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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. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 17