Private Paul Ransome woke up strapped to a bed in a large, luxuriously appointed bedroom. He had been drugged and he did not know how long he had been unconscious. The restraints would not allow him any motion beyond some slight movements of his head and neck. He felt ill, disoriented, and there was a maddening itch at a spot on his throat which he could not scratch. He felt nauseous and he had a fever. The sheets were damp with his sweat.
The bedroom door opened and a man dressed in a dark butler's suit entered, the same man who had answered the door of the sprawling Richmond Hill estate that Ransome had come to investigate. He had long, steel grey hair that hung down to his shoulders and he was powerfully built. He was swarthy looking, with sunken eyes, a high forehead and a prominent jaw. The mouth was wide, thin- lipped and cruel. He saw that Ransome was awake, turned and left the room before Ransome could say anything.
Ransome desperately tried to remember what had happened, but his mind was a complete blank. He could not seem to concentrate. He knew he was in trouble. Bad trouble. And that knowledge was confirmed when the door opened once again several moments later and a tall, dark, well-built, striking looking man with emerald green eyes and a long scar down the side of his face came in and stood over his bed, looking down at him.
'Drakov!' Ransome said.
'Good morning, Private Ransome,' Nikolai Drakov said in a deep voice. He smiled. 'How do you feel?'
'Sick as a dog,” said Ransome. 'What did you do to me?' 'A number of things,' said Drakov pleasantly, as if they were merely discussing the weather.
'Nothing fatal, however,'
'But I assume that's coming, right?'
'Oh, on the contrary, I want you alive. I have some very special plans for you.'
'What happened?' Ransome said. 'How did I blow my cover? I don't remember anything. 'You remember what happened before you came here, don't you?' Drakov said.
'Yes, but after that it's all a blank.'
'Good.'
'What did you do, damn you?'
'Well, you might say I've influenced you somewhat, in more ways than one,' said Drakov. 'You see. I was prepared for you people this time. I no longer take any chances. You were scanned when you approached this house and your cybernetic implants were detected. I'm really very well protected here. Just the same, it now appears that I shall have to leave this comfortable house. A pity, but if you found me, the other members of your team cannot be far behind.'
'It won't work, Drakov,' Ransome said. 'I'm not going to tell you anything.'
Drakov chuckled. 'Spare me the esprit de corps heroics. Ransome. You may not know it, but you have already told me everything I wished to know. I am quite looking forward to another confrontation with my father's first string team. You were just an appetizer. It's Delaney, Cross and Steiger that I want. And you are going to help me. 'The hell I will,” said Ransome. 'I'll die first.'
Drakov grinned. 'In a manner of speaking, yes, you will,' he said. 'But never fear, you shall be reborn. Your rebirth is in progress even as we speak.'
Ransome felt a knot forming in his stomach. 'What have you done to me?'
'How does your throat feel, Ransome?'
'My-' Involuntarily, Ransome tried to raise his hand to his throat, but the restraints wouldn't let him move. 'Jesus,' he said. 'Oh, Jesus.”
His eyes went to the butler standing by the door, watching him silently.
Drakov followed his gaze. 'No, it wasn't Janos,' he said. Drakov beckoned the butler forward. 'However, Janos is someone you've been looking for. I thought you might like to be properly introduced. Pvt. Paul Ransome, Janos Volkov. Janos is, in a manner of speaking, one of my children. I'm really very proud of him. Janos is the very first of his kind, a triumph of genetic engineering and biomodification. He is the werewolf you've been seeking. I'm sorry to say that you will not be able to see Janos in all his hirsute splendor, as he has reached the end of his monthly cycle, but take my word for it, it is an impressive sight.'
He nodded to the butler, who turned and left without a word.
'My plans for you, however,' Drakov said, 'do not call for infection by lycanthmpic genes. No, for you, Ransome, I have something infinitely more interesting in mind.”
Ransome was breaking out in a fresh sweat and he started to shiver. He fought to keep his teeth from chattering. 'Whatever you've infected me with, Drakov, it'll never work, I promise you. I'll kill myself. 'Yes, I'm sure you would,' said Drakov, 'which is why I have conditioned you with a number of programmed imperatives. A relatively simple matter of neutralizing your cybernetic implants and installing some of my own in a minor surgical procedure. When I have completed your programming, you will no more be able to commit suicide than you will be able to discuss what's happened to you with the other members of your team. I had hoped that it would be Finn Delaney who fell into my hands; he would make a splendid werewolf, don't you think? Or Andre Cross, what a wonderfully seductive vampire she would make. But you'll do for the moment.'
The door to the bedroom opened once again and a tall, slim, middle-aged man with a drooping moustache and jet black hair combed into a widow's peak entered. He was sharp featured, with an aquiline nose, a high forehead, sunken cheeks and thin red lips. He was dressed in dark evening clothes and a long black opera cape with a high collar. His dark eyes were those of a psychotic.
Drakov smiled. 'I could never resist a touch of melodrama.' he said. 'Allow me to present Count Dracula.'
7
Sgt. Anthony Rizzo waited for his relief, warning his hands over the glowing coals in his pushcart. The sweet and musty aroma of roasting chestnuts rose from the cart, which had become a familiar feature to the residents of Bow Street over the past week. Each morning, he arrived at the corner with his pushcart, near the old Row Street Police Court, and many of the local residents had made a habit of buying a small bag of roasted chestnuts from him on their way to work. Dressed as an Italian immigrant, Rizzo addressed his customers in a sort of broken Cockney, a mangled dialect spiced with Italian phrases and delivered in a robust, gesticulatory manner. It was a 'purloined letter” method of surveillance, based on the principle of being so completely obvious that one would be overlooked.
The streets of London were full of vendors and musicians. Around Covent Garden, it wasnot unusual to see entire string quartets playing in the street, collecting money in the battered cases for their instruments, which they placed open before them on the sidewalks. The costermongers were a prominent fixture on the city streets. There were ice cream sellers: fruit vendors; men selling various wind-up toys for children; balladeers who performed songs of their own composition, often based on headlines in the newspapers, then sold the sheet music: muffin men ringing their bells and the ubiquitous flower girls, who were usually not girls at all. but mostly elderly women wrapped in shawls. selling hunches of flowers or fresh buttonholes for gentlemen to wear in their lapels. Sometimes these street vendors were regarded as a nuisance, but no one ever objected to Rizzo's presence on Bow Street, because Rizzo did not disturb the residents with any vendor's street cries. He depended instead on the anima of the roasting chestnuts to draw his customers. It worked well enough and he usually did a nice bit of business in the morning, less throughout the afternoon, and towards evening, as people started to return home from work, business picked up once more for several hours. Meanwhile, he kept his eye on Tony Hesketh's apartment just across the street. Surveillance work was often very boring and Rizzo's stakeout was especially ennervating. Anything that could have made the long watch more bearable, such as reading a book or newspaper, was out of the question since it would distract him from his duties, so there was nothing for Rizzo to do except stand on his feet all day and sell his chestnuts, all the while keeping alert for any sign of Hesketh. By the end of the day, he was worn out. Someone would show up in the evening to relieve him, someone who could take advantage of the darkness and the fog for concealment and did not require a pushcart. Then Rizzo would go back to the Hotel Metropole command post to soak his feet and get some sleep. But now it was getting late and his relief had not yet arrived. His feet
