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(In a darkened, but familiar office, a mysterious figure sits. The intercom on his phone buzzes.
"Yes, Ms. Hyppolyta?" His voice is a deep, resonant growl, familiar, with a tinge of a burr.
"It's England on the Scramble-Cell, Sir."
"Put it through: it should be Stroker."
"Stroker reporting", the flat, soulless voice began."Brit birds have flown; Big bird #6 is napping. The rugby-match was inconclusive."
"Damn!" The big man seemed to go berserk, as he literally tore the office apart. After most of the furniture is destroyed, he returned to the desk.
"Tell me you got the files."
"Yes, The recipes are safe. Mr. X sends his regards."
"How are the ...Children?"
"They've settled in, and are making new friends."
"Good. Finish up, and meet me at ‘camp'. Don't be late, or there might be an...early retirement."
A faint gulp is heard from the other end "Yes, sir. Stroker out."
Dick Stroker looked at his companions.
"Purge the computer. We're meeting at Secure Maxx ."
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