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Chapter 18  No Plan Survives Contact With the Enemy

“A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.”  Oscar Wilde

Paulina and Sergei surveyed their charges and let out expansive sighs.

“All right,” said Sergei.  “Let’s get something straight before we go any further.  Paulina and I are cell leaders, not waiters, not bellhops, tour guides or concierges.  We aren’t here to get you drinks, fluff your pillows or help you find dope peddlers.  We do not know where to ‘get a little action,’ who has the best shish kabob in town, or the quickest way to the theatre district.  Is everybody clear on that?  Yes?”

There was an embarrassed silence in the room, punctuated by shuffled feet and some muffled coughing.

“Ahem, well then,” said Hargrove.  “Rest assured that we are honoured to have such proud defenders of the Cause as brothers-in-arms.  With such formidable members of the Iga Ninja ^TM on our side, we will soon squish the TICKS.”

Paulina’s eyes narrowed, from just a glare to a full sneer.  “The Iga Ninja ^TM?  Pah!  We belong to an independent member of the Ninja Business Consortium.  We are with TOCKS – Trade Opportunities Concerning Kosher Sandwiches.  The Insidious Communist Kornilovist Soviet has been repelling our attempts to set up a chain of franchised kosher lunch stands throughout the former Soviet Union.”

Hargrove looked pale, more so than usual.  “Then you aren’t brave members of the proletariat, fighting against the bourgeois stranglehold of commercial exploitation, willing to fling yourself into the maelstrom against privilege, follow the joyful instinct to form unions and bring about the inevitable collapse of the so-called ruling class, as well as defeat the foul aliens who defile our planet?”

“Hell no.  Capitalists, through and through.  How do you think the Iga Ninja ^TM  managed to develop such an extensive headquarters?  I mean, assassination pays well and all, but poisoning someone’s fruit cocktail doesn’t pay for an IMAX theatre, you know.  We all recognize the alien android plot is bad for business, though.  Who did you think all the people that gathered for the briefing here were?”

“Operatives?” he offered, hopefully.

“Stockholders.  When the Iga Ninja ^TM  sold out to Hollywood in the 80’s, a lot of people bought in, most of them replying to the insert card in Black Belt Magazine.  The Ninja Business Consortium was formed when the fad died, and we’ve been operating underground ever since.”

Hargrove turned to Sir Edmund.  “So when you were introduced as the head of the coalition of resistance, Ninja ^TM Fred really meant that you were…”

“Hmmm?” asked Sir Edmund, only half-turning away from Frieda.  He had been staring into her eyes with unconcealed attraction.  “I’m so sorry, I was entranced by the beauty of this most charming woman.”  Frieda blushed, and squirmed fetchingly.  Sir Edmund turned his back to Hargrove.

The night wore on, and Hargrove grew more and more agitated.  Ninja^TM Fred was supposed to have returned more than half an hour ago, and without the Iga Ninja ^TM  to create the distraction at the Embassy’s front gate, the plan was likely to fail.  The other thing that was bothering him was Sir Edmund and Frieda, and their ever-increasing chumminess.

He seemed to be the only person concerned though.  MacGuinness and O’Lan had been playing a drinking game with increasingly random rules.  Paulina and Sergei were cleaning their firearms, while Sir Edmund and Frieda whispered and giggled.

“It is time,” said Sir Edmund suddenly, as he checked his watch.  “We have 15 minutes to make it to Yeritasardakan Station for the last train.” 

The group left the pub, and more or less as a group.  Hargrove was eyeing Sir Edmund suspiciously.  Sir Edmund was eyeing Frieda appreciatively.  Paulina was glaring at everybody.  Both MacGuinness and O’Lan were having difficulty eyeing anything at all, as current level of intoxication would prompt an independent expert to declare a blood sample from them to be a fairly potable blended malt.  The ninja were nowhere to be seen.

“Is Ninja^TM Fred accompanying us, a stealthy assassin lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce like a deadly boomslang snake, who is never heard but whose mildest attack is always fatal?” asked Hargrove, hopefully.

Paulina rolled her eyes.  “Let me pop your bubble.  My bet is that Fred and the other ninja^TM have probably been strolling through the underground shopping area and will emerge somewhere around Marshal Baghramian Station once they have retrieved their uniforms and weapons from the storage lockers thoughtfully provided for the convenience of shoppers.”

Hargrove deflated a little more.  He scuffed his shoes dejectedly all the way to Yeritasardakan Station.  Even the oppressive Soviet-style architecture of the subway failed to lift his spirits.  Shuffling on to the subway train, he slumped into his seat.

“By Trotsky’s collection of dainty porcelain figurines!  How did I, the famed Marxist Detective, find himself in such a state?  Accompanied by avowed capitalists, while an imperialist woos my true love?  With no comrades save an out-of-uniform leprechaun and an otherwise stalwart worker who would unfortunately rather hit me with a wrench than rise up against his oppressors?”  Hargrove was working towards a crescendo.  “Oh Nana Hargrove!  I have failed you!”

 “Do be quiet,” said Sir Edmund, one arm around Frieda’s shoulder.  “I am trying to talk with this delightful beauty.”  He returned to his quiet conversation, one punctuated by Sir Edmund’s low chuckle and Frieda’s giggle.

“That is it!” roared Hargrove.  He leapt from his seat to take up a vacant one on Frieda’s other side, petulantly brushed Trumble’s hand from her shoulder.  “She’s sitting with me,” he said, triumphantly.

“Actually, she is not sitting at all,” said Trumble.  “This is Marshal Baghramian Station.”  He stood and offered his arm to Frieda, who accompanied him off the train.  Hargrove sat, near-apoplectic with rage, until he realized the train was about to proceed to the next station.  He dove to make it out the rapidly closing doors, and except for one foot, made it.  As the train started to move, Hargrove frantically tried to open the doors pinning his foot between them.  Faster and faster, he slid along the polished floor.  His head rung bell-like off each girder, the rhythm speeding up with the train’s acceleration.

Finally, with a whap! not unlike the sound produced by dropping a piece of fresh liver onto a cutting board from a height of 8 feet, Hargrove slammed into the wall at the far end of the station.  His one consolation was that his foot was free, albeit missing a shoe.

Slowly, painfully he walked back to where the rest of them had gathered.  They winced at the crepetous grinding of his ribs against each other.  It sounded like some malevolent giant crushing up enormous saltine crackers into his soup.

“Where is MacGuinness and O’Lan?” asked Hargrove, drawing his beloved Webley.  Those stealthy little ninja buggers must have taken them.  Despite the battering he had just received, his senses were revved to maximum.  If even one of the TICKS ninja appeared, for just 1/10^th of a second, the heavy-calibre pistol would reduce him to a black-clad lace doily. 

“YOUR FRIENDS ARE STILL ABOARD THE TRAIN,” said a voice. 

No one could work up the nerve to face the source of that voice.  It was immensely disturbing – hinting at wind-blown leaves in a graveyard, unspeakable rituals conducted by night, and happy, fresh-faced elves being brained with a large mace. 

“THEY WAVED TO ME FROM THE WINDOW, AND WERE GIGGLING LIKE SCHOOLGIRLS AS IT PULLED OUT OF THE STATION.”

Steeling himself, Hargrove the Marxist Detective turned on his heel (the one still shod) to face the voice.  Sitting on the floor of the station, leaning against the wall, was a figure wrapped in black robes.  A hood covered his head, and no light penetrated within to show a face.  In one hand he held a half-full bottle of Abovain Ice Lager, and in the other a baseball cap with a few coins rattling within.  At his feet was a scrap of cardboard with the message “will work for mystical ring” scrawled upon it.

He held out the cap to the group.  “SPARE ANY CHANGE FOR A VETERAN?”

Sir Edmund cleared his throat.  “Uh, and of which war would you be a veteran of?”

“WAR OF THE RINGS, MIDDLE EARTH.”

“Never heard of it.”

“WOULD HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF YOU HAD.  NOW ARE YOU GOING TO COUGH UP SOME COIN, OR WHAT?”

They looked at each other sheepishly.  Someone tossed some spare change into the hat, and the figure looked down at it.

“WHOOPEE… I’LL CALL MOM AND TELL HER I CAN AFFORD THOSE TAP LESSONS NOW.”

“Hey, if you are going to be insulting, you can hand my money back,” said Sergei, reaching toward the cap.

“WOULDN’T DO THAT IF I WERE YOU.”  The figure reached back and pulled a massive mace from behind him.  He rose to his feet smoothly – far more athletically than one would expect from a vagrant in a subway station.  Easily seven feet tall, probably more, he looked down at the motley gang. 

“Now see here, Mr. uh…” started Trumble.  He faltered as the figure turned to face him – well, figuratively, since still no light penetrated that hood to show a face.  He had a much better view of the mace now, seeing as it was being held directly in front of his nose.  The shaft was as thick as a car axle, and the flanges that surrounded the business end looked like they had been crafted from tank armour.

“DON’T HAVE A NAME SINCE I REALLY DIDN’T NEED ONE.  OCCASIONALLY SAURON REFERRED TO ME AS NAZGHUL #4, BUT THAT’S AS CLOSE AS IT GOT.”

“Sauron?”

“EVIL OVERLORD, FORMER EMPLOYER.  KICKED ME OUT OF MIDDLE EARTH WHEN I TRIED TO FORM A UNION.  GEEZ, YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN THE SIZE OF THE UNION-BUSTERS HE FOUND.”

Hargrove couldn’t believe his ears.  This fearsome creature was a union man, uh, union thing?  Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, and his chest swelled with pride.  About to launch into another rendition of the Internationale, he stopped himself.  Would’ve sounded good in the tunnel, and Frieda knows all the words, he thought, but there will be time for the singing of such comradely tunes later.

“Tell me more of your battles against the slavery of the bourgeois state,” he said, eyes shining.

“NOT MUCH TO TELL,” said the Nazghul.  “MY UNION GOT DEMOLISHED, I WAS FIRED AND THEN BANISHED FROM MIDDLE EARTH.  I LANDED HERE IN YEREVAN AND TRIED TO START UP A LITTLE LUNCH STAND.”

“And?”

“AND IT FAILED.  I THOUGHT ‘WAR & PITA’ WAS A MILLION-DOLLAR NAME.  UNFORTUNATELY FOR ME, THE SOVIET MINDSET CAN’T HANDLE PUNS.”

Paulina and Sergei conferred hurriedly.  “We are with TOCKS, an organization devoted to building lunch stands around the world.  At this very moment we are on our way to fight and destroy another organization intent on stopping us.  Join with us and we’ll open War & Pita franchises from here to Brazil.”

 The huge creature thought about the offer for a moment, then shrugged.  “WHAT THE HECK.  YOU WERE ON THE LAST TRAIN OF THE NIGHT, SO I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO UNTIL THE MORNING RUSH.”

They proceeded out of the subway station to the deserted streets above.  Paulina led the way to the hotel, pointing out the US Embassy on the way.  She was visibly distressed.  The streets should have been thronged with protesters hammering at the Embassy’s gates.  Instead there were a few dejected sign-carriers.  Hargrove overheard two of them talking.  “Sure would have a better turnout at these things if they were scheduled on a weekend.”

The group looked at each other.  It was obvious that Ninja Fred and his troops were not showing up, and that the diversionary protest was a bust.  They needed to come up with an alternative plan, and quickly.

“Nazghul,” said Hargrove.  “You can drop each of us over the fence and then climb over yourself.  We run as fast as we can to the ventilation grate and fire the grenade launcher.  I volunteer to go over first.”

Sir Edmund guffawed.  “I am the leader of this mission, and I will be first.”

“You?  An outmoded reminder of the brutal repression of the monarchy?”

“Boys!” shouted Frieda.  “Can’t we keep this a friendly competition?”

“Friendly?” asked Hargrove.

“Competition?” asked Trundle.

“ENOUGH,” said the Nazghul, easily picking up both of the squabbling men and tossing them over the fence, where they landed in a heap.  The otherworldly creature picked up each of the assault party in turn and deposited them on the other side before it climbed over too.

Hargrove dusted himself off and turned to face the team.  “Good, now who has the grenade launcher?”

“Uh, MacGuinness?” said Paulina.

“And O’Lan has the ammunition,” added Sergei, helpfully.

 “Crap.”

“Yes, Hargrove, crap indeed.”

They whirled to face that unmistakable voice.

Illuminated by the floodlights that suddenly lit up the embassy compound, Trotskov sighted down the barrel of her neutrino accelerator.  Behind her stood another half-dozen Trotskov’s.

“Surprised?  Don’t be.  You should know well enough that when building alien androids, mass production reduces the per unit cost.”  She smiled evilly, as her finger squeezed the trigger.

Can Hargrove survive another shot from a neutrino accelerator?  Would an X-ray technician be surprised by what the Ninja^TM used to repair Hargrove’s abdomen?  What happened to Ninja^TM Fred?  Are MacGuinness and O’Lan still sitting on the subway train, presumably at the end of the line?

On to Chapter 19