Marvel Novel Series 06 - Iron Man - And Call My Killer ... Modok!

by William Rotsler

  “You know a lot, sir,” Sitwell said. “Or it could be a straight kidnapping.”

  “For money?” Stark mused. “AIM’s aim is power . . . control . . . But of course, money could help them with that.” The elevator arrived and they entered.

  “They could be after some of yer secrets for the ransom,” Hogan suggested.

  Stark nodded. “I’ve thought of that, but they may be playing a more subtle game.”

  “Whatcha gonna do?” Happy asked.

  “Wait,” Stark said. The elevator door hissed shut.

  Five

  Carlton Bond sat up very straight as Tony Stark entered the office part of the Jupiter-Nine section. The beaming Quint met Stark with a two-handed handshake. He smiled at Sitwell and Hogan and he escorted Stark over to the drafting table where Carlton Bond sat.

  The tall, balding, pipe-smoking Quint introduced Stark to Bond. “Mister Stark, this is Carlton Bond, a new man here. He was with Associated Electrochem until two years ago, then we were lucky enough to get him.”

  “How do you do, Bond?” Stark said, shaking his hand. Bond was pudgy, pale, and had a receding hairline. But looks were not the reason Stark hired anyone. His handshake was limp and moist, but Stark had long ago gotten used to the sweaty palms of employees frightened to meet the Big Boss in person.

  “Sir.”

  “What’s the problem here?”

  Bond pointed to the charts pinned to the drawing board. “When we lay down the overlapping lines there’s leakage through, from one layer to another. Not a lot, just enough to cause trouble if the insulation isn’t just perfect.”

  “You put down a layer of insulation material between each application?” The microelectronic “chips” were the future of electronics. With them, cheap, efficient computers could be made in vast numbers. With cheap computers society could make better and more efficient machines. If Stark International was going to compete in the world of business they had to manufacture perfect chips.

  “Right,” Bond replied. “Correct alignment, everything.” Each layer was laid down by a process done in a vacuum; between each layer was a special insulating material and the layers were connected at holes left in the insulation. All automatic. Original circuit diagrams were done on huge charts several feet square, then photographically reduced to almost microscopic size and reproduced on tiny plastic circles and squares.

  Stark thumbed through the blueprints, his dark eyes searching carefully as the others stood by. “There,” Stark said at last. His finger pointed to a number. “Someone transposed a number. The insulation layer is exactly one half as thick as it should be. It might be enough to let leakage through at load points.”

  Bond looked embarrassed. “Sorry, boss, I didn’t catch it.”

  “Neither did anyone else,” Stark said, slapping his arm. “So don’t feel alone.” He looked at Quint. “Try another run and check. That’s probably the cause, but run a test.”

  “Right.” Quint looked relieved. It had been his ultimate responsibility. Bond should have caught the goof, but it was his, Quint’s, final responsibility. He didn’t think he looked too good in Stark’s eyes just then.

  Stark and his entourage exited the office and Stark immediately forgot the problem. But not Quint’s forgetting to check and double-check.

  Carlton Bond watched Stark leave, his pale, pudgy face without expression. There was a strange flicker deep in his light blue eyes, then it disappeared.

  “She’s lovely,” Pepper said earnestly to Stark, who fidgeted uneasily in his office chair. “She’s an actress from Hollywood who—”

  “I thought you were against actresses,” Stark said with a smile.

  “This one is different. She’s a belly-dancing mechanic as well as an actress, and she writes—”

  “Wait a minute! A belly-dancing mechanic?”

  “Well, she’s taken a lot of belly-dancing lessons from Diane Webber, and she didn’t want to be ripped off on her car repairs so she took this course in auto mechanics.”

  “A belly-dancing mechanic.”

  “Who acts,” Pepper reminded him with a smile.

  “Who acts. This one, my dear Pepper, is one blind date I might just keep. What is the name of this paragon?”

  “Sharman. Sharman DiVono.” Pepper beamed. “She’ll be in town tonight and you have reservations at The Four Seasons for eight. She’ll meet you there.”

  Stark nodded, smiling. “Miss Efficiency strikes again.”

  “Betcha,” Pepper said as she left the office.

  Carlton Bond nodded as his boss, Quint, said good night. “I’ll just finish this run,” Bond said, tapping out numbers on the desk computer, “then I’ll go home.”

  The moment Quint left, Bond stopped. He cleared the computer and pulled a sheet of paper from beneath the pile. He had completed the calculations much earlier and had been going through the motions. He placed the final notation in the file, closed it, stuffed it into the Action basket on Quint’s desk, and walked quickly to the door.

  The corridor lights had gone to half-power as an energy-saving procedure. In an hour they would go off completely. Bond pulled a flashlight from his pocket, checked it, then stuck it back in. He started walking down the corridor toward a special red door. His heart was pounding.

  Two years of waiting. Working and waiting, playing a part, thinking he had been forgotten. But AIM never forgot. He knew he had been activated for a very important job. And he knew what the job was. Once past the red door, it wouldn’t be hard.

  But getting past the door’s electronic security system was going to be very, very difficult, or impossible, if the small black box taped to his calf didn’t work.

  It had to work. Everything was riding on this. His AIM indoctrinator, the one who had recruited him at Associated Electrochem and got him moved to SI, had given him seductive visions of palatial homes, bosomy maids trained to do his bidding, jet planes to exotic ports . . .

  If only half of it comes true, he thought. To have my own bowling alley, my own bar with tap beer, to see the envy in the eyes of Jimmy and Ed, to see that wife of mine act impressed for once, just once. It would all be worth it.

  They’d never know, any of them. He’d have some story. A daily double at the track, excellent stock-market moves, anything. No one questioned money. And he’d have money, the indoctrination guy had promised it—more money than he could possibly want. “Just do the job and one day you’ll hear someone on the phone say something about sapphires and shamrocks. You say something about hamburgers.”

  “It’s that simple?” Bond had asked.

  “Well, no. You see, that is just the recognition code, so you’ll know you are talking to the right person.”

  “It won’t be you?”

  “I don’t know who it will be, Bond, but that’s what they will say. They may say it this way or that, but . . . what will they say?”

  “Something about sapphires and shamrocks. And I’ll mention cheeseburgers.”

  “Hamburgers.”

  “Hamburgers, right. Then what?”

  “Then they’ll tell you what to do.”

  And someone had—a rough voice, waking him up the night before. Monique had been annoyed, but he had told her it was business. He’d lain there in the dark for hours afterward, thinking.

  Monique. The name didn’t fit her—too glamorous, like a European starlet. No, she was more the Agnes or Muriel or Bunny type. No, not Bunny; that had other connotations, and they didn’t fit either.

  But soon, soon, it would all change. Maybe he’d have someone that really fitted the name Monique—or Angelique. Maybe Yvette or Adriana.

  Soon.

  Just as soon as he got through the red door marked No Admittance to Unauthorized Personnel.

  Six

  “Hello, you’re Tony Stark.”

  Stark turned at the sound of her voice. “Yes, you must be . . .”

  “Sharman. Sharman DiVono.”

  Stark took a good loo
k. A striking beauty; a great mass of black hair, silver Egyptian earrings, and the biggest dark eyes he had ever seen in his life.

  “Pepper set it up, remember?” She looked at him quizzically. “You all right?”

  “Uh, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t expect . . . I mean . . . well, shall we sit down?” He lifted a finger and the maitre d’hôtel jumped to unhook the velvet rope.

  As they were being seated in the posh restaurant the young actress said, “Wonder how I recognized you?”

  “Pepper probably supplied you with a dossier going back to the crib.”

  “No,” she laughed, “but I remembered seeing you in the papers. You look a little like Errol Flynn, that mustache and all, and I’m a great fan of his.”

  Tony didn’t know what to say. The girl’s expression seemed mercurial; it changed constantly, subtly, and boldly: from sixteen-year-old innocent to sexy wanton to all-knowing matriarch to fresh-faced smarty. The waiter handed them the tasseled menus.

  “Uh-oh,” the actress said.

  “What is it, something you don’t like?” Stark asked.

  Sharman flicked the tassel with her finger. “Someone told me a tassel on a menu adds two bucks to the bill—each.”

  Stark laughed. “Well, don’t worry about that.”

  “Why, am I tax deductible?”

  He shook his head. “No, and neither is the wine. Henri?” The wine steward was at their table in a moment.

  Sharman whistled silently. “I thought that kind of service happened only in movies.” Henri raised his eyebrows delicately at her, but Stark smiled.

  “At these prices you get service.” He ordered a light white wine and said they would order dinner in a little while. “All right, let’s see your dossier, Ms. DiVono. What brings you to the Big Apple from the Big Orange?”

  She shrugged. “A part. Three days’ shooting playing the girl friend of a Mafia mobster. Then four more on Universal’s back lot. It’s a start.”

  “Do you belly dance in this, or fix any cars?”

  She laughed. “She told you!”

  “The most intriguing part. A belly-dancing mechanic was the way Pepper put it. And how do you know my Pepper, anyway?”

  “Mutual friend. I met her the last time you came out to Los Angeles with her. We hit it right off, but I don’t think she likes actresses very much.”

  Tony smiled. “No, she thinks they are egotistical, self-centered, untrustworthy, and much too attractive.”

  “Oh, boy,” Sharman said. “People don’t believe you are really feeling anything; they think you fake everything for practice.”

  The wine came at that moment and Tony saluted her. “Well, here’s to mechanical belly dancing, or anything else that’s shaking loose.”

  Sharman rolled her big eyes toward the ceiling, but smiled. “Forgive him, Errol.”

  The black box, untaped from Bond’s calf, was held against the shiny lock. It hummed and clicked as the microcomputer within decoded the electronic lock. Bond knew that even the miraculous little box would not have stood a chance against the variable lock combination if, earlier in the day, he had not been standing nearby when one of the trusted employees had punched out the code. Bond had seen the first two numbers and had coded them into the black box as he sat in the men’s john.

  Buzz. Click-click-click, click.

  The door popped open a fraction. Bond shoved it open and slipped through. The lights were out and he carefully closed the door before he flipped on the lights.

  So far, so good.

  He went at once down the long corridor created by the large, locked filing cabinets. He needed the “A” section. “A” for Armor.

  Tony Stark had a difficult time keeping his face from showing the surprise he felt.

  “Yes, Iron Man is my really big craze,” Sharman said, twirling the dessert wine in her glass. The dishes had been cleared away. There was a bowl of fruit and a dish of assorted cheeses left.

  “Iron Man is so . . .” She looked up, trying to think of the proper words. “Masculine,” she said. “In a very traditional way. When you’ve been raised as I was . . . in a traditional, patriarchal way . . . someone like Iron Man is . . . well, he gives me a sense of security.”

  “But you don’t know him.” Stark caught himself, and added, “Do you?”

  “No, but I’ve been following his career for years. He’s . . .” Her big eyes grew thoughtful. “He’s powerful, and that power is really sexy. He’s a man of mystery. Who is he? What’s he like? Is he good-looking? He seems to be intelligent, but maybe he’s terribly scarred or something.”

  “He isn’t.”

  She smiled at him. “You’ve seen him? I mean, without the armor?”

  Stark wasn’t exactly certain what he could or should tell. “Well, I know he isn’t, um, unattractive. But you’re a young woman, a liberated woman making her way in the world, yet you seem to be attracted to him precisely because he isn’t . . .” Stark paused. “Or am I wrong?”

  “No,” she smiled. “I never said I had to be consistent. But he gives me a sense of security, just knowing he’s there, fighting for us, protecting us.”

  “I’ll . . . I’ll tell him.”

  Her smile grew playful. “I hoped you would.” She leaned on the table and clasped her beringed fingers. “Tell me what he’s like.”

  “I . . .” Stark stopped. She was only interested in him because he knew Iron Man! What would she do or say or feel if she knew I was Iron Man? Ruefully, it was a scene Tony Stark had encountered many times before—women liking him because he was rich or knew the famous, not because he was ol’ Tony Stark. His face grew bleak, but before he could speak, Sharman broke in.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m just trying to get to him through you. But I’ve never known anyone who knew him. Oh, a couple of finks who said they did. I’m so curious. I mean, on this picture there’s an actor that’s worked with Bogart and Wayne and Katie Hepburn. I ask him about them all the time.”

  “Oh,” Stark said, and felt better. He’d felt that way himself sometimes, especially around Thor. Knowing an actual Norse god was pretty fantastic. He kept wanting to ask what it was like, but he couldn’t—at least not yet. Maybe the next time he would.

  “Maybe if I met Iron Man I’d ask him what Tony Stark was like,” she said happily.

  “Well, uh . . .” This blind date was a definitely superior experience to those Pepper had arranged previously. Stark thought briefly about the intriguing Madame Masque. That was Iron Man . . . Tonight he was Tony Stark. “What would you like to know?”

  Carlton Bond’s pale eyes lit up. His black box had decoded the filing cabinets’ defenses, too, but it had taken a long time. He was soaked in fear sweat, afraid of setting off some hidden alarm. But now he held in his freckled hands the file marked Armor, IM and rubber-stamped Most Secret.

  The jackpot! Visions of kidney-shaped swimming pools populated by bikini-clad women swam through his mind. No Monique, no drafting tables, nobody looking through him as though he were not there. His biggest problems from now on would be choosing which of his companions to honor that night, what fork to use, what wine to order, whether to have a bowling ball custom-made or just get the standard best-that-money-can-buy.

  Eagerly, Bond turned and started to go. Only he forgot to close the drawer. His jacket caught on the corner, ripping, and sending him off balance. He stumbled and clutched at the smooth face of the other filing cabinets, his fingers screeching along the surface. He fell awkwardly, the papers in the file spilling in a white river along the floor.

  Bond scrambled to his feet, slipped on a drawing marked Right Glove, Schematic, and fell heavily. The wind was knocked out of him and he lay gasping. When he staggered to his feet he thumped his head against the still unclosed drawer. And when he bent over to pick up the spilled file he kicked more of it along the corridor.

  His flashlight fell from his pocket, the lens breaking. He staggered toward the exit, slipped on the broken glas
s, and fell against a cabinet. An alarm went off.

  Bond stared around him in fright. He had to get away! But he needed a diversion. Quickly he ran back to the “A” file and yanked out some papers. Fumbling, he pulled out a cigarette lighter and set fire to the papers. Then he threw the burning wad back into the drawer, gathered up the spilled file, and ran for the door.

  The flames spurted up from the top drawer, catching fire to the ceiling. He ran.

  In the basement a hand reached for the Main Water Control valve. It struggled with the valve, which had not been turned off in years, and closed it.

  Upstairs, as Bond raced down the hall, stuffing the Armor file under his shirt, the sprinkler system was activated. It fountained out water for a few seconds, then rapidly died back, to drip ineffectually as the flames spread.

  In the Security Room the startled guards noted the area and its security rating. “Better inform Mister Stark,” the captain said. A sergeant thumbed a beeper alarm.

  In Manhattan there was a soft beep-beep-beep in Tony Stark’s pocket. He looked calm, but his mind was racing. They wouldn’t call him unless it was very important. From the pattern of the beeps—three beeps repeated at intervals—he knew it was Stark International rather than the Averagers headquarters calling. He looked across at Sharman DiVono, who seemed to have heard the beeping.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Business?”

  Stark nodded. He didn’t want to go; he wanted to understand better the appeal the enigmatic Iron Man had over him, a living, flesh-and-blood person. He found it faintly amusing to be in conflict with himself, but annoying, too. “I’m afraid so. I’ll have to make a call.”

  “Fire in the priority filing area, Mister Stark,” the security captain said. “Looks pretty bad.”

  Stark drummed his fingers on the wall by the phone. “How did it start?”

  “Something’s funny, chief. It started inside the primary filing room.”

  “Uh-oh,” Stark said. “Any alarm?”