showed himself out.
Bruce and Alfred watched from the front hall as the patrol car drove away.
“You checked that name?” Bruce asked. He assumed Alfred had been listening in on his meeting with the young police officer. “Bane?” The word had sinister connotations. A cause of ruin, disaster, and death, at least according to Webster. Bruce wondered what kind of man would choose such a name for himself.
A man who wished to instill fear in others?
He understood the reasoning.
“Ran it through some databases,” Alfred said. The faithful butler had once served as an operative for British Intelligence, before going into service. His skills at garnering information still came in handy. “He’s a mercenary. No other known name. Never been seen or photographed without a mask. He and his men were behind a coup in West Africa that secured mining operations for our friend John Daggett.”
Wayne raised an eyebrow. Daggett was the kind of shark that gave rich tycoons a bad name.
“Now Daggett’s brought them here?” he asked.
“It would seem so,” Alfred replied. “I’ll keep digging.”
The butler turned to leave, but Wayne had another question.
“Why did the Wayne Foundation stop funding boys’ homes in the city?”
“The Foundation is funded from the profits of Wayne Enterprises,” Alfred reminded him. “There have to be some.”
Bruce’s expression fell. Recent years had taken their toll on the company Bruce’s ancestors had founded, but he hadn’t realized that Wayne Enterprises’ financial reverses had hurt the charities that depended on its largesse. He rebuked himself for not paying closer attention.
“Time to talk to Mr. Fox, I think,” Bruce declared.
Lucius Fox was the chief executive officer of Wayne Enterprises, and had been for several years now. Bruce trusted him almost as much as he trusted Alfred.
“I’ll get him on the phone,” Alfred said.
“No.” Bruce glanced out the front door. Marble steps led down to the gated front drive. “Do we still have any cars around the place?”
Alfred smiled.
“One or two.”
Good, Bruce thought. “And I need an appointment at the hospital. About my leg,” he added.
The leg had been bothering him for eight years now, ever since he’d fallen several stories. The fall had killed Harvey Dent. Bruce had merely injured his left knee. Perhaps for good.
“Which hospital, sir?”
“Whichever one Jim Gordon is in.”
Wayne Enterprises occupied a gleaming glass-and-steel skyscraper in downtown Gotham. The city’s monorail system and utilities were routed through the building, making it the unofficial center of the city.
A board meeting was just breaking up on the top floor of the tower. Worried executives rose from their positions around a large polished oak table, gathering up their notes and reports. Picture windows looked out on the thriving city below. Half-empty pitchers of fresh water waited to be picked up by the service staff. Marble busts of company’s founders, Solomon and Zebidiah Wayne, gazed down from their perches as the board members exited the room.
Miranda Tate lingered behind, hoping for aprivate word with the CEO.
“Mr. Fox,” she said, “I believe in what Mr. Wayne was trying to do. I’m only asking for explanations because I think I can help.”
“I’ll pass along your request,” Fox said. “Next time I see him.”
A dignified African-American gentleman in his sixties, Lucius Fox sat at the head of the table. His neatly trimmed hair and mustache were now more salt than pepper. An old-fashioned bow tie gave him a courtly air. He had started out as a research scientist and engineer, before assuming control of the company nearly a decade ago.
“He doesn’t talk to you either?” Miranda inferred.
“Let’s just say that Bruce Wayne has his…eccentricities.”
To put it mildly , Fox thought.
“Mr. Fox,” she persisted. “Are you aware that John Daggett is trying to acquire shares of Wayne
Bruce and Alfred watched from the front hall as the patrol car drove away.
“You checked that name?” Bruce asked. He assumed Alfred had been listening in on his meeting with the young police officer. “Bane?” The word had sinister connotations. A cause of ruin, disaster, and death, at least according to Webster. Bruce wondered what kind of man would choose such a name for himself.
A man who wished to instill fear in others?
He understood the reasoning.
“Ran it through some databases,” Alfred said. The faithful butler had once served as an operative for British Intelligence, before going into service. His skills at garnering information still came in handy. “He’s a mercenary. No other known name. Never been seen or photographed without a mask. He and his men were behind a coup in West Africa that secured mining operations for our friend John Daggett.”
Wayne raised an eyebrow. Daggett was the kind of shark that gave rich tycoons a bad name.
“Now Daggett’s brought them here?” he asked.
“It would seem so,” Alfred replied. “I’ll keep digging.”
The butler turned to leave, but Wayne had another question.
“Why did the Wayne Foundation stop funding boys’ homes in the city?”
“The Foundation is funded from the profits of Wayne Enterprises,” Alfred reminded him. “There have to be some.”
Bruce’s expression fell. Recent years had taken their toll on the company Bruce’s ancestors had founded, but he hadn’t realized that Wayne Enterprises’ financial reverses had hurt the charities that depended on its largesse. He rebuked himself for not paying closer attention.
“Time to talk to Mr. Fox, I think,” Bruce declared.
Lucius Fox was the chief executive officer of Wayne Enterprises, and had been for several years now. Bruce trusted him almost as much as he trusted Alfred.
“I’ll get him on the phone,” Alfred said.
“No.” Bruce glanced out the front door. Marble steps led down to the gated front drive. “Do we still have any cars around the place?”
Alfred smiled.
“One or two.”
Good, Bruce thought. “And I need an appointment at the hospital. About my leg,” he added.
The leg had been bothering him for eight years now, ever since he’d fallen several stories. The fall had killed Harvey Dent. Bruce had merely injured his left knee. Perhaps for good.
“Which hospital, sir?”
“Whichever one Jim Gordon is in.”
Wayne Enterprises occupied a gleaming glass-and-steel skyscraper in downtown Gotham. The city’s monorail system and utilities were routed through the building, making it the unofficial center of the city.
A board meeting was just breaking up on the top floor of the tower. Worried executives rose from their positions around a large polished oak table, gathering up their notes and reports. Picture windows looked out on the thriving city below. Half-empty pitchers of fresh water waited to be picked up by the service staff. Marble busts of company’s founders, Solomon and Zebidiah Wayne, gazed down from their perches as the board members exited the room.
Miranda Tate lingered behind, hoping for aprivate word with the CEO.
“Mr. Fox,” she said, “I believe in what Mr. Wayne was trying to do. I’m only asking for explanations because I think I can help.”
“I’ll pass along your request,” Fox said. “Next time I see him.”
A dignified African-American gentleman in his sixties, Lucius Fox sat at the head of the table. His neatly trimmed hair and mustache were now more salt than pepper. An old-fashioned bow tie gave him a courtly air. He had started out as a research scientist and engineer, before assuming control of the company nearly a decade ago.
“He doesn’t talk to you either?” Miranda inferred.
“Let’s just say that Bruce Wayne has his…eccentricities.”
To put it mildly , Fox thought.
“Mr. Fox,” she persisted. “Are you aware that John Daggett is trying to acquire shares of Wayne
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