The Steel Ring

by R. A. Jones

  “That’s something that may show he has just the kind of mental toughness to make it through this. He told me that if this procedure works, he wouldn’t be Rex Wiley any longer.

  “He’ll be what his Army buddies called him: Iron Skull.”

  The Clock shook his head.

  “He even tried his best to laugh when he said it.”

  Einstein made no reply, staring intently through the glass in reflective silence. Then he turned to the Clock.

  “How soon would you like me to start, my friend?”

  “I think we have time for a little supper, professor,” the Clock replied.

  “Then we begin to build a new man.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  July 16, 1939

  Natalia Nastrova had wasted no time in acquainting herself with the seedier parts of New York City.

  Those areas had not been her first port of call upon arriving from Florida, however.

  Using information that had been supplied to her by refugees aboard the St. Louis, she had made herself known in the Washington Heights area, on the northern tip of Manhattan. Many of its inhabitants were also Jewish immigrants who had fled Germany in the face of the Nazi’s growing persecutions.

  Though she had decided to make her own residence in Soho, it was to the leaders of this Jewish community that she had begun to funnel money intended to aid their brothers and sisters who had been left behind.

  She never told them from whence the money came.

  And they never asked.

  When rumors began to circulate that various gangsters around the city were themselves becoming the victims of a mysterious female thief known only as “the Witch”, they had their suspicions. But they never voiced them, not even among themselves.

  And whenever Natalia Nastrova showed up unannounced on their doorsteps with cash in hand, they welcomed both and blessed her as a righteous friend.

  This particular evening found her near the Bowery, descending a steep stairway into which little light of any source could reach. Using her unique powers of “persuasion”, she had learned of a likely target at the foot of the stairs.

  During the days of Prohibition, it had operated as a speakeasy. Now, according to her bedazzled informant, this building’s lower level housed an equally illegal gambling parlor.

  Natalia strode without fear to the thick door that led into the parlor and rapped loudly on it.

  Moments later, a small portal in the door slid open. A pair of soulless eyes appeared in the opening, glaring down at her.

  “Go away!” a rough voice barked.

  “I can’t,” she said sweetly.

  “We ain’t open yet.”

  “I know. That’s why I need to come in now.”

  “What’s the password?”

  “Oh, come on, handsome,” she purred. “I don’t really need to know the password, do I?”

  The guardian of the doorway looked more intently at this would-be intruder, and when he did, he was lost. Lost in the loveliest pair of eyes he had ever seen: eyes that promised more than his heart’s desire.

  “No,” he mumbled. “I guess not.”

  “Then be a sweet thing and let me in, won’t you?”

  The peephole door slid shut, and seconds later she heard the bolts of multiple locks being pulled back. The door opened smoothly to grant her entry.

  As Natalia slid silently into the short entrance corridor, the door was quickly closed and locked behind her.

  The thug standing guard there turned to face her. He was broad as an ox and towered over her. The lovesick expression on his face could neither soften nor conceal the carnal cravings that danced behind the dull luster of his close-set eyes.

  “You’re mighty pretty,” he grunted, taking a step toward her.

  She backed away a few steps, knowing he would follow, all the while continuing to smile at him beguilingly.

  “And you’re mighty handsome,” she lied.

  She then stopped moving, which he took to be an invitation. He continued advancing toward her, starting to raise his arms to embrace her. Natalia lifted her right hand, but not to stop him. Her smile grew even wider as she pressed her palm to his thick chest.

  The contact was all she needed to send the explosive power she carried within her coursing through her arm and out through her hand. With a hoarse grunt, the thug was lifted off his feet and sent hurtling backward as if he had been kicked by a mule.

  He slammed into the thick door behind him with such force that some of the boards in it cracked slightly. The back of his head bounced off the door like a ping-pong ball, rattling his brains and causing consciousness to flee from his body. Like a discarded rag doll, he collapsed in a heap.

  Not sparing him so much as a backward glance, Natalia turned and sashayed down the corridor leading to the main parlor of the gambling den. As she stepped into its confines, she saw half a dozen men standing together across the room from her.

  They had been busy going over final preparations for the evening, but their attention had been caught by the loud crack of their human guard dog slamming against the door where he was stationed.

  Their faces showed puzzlement but no real concern as they laid eyes on the sultry woman entering their parlor; not a one made a move for the guns doubtless concealed beneath their suit coats. As she casually approached them between two rows of craps tables, they appeared to be spellbound by the sight of her voluptuous hips swinging seductively from side to side with each step.

  Even the woman’s clothing was eye-catching. The sides and back of her face and head were encased in a black mantle, almost like a nun’s habit or the raiment of a medieval noblewoman. An opening in the top of the mantle allowed her luxurious raven hair to spill out and flow down around her.

  The black of the mantle continued down into a triangle that slashed between her full breasts. In stark contrast to it was the pearly white silk of a gown that clung to and accentuated every line of her alluring figure.

  The gown was nearly floor-length, but on either side was slit almost up to the waist, so that each step she took brought a long, shapely leg into full view of the gaping men. Her small feet were shod in black felt slippers whose laces slid up her sensuous calves.

  Her arms were outstretched slightly, showing off black opera gloves that rode up close to her shoulders.

  So enthralled were the gangsters that they didn’t even notice as Natalia reached out with each hand and scooped up small stacks of gambling chips from the tops of the tables. Nor were they overly concerned when she raised both arms before her.

  She again felt the familiar tingle of her strange power as it shot down the length of each arm. Even as this surge of energy reached her wrists, she opened both hands.

  As a result, the chips – propelled by the release of the energy – flew from her hands like so many bits of clay buckshot fired from a double-barreled shotgun.

  Caught flat-footed, the criminals could do nothing but scream and jerk about manically as the flying chips hit them with such speed and force that their targets were shredded like paper in a hurricane.

  Natalia stopped to gaze on her handiwork. There was a sadness in her eyes, but no guilt. She knew well the human suffering fueled by the activities of such as these: knew also that even in a law-abiding society such vermin were often virtually untouchable by the usual means, their freedom bought from corrupt officials.

  The best of society would not mourn them: neither would she. And the worst would soon find others of equal perversity to take the place of these.

  Fortunately, thinking on such things neither dulled her senses nor made her careless of her environs. So it was that she caught a movement out of the corner of one eye.

  She snapped her head to the side in time to see, several feet away, a final gangster still on his feet and aiming a pistol at her.

  Natalia moved just a breath faster than did he, dropping down to one knee even as his finger tightened on the trigger of his pistol. An instant later, s
he heard the zing of the slug as it passed harmlessly overhead.

  Both of her hands were pressed against the floor, and she again unleashed her power. The boards of the floor buckled and splintered as her energy force tore beneath them and raced forward like an invisible tidal wave.

  The floor heaved up beneath the gunman’s feet, shooting him straight up. The top of his head connected with a support beam in the ceiling. His neck bent nearly at a right angle and bones snapped almost as loudly as had the floorboards.

  He was dead even before he fell back to the ground.

  Natalia didn’t take time to think further on what had just transpired, what she had just done. She walked quickly to where the bulk of the mob lay. The table around which they had been converged was loaded with thick stacks of money.

  She removed a few bills from the tops of the stacks – those into which spatters of blood had soaked – and tossed them aside. The rest she quickly scooped off the table and into a brown satchel one of the mobsters had set on the floor.

  She had no idea how much she was purloining; she wouldn’t even bother to count it later. It wouldn’t be enough: there would probably never be enough. But it would help. It would save lives. And there would be more.

  And there would be other nights like this.

  Her heart was still racing as she eased through the outer door of the gambling parlor and quietly made her way back up the stairs that led to the street.

  She poked just the top of her head up to survey the scene. Satisfied that there were no passersby in sight, she bolted from the stairway and sprinted toward the nearest subway entrance.

  She melded with a stream of commuters going through the turnstiles. Once down on the loading platform, she darted behind a support column. A furtive peek around its corner was sufficient to convince her that she was not being pursued.

  Pressed against the cool steel and concrete of the column, clutching the satchel tightly against her body, she at last began to relax. Her heart receded from her throat and began to beat at a more normal rate.

  Only when its pounding no longer filled her ears did she become aware of another, somewhat unexpected sound.

  It was music.

  Guitar music.

  Sliding around the far side of the column, Natalia hazarded a longer look around the loading platform. She quickly discovered the source of the music.

  In one corner of the platform, a young man was seated cross-legged on the floor. His fingers strummed the strings of a rather battered old guitar, and his clean, clear voice was singing “Jeanie With the Light Brown Hair”.

  A frumpy cap rested on the floor in front of him, and occasionally an appreciative commuter would toss a coin in it: a gesture he would always acknowledge with a nod of his head.

  His blond hair was exceptionally long, falling even below the level of his shoulders. His face was strong and handsome, and Natalia felt herself oddly drawn to him.

  She seldom allowed herself any such emotional response: certainly not since the day when the soldiers had brought iron and fire and death to the Roma tribe that had been the only family she had known since the deaths of her real parents.

  It felt good, to feel at all.

  Almost as if sensing her presence, the street musician suddenly turned his head in Natalia’s direction and made eye contact with her. He continued to play his guitar, but he ceased singing long enough to flash a beguiling smile at her.

  Natalia’s face burned red with embarrassment the instant she realized she was responding in kind, and she ducked back behind the corner of the column.

  Yet even as she silently scolded herself for behaving so girlishly, perhaps even shamelessly, she realized the smile was still on her lips.

  But there was no time for foolishness, she reminded herself; there might never be again. The smile faded and the grip on her satchel tightened.

  She then scampered out of sight of the many waiting commuters, for she didn’t intend to catch the forthcoming train.

  Instead, she leapt lightly and gracefully off the platform and set out on foot alongside the tracks. Even though her time in the city had been short, she had already become quite adept at maneuvering through its system of tunnels in a way that further lessened the possibility that she could be followed.

  She felt good: She knew the Jewish leaders would be delighted by her latest offering. And, as always, neither party would speak of the source of this “donation”.

  Natalia decided it would be all right if she asked permission to keep just a few extra dollars of the money for herself: Just enough to allow her to purchase a small chicken and some vegetables to make a more proper supper than she usually allowed herself. Maybe even an apple or two.

  And as she nimbly made her way down the winding tunnel, she began to softly hum the tune of “Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair”.

  Meanwhile, back at the subway station, young Cal Denton had launched into yet another number.

  But while he continue to acknowledge gratefully every coin tossed into his hat, his mind was still on the raven-haired girl with the eyes that had spoken to him of both sorrow and joy.

  He wondered if he would ever see her again.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  August 15, 1939

  Most of the inhabitants of the tiny Tibetan village of Oobang had never seen an aeroplane before that day.

  Some of the children were so frightened by its size and noise that they began to cry, throwing themselves into the arms of their mothers.

  The adults, however, were mainly just curious, growing especially so when the plane made a wide, banking turn and began to descend from the sky.

  Responding gracefully to the hands of a skilled pilot, the aeroplane’s wheels tapped lightly upon the ground three or four times before finally settling down completely and rolling to an uneventful landing.

  When its twin engines and propellers wound down to a halt and relative silence again fell over the valley, all but the youngest of the children ceased their crying, sniffling softly as their own curiosity at the sight of this shining monstrosity began to rise.

  As the villagers gathered round, a hatch in the side of the craft’s fuselage hissed open and a set of folding steps flipped to the ground. A collective “aah” rose from the onlookers as the pilot and sole occupant of the aeroplane disembarked.

  If the mere sight of the plane itself had left them awestruck, how much greater was their surprise when they saw a woman emerging from its metal belly?

  She wore brown leather boots and tight pants. A leather flight jacket hugged her upper body tightly, revealing full curves. Her hands were encased in short gloves made of similar material and her face was largely obscured by goggles and a snug leather cap.

  When she removed these and tossed them back into the plane, she was revealed to be a strikingly handsome woman, with full lips and intelligent eyes. Her brown hair was worn in a short bob that framed her oval face perfectly.

  “Can you help me?” she said.

  The crowd gasped yet again to hear their native tongue come from the mouth of this clearly Occidental woman (albeit heavily accented and ever so slightly mangled).

  “How may we help you?” an old woman asked.

  “I am looking for Aman,” she replied.

  The villagers smiled at this: some chuckled slightly. They were proud of the incredible young man they thought of as one of their own: doubly so because they knew he had already done great things in the world beyond the village. It came as no surprise to them that outsiders would come seeking him out. It was always so for those who stood out from other men and women.

  “Come this way,” said one of the women of the village, boldly stepping up and taking the aviatrix by the hand. “We’ll take you to him.”

  The pilot smiled. She had been told Tibetan natives were known for being friendly and cheerful to strangers, and her first impression of the villagers bore this out.

  The villagers brought their new visitor to a spot just on the ot
her side of the village, where another small crowd had gathered. The two women slowly and courteously made their way through this assemblage. When they did, the object of the gathering’s attention came into view.

  The aviatrix felt her breath catch in her throat. Walking across the clearing was a man she could only describe as a cross between Adonis and the Biblical strong man Samson, and she knew she had found the man for whom she had come searching.

  Aman was naked, save for a pair of loose fitting woolen trousers. On each shoulder he was effortlessly carrying a large stone, each of them of a weight that any two normal men would have struggled to bear.

  His beautiful face was unmarred by any sign of strain from his burden: In fact, he was smiling brightly and chatting with the men around him.

  The western woman was virtually mesmerized by the chiseled muscles that ran down both of the man’s arms, then into a broad chest that glistened with sweat even in the chill of the mountain summer. His stomach was flat, save for the sculpted muscles that rippled just under the skin. She had never seen such a magnificent specimen of manhood in all her days.

  The village woman who had served as her guide now separated from her and approached Aman. With great deference, she began to talk softly to him and gesture with one hand.

  Aman’s eyes followed her gesture, and when he saw the aviatrix he smiled even more brightly. Gracefully bending down on one knee, he softly set the stones he was carrying down on the ground. When he straightened, another woman trotted over and handed him a long-sleeved woolen shirt, of the same gray color as his trousers, which he easily shrugged into as he walked toward the flyer.

  “How do you do?” he said by way of greeting. His voice deep but not harsh: His English, while slightly accented, was lyrical and pleasing to the ear. “I understand you want to talk with me?”

  “I do,” the aviatrix replied. But no further words came from her mouth as she instead began to study him from head to foot as if eyeing a prized steer she was considering buying.