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Archive name: alan14.txt (MF, mc, exh)
Authors name: Julian Coreto (juliancoreto@hotmail.com)
Story title : Alan - Part 14
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This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 2002. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
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Thank you for your consideration.
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Alan - 14 (MF, mc, exh)
by Julian Coreto (juliancoreto@hotmail.com)
***
Can you get e-mail from a dead person?
Looking at his inbox Alan concluded that you could. It
was just shy of two week since he had learned of the
death (maybe?) of his mentor, Dr. Jean-Pierre Massimo,
and receiving his ring in the mail. Jack had sent him a
message through the ring, or, perhaps was using the ring
to communicate from another plane of existence. All he
knew was that Massimo's Seed, he earthly manifestation of
heavenly power, was within the silver band Alan now wore
on his left middle finger.
The message read:
Alan,
Please go to the savings bank on the northeast corner of
80th Street and York Avenue, in the Yorkville
neighborhood of Manhattan. I have a safety deposit box
there in your name. The branch manager had a key waiting
for you, and with your powers have him give it to you.
Inside the box you will find compact discs, which contain
about one-third of my research, as well as all of the
information I have managed to glean about our opponents.
The information you will find on the discs will lead you
to the rest of my research.
Buy a laptop computer. It should have no Ethernet or
other networking capabilities. The data on the discs
should never be uploaded to a computer, which can be
connected to an Internet connection or even a simple
telephone line, for security reasons, of course.
Further instructions will be in the materials you get
from the bank.
* * *
Following the instructions which he read off the card,
which had been scotch-taped to the outside of the package
in the safe-deposit box, Alan took it unopened to an
office in midtown Manhattan, the same office he had went
to procure his fake I.D. that he used for his trip to
Atlantic City. The office belonged to a middle-aged
lawyer named Wilkins, a solo practitioner.
As he sat in the office's anteroom waiting for Wilkins to
appear Alan studied his surroundings; the office
consisted of four rooms, including this anteroom, where
the matronly secretary sat behind a polished oak desk.
Their rooms were arrayed behind her. The middle room was
a conference room, a large oblong table dominating its
center, the walls lined with groaning bookshelves
groaning under the weight of volumes of law books and
Federal Registers.
The attorney's office was on the left of the conference
room, its door closed at this time. The other door was
locked; where the doorknob usually would have been was a
rather sophisticated piece of electronics, a complex lock
with a reinforced keypad, plus and a hand and fingertip
scanner. Unlike the doors to the other rooms, this one
looked to be made of heavy-duty steel.
Wilkins ushered him into his office, the East River and
the United Nations visible from the window. "Please sit
down, Mr. Marshall. This whole thing is a complete shock
to me. If it wasn't for all of the work Dr. Massimo's
death had caused, I fear these past few weeks would have
found me staggered from the shock of it all." Alan
nodded, and the lawyer continued. "Dr. Massimo was my
only client, the only client I have ever had. He hired me
straight out of law school and set my up in this office,
so my grief is not just professional, but personal as
well.
"Once I received confirmation of his death from the
British authorities I broke the seals on several
envelopes Dr. Massimo had left for me in the event of his
death. Most of his estate will be transferred to his son
in Geneva, but some of it will go to you, particularly
certain items in his person collect of artifacts, as well
as all of his field research notes, and most of his
papers, too. One of the subsidiaries of his personal
corporation, Cyaxares, will now be under your control.
Dr. Massimo instructed that upon his death all shares in
it shall be transferred to your control."
Wilkins placed the first document back into a folder and
grabbed another off his desk and removed a second set of
instructions. "The office on the opposite side of the
conference room was Dr. Massimo's personal space for when
he was working in New York. It is now yours." Wilkins
handed over yet another envelope to Alan, and Alan noted
that this one had remained sealed, and was addressed to
him. "Instructions for getting passed the security door,"
Wilkins informed him.
"Thank you. Is there anything else you need to tell me?"
"No, young man, that is all," Wilkins told him, but Alan
could sense by the tone in his voice he wanted to say
something else.
"Are you sure?" Alan asked him, and noted the nervousness
on the lawyer's face.
"Ah, well, uh not to be indelicate at this sad point, and
I know we don't really know each other so well, but, um,
I was wondering if you were going to continue to, ah,
retain the services of this firm for all of your legal
needs."
Alan agreed and saw Mr. Wilkins relax visibly. He had the
lawyer send his secretary out to lunch; he wanted the
anteroom clear when he tried the door of Jack's office.
Alan entered the code contained in the letter on the
keypad. A small screen appeared in the middle of the
apparatus, a small metal panel sliding away to reveal it.
Alan spent the next half hour or so answering multiple-
choice questions by pressing on the keys of the keypad.
Jack had written a program to authenticate him, the
questions asking for information only Alan, as a Vessel
of a Seed would know the answers to. When the computer in
the door was satisfied that it was really Alan Marshall
standing before it Alan was prompted to flatten his had
up against the sensor so his palm- and fingerprints could
be recorded. The machine also asked for a new access
code, and a voiceprint.
Alan thought he as done, but the machine also asked for a
"danger" code, a false password which would delay the
opening of the door of the office by ten seconds, while
small explosive charges in the computers detonated,
obliterating the stored data on the hard drives, and
incendiary similarly caused all of the files in the file
cabinets to go up in smoke.
At long last, Alan gained access to the office. A
windowless space, a lacquered wooden table stood in the
center, the tabletop was half taken up by a large
computer monitor; one wall was lined end to end with
black metal file cabinets, heavy duty-looking ones, made
of the same thick steel as the door, each also sporting
miniature versions of the same locking mechanism. The
other walls were covered with maps and diagrams made on
Massimo's expeditions, most were yellowed, and some even
had frayed edges.
Alan rested the steel case he had that morning removed
from the bank in Yorkville; he examined it closely for
the first time, not wanting to attract too much attention
in the bank, he had merely placed it in a canvas zip-up
bag and left. There were no hinges, no releases to press
to pop it open. He knew it wasn't a solid block of steel,
no only from its weight, but also because he could feel
the box's content shift within, and any how, hadn't
Massimo's e-mail message tell him that there were
computer discs inside? Running his fingers over the whole
of it Alan was confused; just as he was going to give up
and start looking at the computer in front of him, he
head that voice.
"Don't try to open it with your hands. It only opens at
the command of the Seed's Vessel."
"Jack?"
"I am here," the disembodied voice uttered.
"Is there some specific command that I need to use to
open the box?"
"No, just will it open, and it will be."
Alan looked at the box, and in less than a second he
heard a pop. The top of the box was raised and slightly
askew, and he took it completely and set it to the side.
Inside were the discs as promised, and he examined the
jewel cases, reading the labels and putting the back in
order. Satisfied he was organized now, Alan replaced them
in the box, refit the lid to the top, and locked it using
his power. He took a cab to a large chain electronics
store, and bought a laptop using the credit card with the
name Carl Sutherland, his Atlantic City alias.
By the time he returned to Wilkins's office the secretary
was gone for the day, and the lawyer's office door was
shut. Deciding it was safer to leave the original discs
safe behind the impressively secure office door, Alan
transferred all of their data to his new laptop, filed
the disks in one of the cabinets, then placed his
computer into the now empty steel box, and put the box in
his canvas bag. Exiting the building, he hailed a cab and
told the driver he wanted to go to Grand Central Station;
he had a nagging feeling, impossible to pin down, that he
was being watched.
* * *
"Two to One, We have a visual. Out." His partner picked
up the telephoto and shot off as many pictures he could
before the mark got into the taxi.
"Copy zat, I see him," a heavily accented voice said, his
voice distorted by the speaker of the radio. "Remember
your instructions. You and Three are to follow him, and
no more. Surveillance only. Repeat, repeat, do not
approach too close. Out."
"That's affirm. Two to One, I copy instructions. Out." He
put the car in drive, and pulled out to follow the cab
his target had just hailed. He didn't know why he was
following this man, a kid, really. All he did know was
that he had spent the last two weeks sitting in a parked
car on Forty-sixth Street between Second and Third,
waiting for the signal for whom to follow. Seven hundred
dollars a day he was getting paid for this; nice work, if
you can get it.
The agent he knew only as "One" had spent the last two
weeks working as an elevator operator in this office
building, waiting for the mark, whoever he was, to enter
the office on the twenty-sixth floor. Once he was
identified it was his job, "Agent Two," to follow the
mark home, and set up surveillance there. "Easy," he
thought to himself, counting his money in his head.
"He's getting out," Three said. "Look, up there." The cab
had stopped, and the dome light on its roof was lit,
indicating a now vacant cab. Two pulled to the curb,
twenty yards behind it, and Three jumped out, following
the mark into the station.
Grand Central Station was teeming with people, this being
start of rush hour. Three followed the mark, figuring
that he would head for the ticket windows, but instead he
followed him straight to the platforms. Must have bought
a round trip ticket, indicating he lived in the suburbs.
He relayed this information over the radio.
"Shit! Where the fuck did he go?" Agent Three swore to
himself. Just as the mark neared the north side of the
station a great group of people came streaming out of an
arched passageway, interspersing themselves between him
and the mark.
"Three to Two, I LOST HIM," he said frantically into his
radio, trying his best to keep his voice down. "I'VE LOST
THE MARK!"
"Find him, now," the voice answered back, not Two, but
One.
Three searched all of the platforms, and walked through
all of the trains idling on the platforms. He knew he had
about a fifty-fifty chance; about half of the trains
would pull out before he had a chance to search them.
Twenty minutes later it was all over. He had failed. He
reported in.
"Return to base for debrief. Out."
Ten minutes later he was at the base, which by
coincidence was only a few blocks north of the station,
in a non-descript office building on Lexington Avenue.
His fellow stalkers on the pursuit team were already
there when he and Two came in together. Three was not
looking forward to this, but One could not have been more
understanding or calm.
"I never really expected to track him down zo fast. Who
knew if he vas even going to show his face at the
lawyer's? Ve've made good progress. Starting in the
morning ve'll deploy one team at the lawyer's, and two
teams at the station. Ve'll spot him again, and next time
we vont lose him."
One dismissed his team. The photos would be ready
tonight. The next day he'll start sending teams of agents
to all of the towns, which are serviced by Metro-North,
and have them shown around. A train conductor, a station
worker, someone has to know the kid's name. He opened his
laptop and wrote his report. That done he started the
encryption program; this program took a long time to do
its business, encoding his text with such complexity that
the fastest code breaking computer in the world would
need at least a month to unscramble it. He leaned back in
his chair and relaxed, his left hand absently playing
with his necklace.
The necklace consisted of a thin chain looped through a
hook on the top of a small silver sphere. The silver was
very pure, his boss had informed him, and he must under
no circumstances remove it while on the mission.
Duplicates of his necklace were worn by all of the
members of the pursuit team, and they were under similar
instructions, forbidden to remove them until the end of
the mission.
* * *
Alan found a seat. It was still early in rush hour, and
the cars were less than half full. Plus, he had reached
the station just as the southbound train had pulled in,
and he had almost fifteen minutes before the turnaround.
Sitting there quietly reading his newspaper he still had
that feeling in the back of his mind, a feeling of being
watched, or even chased. He tried scanning all of the
minds in his vicinity, but nothing jumped out. He lowered
his antennae, and went back to reading.
"Guess who?" a familiar and singsong feminine voice
called Kate had snuck up behind him and covered his eyes
with her hands.
"Hi Kate."
"Spoilsport," she pouted, coming around from the row of
seats behind his and settling in next to him. "I wanted
you to guess!" she mock-whined. "What were you doing in
Manhattan?"
"I, uh, came in to have lunch with my dad. Went computer
shopping after." Well, the latter was true.
"Cool," she said idly.
"Why are you taking the train? I thought you drove in."
"Car's in the shop. Busted fuel pump."
"Sorry," he replied, genuine concern in his voice. Kate
loved that car. Once she started college she would
probably be experiencing withdrawal symptoms from not
driving it.
The train pulled out, right on schedule, picking up speed
in the tunnel. Kate leaned over towards him, resting her
head on his shoulder, her fragrant black hair tickling
his nose. Alan rested his right hand against her thigh,
feeling her warmth trough the fabric of her knee-length
denim skirt. She sighed contentedly.
Alan closed his eyes, unleashing his mind to delve within
her thoughts. She was thinking about the night of the
spring break party, when she and Alan had fucked in the
garden as the party continued around them.
The train slowed and then stopped in Harlem. A few more
people got on, but soon they were back at full speed.
Kate looked down the center aisle; a businessman was
exiting the bathroom and heading back to his seat.
"Come on," she whispered to him, sitting up straight and
taking his hand in hers.
"What?" he answered, a puzzled look on his face. He knew
what she was thinking, but decided to play the innocent.
"The bathroom," she said slyly, "I need to go to the
bathroom."
"So? I'm not stopping you," he replied, a small smile
creeping across his face, letting her know he was on to
her.
"I want you to come with me, to the bathroom," she said
as she pulled him up off the seat. Fifteen seconds later
they were inside, the door locked.
Kate reached to his waist and pulled his shirt out of his
chinos, her hands busily exploring his chest and back as
he leaned in to kiss her, sucking her tongue from between
her lips and into his mouth. She growled softly, dropping
her hands to his belt buckle and unfastening it. He
wiggled his hips and his pants fell to his ankles, and
her hands swiftly attached themselves to his groin,
rubbing his cock through the thin material of his
underpants.
He turned her around so that she faced the mirror. One of
his hands went to take down his shorts, and the other
stole under her skirt, his thumb hooking the waistband of
her panties. Her flesh was warm and quivering at his
touch.
This was one of the parts she liked the best, when Alan
took down her panties. It made her feel so, so--her mind
rolled around, looking for the right word--so "taken."
Once she felt the panties bunched around her ankles she
lifted up and stepped out of them.
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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 17