A/N: The accompanying short story to this is called 'A Chance Meeting', and can be found under 'Unimaginable: Volume 2 Companion'.
THE FOX
BRENDAN WUNDERLICH & ERIN EEDY
LOS ANGELES, CA
Erin Eedy was so happy she practically bounced into Brendan Wunderlich's new office, the grin on her face wide enough to swallow his vast desk. He kept himself from looking up though, playing it cool. It infuriated Erin, and he needed no further reason to do it.
He kept reading the newest report from the Asian branch of his organisation; they'd found a young woman in Mumbai who was a Carrier of the Gene meaning she had the potential for an ability.
Finally, as Erin cleared her throat, he put the file aside, making a mental note to contact Reilly Carroll in relation to it.
He leant back in his chair, and looked at Erin, declining to speak first.
Giving in, Erin handed him another file. "We found Amy Lamotte."
Brendan's heart skipped a beat. Amy had been one of his most pressing priorities for the better part of four months. To have such an experienced, powerful agent go AWOL was a major blow to the organisation, struggling to stay alive following its founder's death. "Where?" he asked, sliding the file towards him.
"France," Erin answered. "She booked passage on a domestic flight to Marseilles. And one of our possibles got on a plane to Marseilles last night."
Possibles were people suspected of being Carriers, but who hadn't been tested, or hadn't manifested abilities, as the woman in Mumbai had.
"Which?" Brendan asked, flicking through the file, not bothering to read it. Erin had memorised it already, no doubt. She wanted Amy brought down as much as he did.
"Louisa Rietdijk. Born in Amsterdam, served in French secret service, currently living under alias 'The Fox' as a master cat burglar." Erin explained. "Unknown genetic status, unknown ability."
"Okay…" Brendan said, stretching the last syllable. "We'll assume they're together, or will be soon. Have one of our non-Carrier agents sent to Marseilles. I don't care about Rietdijk, but I want Lamotte dead."
Erin nodded. "Kristen still hasn't reported in."
"Then you had better get to LAX," Brendan said, and Erin turned to leave. "I'll have jet waiting for you by the time you get there."
KRISTEN McQUALTER
Kristen McQualter jerked awake. She was back in her hotel room, she realised with a start. The immaculately clean suite in one of Berlin's best hotels she had booked into… when?
She couldn't remember.
What had happened the night before?
She had a vague recollection of being cold, then of running. But what had happened after that? Where had she been? What had happened?
Why the hell was she even in this hotel? Why was she in Berlin, for that matter?
Something to do with an assignment, she thought. But she wasn't certain. She wasn't certain of much, really. Nothing that had happened in the last couple of days. She remembered leaving the U.S. on a jumbo from LAX. But that was it.
She sat up, and nearly collapsed into bed again; a migraine took hold, burning from between her eyes, sending her into waves of nausea.
"God damn," she hissed, and pulled herself out of bed, stumbling to the room's tiny en suite. She felt around on the vanity top, and found a small bottle of pills. She popped the lid, and dumped a pair in her hand.
She ran the tap, and threw the tablets into her mouth, leaning down to get a mouthful of the refreshingly cool water. She swallowed the pills, and slumped to the tiled floor, her head pounding. She hadn't realised until she had swallowed the water how truly thirsty she was.
Finally she blinked away the last traces of her migraine as the pills took effect, and she hauled herself to her feet. She was wearing a baggy t-shirt and track pants. Her usual sleep clothes.
She left the bathroom, and turned into the suite's living room/kitchenette. She walked over the fireplace, and reached up into the shaft stretching above it. There, amongst the soot and ash and debris, she found what she knew would been there. A brown paper parcel, packed with materials and documents related to her mission. She opened it, and emptied the contents on the floor.
A pile of paper fell to the ground, covering the plush hotel carpet.
Kristen threw the envelope around, and dropped to her knees. She shifted through the papers, including her passport and entry visa, finally finding the piece marked in bold letters 'URGENT'.
She turned it over.
It was blue bordered, indicating it was about a target, either a possible or confirmed Carrier, or a former or current agent seeking assistance and extraction. This featured a picture of an aging woman, a Hungarian native by the name of Edith Fesckes. Kristen's objectives were outlined at the bottom of the page. Meet this woman in a Berlin train yard, and take her to a waiting jet.
Had that happened? Maybe the meeting, but Kristen didn't remember what had happened after. Or before.
Another sheet caught her eye. Red-bordered, indicating a rogue agent, and a possible threat. Instantly, Amy Lamotte's name came to mind. She turned the page over. Instead of Amy Lamotte, the picture in the left-hand corner depicted a blonde man, tall and muscular.
"Julian Neave?" she said, surprised.
He'd always been faithful to the organisation, and Kristen could remember nothing of hearing about him going rogue. It would have all over the agency channels of communication for sure.
But then she remembered Julian's ability. Mental manipulation. He could erase entire sections of a person's memory, among other things.
Was that what had happened to her? Had her memories been taken by the blonde man? Her eyes narrowed, as a glimpse of memories she didn't know she had came to her. Julian, looking down at her with a look of clinical disdain.
When had that happened?
Then, it came to her. The night before. He'd been there, wherever there was, and now she was here, with no memories. A buzzing sounded through the room, and Kristen turned towards the source.
Her silver Sidekick lay on the coffee table.
She stood, and crossed to the table, stooping to pick up the phone. A message. She opened it. Her eyes flicked this way and that, quickly absorbing the message, and its implications. Erin Eedy was coming to Berlin. That could mean only one thing. Whatever she had been assigned to do, she had failed.
And, to make matters worse, she barely knew what she had failed at.
REILLY, GRACE & PRISCILLA ADEI-CARDWELL
The woman looked up at Reilly Carroll and Grace Scott, and gave a soft, gentle, welcoming smile. "Welcome to Ghana. I'm Priscilla Adei-Cardwell, and this," she said, sweeping her hand over the pot plant, "is my home."
Reilly was about to answer, when something caught his eye.
The pot plant, brown and sick-looking, was coming to life before his eyes. The drooping stem straightened, the wilted leaves shifted, turning from brown to yellow to green, being joined by new, brilliantly emerald-green foliage.
Then, as quickly as it had started, the growing stopped. The plant was twice its original size.
Reilly and Grace could only turn, gaping, to the quite woman, who inclined her head, as though accepting their silent applause. "I hear you have some questions."
"You could say that," Grace managed, not taking her eyes of the plant.
Cardwell spoke rapidly in what Reilly guessed from his limited instruction was Akan, one of Ghana's nine government-sponsored tribal languages, and the hulking black man that had led he and Grace to this greenhouse, clearly the inner sanctum if the woman before them, disappeared, sliding back into the main house.
Reilly watched him go, before turning back to Cardwell, who was returning the plant to one of dozens of over-stacked shelves, each covered in pot plants, all far too green, far too large.
The woman indicated to the small table she had sat at. There were three chairs there, and she took one, while Reilly and Grace took the others.
The man reappeared, carrying a tray decorated with a rich floral pattern. He set it on the table, and retreated into a corner. The tray was loaded with a china tea set; a steaming kettle, and three delicate-looking tea cups.
Cardwell poured a measure of strong black coffee into each cup.
She took a sip, and said "Let's get started, then, shall we?"
She had an odd accent, a mix of American, British, with a tinge that seemed similar to her guardian's.
Reilly nodded. "Do you know who we are?"
"I know why you are here, but not a lot about you," Cardwell admitted.
"I'm Reilly Carroll, and this is Grace Scott." Reilly said, indicated first himself, and then Grace, who inclined her head to Cardwell. "I was a genetics student at the University of California Berkeley, until I took a sabbatical just before I met Grace."
"I'm an empathic telepath," Grace said, tonelessly.
Cardwell shot her a wary look, but didn't miss a beat. "Brendan Wunderlich did send word about your coming. He did include your names, and your purpose, but nothing more. I am interested, Mister Carroll, and Miss Scott for that matter, in what exactly drew you into our world."
Reilly exchanged a look with Grace. Really, it had been the same thing that had brought them into this. "Mark Oakwood," Grace said for the both of them.
"Who?" Cardwell asked, clearly intrigued, not looking at Grace.
"Mark Oakwood," Grace repeated, her tone betraying her irritation at being ignored. "He was a world renowned geneticist, who speculated that humanity had taken the next step in its evolutionary process. He thought that some of us had developed superpowers. But you already know this."
"Are you reading my mind?" Cardwell shot back, harshly.
"No," Grace said, eyes narrowing. "Just your emotions. Everything I've said since we came in here, you knew already. You know exactly who Mark Oakwood is."
Cardwell sighed. "Excuse my defensiveness in regards to your ability, Miss Scott. My experiences with empathic telepaths have not been good."
"I'm not Cathy Chambers," Grace said, coolly.
"I know you're not," Cardwell said, but she still projected an aura of uncertainty in Grace's direction. "Please, go on."
"Oakwood was killed," Reilly went on. "In New York, almost five months ago. After that, Grace and I decided to try and find others with abilities. The first two we met were kidnapped by a group of four men. The third was killed on the street by Cathy Chambers. The fourth was attacked by Chambers, and three of the men as well as a woman. The fifth, Kristian Darroch, was a teleporter. When we arrived at his apartment in New Orleans, we were assaulted. I was kidnapped, and Grace was forced to teleport out."
"To Japan," Grace added. "And something strange happened. As soon as I teleported into Tokyo, I was overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions. It nearly destroyed me."
Reilly patted his friend on the elbow. He had heard all about the jaunt to Tokyo, and the unexpected side-effects for Grace. "It was there I met Louise Greenland, and was introduced to her organisation." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Sorry, your organisation."
"I have not been a part of that for fifteen years." Cardwell said, taking another sip of coffee.
"And that's why we're here. We want to know what happened." Grace said. "We want the history of the organisation. How it started. How you left."
"Why?" Cardwell asked.
"Because we think we need it. The knowledge that is," Reilly put in. "We need to understand the mistakes of your generation, so that ours doesn't repeat them."
"So you want to save the world, too?" Cardwell asked, looking from one to the other.
Reilly hesitated, but Grace didn't. "Yes."
Reilly looked at her, deeply shocked. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. His jaw just flapped like a fish's on land. He had no idea that she was so naïve… and, then, he realised, with a start, he was the naïve one.
He was the one that was thinking as a child; in the here and now.
Grace had been looking to the future, had been since they embarked on this journey, all that time ago in New York. He'd been looking for justification for his dead mentor's life work, whereas she'd been looking for the future of humanity.
He looked at Cardwell, suddenly so sure. "Yes," he repeated. "We are."
Cardwell nodded gravely. And she told them. She told them of the meeting in Paris, thirty eight years ago, of the discussion that the three women, Cardwell, Greenland and Chambers, had had that day, and long into the night.
And by the end of her tale, the sky had darkened, and the coffee, neither of which Reilly or Grace had touched, was ice cold.
Cardwell's bodyguard had begun dinner, cooking in the ancient kitchen just through the greenhouse door. In the five hours Cardwell had talked, Reilly and Grace had never once been bored, never once thought of something different. They were caught up in the tale of Greenland and Chambers' arguments over how best to fix the world; Greenland wanted to take a militarist stance, using the powers of the followers the three had gathered to take on the global nuclear stockpiles and the superpowers of the US and the Soviet Union.
Chambers had wanted to be more subtle; perhaps develop a retrovirus, to give every human an ability, perhaps just a straightforward pandemic that would wipe them all out.
Greenland had slowly de-radicalised, but Chambers never had.
Cardwell and Greenland, both rich already, now billionaires following the success of the Greenland Corporation in the burgeoning fields of computer technology and biogenetic research, had made a decision; they'd have two of their best agents travel to Italy and rescue a man that had been locked in prison fifty years before.
Chambers had gone off the grid a few days earlier, having attempted to recruit an individual in Bulgaria only to kill them and take their power. It had been their hope to lure her out, and the man seemed the only way. Possessed of the gift of immortality, he had been over a thousand years old.
Chambers had been expecting it. She killed him, plus the two agents sent to kill him. Then, in Italy, 1977, she disappeared for thirty years.
Cardwell had explained what had happened next, about their save-the-world organisation falling apart after the disappearance of the guiding light. She drew parallels to then and now, indicating the similarities between Greenland's first attempt at solitary rule and Brendan's flagging leadership; losing agents, losing power.
But Greenland had brought it under control, had reminded her agents, their ranks much diminished, of their true goal; saving the world.
Then, the Wall came down, and the East came together with the West, and there was no need for them. Greenland had an all-new line-up by now. Only two original faces other than herself remained. Cardwell and a woman named Edith Fesckes.
The world had changed, and Greenland had no idea how to deal with it.
In 1992, Cardwell left, returning to Africa, and soon after, Edith had returned to her native Hungary, no longer a refugee and fugitive, to help the world in their own ways.
At the conclusion of her explanation of the history of the organisation based first in Paris, then in Vienna, then in Los Angeles, Cardwell stood, and stretched. "It's too late for you to return to town," she said. "He'll have dinner cooked soon. Stay the night. Tomorrow, I will take you to the east. By the shores of Lake Volta, there is another one of us. I will return in ten minutes for dinner."
She turned to walk back into the house, but Reilly made an inquisitive noise. She looked back. "Yes?"
"What's your bodyguard's name?"
"He doesn't have one," Cardwell said, with a shrug. "He was an orphan I met upon my return. He didn't have a name then, and he never chose one. Many just call him the Ghanaian. I suggest you adopt that nomenclature."
Reilly frowned at the aristocratic language, but nodded. "Will do."
Cardwell reached the door, but she stopped once more, looking at Grace. The woman had rested her head on Reilly's shoulder during the conversation, listening intently to every word. Cardwell spoke. "You have extraordinary potential. I must say, during my time with Chambers, from '69 until '77, I always saw her as the one that would make the greatest difference in the world. You have that same potential. And the same choices to make. I hope you choose wisely."
AMY LAMOTTE
"Who are you working for?" Amy asked, her voice cracking as she increased the energy she was using to manifest her power. The blue glow grew tendrils, that snaked towards her hapless victim's face. "Who are you working for?"
She'd found him on a roof overlooking a park, where an engagement party for an ultra-rich French industrialist's daughter was lasting long into the night.
Marseilles stretched in all directions around her, the French port city as lively as the celebration in the park below. It was to that party Amy had tracked her prey, the thief known as The Fox. And it was to here that this sniper had tracked her.
Amy had gotten the drop on him, however, and now here he was, trapped between her hands, both of which glowed with the azure freezing energy she exuded while manifesting her ability.
The man whimpered, and Amy increased the output.
The tendrils began to leave icy imprints across his cheeks. His small beard was beginning to become rimed with frost. Amy tried French, and German, but he still didn't acknowledge the question.
"If you don't tell me, I will flash-freeze you at the cellular level, piece by piece," Amy warned, her voice full of anger and a kind of flashing malevolence.
"Wunderlich," the man croaked, clearly terrified, and obviously fully aware of what Amy's power was capable of. "Brendan Wunderlich."
Amy sighed. Brendan was becoming more proactive in hunting her down. "Bad news for you."
She increased the energy level again, and the tendrils of energy curled around him, this time having a deep-freeze effect. She was, quite literally, freezing the water in his cells. He screamed as what must have been tremendous pain tore through him. He writhed, desperate to be free, but Amy didn't let him get loose.
Seconds later, he was dead.
Louisa Rietdijk hated this part. Pretending to be interested, romantically and sexually, in a random industrialist, or banker, or media baron, was starting to wear her down. But she needed to get out, to exercise her skills, gained the hard way in years of service to the French government in less-than-legal covert operations.
She was in the master stateroom of one of the largest private water vessels she had ever seen; a super-yacht docked in Marseilles harbour, far from the shore.
Her host, a shipping magnate from Greece, was mixing a drink now, as she sat on the bed, and he turned, two tumblers of whisky in hand. He sat on the bed beside her, and put on a foul, simpering smirk. He set the drinks down, and turned for a moment, reaching for the stereo.
Louisa put her hand over his drink, and a drop of purple liquid slipped from her single, silver ring, on her index finger.
The droplet suffused into the whisky. She reached down, shaking it a little. There was no trace of the purple liquid.
She picked both up, and handed it to her host as he got the stereo playing. Sinatra, singing My Way. She handed him his drink, and took a sip from hers, giving him a charming smile all the way.
He drained the tumbler in one gulp.
He wasn't bad looking, really. But she was more interested in whatever goodies he had on the yacht than actually sleeping with him.
Seconds later, he was on the bed asleep.
Louisa smiled, set her tumbler down, and slipped towards the door out onto the deck of the yacht.
And on the bed behind her, beside the drugged Greek, lay a slumbering Louisa Rietdijk. An exact duplicate of the woman slipping out the French doors, onto the deck.
She got barely a metre out the door before she found her path blocked, by the woman from the Paris chateau, the one that had gotten in the way of her getting almost eight hundred thousand euros in untraceable bearer bonds.
The woman held a hand, palm flat, facing the deck.
It glowed with an eerie, ethereal blue energy.
Louisa felt her breath leave her body, and she took a step back. She was unarmed, against a woman she had shot the night before.
"Louisa Rietdijk," the woman said, "my name is Amy Lamotte. Like you, I have an ability. And I'm here to offer you a job."
LAUREN WUNDERLICH
It was midday in Simi when Lauren Wunderlich nee Hughes, got back to their Spanish style home at the edge of the beautiful suburb lying at the very periphery of downtown Los Angeles.
She worked part time at the local library, just to give something back to the community, two days a week, and used the opportunity to do her shopping. She carried three brown paper bags, stuffed with groceries as she padded barefoot into the living room, leaving her sandals at the door.
She slipped into the open-air kitchen, and dumped the bags on the granite bench top, hitting the answering machine as she passed.
Brendan's voice came over the speaker, and she missed most of the message, but she did hear that he would be home around seven. Great, she thought. Gave her time to duck out for a bite with some friends that afternoon. She made the calls, as the groceries sat on the counter.
She returned to the brown paper bags, and moved them aside.
What she saw nearly gave her a heart attack.
A gorgeous woman was sitting on the couch in the lounge room, looking directly at Lauren. Her wavy hair was pulled back in a very flattering pony-tail, and her lips had been traced with red lipstick.
She stood the moment Lauren saw her, even before she had a chance to shout "Who the hell are you?"
Lauren heard someone clearing their throat behind her.
She spun about, to see the hulking form of a muscular blonde man. Her eyes narrowed, her heart pounding. She knew this man. One of Brendan's 'colleagues'.
"Julian?" she asked. "Julian Neave?"
"She knows you, Jules," said the woman, her accent upper-class British, so different to Lauren's own high-speed Minnesotan one. She had appeared suddenly at the kitchen counter. Lauren, fear rising from deep, deep within her, didn't dare move. "You'd better clean her out."
Brendan got home slightly later than he'd thought; seven fifteen, as opposed to seven. As he got out of the car, he was talking to Erin, now on a private jet to Berlin to meet with Kristen McQualter.
"Are you sure our guy is dead?" he said.
"Positive." Came Erin's definitive reply. "The coroner's preliminary report suggests he was frozen from the inside out. Amy definitely killed him."
"Very well," Brendan said, his tone grim. "Dispatch Lachlan Dickson and Jordan Turley. I want Lamotte and the other woman dead."
"Yes, sir," Erin said. "Talk to you when I land."
With that, she hung up, and Brendan took a welcome look at his Simi Valley home. Almost right away, he knew something was wrong. For one, Lauren's car was in the driveway, but none of the lights were on in the house.
And, for another, as he unlocked the front door, he couldn't smell any food. Usually, he got the whiff of something cooking as the door swung open, or the tang of Chinese or Thai or Indian.
He moved slowly, his instincts kicking in.
He reached the lounge room, and that's where he found her, on the couch, immobile. Clearly inconcious. "Lauren!" he shouted, darting forward. He skidded along the carpet to her, and reached for her, drawing her unconscious frame to him.
Her eyes flickered open, briefly, and she said through parched lips "Julian."
Her eyes closed immediately. Brendan felt for a pulse, all the while shouting questions at her, trying to keep her conscious. "Julian? Julian Neave? What happened Lauren? Lauren? Can you hear me? Lauren!"
Finally, her eyes opened again, and it was as though she was waking from a deep slumber. She had a dozy smile on her face, and she yawned, and stretched, and sat up, looking around through sleep filled eyes. "What time is it?" she asked through another yawn.
Brendan recognised it in an instant. Julian Neave had been here, and he'd wiped Lauren's memory. That's when Brendan realised what they were after; his files.
That's when Brendan got scared.