"I think not. Tell Mr. Schadel that the Fallen Angel wishes to renegotiate the terms of our arrangement."
"I do not—"
Jocasta hung up and continued to watch the men. Any lingering doubts as to their role in the conspiracy were swept away as the pair launched into a panicked tirade of shouting. After a few moments, they quitted the room and hastily exited the hotel, unaware that Jocasta Palmer was now closely following their every move.
There is a second city, a secret city, beneath the streets of New York. Endless miles of subway tunnels and sewer lines stretch the length and breadth of the five boroughs forming a veritable labyrinth where daylight does not penetrate. It has been said that even the city engineers tasked with maintaining the network know barely a fraction of the subterranean world in their care.
On the midnight following landfall of the storm that newspapers would call the Long Island Express, this New York underworld resembled nothing less than the canals of Venice. The overwhelmed streets poured their watery burden into the stairs descending into the various stations, creating manmade waterfalls that flooded the subway lines, rendering the trains temporarily inoperable.
It was into this watery crypt that Jocasta’s minders ventured bearing their grim tidings. There were no witnesses to their descent, save their unseen shadow, but even if the streets had been bustling with pedestrians, no one would have thought anything but that they were merely going to catch a train. Braving the torrent that swirled around their ankles, they plunged into the lightless depths of the Fifth Avenue station. Once removed from the fury of the constant rain, the men struck the flint wheels of their cigarette lighters, casting a dim glow into the otherwise total darkness. The flickering flames sufficed to guide them; they knew the course to their destination from earlier visits.
The two men reached the first platform and slogged through knee-deep water, past the derelict token kiosk, to a rather plain looking metal door bearing a placard reading "DANGER — DO NOT ENTER." One of the men produced a key and unlocked the door, forcing it open against the weight of water pressing it against the frame. The torrent immediately spilled inside, flooding the passageway, which had heretofore seen only moderate seepage over the threshold.
The door existed for the sole purpose of sealing off a condemned subway station leading to a similarly abandoned rail spur. So far as the city planners were concerned, the station no longer existed, but one official had accepted a rather hefty bribe from a mysterious European fellow in exchange for the key more than six months previously. The bureaucrat did not ask for an explanation; New York’s underworld had often been a much-desired playground for wealthy dilettantes. During the years of Prohibition, more than a dozen decommissioned stations had become "lodges" — a clever euphemism for drinking hall — for various secret fraternal societies. This particular station however served a much darker purpose; for half a year now, it had been the headquarters of a German espionage cell.
Another stairwell, this one already on the verge of collapse prior to the arrival of the hurricane, descended further still into the bowels of the city. The two men carried on a bitter dialogue in their native Teutonic tongue, the gist of which was to curse their anonymous leader, the man known only as Schadel — the Skull — for demanding this midnight rendezvous in the flooded subterranean hideout.
Neither of them knew his true identity, nor had they even, to the best of their knowledge, seen his face. Speculation ran rampant among the intelligence service of the Third Reich that Schadel was a senior party official — perhaps Goebbels or Himmler — whose unorthodox missions required absolute secrecy and deniability. Whoever he was, Schadel always wore a grinning skull mask when operating in the presence of his subordinates. The diatribes ceased as they gained the platform. Given the grim nature of their report, neither man wished to make things worse by grumbling in the presence of the Skull.
Three more men — the rest of Schadel’s agents — waited, sodden and miserable, on the platform, but there was no sign of the masked spymaster. It was plainly evident from their expressions that they too had only bad news to report. It was going to be a long night.
"Report!"
The voice thundered from the stairwell, startling all of them. The two spies assigned to Jocasta went pale; Schadel must have been on their heels during their descent, yet they had not heard so much as a splash in the darkness. They turned, dumbstruck, to behold the skeletal visage of their leader standing on the last tread of the stairwell. The five spies exchanged dire glances and then the junior agent in the group cleared his throat.
"Herr Schadel, the operation at the museum did not go as planned. Three of the subjects overpowered the slaves and escaped in the truck that was to have brought them here. I was unable to follow."
The eyes behind the mask were hidden in shadow, but the young German felt Schadel’s stare burning through him and cast his gaze to the submerged floor. When he spoke however, there was no trace of ire in the Skull’s tone. "Your assignment was merely to observe. If the slaves failed in some way, then the fault lies with me. Perhaps the mental conditioning hampered their ability to follow instructions. No matter, those three are of little consequence. As long as they are removed from the playing field, our mission is not jeopardized."
He turned to the next man. "What of the fourth man? Dalton?"
The spy swallowed hard before answering. "I regret to inform you that the slave you sent to eliminate Dalton likewise failed. Dalton escaped with help from an outside party; I believe the man may have been some kind of police detective."
The Skull seemed nonplussed. "Where is Dalton now?"
"He and the detective went to the Empire State Building and then to the museum, where the slaves again failed to take him. After that, the two men retreated to a hotel where I believe they still are." Then he added, "I had to break surveillance in order to report to you, Herr Schadel."
The skeletal visage tilted in what might have been a nod. "Return to your post as soon as we have finished here. Dalton must by now have assumed that his precious Outpost is in danger. He may attempt to travel there in order to secure it, little realizing that in so doing, he will lead us to its very doorstep."
The two men bearing Jocasta’s message nodded to each other, evincing a degree of relief. Thus far, the dire tidings had failed to provoke Schadel into a rage; perhaps his reaction to the third failure would be similarly even-handed.
"Mein Herr, the woman you sent to retrieve the artifact was successful—"
"Excellent!"
The spy coughed nervously. "However, it appears that she has broken the conditioning."
"What?" Schadel’s voice was suddenly tight, like a piano wire stretched to the breaking point.
"She telephoned with this message. ‘The Fallen Angel wishes to renegotiate.’ We don’t know where she is or how she intends to—"
"You lost her?"
"Mein Herr, we waited in her room as you instructed—"
"Silence!" Later, the spy would swear that the eye sockets of the skull flashed crimson as he spoke. For several long minutes, the only sounds that could be heard were the dripping of water and the labored breathing of the man behind the mask. When he spoke again however, his tone was measured and steady. "This is an unfortunate setback, but the artifact was never the primary goal. We will focus our efforts on Dalton; if he leads us to the Outpost, naught else will matter."
"And what of the police detective that protects him?" asked the spy tasked with following Dodge. "He may interfere."
Schadel chuckled mirthlessly. "Let Dalton believe that he is safe for now. When the time comes, we will deal with that problem. Here is what we will do…"