According to the files Thunderbolt had scanned, Mr. Mort was an eccentric millionaire art collector with dual American-Transbialkan citizenship. Interesting place, Transbialka. He'd spent some of the less pleasant months of his life there. Damn vampires.
    The phone rang as he was preparing to depart.
    "Hi, this is Felix from K. Robeson. I know Scott's not there, I'm just wondering—today is the day the Windjammers are moving the Egyptian technology, right?"
    "Ye-es...." That wasn't exactly public knowledge, but this was the Sphinx.
    "Are you guys going to be covering that?"
    "We are now."
    "Just because I called?" He sounded a touch offended.
    "No, I don't mean to give you that impression," he apologized.
    "So you are going to have someone covering that?"
    "Definitely."
    "You or Needle?"
    "Needle's out there at the moment, I may join her yet."
    "What're you up to today?"
    "It all depends." Oh, impersonating an Interpol agent, trying to get some information on a deadly association of megalomaniacal variants....
    "All right. I just figured since Scott was out of town, if anything starts to come up, don't hesitate to call over here."
    "Appreciate the offer, I'll definitely think about it. Good talking to you, Felix." Hm. Interesting....
    He called Needle to let her know that he was heading over Mort's place and would join her after that. Changed into street clothes and took a hoverbike out to Mort's imposing Victorian mansion, complete with manicured lawns and nicely maintained graveyard, graceful wrought-iron fencing and gate with a keypad—that was new, no doubt added after the break-in. There was a hint of fog lurking on the grounds even though it was mid-morning by then.
    He parked the bike out of sight of the gate, walked up to the drive and pressed the intercom button, having decided on a direct tack.
    "Yes," a sepulchral monotone answered.
    "This is Agent Tannhauser, Interpol, trying to reach Mr. Mort?"
    "Hold your identification up to the camera, sir," came the slow reply.
    He did so.
    "Please wait a moment, Agent Tannhauser. Someone will be with you shortly."
    The gate was opened by a huge, hulking bear of a man with a distinctly low brow ridge, who said, "This way," in a curt bass rumble. He looked like the kind of guy who made macramé out of wrought iron for fun. "In here." He opened the front door. "Enter freely and of your own will."
    "Aren't you going to invite me in?"
    "We didn't think that would be necessary, sir," the voice from the intercom said. "Please." The butler turned out to be about five feet tall and seventy pounds if that, a young man. Average him and the groundskeeper out, and they'd make two fairly large men. "What can we do for you, sir."
    "It has come to our attention that at least one member of the League of Nations is in the area. Through some of our networks we've heard rumors that they may be after certain higher standing members in Transbialkan society."
    "That's a very serious concern, sir," the butler's sing-song monotone replied. "Mr. Mort was out dining... late, last evening. You will wait here for a moment. I'll wake the master."
    "Thank you."
    A few moments later, Mort himself glided down the stairs.
    "Agent...?"
    "Tannhauser."
    "It's a pleasure to meet you. Please, make yourself at home. I understand that you believe that—Wilhelm, we're fine, you may go," he told the butler. "Unless you require anything, coffee, tea?"
    Paul declined. Noted Mort's extremely long fingernails and white hair.
    "Please, excuse my appearance. I was out late last evening," Cornelius told him.
    "Perfectly understandable."
    "I understand from Wilhelm that there are some concerns about my security? An international terrorist force?"
    "Yes."
    "Please understand that since a recent incident, I have installed state of the art security systems here. You saw the lock on the door, the fences have a concealed stun voltage on them, there is concealed weaponry throughout the household, various forms of knockout gas, nothing lethal of course, but enough to ensure my safety under almost any circumstances," Mort said firmly. "I guarantee you," he went on, leading Paul into the next room, "that I and my collection are perfectly safe."
    As a matter of fact, there were a good half dozen or so League members who could completely ignore all of the above, but Mort almost certainly knew that as well.... The collection itself seemed to be housed in the room they were now in, lined with glass cases on each wall.
    "If you'll please come through into my sitting room.... What led you to believe that I would be threatened?"
    Thunderbolt spun out his story again.
    "The League of Nations is making moves against the Transbialkan nobility? Hm."
    "That's what our sources are telling us." He noticed that Mort's reflection in the mirror seemed unsteady. All the rest of it could easily be fakery, but that made him nervous. As calm as Mort seemed, Thunderbolt noticed that he kept glancing around, and that Wilhelm kept coming to the door and glancing in—as if a silent conversation were taking place while Mort showed him around the art collection. He was nervous about something, possibly just Thunderbolt's presence, but possibly something more.
    "These are of course wonderful pieces from the court of Louis XIV... come through here." He led the way into the study, where Wilhelm was standing with a piece of paper. "Excuse me a moment, probably an important fax." He glanced at the paper, back at Paul with a raised brow. "Interpol agent? Like I said, we have a state of the art security system. Your photograph does not match that of any Interpol agents, but it does resemble that of a member of those incompetents the Revolution." He handed the paper back to Wilhelm and glared at his visitor. "If you're working for them, which I believe you are—I've had my suspicions of their having field agents for some time—you are here because you suspect me of something. But I will let you know now, you can prove nothing, I have done nothing," he said in a soft, intense voice. "I recommend you leave now. And if you are concerned about my security, I assure you there is no way that anyone can break into this house. Wilhelm, the door," he snapped.
    Wilhelm opened the door back into the art room.
    Trick or Treat—they looked a lot alike in their matching black sweat suits with paw prints all over them and whiskers painted on their faces under matching fedoras—was busy opening up the hidden wall safe. The other one looked over and saw the open door.
    "Cheesit, Cait Sith, it's the cops!" he called.
    Thunderbolt grabbed some sunlight and built a shield out of it, threw the tiny butler behind him for safety as he stepped into the door to confront this threat. The door at the far end of the room opened, revealing the hulking groundskeeper, who slowly crashed to the floor. Behind him was Cait Sith in all her curvaceous skin-tight glory.
    "Meow," she smiled. "I don't think we have anything to worry about, boys. It's not really the cops, it's my boyfriend."
    Needless to say, that was a bit unexpected. Their eyes met, sending an uncontrollable thrill through him. For a moment he could do nothing but stare at her.
    "Trick, I recommend you hurry up," she remarked, sauntering across the room towards Thunderbolt with quick grace. She grabbed his shirt collar and leaned in to kiss him, but just as their lips were about to touch, she was forced to let go as a spark jumped the gap between them, and his shields began to burn her hand. "I thought I was supposed to give other people shocks," she murmured, not at all discomfited.
    "Is he rubbin' you the wrong way, boss?" Trick called. "I got the door open."
    "Treat?"
    "You got it, boss." Treat went in to gather up the vault's contents.
    Trick, now standing guard, warned, "Hurry it up, man, he's starting to look pissed!"
    "Don't worry, the boss can take him."
    "Oh, I'll take him anywhere," she purred, licking her burned hand.
    You know how often this happened in Majestic 12? NEVER, he thought resentfully. He was used to being dropped into a war zone and being told to make things turn out right. And he didn't read that kind of comic book, either.
    He pulled in some electricity from the house wiring and reached for her. There was a flash of light in the instant before contact as she changed into her large cat-form and mewed at him before running in between his legs, rubbing her cheeks against his shins in passing. He heard a gasp behind him, and something grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
    She was fifteen feet tall now. "That wasn't very nice," she reproved. "Why don't you go outside and play?" She did flick something through the window first, to shatter it—as if she didn't really want to hurt him. He landed in the freshly mulched flowerbed and got up covered in mud and compost, with a flower sticking to his head.
    He climbed doggedly back in through the window to see Cait Sith lounging casually, Wilhelm pinned beneath one hand. Mort was backed up against the rear wall, his mouth hanging open in shock (or something).
    "Oh, you're back," she smiled.
    "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to kill you." He thought maybe it was time for a new strategy.
    "At least we agree on something." She shrank down to normal size, releasing the stunned butler. "It's amazing how you keep showing up where I am, it's almost like you're following me.... Why do you have to be so—good?" she asked plaintively, stalking nearer. "Do you know what we'd be able to accomplish together? Just think...." She rubbed up against him and nuzzled his neck, as he had lowered his shield somewhat.
    He turned the voltage on, feeling a bit guilty about it. She sensed his intention a split second before it happened; the shock still threw her into the outer room. Halfway there she went to cat-form again and hit the floor on her feet, fur fluffed and hissing.
    "Oh, boss, you're out here. We got the stuff, let's blow!" Trick or Treat said. The two henchmen were loaded down with bags decorated with pawprints and dollar signs.
    Cait Sith transformed again. "Shocking. Absolutely shocking," she murmured, and stepped to one side, out of his line of sight.
    He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked back to see her perched on the windowsill behind him.
    "Meow," she mouthed silently, and they stared at one another for a few seconds before she disappeared.
    Thunderbolt shook his head. I give up. What did I do to deserve this? He heard motion in the other room as Trick and Treat made their exit. With a sense of deja vu, he checked his host's health.
    Mort finally got his mouth to shut. "What happened? Get out of my way, you—you petunia-wearing oaf!" He ran into the vault area.
    He'd been thinking "oaf" himself, actually; that encounter had gone far from well. Wilhem was pulling himself to his feet, shaken but unhurt.
    "No! No!!" Mort shouted.
    "So, what was stolen?" Thunderbolt inquired, stepping into the vault doorway.
    "Nothing. Nothing," the old man snapped, whirling to glare at him. "Get out!"
    "Excellent security you have here, Mr. Mort." He left the scene as gracefully as possible for one who has been so utterly humiliated, leaving muddy footprints on the carpet and down the driveway.
    There was a note on the bike again. He sighed and unfolded it.
    Darling, I had hoped for more in our second encounter, but it seems that you are bent on being a stick-in-the-mud. If you are so intent on being such a hideous goody two-shoes, the odds are that you will be able to locate the people that Mr. Mort is working with at the Pine Street Inn. At least, that's what they were talking about. Love, Cait Sith.
    Followed by the kiss mark and paw print. He flew back to base to clean up.

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