ever met the Eagle before. But the gold was to be taken to an estate on Staten Island—the Eagle’s own estate! This would be the best chance to catch the mastermind, who had so carefully until now held himself at arm’s length from involvement. To catch him with the stolen gold would be to implicate him in a way he’d never squirm out of. They’d have the whole gang, and all the goods, in one neat package. The thought pleased him.

The car was a 1966 Plymouth, a six-cylinder Belvedere. New York City had one of the few police departments in the country that bought six-cylinder cars. They were outfitted with taxi upholstery, and a calibrated speedometer, but otherwise standard. They were auctioned off after two years, or eighty thousand miles, whichever occurred first. They gave rugged, economical service, and were rarely driven over fifty miles an hour. Like the regular cruisers, this car had a radio. Rogers was now patched in directly to headquarters in downtown Manhattan, where the radio equipment was running off a basement Diesel generator. Unmarked cars similar to the one he was driving were standing by at the bridge and tunnel approaches. As he drove down Hamilton Avenue, under the expressway (it was faster than retracing his route to the expressway entrance), patches of fog swirling across the road before him, a scratchy voice filled him in over the radio.

“The Con Ed plant at 14th Street is a total wreck. Every generator completely smashed, ruined. The same goes for the electrical switching yard. The transformers are burnt-out husks. Con Ed says the whole thing is a complete loss. Six men were killed there—the five men on duty, and a foot patrolman.”

“Dangerous people we’re working with,” Rogers said. “That’s why we’re doing it my way. There’s no sense in sending more good men where those went.”

He nosed the car into the ramp down to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The radio static faded momentarily as he went through a short tunnel to pick up the main expressway. He drove with tight-fisted silence until signs pointed out the Brooklyn Bridge exit. He pulled the car into the tight curve of the ramp to the bridge at twice the posted exit speed, jockeying the car as the back end broke loose, skidded, and then straightened out, pointing directly up the right-hand lane of the bridge.

A slow-moving car, its taillights dim in the billowing fog, honked its horn at him as he barreled past, and he set the red flasher on his dash and turned it on.

There was no traffic waiting in the left lane at the Manhattan end of the bridge, but the traffic signals were still working, on a separate circuit apparently. It seemed strange to see the city streets so dark. He made a left through the red light, his own red flasher working, and cut through the Municipal Building, west on Chambers, for Broadway.

Again he turned left on a red, and continued to ignore the lights as he pushed the car down Broadway at forty-five, the highest speed he dared without using his siren.

He drew up short at Maiden Lane, pulling into the curb, and shutting off the lights and flasher. He was still in the car when a heavy truck lumbered across on Maiden Lane, its tires flattened under its load. He stared at the truck, memorizing its make and license number, then thumbed his radio sending switch.

“A 1952 Mack truck, heavy-duty van body,” he told them, reciting its license tag number. “Heading west on Maiden Lane, probably turning uptown for the Manhattan Bridge. Check it out and see where it goes. Don’t stop it.”

He glanced at the dash clock. 2:15. They’d let the trucks pass through without interference. They’d let the crooks make a complete haul. There was no sense in complicating things. He waited, then a car pulled up alongside. A man jumped out. He pulled open the other door, and slipped quickly in. “Okay,” he nodded at Captain America. “I’m all set.”

“Keep low. Don’t let them see you.”

“Right.”

Rogers stepped quickly from the car and moved, through the fog, down the street.

The clammy air felt chill upon his bare arm, where Starling had cut his uniform sleeve, despite the sudden warmth that had hit the area. He moved around onto Liberty Street, staying close to the sides of the buildings.

In the middle of the block he saw overhead the slatted stairs of a fire escape. Perfect! He jumped, his muscles thrusting him high into the air, where he caught the bottom rung of the ladder. Flipping his body up, he swung his legs through the railings and pulled himself up. Soon he was standing on the bottom landing.

He climbed quickly, fleetly, being careful to make as little noise as possible. The last flight was a straight ladder that led him to the roof.

The roofs of all the buildings along here were within a few feet of the same height. Two- to three-feet walls bordered each roof, while the roofs themselves were covered with tar paper and asphalt, and sometimes with gravel as well. This roof was not graveled. The tar paper was ripped in several places, revealing lower layers, and Rogers judged that the building’s roof had received no attention in years.

The roof sloped slightly to the rear, and seemed to sag toward the center as well. A cupola poked up at one side, where the inside stairs debouched onto the roof. Further back were chimneys, and a clutter of miscellaneous hardware that might once have been a TV aerial.

Rogers moved quickly to the eastern edge, and climbed over the wall onto the next roof. It was depressingly similar.

In this manner he made his way from rooftop to rooftop until at last he was at the corner building, overlooking Maiden Lane. He edged his head over the edge and stared down.

Below, the street was filled with trucks and men. It was amazing; like something on a movie set. It was hard to believe it could really be happening, here in Lower Manhattan. The street was in deep shadow, but here and there flashlights showed, an occasional match flared.

They were robbing the Federal Reserve Bank of over twelve billion in gold! It was fantastic. He had to marvel at the audacity of the man who called himself the Eagle. What could the man be thinking of? How could he dispose of such a fantastic quantity of gold—assuming he could get it? As Rogers had told the girl, gold is not negotiable in the United States. A billion in gold might as well be so many lead bricks. It was traceable, and fantastically hot. No one would handle it.

No one in this country, at any rate.

That set his brain to work. They were taking the gold to Staten Island. Staten Island had miles of unpatrolled beaches and bays. If you were taking the gold out of the country, what better way? A large boat, a freighter, standing offshore—freighters often anchored off Staten Island or in the New York Bay for days—quietly loading by launch at night.

Where could they take the gold?

He began considering the deeper implications. The United States was already having trouble with its balance of payments. When U.S. tourists spent dollars in foreign countries, or American companies set up shop there, the money they spent was redeemable by those foreign countries in gold. France was one country which had recently begun cashing in its hoard of dollars against United States gold, at the rate of fifty-four million dollars a month.

While France insisted on possession of its gold, many countries did not, banking their newly acquired gold right where it had always been, in the New York City Federal Reserve Bank.

Suppose you stole the gold that belonged to other countries?

Suppose you stole U.S. gold?

Either way you would badly damage the United States. Its gold reserves back its currency, making the dollar the most stable currency in the world. Steal foreign gold on deposit, and you create an international incident of major proportions. Restitution would be demanded. U.S. gold stocks would necessarily be substituted.

The effect would not be very different. The dollar would be undermined, and the United States would be badly hurt.

And who would stand to gain by this? Who could reintroduce the gold to the world market as freshly mined and refined?

Only two countries today are doing much serious gold-producing—South Africa and Russia. Russia supports itself on the world market with the gold dug from its Siberian mines.

It all began to make an ominous sort of sense.

At five o’clock, Raven poked his head up the hole and into the vault, the rays from Starling’s light catching him full on and making him blink.

“That’s it,” he said. “We’re closing shop.”

Starling glanced at his watch, and then shuddered. “I wondered.”

“How much we got left?”

Starling gestured with the light, sweeping it around the vault. It looked scarcely touched. It was empty only in the corner nearest the tunnel exit.

Raven sighed. “A shame to leave all that stuff, but I guess we’ll have to make do. I hope the Eagle ain’t too disappointed.”

“Let’s get out of here!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They watched the last load taken out, rode up the elevator with it, and saw it stowed away in the last sagging truck.

Starling called in his men.

“Okay, this is it. You’ve all been paid. It’s over. Time to disperse. Don’t think about going back in there for a last one for your pockets. You couldn’t cash it.” He waved his arm. “Let’s go.”

The men moved by two’s and three’s up the street, heading for subways and buses, or cars parked nearby. None of them would successfully escape.

Raven and Starling joined the Sparrow at the black Continental. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get outta here, huh?”

The car doors slammed, and then the engine started up. The lights came on, cutting thick beams through the fog. Without turning into Liberty Place, the car headed east on Liberty Street.

It rolled quietly past the square Federal Reserve Bank building, and then was swallowed by the fog.

She turned her back on him and moved, almost stumbling, across the room to the kitchenette. He heard her pulling out drawers, and the sound of silverware as she dug about. When she came back, she was holding a thin, wicked-looking knife.

Monday: the Finale...and a Major Reveal!
Chapter 13
Birds of a Feather!
Don't Dare Miss It!
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Friday, July 16, 2021

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE GREAT GOLD STEAL "Chapter 11: The Screaming Machines!"

CHAPTER 11
THE SCREAMING MACHINES

It was shortly after midnight that the anonymous late-model Ford turned off the FDR Drive at Houston Street, cutting west. Riding in the car with Sparrow were Randolph and Marcus. Marcus was checking out a bulky suitcase, the side of which had a set of electrical connections. Randolph was working with the contents of the other suitcase.

The weather had suddenly turned warm, a hollow echo of Indian summer. Gusty sou’wester breezes pushed through the half-open windows of the car. The East River, when they had come over the Brooklyn Bridge, had been obscured by fog, the bridge lights pale misty moons. Clouds of fog were blowing in from the river as they left it now, heading west on Houston.

At Avenue D, Sparrow swung the car right, heading north again. This was the worst part of the East Side, but at this hour all but deserted. Trash blew unhindered in the streets, rising in small clouds behind the car.

At 14th Street, they turned east again.

There is only a short block between Avenue D and the FDR Drive at 14th Street. On the south side sits a huge transformer switch yard, guarded by a high fence. On the north side sits the main Manhattan Consolidated Edison power generating plant. Even now its tall stacks belched pollution into the air. The city regularly fined the monolithic utility company, but Con Ed only shrugged, paid the fines, and added them to its already staggering consumer bills. Across the Drive, nestled between it and the East River, almost obscured by the fog now, and only a hulking blotch of darkness, was a coal elevator, into which coal was dumped from river barges. The coal was hauled up several stories and conveyor-belted across the Drive into the power plant, where it was burned, supplying energy for the giant generators that supplied most of Manhattan’s electric power, and then becoming soot, falling gently from the air onto thousands of window sills across the island.

It was a blot upon the city, Marcus felt. He felt a kind of boyish glee at what they were about to do. Perhaps someday the city would thank him. It was a thought worth smiling about.

Ralph Amberson, at fifty-three, was senior engineer in charge of the midnight-to-eight shift at the 14th Street plant. Four regular men worked under him—Milton Krankowitz, forty-eight; Jeff Jones, forty-four; Julius Postal, thirty-six; and Mark Redwing, forty. Ralph didn’t like Jones; he had no use for most Negroes. Jones did his job fine, but there was no denying that he didn’t belong there. Neither did that young Turkish Jew, Postal. The city was overrun with foreigners anyway. Look at them, not an honest name in the lot. Krankowitz, a Pole; Redwing—well, with a name like that, he had to have Indian blood, even if he didn’t show it.

Amberson was not a prejudiced man, he’d have you know. He didn’t hold with the way they did things down south, and Hitler—well, the man was an insane murderer, and you couldn’t make excuses for the extermination of six million Jews. On the other hand, now that they had their own country, why couldn’t they stop sponging off the goodwill and charity of other countries? Postal! That man couldn’t have known the war. He hadn’t fought in it, the way Ralph had. Why was he—and all the other Jews in the world—still trading on what happened over twenty years ago, still looking for the free ride?

He had never mentioned this to Julius, and he never would. It wasn’t something a polite man would bring up, much less discuss. He wasn’t a bigot. It was like he’d told his wife, Margaret, how could they call him a bigot? He lived on the same block with them. But it galled a man, nevertheless, to see the way they took over jobs, pushing their way in. They talked about anti-semitism, and discrimination against Negroes. He could show them a thing or two! How about that officious Negro clerk down at City Hall, when he’d tried to get a little action on a parking ticket? Hah! In this city, to get anywhere, you had to be Negro or a Jew. Then they leaned over backward. City Controller, Borough President, anything you wanted!

The outside door, just beyond his office, slammed. He dropped his newspaper and pushed to his feet. Before he could reach it, his door swung open, and a neatly dressed young man was standing in the doorway. What was the office doing, sending men around at this hour? Or was he from the city?

The neatly dressed young man pulled a revolver from under his arm. It was blued steel. The barrel was five inches long. It looked longer.

“You in charge here, Pop?”

“Yes, I…What’s going on?”

The terrifying gun exploded. Ralph Amberson’s body was driven back against his desk, his spine smashed, arms flailing. The bullet left a hole in the wall beyond. The hole was ringed with bits of flesh and blood.

Sparrow had explained it to them. “No witnesses. This is the biggest job that’s ever been pulled. It’ll make the Brinks robbery look like peanuts. We’re blacking out a whole city, just to pull it off. We don’t need witnesses.”

He was in his element now. There had been only five men they could find. He’d held one of them, a Negro, at bay with his own gun, while the two gunmen had gone hunting for the other three, their guns sounding occasionally over the throbbing roar of the generators. “Just five of you, eh?” he’d asked. The Negro had nodded, sweat pouring down his face.

“You wouldn’t be holding one or two back?”

“I wish I had.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re gonna kill me anyway, right?”

“Make it easy for yourself. Don’t make it hard.”

“Why should I? Why should I make it easy for you?” Jones leaped at him, clubbing at Sparrow’s gun hand with one arm, going for his body with the other.

Sparrow had to admire the fellow’s guts. He lifted his knee and chopped with his gun hand, driving the other’s head down, smashing the man’s nose. Then, as he collapsed at Sparrow’s feet, Sparrow put a bullet through the back of his head.

That had taken care of the opposition. Now for the work.

Randolph had assembled the laser gun from the second suitcase with care. Now he plugged its leads to the power pack in the other suitcase, and handed the weapon to Sparrow.

It didn’t look like much. It consisted mainly of a tube. It was one of the new gas types that didn’t use a jewel. Energy was pumped into the tubular chamber. It was converted into photons—light particles. These bounced back and forth between the mirrors at each end of the chamber until they were perfectly aligned, and could escape at one end as congruent light.

With the tight red beam of light, diamonds could be cut, messages sent to the moon, anything. The possible uses of the laser as a tool or weapon are almost unlimited.

Sparrow used the beam to carve through solid inches of steel, to cut through the heavy maintenance shielding of the bearing assembly at the hub of one of the huge powerhouse generators. He used it to fuse and destroy the bearing upon which the giant generator rotor spun.

There were nine generators in the powerhouse. Without pause, he moved on to the next. And then the next.

The instant the bearing had been damaged on the first generator, imbalance was introduced to the tons of spinning mass that was the rotor. A vibration was set up.

When the bearing was destroyed, vast amounts of friction were quickly created by the spinning shaft. The rotor, no longer on a true course, began scraping against the fixed fields. Showers of sparks began to fly from the wobbling generator, while the bearing journal heated to a red glow. The vibration was shaking the steel mounts imbedded in concrete and, through the concrete, the whole structure of the powerhouse. A terrible screaming filled the air, the keening screech of tortured metal.

Very quickly the agonies of the first generator were joined by those of the others. The place sounded—felt—like a madhouse. Sparrow was laughing insanely, tears streaking his face.

Smoke was filling the great room, and with it the smell of burning rubber and ozone. Marcus grabbed Sparrow’s shoulder, all but stumbling on the dancing surface of the vibrating floor.

“Boss!” he shouted into Sparrow’s ear. “We gotta get out!”

Sparrow shook the man loose, but nodded, and beckoned toward the entrance. Stumbling, running, the three ran for the doorway.

Outside the air was thick with fog, and the fog muffled the terrible death throes of the powerhouse. The pounding vibrations could still be felt through the pavement, but the machines were dying, and soon they would slow to a stop.

The street lights were already dimmer, Sparrow thought. Then he heard a pounding of footsteps running down the road. It was a guard, his gun drawn. “Hey! Hey you,” he was shouting. Randolph shot him.

The lights had not dimmed appreciably. If anything, they were brighter. The noise of the generators was a great deal less now. The power was not off.

Inside the building, they could hear a phone ringing.

“It didn’t work,” Marcus said.

“They switched in another power source,” Sparrow said.

“But, hey. We took care of all them guys.”

“It was automatic. After the last power failure—the big one—they must’ve installed a lot of new equipment.”

“So what do we do?”

“We find that equipment. We destroy it.”

Randolph spoke. “Wait a minute. How about over there?” He gestured across the street. “How about them things—all them wires?”

Sparrow’s face lit. “The transformers, of course! You’re right! We’ll try them. Bring the laser.”

They cut a hole in the fence, and stepped through.

The transformer yard was an incredible jungle-gym gone mad. Metal lattices crossed and criss-crossed, wires weaving webs among them. And, squatting bulks in their midst, like fat spiders in the centers of their webs, stood the heavy transformers.

Sparrow triggered the laser, sweeping its sharp lance of light across the yard. The metal beams glowed only momentarily from the heat, but thin wires snapped, a succession of rifle-shots in the foggy night.

Then he brought the beam to bear upon the nearest transformer. He trained it on the center of the dark object, watching in satisfaction as the heavy outer case of the transformer began to glow dully where the beam struck it.

Then, suddenly, the yard was brightly lit by showers of sparks. The transformer was arcing and spitting angrily, the outer case cracking, sparks flying. Then the whole transformer seemed to glow for a moment.

The street lights flickered, then dimmed perceptibly. The transformer ceased its showers of sparks, and its glow slowly dimmed.

There were only three transformers in the yard. The electrical displays as they shorted out internally were impressive.

On 63rd Street, in the Con Ed Energy Control System headquarters, a meter recorded a frequency drop in the power-net system. A load-shedding relay closed, and a link was cut from the system before it could drag the entire system into a second major blackout. Only two-thirds of Manhattan was affected. Only the lower two-thirds. It was late at night. Few people noticed.

And the fog rolled in, through darkened streets.

A police car, siren screaming, raced through the near-empty streets to the 14th Street plant. It was too late. The Ford carrying Sparrow, Randolph and Marcus had already left. Policemen poked flashlight beams incredulously through the wreckage of the transformer yards, and then moved silently past the dead bodies into the silent powerhouse.

When the lights died, Starling gave the signal, moving his car off Broadway onto Liberty Street, a caravan of trucks, led by Raven, following. The trucks turned up Liberty Place, the Continental hanging back until they had all entered, then moving across the narrow mouth of the street, blocking it.

The first truck rumbled to a stop in front of the warehouse door, and backed up onto the sidewalk. The truck’s back doors swung open and five men jumped down, each carrying a small sub-machine gun. Raven hopped down from the cab. He unlocked the door, and two men laid down their guns and helped him push it up. The elevator was at the bottom of the shaft, a much more decrepit one now at ground level. Raven climbed up its side, and over its open top, cutting into the dead wires of its motor system, splicing in wires that ran to the back of the truck, where a gasoline-powered generator was turning over.

It was a smooth operation. There were no guards stationed in the tunnel. The lights in the vault were off, and the four guards stationed there were shot. They had only one bad moment, when a police car turned into Liberty Place from Maiden Lane. But then Sparrow’s Ford turned in behind it, blocking it, and two officers in the car were marched down into the tunnels, where they were disposed of quietly and efficiently, without shots being heard on the street.

The men worked in teams, loading the heavy gold ingots onto carts which were then pulled down the long tunnel to the elevator, where they were taken to the street and the trucks. Each truck received several cartloads, the tonnage settling it heavily upon its springs. The men in the tunnels each carried guns in hip holsters. The men on the street patrolled each end of the block with their machine guns.

The fog was heavy, clammy now. The temperature had risen to a freak 67° from the below freezing of only hours earlier. The working men had shucked their coats. Sparrow and Raven stood smoking on the street, watching each truck loaded. The police car and the Ford had been moved onto the sidewalks, allowing each truck in turn to rumble up the street and out of the narrow block. Each truck carried a driver, and a guard with a sub-machine gun. Each truck’s engine labored under the load it pulled.

Captain America stared unblinkingly at the girl who faced him. A short cigarette was clenched between her lips.

“No,” she said. “I told you—shut up. Stop telling me these things. It won’t do you any good. What do you think, I’d turn informer and give up over a billion dollars? A billion dollars, Mister Goody-two-shoes! You know how many people in this world got a billion?”

“You must want it pretty bad.”

“Why not? What do I have now? It’s go for broke, fellow. You should know that. I’m in as deep as I’ll ever be now.”

“How did you get into this?”

She smiled. “What’s a nice girl like me doing in a racket like this? You guess.”

“Money, I suppose. That’s the usual excuse.”

“Excuse?”

“Sure. You think money will solve all your problems, whatever they may be, if you get enough of it. Funny thing, it never does. You just get new problems.”

“Sure. Like, should I get a black Rolls Royce or a gold one.”

“More likely, how will you make use of your billion?”

“Huh? Try that again, more slowly.”

“What will you do with your billion in gold?”

The girl stared at him, as if at a simpleton. Rogers smiled.

“Ever try cashing a gold bar at your local neighborhood candy store?”

Robin’s mouth dropped, the cigarette falling, forgotten, to the carpet.

“Gold is illegal for private possession in this country,” Rogers pointed out, “except as jewelry, and things like that. Private ownership of gold in ingot form, or as any kind of money except rare coins in collections, is illegal. Maybe illegal ownership doesn’t bother you, but how will you convert it to spending money?” He nodded. “That’s the least of your problems, of course.”

“What do you mean?”

“A billion in gold, that’s not something you can carry around in your purse. Gold weighs almost as much as lead. It’s a soft, heavy metal. You know how much a billion in gold weighs? Well over eight hundred tons. You know how much a ton is? How will you transport it? Where will you keep it? If you want to get out of the country with it, how will you take it?” He sighed. “The life of a master crook is fraught with problems, you see.”

“I—I could grind it to powder, and claim I’d mined it.”

“High-quality gold like this? Uh-uh. Besides, gold is easily traceable. Gold from different areas differs in ways any expert can detect. This gold is highly refined. You’d have trouble explaining it as just a little something you’d panned from the creek out back.”

A tear squeezed out from one eye. “Damn you, damn you!” the girl cried. “Why do you have to do this? Why are you ruining everything?”

“There’s still my offer,” Rogers said. “There’s still an out. It doesn’t pay so well, but the security is a lot better.”

She turned her back on him and moved, almost stumbling, across the room to the kitchenette. He heard her pulling out drawers, and the sound of silverware as she dug about. When she came back, she was holding a thin, wicked-looking knife.

(Yes, it's the book's title, but it's also this chapter's title!)
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Thursday, July 15, 2021

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE GREAT GOLD STEAL "Chapter 10: Unmasked!"

CHAPTER 10
UNMASKED!

When the black Continental drew up inside the Raven’s garage, Starling and Robin watched while Randolph and Marcus hauled Captain America’s limp body from the car. They pulled him out feet first, his back and shoulders scraping over the car’s door sill, his head snapping back against the concrete floor with an ominous thunk.

“Careful, you fools,” Robin said. “The Eagle wants him captured—not killed. Not yet, anyway.”

Raven stared down at the costumed figure lying on his floor. Captain America’s body looked even bigger in this odd position. “I don’t get it,” he complained. “Why take him alive? Why not just deliver a clean hit? And if we gotta keep him in storage, why here?”

Starling smiled. “I’m afraid that if the Eagle wanted you to know, he’d have informed you.”

“Hah! I’m betting you don’t know either, fella.”

“Starling! Raven!” It was Robin. “Please. This is no time for pettiness.”

“Speaking of time,” said Starling, glancing at his chromium-steel wrist chronometer, “where’s Sparrow? He’s overdue.”

Marcus had gone over near the doors. “Hey, somebody’s poking around out there.” His gun was in his hand as he spoke.

“Put the gun away, idiot,” Raven snorted. “You’re paid to follow instructions—not to think.” He unbolted the doors, and inched one open. “Oh, it’s you.”

“I’m sorry to be late,” Sparrow said apologetically, as he pushed in through the narrow gap. “I’m not familiar with the subways in Brooklyn.”

“What could be easier?” Raven asked. “The 4th Avenue line runs right up there along Fourth Avenue. You’re two blocks away.”

“I got on the wrong train when I changed. The—um—West End Line, I believe.”

Raven shook his head. It was plain he had little respect for the fussy and incapable Sparrow. “Well, we’re all here, anyway. I mean, all of us except the boss.”

“I’ve never seen the Eagle,” Robin spoke up. “When am I going to meet him?”

“None of us have,” Sparrow replied in a kindly tone which he seemed to reserve for the girl. “His dealings with all of us have been over the phone. I have worked for him more years than the rest of you put together, and I’ve never met him. We are hardly his only um—employees. We simply represent the lieutenants for this operation.”

“Well, what about this operation?” Starling asked. “It’s finished, isn’t it?”

“Ah, that’s one of the things we have to discuss,” Sparrow said, shaking his head. “But first, there is the matter of our energetic friend on the floor.”

“What about him?” Raven asked. He drew the back of his hand over his stubbled jowls, then ran his fingers through his dirty blond hair. “Why are we holding him? And why here?”

“It bothers you?” Sparrow asked.

“It sure does. I’ve heard about this guy. He causes trouble. There are plenty who’d pay us good money to see him dead, and if it was somebody else holding him, I’d ante something into the pot myself, just on general principles. Here he is, lying right here on the floor, in the midst of a high-level meeting like this. It’s ridiculous! Besides, this is my garage.”

“Relax,” ‘Starling said. “He’s full of juice. Nothing can go wrong.”

“That’s what you said when you dropped that dynamite on him.”

“Gentlemen, please!” Sparrow held his hands aloft, summoning their attention. “The Eagle’s reasons for wanting to keep Captain America our hostage are, I am sure, reasonable and sufficient. We needn’t question them. However, I am aware that one of his reasons is that Captain America is highly valued by the law enforcement agencies of this country, and would provide an excellent exchange hostage, should any one of us—ah—become enmeshed in the traps of the law.

“As to your fear, Raven, I believe it is groundless. The ‘juice’ to which Starling refers, should be quite effective in rendering Captain America totally helpless.”

“Well, where’m I gonna put him?”

“I suggest we take him down to your apartment, and tie him to a chair.”

When Captain America regained consciousness, it was not all at once.

First there was a heavy, sluggish, dreamy quality to his awareness. It was vaguely as he remembered it when a dentist had given him gas. He had not gone completely under, but had become somewhat removed from the reality of what the dentist was doing to his teeth.

Just so—a man was hitting him. He couldn’t be sure if more than one man was hitting him, because the blows seemed unconnected one to another, and the drone of the man’s curses added up to nothing. He felt no personal animosity toward the man who was hitting him. He registered the blows to his ribs, his kidneys, his stomach, without feeling them. There was no pain, only a sort of irregular, ceaseless jarring.

He didn’t try to reason it out; that part of his brain was dead. He only experienced. He drifted, the jars and blows turbulences in the dreamlike current that carried him.

But gradually the shock, if not the pain of the body blows, began to cut through the mist of his mind. Like touches of ice in a steam bath, they restored contrast and, with that, greater consciousness.

He was propped in a sitting position, between two other bodies; occasionally he would feel the weight of one against him pushing him into the other, as they all swayed. There was a sour, sickly odor, although chill wind blasted against him. The man on his right was hitting him, steadily if neither regularly nor methodically. The other man seemed to be holding him. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t open his eyes. His body felt paralyzed. From the sounds that filtered through his consciousness, be decided they were in a car.

Someone else—a female voice—said something sharp.

The blows ceased. Without them, he lost some of his impetus toward wakefulness, but did not lose consciousness entirely. Instead, he drifted back into the deeper waters, coming near the surface only when the car’s direction or its speed would abruptly change. Even when the road surface became suddenly rougher he was roused only momentarily. The outside stimuli which reached him were incapable of exciting him.

Then the car had stopped. Without warning; hands roughly seized him, gripping his ankles and pulling them. He felt his body slip, flopping him flat on his back on the car seat, and then his ankles were jerked impatiently as he was dragged from the car. For a moment he was falling, free. Then his head struck the pavement.

The drug Starling had used on Captain America was a narco-depressant, a synthetic originally developed for use on drug addicts. Unfortunately, its side effects made it unpopular for this use, and it languished for several years until rediscovered by the Russian KGB for use not unlike that to which Starling had put it.

There was no particular secret about the drug, although it was now being used under several different trade names, and not only SHIELD, but various national agencies in the U.S. employed it upon occasion. It was inevitable that it would find its way into criminal hands; most of the world’s drug discoveries do, often even before any public announcement or release.

There was only one objection to using the drug on Captain America; it didn’t really work.

The drug normally enters the brain through the bloodstream, and attacks the nerve centers at the top of the spinal cord and the base of the brain. Its properties are largely anesthetic, but it also acts as a general depressant, reducing capillary circulation throughout the body, and most particularly in the brain.

But Captain America possessed an altered body. In his strengthened body, the influx of many drugs is treated much as would be the unwarranted entrance of any foreign object; antibodies are formed which attack and destroy the foreign object—in this case, the drug.

This was not done instantly. A massive dose had been injected directly into his bloodstream. He was already unconscious. Some of the drug was able to act upon him, unimpaired. It would be a matter of time—perhaps more than an hour—before the drug would be cleared from his bloodstream. It would be longer before all its effects had worn off. And they would not all disappear simultaneously. Repeated brain concussions from blows to the cranium would have their own effects as well. There was the possibility of blood clots forming in brain tissues. In a normal man, a head blow sufficient to cause unconsciousness can leave the victim with migraine headaches, dizzy spells and occluded vision, or minor sight difficulties, for days afterwards. It was fortunate for Captain America that he was no longer a “normal” man.

His hearing returned first, and imperfectly. There was a buzzing to every sound he heard, like distortion in a sound system, a radio not properly tuned. Voices cut and rasped, their meanings elusive.

Then bodily sensation. He was sitting again, in a straight chair. Tight bands—ropes, he guessed—held his hands behind the chair’s back. The stiff chair back cut into the insides of his arms. His hands had very little feeling.

More ropes held his legs to the chair legs, and bound his thighs to the seat. He was thoroughly trussed up.

He didn’t try to move or struggle. He didn’t lift his chin from his chest. Even his breathing didn’t quicken.

He knew he was in the den of thieves. It seemed important for the time being to lie doggo, to wait and listen.

“I don’t like it,” Starling was saying. “Of all of you, only I am familiar with the actual physical operation. Only I have seen the vaults, worked in the tunnels. And we don’t know how changed they are now. For instance, will the cart still go through?”

Raven laughed. “You’re forgetting, the cart was in your storeroom. It’s buried now. And if it isn’t, they’ve probably taken it out. We can’t count on it. We’ll have to take more in.”

“I don’t know,” Robin’s softer voice came. “I’m newest on this operation. But it seems to me that Starling has a point. All we know is that the main tunnel between the elevator and the vault is clear—for men to get through, anyway. We don’t know what conditions are like down there. We’ve already gotten a haul that anyone else would be satisfied with.”

“Not just anyone!” Sparrow’s voice, surprisingly crisp, cut through the conversation. “You’re overlooking something. This is not our operation. These are not our plans. And you are not totally aware of my own role in the situation. In any case, the Eagle has made these plans, and cast his vote. I need not remind you, his is the decisive, the only vote. So this argument is really quite pointless. We had best get onto the mechanics of it. We’ll need more trucks. Raven, that’s your department. Starling, you’ll round up your work crew. We’ll need more men. I want a constant stream of men loading and unloading—a steady flow to the trucks. I’ll take care of the power cut.”

“Wait a minute…” Starling said.

“What about me?” Robin interrupted.

Sparrow smiled at her. “You’ll stay here to keep the home fires burning, my dear. And, incidentally, to guard our captive, here.”

She pouted. “That doesn’t seem very important.”

“You’ll also be our message center. We’ll need someone to coordinate things, someone we can all get through to.”

“Why, Sparrow, I didn’t think you had so much to you,” Raven said with delight. “You’ve positively taken charge!” He laughed.

“What’s got into you?” Starling asked, testily.

“It’s a nice split, boys. Had you forgotten? Sixty per cent of the net to the Eagle; ten to each of the rest of us. Ten per cent of eight-hundred thousand; that’s only eighty thousand. But have you tried working out ten per cent of over twelve billion? People, you’re looking at billionaires! That’s worth a few chuckles, ain’t it?”

“What will you do with your share, Raven?” Robin asked curiously.

“I figure on buying me an island in the South Pacific,” he said happily.

“Maybe they’ll use it to test a new bomb on,” Starling rejoined.

“Enough,” Sparrow said, his thin voice again cutting through the dissension. “That’s quite enough. We have one other item of business yet to attend to.”

Rogers heard footsteps scuffing across a thick carpet, and then Sparrow’s voice again, almost directly over him.

His ears still buzzed, but he fought to catch the elusive familiarity of the man’s tone. He wished he dared open his eyes.

“This is a moment which I, personally, have long awaited,” Sparrow said, his voice rising in triumph. “The unmasking of Captain America!”

Then, his nails scraping along Rogers’ face, Sparrow dug his fingers under his cowl, and ripped it back. Rogers felt air strike his exposed cheeks and forehead. Then fingers clutched his blond hair and pulled his head back. “Behold!” Sparrow said.

Raven was first to speak. “Well, I dunno about you, Sparrow, but it rings no bells with me. I never seen him before.”

Starling agreed. “His face means nothing to me.”

“He could be anybody,” said Robin. “What good does this do?”

Sparrow let Rogers’ head fall back to his chest, and his voice when he spoke was defeated. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. I always wondered. I felt, if these guys—these costumed heroes—wore masks, it must mean something.”

“Captain America was missing for twenty years,” Starling said. “That could mean the first one died, and this one took his place. He looks awfully young.”

“Perhaps. It doesn’t really matter. Let’s get going.”

The carpet muffled their footsteps, but when it sounded as though they had all left, Captain America opened one eye, and peered upward—straight into the eyes of the young woman who called herself Robin.

Her open-handed slap threw his head back on his shoulders. He opened both eyes and stared at her. She stared back, angrily. He noted with interest that her eyes were brown at the pupil, but shaded into blue at the rim of the iris. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, and her hair fell part-way across her face. She was quite beautiful, in a not quite sane sort of way.

“So you’re awake?” She made it an accusation. “So much for Starling’s much-vaunted injections.”

“You never did get a chance to tell me what it was you’d called me about,” Rogers said. “Why not take the opportunity?”

In reply she slapped him again. Now both sides of his face stung.

“Don’t talk to me,” she told him. “Don’t say a word. I’d love to have an excuse to shut you up, permanently.”

She reached behind her for the gun lying on a small end table. “You were supposed to be no trouble at all. ‘Out for six hours,’ that slimy rat said. Sure! And now I’ve got to keep a double eye on you while I tend to the rest of my business.”

“Last chance,” Rogers said, his voice stony. “Replay the scene. You were just an agent for SHIELD who penetrated this operation, and had to go along with it in front of the others. Now, of course, you’re free. You can tell me all the details, and set me loose. That’s your chance—to play it that way.”

She stared mockingly at him. “And the other way?”

“They’ve abolished the death sentence in this state, but you can still get thirty years to life as an accessory to murder.”

“I haven’t killed you—yet.”

“I said accessory. Your friend, the Starling, has killed at least three men so far. One of them he shot in cold blood.” He gave her a grim smile. “You ever been in a women’s penitentiary? It’s not the most attractive place in the world. You think men can be tough? Try some of those sadistic matrons—and your cell mates; they can give you a real rough time of it. And there’s no escape.”

She stared at him broodingly, saying nothing. Her face seemed whiter.

“I’m offering you an out,” he said quietly. “It’s the best you’ll get.”

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Wednesday, July 14, 2021

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE GREAT GOLD STEAL "Chapter 9: Robin's Song"

CHAPTER 9
ROBIN’S SONG

As they approached the corner booth in the fashionably dim-lit hotel bar, Bloody saw that Sparrow was not alone; another man and a girl were with him. Seeing Sparrow sitting with them, he was reminded again of the appropriateness of the man’s cover name; the little man looked like a bookkeeper or a bank clerk, not at all like one of the Eagle’s top lieutenants. They slid into the curved seat. “Ah, there you are, boys,” Sparrow said cheerfully. “I’d like to introduce you to a couple of my associates. Randolph and Marcus, this is Starling and Robin.” He turned to the couple on his other side and explained, “Randolph and Marcus were loaned us by Chicago.” He turned back to the pair of Ivy-League hoods.

“Starling and Robin will be working with you on your new assignment. Actually, you’ll be working under Starling on this occasion. It’s his job. Miss Robin will assist you.”

Randolph—Blondy—tried to size the girl up in the dim light. He could tell little. She wore shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair. Her features seemed slightly exotic, but she wore simple glasses that tended to obscure the effect. She gave him a half-smile, her lips quirking up on one side. Her severely tailored business suit did not hide the fullness of her figure.

“If I might regain your attention…?” It was the fastidious bald man speaking—Starling. “We have an operation to be planned.”

Steve Rogers wiped his mouth and pushed himself away from the table. He’d eaten his fill now. Jarvis began clearing the dishes away, his movements silent, as if aware that he must not intrude upon Rogers’ thoughts.

His thoughts were largely unpleasant ones. He had gone from the bank to a conference with the police and the local head of the Treasury Department. It had not been a fruitful meeting.

He could tell them little; only what he had discovered, and what had happened to himself. They had little to add. The entire block of buildings on Liberty Place had been searched. The elevator had been tested. It was found to have been dropped down into an abandoned BMT subway tunnel—one never completed and long forgotten. When the elevator was up above, the tunnel beyond was open, and traces had been found of a man’s passage through a newly broken hole into the main subway line. This must have been the exit used by the man who had smuggled out the gold seal. A search of FBI fingerprint records revealed him to be one Andrew “Monk” Mayfair, a West Coast trigger-man with a long record. But there was nothing to connect him with this operation.

An upstairs room in a building two doors south of the warehouse—the building in which Ray Thompson’s body had been found—had shown signs of occupancy: a cot, a wardrobe, a dresser, all from the Salvation Army, and a phone which the telephone company had put in two months earlier in the name of Henry Starling. In the basement of the same building was a blocked shaft which presumably led down to the underground room. A set of wires came up the shaft and were clipped directly and illegally to an outside telephone company line.

Digging was still underway, but they hadn’t yet got through to the underground room. It would be hours yet before the remains of the other two bodies could be recovered. There were no clues to the whereabouts of the missing gold. An inventory showed the amount missing to be worth almost eight-hundred thousand dollars. “Apparently just a preliminary haul,” the Treasury man had observed wryly.

They had nipped the operation in the bud; a mere four-fifths of a million missing. And at the cost of two men, and another in the critical ward. It was nothing to be proud about. Gaughan’s words kept ringing in Steve Rogers’ head: “You are responsible.”

He was responsible.

He had led two good men, family men, to their deaths. And he had lost the only man who could have told them where the gold was. They were still digging, traces, clues might be found. But he doubted it. The responsibility was his. And he’d botched it.

The FBI was checking on Monk Mayfair’s recent associations, searching out the connections that had brought him to New York. There might be a lead there, a path might open up to Mayfair’s employers. But if it did, it would be the FBI’s baby. It required days and weeks of careful footwork in which the FBI excelled. There was nothing there for Captain America.

There was so little to go on—the gold seal, the tunnels themselves. About all it told him was that someone had great daring, great technical skills. Using a laser beam for an assassination! And using it to cut through the concrete floor of the vault as well. This wasn’t a common, unimaginative, syndicate job. It had been planned by a man with daring, and a man with the scientific know-how available to put his fantastic plan into operation. Who could it be?

Jarvis strode silently into the room again. “The phone, sir. The police, downtown.” He took it on the extension.

“A couple of patrolmen who have the squad car on that beat,” his caller told him. “They remember seeing a car parked on Liberty Place the night Mayfair was killed. Reason they remember it, it was parked there from early evening until sometime after midnight. They were going to ticket it, but it had diplomatic plates. A black, ’66 Lincoln Continental.”

“Do they remember the license number?”

“Nope; didn’t take it down. But we’re checking the registry for a Continental with DPL tags. There’ll be a god’s plenty of ’em, that’s for sure.”

It was a lead; it might develop into something solid, and it might not. But there was still nothing in it for now.

“The phone again, sir.” It was Jarvis. “A young lady. She refuses to identify herself, but wished to speak with you.”

A girl! Could it be the girl? The girl who worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., the Supreme Headquarters International Espionage Law-enforcement Divisions, whose life he had twice saved* without learning her name, and whose face reminded him of another girl he had known and lost, a lifetime before?

But when he heard her voice, he knew it was not she.

“Captain America? I must see you! I have valuable information for you.”

“Who is this?”

“My name doesn’t matter, you don’t know me anyway. I’m a SHIELD agent, and I’ve managed to work my way into a fantastic organization run by a man who calls himself the Eagle. Of his highly placed agents, I’ve met two—Sparrow and Starling.” Her voice was breathless. “I haven’t time to talk long. Where can we meet?”

“You could come here.”

“I dare not. I think they’re watching your place. They killed one man who tried to get through to you.”

“Did you…?”

“I sent him, yes. You found the gold seal, I know. But there’s so much more.”

Steve thought quickly. This could be a trap, but even if it was, it would lead him to the very people he sought. It would be best to play along. Besides, the girl might be telling the truth, in which case…

“Where do you suggest?”

“It’s got to be where we can talk, where no one can bug us. How about the United Nation Plaza? You know, where all the benches are? It must be deserted at this hour”—Rogers glanced at the clock; it was 9:07—“and it’s convenient.”

“All right. How soon can you get there?”

“I’ll have to get free here. Give me forty-five minutes. Okay?”

“Nine-fifty?” “Right.”

There was a click, and the line was dead.

The Stark mansion was deceptive from the outside. A passerby would see it only as a town house. It was larger than its neighbors, being almost twice as wide, but its brownstone facade was set back from the quiet, tree-shaded side street, its miniature front yard, filled with ivy and shrubbery, filling the gap to the sidewalk. All the other houses on this block sat flush with each other. If one looked closely at the fittings—the brass door knocker, the stained-glass fanlight over the door, the dragon’s-claw foot-scraper at the side of the porch—one saw undeniable quality. The house appeared to be carefully kept as well. The woodwork was all freshly painted, unstained by the city’s soot and corrosive air. The windows were all sparkling clean, despite the fact that almost all were discreetly shaded by rich draperies.

But this view from the street showed only a wealthy town house. An aerial view would have shown much more.

Most of the houses on this block had back yards. These were small, but big enough for patios, a flower garden, even a small swimming pool. Each back yard abutted the back yard of the house on the opposite side of the block.

Both the house to the east, and the one to the west of the Stark mansion did not have back yards. Instead, they had high walls that extended to the center of the block on their outside property lines, where they met identical walls from the houses that backed them up. An aerial view would show that these two houses, and their counterparts on the opposite side of the block, extended back the full distance of their property, their backs directly touching. This, along with the two houses behind the Stark mansion itself, made up a square within the center of the block. And the open area between the back of the Stark mansion and the two houses opposite was a private plaza, with a landscaped garden.

Stark owned all seven houses, owned them in a block, and joined them so that their interiors were entirely linked to form one huge mansion, a bastion of complete privacy within the heart of the city.

Only portions of this vast building complex were used for living purposes—although each Avenger had his own apartment of rooms—for much of the remainder was taken up with labs, training areas, assembly rooms, and shops. Beneath the entire structure was an immense underground garage.

It was to the garage that Steve Rogers, back in a clean uniform, went now. The exit of the garage was not on the street on which the mansion fronted but on the street on the opposite side of the block, the next street north. Rogers could have instructed the girl to come to one of the addresses on that street, but he had sensed her reluctance to come into his own sanctum sanctorum. She had her own reasons for wanting to meet him elsewhere. He hoped he was wrong about what those reasons might be, but he had not wanted to scare her off. He had let her choose the place.

He stepped out of the elevator into a vast open area broken only by supporting columns and blocks of fluorescent lights, under which the hoods and bodies of many cars and vehicles gleamed darkly. Tonight he wanted something inconspicuous. He chose the Volkswagen.

The aluminum Buick V-6 engine started immediately, its ingenious muffler system accurately duplicating the sounds of a VW air-cooled flat-4. A special chain that ran uselessly between the fan and two dummy pulleys even re-created the distinctive sounds of the VW timing chain. He left the knob controlling the Paxton supercharger out; he wouldn’t need that extra performance boost just yet. The 176 horsepower of the hot-tuned V6 would be enough, even for the specially modified and heavier chassis of the bullet-proofed VW. He moved his shield to the back seat, where it could not slide into his legs, and engaged the clutch. The car moved easily out across the open floor, and up the ramp, where the outside door, responding to the signal from the car’s dash, was already up. Then he was turning east and heading crosstown.

There was no sign of pursuit, but just to be careful, he did not head directly for his destination. Instead he swung down into the midtown area, cutting through lights just turning yellow, watching for signs of anyone following, either directly on his tail, or a block away on the parallel. It was 9:45 when he turned north of First Avenue at 38th Street and, swinging into an outside lane to avoid the tunnel under 42nd Street drew up beside the U.N. rotunda.

There were only a few other cars parked here at this hour, most of them carrying the diplomatic licenses of the various legations located nearby. He drew the VW into the curb and parked it, retrieving his shield from the back seat. It was a replacement shield for the one he’d lost in the cave-in; he always kept spares.

When he entered the parklike plaza, the street lights from the avenue cast long shadows from the trees and plantings. At first he didn’t see her. There she stood, her full figure separating itself from the shrouded shadows of a bench.

“Captain America?” she called softly.

He walked toward her, the sound of his boots on the hard concrete loud in his own ears.

When he was closer, he could see full dark-blonde hair framing her face which itself remained shadowed. Light glinted from the lenses of her glasses. She was wearing a tailored business suit, and carrying a small purse.

“Captain America?” She smiled. “I’m Robin.” She clutched her purse tighter, and suddenly a vapor shot out of it, surrounding him in a mist.

“You were easy,” she said, as he started to fall.

Then, before she could regain her guard, he had rolled to the side, and was rising from his crouch. His shield held high on his left arm, his right hand knocked the purse from her grasp. It hit the pavement and slid away from her clutching fingers.

Then Randolph and Marcus were on his back.

Marcus was grunting as he swung his sap. “I toldja it wouldn’t be that easy!”

“Ahhh—!”

Captain America pivoted, suddenly slippery as an eel. This was his game they were playing now—no gas, no sudden explosions, just a close rough-and-tumble. He swung his fist at the blond man, catching him high on the jaw, and driving him back to the pavement. But before he could follow up the blow, the other one was on his back again. He ducked, throwing the man over his shoulders, pitching him into the other, who was starting to rise. “When’ll you guys learn not to hit a man when his back’s turned?” he grunted, gathering the nearest in his fist, and chopping him with a series of hard, fast rights.

“Is this it?” he asked. “Are you guys all they sent?” He knocked their heads together and dropped them to the ground, unconscious. “It hardly seems worth coming out on a cold night for.”

“Maybe this will,” he heard the girl mutter. But he hadn’t time to react. The heel of her shoe caught him at the base of his skull, at the neck. He dropped as though poleaxed.

“Good job, guys.” The girl spoke in derision as she looked down on the unconscious bodies of her two helpers. “Maybe I should just leave you here for the cops. Not likely. That’d be doing them a favor.”

Lifting her short skirt higher on her thighs, she ran awkwardly out of the plaza to a dark Continental. “Starling!” She rapped on the rear side window. “Hey! You’ve gotta help me.”

Starling pressed a button and rolled his window down. “What is it?”

“Come on. I got three guys out cold back there. If you think I can handle them all by myself…”

With Starling’s help, the two thugs, looking much worse for the wear, were dumped in the back seat, Captain America between them. Starling opened the glove compartment and removed a small black case. From it he took a loaded hypodermic. With a knife, he slashed the arm of Captain America’s uniform, baring his skin.

Then he gave him the injection. “That should keep him cold for six hours,” he told the girl. “And he won’t be feeling like much for the next eighteen.”

Robin slid into the front seat next to him and he started the big car, moving it out onto the one-way avenue, heading uptown.

They had turned onto the FDR Drive, heading downtown, when Randolph woke up. He announced this fact to the others in the car by vomiting on the floor.

“What a stink,” the girl said. “Clean it up!”

“So stop the car for a minute and I’ll be better,” he groaned. But Starling didn’t, and Randolph had to be content with using tissues while Robin sneered at him about his manliness, or his lack thereof. And Randolph, unable to put up with this kind of criticism, demonstrated his manliness by taking his frustrations brutally out on the unconscious form of Captain America.

Somewhat later that evening, after ticketing an illegally parked Volkswagen, a policeman discovered a small black ladies’ purse in the United Nation Plaza. When he opened it, a gas bomb exploded in his face, leaving him a huddled form on the cold concrete.

* It all happened in Tales of Suspense #’s 75, 76, 77, March, April, May, 1966, and #85, January 1967.—Reminiscent Stan

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