The Last Avengers Story

14 days of an Avengers story, before Eroica by Bravo continues. I'm an Avengers fan and wrote this several years ago.

AVENGERS FOREVER - aka DIE HARDEST

PRESENT DAY

I. TIBET-BY-THE-SEA
It was Sunday, and the village of Tibet-By-The-Sea (along with its sister villages Upper Tibet, Lower Tibet and Tibet Magna) had braced itself for the weekly invasion from the Mulberry Senior Citizens Retirement Center.

The man who called himself John Gascoine walked, very slowly - feeling his way with a very sturdy umbrella - down the main street of Tibet-By-The-Sea. He cut quite a figure, with the bowler hat perched on his snow white head, a light gray jacket over a black turtleneck sweater that slimmed an only slightly overweight 80-year-old figure, and light gray shoes that matched his light gray trousers. The deeply set eyes that looked out from under heavy lids twinkled with an enjoyment of life.

''Life at Mulberry isn't bad,'' John Gascoine told the victim that he had chosen for that day - a barber who plied his trade on Mackiedockie Street. ''The ladies are quite taken with me. Of course they would be, what with the exciting life I've led, and all.''

''Is that so, sir?'' said the barber, opening a drawer and bringing out a cut-throat razor. He turned back to Gascoine and suddenly the hand which held the razor was caught in a vise-like grip. ''Ouch!'' exclaimed the barber.

''Oh, I'm terribly sorry,'' Gascoine said with a sweet smile. He released the barber's hand. ''It's just that you shouldn't go waving dangerous weapons like that about near the hands of a trained killer.''

''A trained killer?'' the barber said, with just the right expression of interested fear in his voice. He'd been in Tibet-By-The-Sea for ten years and had dealt with many a visitor from Mulberry Senior Retirement Center. He set his lips into an interested and inquiring smile, and listened with half an ear as Gascoine told him of his adventures as a super secret agent, many, many years ago.

II. THE TRITON PROJECT

In an inner office of the Mulberry Senior Citizen Retirement Center, two men relaxed with tea and biscuits while they sat in comfortable chairs and watched the big screen television in front of them. Scenes from Topkapi played out on the screen. ''That Peter Ustinov, he's a right treat,'' said Mr. Honeywell, the head of the retirement center. Indeed, he looked a bit like a young Peter Ustinov, with a great deal of weight which he carried well, curly black hair and a pencil-thin moustache. Mr. Quarl sipped his tea. ''Oh, no, it's that Melina Mercouri who makes this film,'' he said, ''I love that voice of hers.'' Mr. Quarl was a big man, with big muscles. Fans of old movies might think of him as the ex-boxer turned actor, Mike Mazurski.

They stopped short as there came a knock on the door. Mr. Honeywell pushed the mute button on the remote, and then another button. In a corner of the screen, the exterior office was shown, and the face of Mr. Strange appeared. He was clearly alone in the outer office.

''Come in, Mr. Strange,'' Honeywell called.

Strange entered. He was a short man, but well built, with a tendency to wear black clothing at all times, enlivened only by brightly-colored waistcoats. On this occasion he carried a briefcase.

''Report, Mr. Strange,'' said Honeywell.

''It's all arranged, sir. The Naval Base is going to open its doors to a visit from the Mulberry Senior Citizen Retirement Home next Sunday. It was my mentioning that we've got Rear Admiral Forrestal, retired, here now that did it.''

''Excellent, excellent. I told you, Mr. Quarl, that this Retirement Center is simply a vast spider's web, and our prey has finally arrived. Rear Admiral Forrestal, retired, indeed.''

nodded. ''How many of the old folks do we have to bring next Sunday?''

''I said twenty-five.'' Strange said.

''Twenty-five? Are you mad?''

Strange shrugged. ''We'll be slow moving to begin with, but once we get into the Base, what's it matter? And twenty-five old age hostages - if we need to play that card - why, it'll be a dawdle.''

Quarl looked grimly at Honeywell, but Honeywell did not seem to find the figure of twenty-five senior citizens excessive.

''At least you're going to run background checks on everyone we bring, aren't you?'' he asked.

''Background checks?'' scoffed Honeywell. ''Now it's my turn to ask you if you are mad.''

''But some of them might be ex-military.''

''I'm sure most of them will be. In fact, if he's to be believed, we even have a super secret spy living with us. What of it? They're all over seventy years old! They pose no danger, even if they did find out what was going on.''

Quarl folded his arms across his broad chest.

''Come, come, Mr. Quarl,'' Honeywell said soothingly. ''Our residents play card games, and go for long walks, and sit on chairs and watch the world go by, and you could snap anyone of them in two with your fingers. Now come, Strange. You're just in time to see the last half of Topkapi. Sit yourself down.''

Strange poured himself a cup of tea. ''Seven days,'' he murmured. ''Seven days to Project Triton. It's been a long time coming.''

''And we are well prepared,'' Honeywell said. He raised his teacup. Mr. Quarl and Mr. Strange followed suit. They touched cups with a musical ring. Then the three men settled down and devoted all their attention to the television screen.