Chapter 10
Sense of Madness

"When my sanity hangs by a thread
I lose my way but still you seem to understand
Now and forever"

"Now and Forever" - Richard Marx

09 September 1999
Paris, France

The talking head on the television was feining horror over the latest murder in the Paris area. Or maybe it was real. Faaris could not really tell. The man's expression and tone would likely have been unchanged either way. The anchorman stated matter-of-factly that a headless body had been found near the Théâtre Clavel on Rue Clavel late the previous evening. He did not name the individual concerned, only mentioning that the woman had been well-dressed and had likely just attended yet another an encore showing of Anyway. Faaris smirked when the anchor slipped and let on his opinion of a serial killer running loose in the city. This was the fourth decapitation in the city in a month.

So much for coming to a safer place, thought Faarid as he worked through a series of calisthenics in front of the television. Being without the freedom to go to a gym, he had been reduced to solely martial arts, stretches, and whatever exercises he could recall that utilized his own body as resistance. He had, if not also for the purpose of completely avoiding cabin fever, taken the risk of going for runs three times a week to keep up his cardiovascular fitness. Other than that, he stayed in the house MacBane had loaned him and, against his better preference, ordered a great deal of delivery food. The stuff was filling but not the best in terms of overall nutrition. He waited until darkness fell each evening to take out the bags of refuse that had accumulated.

There was a good supply of books in one room of the house. MacBane had converted one unused bedroom into a suitable library and entertainment center. Faaris usually had little interest in movies, but had resorted to them after he had read half of the man's impressive selection of nonfiction and history. At least, as a consolation, there were also several hundred compact discs, about half of them of the type of music Faaris enjoyed. He would play those for most of the day and only watch one of the movies each day, working out as he did so as not to be completely immobile. Faaris wondered how long he could keep doing this before he went mad.

Faaris wanted to do more than just wait. He wanted to act against those who had attacked him. Against those who were clearly killing other Immortals. But how? To do that, he needed information on their identities and their whereabouts. He would also need help. Even with his considerable martial skills, he was realistic enough in his own mind to realize he could not face these adversaries alone. Other than MacBane, though, who was there?

Faaris was not one to make friends with many Immortals. They tended to either die or to turn on him eventually. There were perhaps four he would call by the moniker friend. Of those, he knew of only two, Malik Naja and Ruth Okin, that were in Europe; three if he counted MacBane's pending arrival. The fourth, Aadam Farid, he had not seen in over two hundred years and that had been in Asia. He had no idea where the man was at the moment.

Faaris switched off the television. Wandering to the library, he chose a CD of sonatas and turned up the volume. He then went into MacBane's home office and turned on the computer. He opened up a browser and began searching for information about the four beheadings in Paris. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn something about the people who had done the killings from the articles themselves.

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10 September 1999
London, England

"Will that be all for you, sir?" Elliott Ainsworth asked his customer as he tucked the man's items into a plastic shopping bag.

"It is unless you have a copy of Winelight on vinyl," the customer offered.

Ainsworth smiled. "I'm sorry. The only Grover Washington I have is on CD right now. I'm still trying to find LPs for him, though."

"Well, please keep looking and let me know if you find anything. You have my number, if you do."

"Will do, sir. And thank you."

"My pleasure," said the man. "Cheers." He waved and left the music shop, smiling, with his bag under his arm. The bell over the door jingled as he opened it.

Ainsworth's wife, Shelly, giggled after the door had shut. Now that the shop was empty, she could speak openly. "I never thought we'd sell that Tommy Sands and The Raiders album."

Ainsworth smiled, putting an arm around the young woman. "There's always someone out there who wants what you've got. It's just a question of your paths crossing. That guy," Ainsworth gestured toward the door, "collects all manner of interesting music. His tastes seem to change by the day."

"And he's willing to pay a handsome price when he finds it. I like that about him," Shelly replied.

"Oh, yes," said Ainsworth. "That certainly helps us out, doesn't it?"

Shelly giggled again and nuzzled her face into his chest. "Yes, it does." Ainsworth smiled again and pulled her closer.

The bell above the door tingled, drawing the couple's attention to the front. Their smiles faded instantly. Two men in dark clothing were entering, balaclavas over their faces. The first pulled a silenced pistol from under his shirt. He pointed it at Shelly's face.

"One sound," he said in a strong Cockney accent, "and she gets i' in the face."

The couple froze. Ainsworth said nothing, only looking into the eye slit of the man's mask.

"Good," the gunman replied. "You can listen." He gestured with his pistol. "Now, come 'ere. Jus' you, no' the trouble and strife." He used the rhyming slang for wife, but Ainsworth understood his meaning. He walked around the counter and stood before the two men.

"Now," continued the gunman, his weapon trained on Shelly again. "We're goin' for a li'le strow, we are. She's stayin' 'ere like a good Gooseberry Puddin' (woman) and you won't be puttin' up a fight. If ya do, we shoot you and come back for 'er. Got it?"

Ainsworth nodded. The gunman turned and flicked his pistol toward the exit. "Go," he said. Ainsworth obeyed, walking out without a word and leaving a shell shocked Shelly behind him.

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10 September 1999
Grafton, England

Staff Sergeant Alan Weatheral did not really know what to do. He had requested discharge from the British Army six months ago and that request had been approved. He was now on his last week of terminal leave. In four days, he would be a civilian for the first time in twelve years. He was taking quite a risk for a friend. He just hoped it all worked out for the best.

Weatheral had been an operator with the Special Air Service for the previous nine years. He had lived and breathed the life. Loved it, in fact. When he had received a call from David Ashton a year ago and been asked to leave the service, he had been more than a little surprised. He had been completely floored. Leave the military? How could he possibly do that?

Ashton had not pressed the point. He had merely explained his plan to Weatheral and let the idea sit. Over time, the seed had germinated and Weatheral had come to the decision himself. He would do it. But he would extract an exorbitant salary from Ashton in return once the company was established. Weatheral had called back and demanded a minimum of £100,000 to start. To his amazement, Ashton had agreed. Now Weatheral had no choice but to follow through on his end. He was pleased with himself, though; not even thirty yet and he had already secured a six-figure salary.

Ashton had wired him £50,000 to Weatheral's account "for living expenses" while he transitioned to civilian life. Weatheral had debated whether to tell the man that this amount was more than a staff sergeant made in a year, but decided to keep his mouth shut. He would be comfortable, at least, for the time being and wait for the idea to become reality. A private military corporation was an interesting concept, after all. Now he just had to keep himself occupied in the meantime.

Weatheral had no wife. He had divorced three years ago so there was no one to give him a "honey do" list of tasks around the house. He was perfectly capable of that himself, though. He had mown the lawn the day before and repainted an unused bedroom earlier that morning. Now he sat before his computer with a glass of water. He just wanted to relax for a while and read the news.

After an hour of that, he'd had his fill of current events. There was only so much of the good, bad, and complete fluff he could take before he had to move on to something else. Weatheral clicked a bookmark for a message board for current and old paratroopers. He had been introduced to it a few years before by another operator and had found it to be a nice "electronic hang out" as his friend had called it. Perhaps he could find a few interesting threads to read and drop a few pithy comments before he went back to his personal list of housework.

Weatheral grinned when the message board loaded. One of the top threads was from the Kilted Heathen, the same one who had shown him the board in the first place. He missed that saucy old bastard. The Scot had retired a few months ago and the regiment had not been the same place since his leaving. Weatheral clicked open the thread and went to the original message. He'd entertain himself with all of the replies afterward.

Weatheral's grin slowly faded as he read the post. Though well hidden in his usual blue humor and profanity-laced prose, Sandy Traynor had written an encoded message to his brothers-in-arms. Weatheral doubted anyone other than himself and maybe Ashton would see through the top layer of the thread and catch the subtext. There was something strange happening in Glasgow - and elsewhere in England, if what Weather had read in the news earlier was to be wholly believed - and Traynor was looking for more information…and maybe assistance. Biting his lower lip in contemplation, Weatheral placed his hands over his keyboard and began typing out a response.

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11 September 1999
Westminster, England

"You can see the numbers as well I can, Mike," Sather reminded the EDOW as the young director shifted the phone to his other hand. "Ninety-one Immortals killed in the last month and twenty-one Watchers along with them. Nine Watchers in the U.K. alone. We have to do something to stop this bloodshed, Mike, and I have heard nothing so far about the meeting with the other directors. What the hell is the holdup?"

Walker sighed into his phone as he replied, "The other directors have busy schedules, Devon. They're trying to find time between themselves to talk."

"You're that goddamn EDOW, Mike. Tell them when to meet and they'll meet." Sather could not keep his voice from rising as his anger built.

Walker's exasperation was audible. "This isn't the Army, Devon. I may be the Executive Director, but I can't go around handing out orders like some sort of general."

"Then what the fuck are you doing over there in your cushy fucking chair, Mike? Either take charge of your people or get out of the way and put someone there who will."

"Like who, Dev? You?" Walker's tone demonstrated the limits to which his patience was being pushed.

"Oh, hell no," answered Sather. "Anyone but me. I don't have the patience for it." Sather took a breath to calm himself. "Look, Mike, all I'm trying to say here is it's been a month and we have a lot of people dying here. Watchers and Immortals. It's just going to get worse the longer we wait. Push the directors for a time. We have to meet soon."

"Do you really think this idea of yours will work, Dev? What about our non-interference directive? What you're proposing flies in the very face of that."

"Fuck non-interference, Mike. The Hunters violated that a month ago. All I'm trying to do is stop the bleeding. We can go back to the status quo once we've put an end to this threat."

"Alright," Walker agreed with another sigh. "I'll put out a message asking for agreement for a time in the near future. I can't guarantee anything, though."

"Anything is better than the nothing we have right now, Mike."

"Okay, Dev. We'll talk again soon."

"Out here."

Sather hung up.

"Fuck!" he cursed. "How much longer are these bureaucratic assholes going to play these bullshit games?"

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11 September 1999
Paris, France

Saint-Vincent de Paul Catholic Church

Patrick O'Banian sat in his little office, his head in his hands. The life of a Catholic priest was not an easy one, he had learned over his sixty-eight years, but he had hoped, somehow, that starting anew in France would have reduced that strain somewhat. In truth, in some ways, it had. He no longer had the ghosts of his old life looming up to burden him. He was just an oddity here, an Irish priest in a land of Frenchmen. Now, however, those ghosts had arisen despite his wishes to haunt him again.

It had begun with a confession the morning before. A man in his mid-thirties, his soul weighed down by the knowledge of current events, needed to vent to someone, anyone, and had come to the only one he knew would not turn him away if he spoke of them. This man, Jean-Paul Paquet, had come to Father O'Banian yesterday with an incredible story, one no one could possibly believe. Paquet, he said, was a member of a shadowy organization known as the Watchers. They kept tabs on an even lesser known group of people, people who lived forever. Paquet stated he was sure the priest must think him insane for believing such people existed.

"No, my son," Father O'Banian had replied. "If our Lord Jesus could raise Lazarus from the dead and Methusalah could live for nine hundred sixty-nine years, how could people like you describe not seem immortal to us?"

"Thank you, Father," Paquet had said. "You are right. Some Immortals do live as long as Methusalah. Some of them even longer."

"Then what is the problem, my son?"

"We Watchers are only supposed to observe and record the lives of Immortals. We are not supposed to interfere with them in any way but…" Paquet faltered. Father O'Banian waited.

"But there are Watchers out there who are violating that rule. They are attacking Immortals and killing them. Even in the places where they believe they are safe, on holy ground. Immortals are forbidden to fight on holy ground so, when these Hunters come for them, they cannot resist. They're helpless.

"I came to you, Father, because I am torn. I have followed the Watcher directive of non-interference for eleven years. I have watched Immortals fight each other and take each other's heads. That is their way and I did nothing about it. I could accept that. But these Hunters. They are an abomination. I have seen what they do and I am sickened by it.

"I saw them kill my assigned Immortal, Marta Kessler, two weeks ago. I did nothing about it because I have always been told not to interfere. But what I saw that day was not honorable combat between two Immortals. It was murder. They gunned her down and took her head. I should have done something. By not doing so, I am just as guilty as they. Now those men and others like them are still out there killing Immortals and I have still done nothing. I have been assigned another Immortal to watch, but I know they will come for him soon. I don't want his blood on my hands, too. What should I do, Father?"

Father O'Banian had sat silently in his booth for several seconds, his eyes closed. Paquet did not know it, but the priest knew more about Immortals than simply what the Watcher had told him. His own sister, Siobhan, was an Immortal. That fact had been, in part, the reason he had left Ireland and come to France. Father O'Banian let out his pent up breath and answered the man.

"You must do what your conscience leads you to do. That is the voice of God talking to you, that still small voice. Do not restrain it. The rules of man and the laws of God often conflict. When they do, it causes the kinds of consternation you are experiencing now. Listen to that small voice in your heart and have no fear. It will lead you down the right path."

Paquet had not replied immediately to the priest's counsel. He remained quiet for a full minute as he absorbed it. He finally stood resolutely, his mind made up.

"Thank you, Father. You've been a great help."

With that, the man had walked out, leaving the priest with his own dilemma. Sitting in his office, he contemplated whether he himself should act upon the words of a confessionary or keep those comments within himself. He closed his eyes and prayed silently, searching for guidance of his own.

The small voice he had mentioned to Paquet came to Father O'Banian, as well. He opened his eyes and smiled. God never failed him when he needed him. The path shown to the priest may be one he did not always understand, but it was always the correct one. This was surely it now. Reaching for a pad and pen, Father O'Banian began to write the first letter to his sister in two years.

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12 September 1999
Swansea, Wales
Swansea Central Library

The small blonde woman seemed out of place in the library. She would look more at home at a fetish club or a punk rock concert. The metal bar through her eyebrow and the stud in her nose were in congruence with the chunks of pink and purple hair that she sported. She sat at a computer, a stack of books to one side of her, a notepad at the other. Passersby most likely thought the topics of the selected volumes would be along the lines of witchcraft or medieval torture techniques, if they went solely by the young woman's appearance or clothing. They would be surprised to learn they were all related to Middle Eastern culture and religions or that the odd-looking woman held a Ph.D in the same.

Nicola Courtorielle was used to being overlooked, underestimated, and misunderstood. She had been such all her life. Always the wild child, she had started out as the classical tomboy when she was younger. She liked the rougher games, running, wrestling, and climbing, rather than the more accepted "girl games" like playing with dolls. She had not changed much during her teenage years, except for her newfound interest in sex, and had kept to whatever school sports would allow her to be the most active, particularly running.

Academics, like athletics, had always been too easy for Courtorielle unless she actively sought out a challenge. She amazed her parents and teachers alike by posting high marks in all her classes, even the advanced placement college classes, with little effort and still finding time for participation in extracurricular activities like cross-country running and athletics (track and field, in the U.S.) and even still finding time for dating.

University was no different for Courtorielle. She completed her bachelor's degree in three years and added a master's degree a year later. The social clubs pursued her vigorously to join but she showed them no interest whatsoever. She even angered a few of them by comparing them publicly to the Greek sororities in America. Despite this, she remained a popular figure on campus and was never without dates when she wanted them. She was, after all, an attractive, intelligent girl, even if she was a bit outspoken.

It was only when she began pursuing a Ph.D. that Courtorielle began to slow down somewhat. She knew she would be in for a struggle when she defended her thesis and wanted to get everything just right. Even then, she completed it all in sixteen months. Now she was in a quandary. She was pushing twenty-four, had reached the pinnacle of academic achievement, and did not really know where to go next. She decided to stay on at Swansea University, easily landing a teaching post despite her appearance, and taught a few classes per term.

The money was decent, but Courtorielle hated it. She did not want to stay in academia her whole life. Yes, she enjoyed her chosen topic, but she wanted to expand herself beyond the walls of a university. There was more out there besides libraries and professors seeking their next publication.

Two events had given Courtorielle hope in her future. One had been a cheeky student at the university, Robyn Radway. The young woman had come to Courtorielle's office with a question regarding Persian history and, so engaging had the conversation become, she had not left for several hours. Radway, Courtorielle had learned, already had three language degrees at nineteen, and was working on her own master's in Arabic and another in German. After the term had ended, the two women became more open in their friendship and began being seen having drinks together in town. Even though both of their tastes were for men, they even went on a semi-date together.

The other item of interest for Courtorielle had been her meeting with an American businessman a few months ago. At least, she had assumed he was American at the time. A few minutes of conversation and hearing his impossible-to-place accent soon made her think otherwise. She had met him while shopping in London. He had never said why he had been there, now that she thought of it. The two of them struck up a conversation easily enough, her initially commenting under her breath about the prices of the food at the restaurant she was attending. He, a table across, had chuckled and suggested ordering from the left side of the menu rather than the right.

"Deal with the consequences later. Enjoy the food now," he said.

"Ha!" she had replied. "I can do that maybe once a year. I'm barely out of uni, after all."

"Then you took a risk just gracing the doors of this establishment, my lady," he said, turning to face her for the first time. To Courtorielle's surprise, he showed no reaction whatsoever to her piercings, clothing, or randomly colored hair. He just looked into her blue eyes and smiled.

Courtorielle laughed. "I didn't know that when I came here. I just thought it looked nice and wandered in."

"Be glad you got a table, then," he chuckled. "Well, as I said, don't let the price be a deterrent. Allow me to treat you, if I may."

"That's very kind of you, Mister…?"

"Ashton. David Ashton."

"Thank you, Mr. Ashton. I'm Nicola Courtorielle." She held out her hand and, after he shook it, invited him to join her at her table.

Courtorielle placed her order, taking Ashton's suggestion - or, as she saw it, calling his bluff - and ordering what she wanted without looking at the price.

Let's see what you think of that, guy. That has to be a hundred fifty pounds worth of food. And that's not counting the starter you ordered.

Courtorielle could not keep the little smirk off her face as she finished telling the waiter her order. She looked at Ashton to gauge his response.

Is that shock or admiration I see? It's hard to tell. Your face is almost blank. There's just the slightest of expression there.

Regardless of what she thought she saw in Ashton's visage, she was not prepared for what he did next. His order dwarfed hers in price. From her recall of the menu, the wine alone cost as much as her entire meal, his entree almost double the wine. He regarded her with a more obvious smile when he concluded his recitation of his order.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to add anything else, Ms. Courtorielle?" he asked her.

"No," she replied, blushing. "I think I'm fine for now. Thank you."

Ashton nodded to the waiter and the man walked off. The blond man continued smiling. Courtorielle tried not to squirm under his examination of her.

"Tell me about yourself, Ms. Courtorielle. Besides wandering into high-priced restaurants, what else do you do?" He sat back, crossing a leg over a knee, and relaxed his gaze.

Only now did Courtorielle actually notice Ashton's attire. It was casual and neat, but spoke very much of a man of means. Even though she herself did not dress as such, she was very much aware of the fashion trends of the day. This man knew them, as well, and he knew where to get the best of them. The collared polo shirt he wore must have cost him at least two hundred pounds. She glanced at his trousers. They were of the four hundred pound variety easily. The one casual shoe she saw was of a style she knew cost at least two thousand pounds for a pair.

So that's why he so willingly let me order whatever I wanted, she thought. This guy is loaded.

"Besides an occasional shopping trip in London for oddities, which I don't do very often since it's a long trip for me, I teach at Swansea University. I've been doing that for the last two years now."

"Do you enjoy it?" he asked her.

Why do I think you already know the answer to that?

"My degree is in Middle Eastern culture and religions. I enjoy the topic, yes. I don't like the teaching. I liked it at first, but now it's just repetition and I find that dull."

"What would you rather do?"

"I'm not sure. I would like to use what I have learned in a more expansive way. I know that. I just haven't figured out what that should be yet. How's that? Only twenty-six and I'm already lost in life."

Ashton laughed. "You'll find people far older than that who are lost, as well. Some never find their way. Have you thought about professions outside of the university?"

"Oh, yes, but, like I said, I really don't know what kind they would be. I do have a rather specialized knowledge base, after all. I can't necessarily walk into a Tesco's and ask for a job when I have a Ph.D. in Middle Eastern religions, can I?"

"You could," Ashton replied with a smile, "and if they hired you at all, they would expect you to leave soon since you are so overqualified."

"Exactly. I started looking around a little bit a few months ago, you know, behind the scenes, and that is what I have heard all the time. Overqualified. It's maddening. It's like I've credentialed myself out of the job market. I hate to think it to myself sometimes, but I think that, if I were a man, I wouldn't have this much of a difficulty. It's like everyone wants me to do administrative work or just sit around and be pretty simply because I'm a woman."

Ashton nodded, a trace of the smile still on his face. He was about to comment when the food arrived. He remained silent while the waiter distributed the plates. Once the man had left, Ashton answered her.

"What if you could compete for positions in a new company - or any company - completely independent of your gender? Be judged solely on your skills and what you could contribute to the organization?"

"That would be my dream," Courtorielle responded. "Where could I find such a fantasy?"

Laughing softly, Ashton said, "By working for me. That is how I hire. I don't care about age, gender, politics, or any other demographic. In my companies, the only thing that matters is what you can do. That is why you will find thirty-year old women in charge of fifty-year old men. The women, in that case, are better organizers and leaders than the men. In other situations, it's the opposite. Everyone competes and everyone lands where they are most qualified. I've found it brings out the best in everyone and advances the organization's needs the most."

"So no sitting around just getting promoted simply because you have tenure, then?"

"Hell, no," said Ashton. "The fastest way to lose a job with me is to stop producing and start simply occupying a chair. I'll have none of that."

"Even a secretary?" Courtorielle asked.

"A secretary?" Ashton repeated, grinning again. "A good secretary is never idle. There is always something that needs to be done and I'm not talking about office gossip or online games, either. You can spend years in a job, like a secretary, but you will be working while you are there. If you have time for idleness, you are either not being managed properly or you are not needed in the company. It's one or the other."

"Tough rules."

"In business, when there is a profit margin on the line and jobs at stake, there have to be tough rules. If they are not put into place and followed, the business goes down and everyone loses their jobs."

Ashton pointed a finger at himself and continued. "When you hear talk of business, many of the unenlightened think only of the business owner like myself. They see the one guy in the nice clothes and think, "Oh, what does he really suffer if the company loses money?" But it's not about me. It never is. I rarely make a salary from my companies anyway. I make my money in other ways. When those businesses lose money, it's hundreds or thousands of other people that no one ever considers that lose their jobs, that really suffer, in order for the business itself to stay afloat. Some have to go in order for the rest to stay. Do you see what I mean?"

"I think so," said Courtorielle. "It's kind of like musical chairs. As the seats are taken away, there are too many people to fill them. You only have so many spaces to fill and the rest lose out."

"That's not a bad analogy. And it goes the other way, as well. When the business grows, there are more seats. Well, what I am offering you, tentatively, is a completely new set of seats. I am working on the first steps of a new corporation in the U.K. I will need people for that corporation with particular skills. It just so happens that knowledge of the Middle East is among that skill set. Now, I am not promising you anything. Know that up front. You will have to compete against other candidates and win out against them. I think, though, from what I have gleaned talking to you today, that you will do very well."

The conversation had digressed from there to other topics ranging from Ashton's businesses to Courtorielle's social life. In the end, Courtorielle had had a wondrous time with the visiting businessman and had passed on her contact information gladly. He had given her an email address and told her to expect to hear from him in late 1999 or early 2000. He still had some details to work out with other "partners," as he called them and would not start interviews until that work had concluded.

Since then, Courtorielle had continued with the drudgery of teaching and the more invigorating work of Middle East research and the occasional visit with Robyn Radway. She even wondered if Ashton would be interested in having a woman like Radway work for him, given her language skills. She had mentioned the idea to Radway but, for once, the woman seemed unsure of herself. Her, a nineteen-year old uni student, quit school and go to work for some strange American? That was a bit much, wasn't it?

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12 September 1999
Edinburgh, Scotland

"This is a good start, Adam. Keep up the great work."

"We will, sir. We still have a long way to go before we're finished, though." Adam Matzel sounded tired. Alan Ottenbreit was sure the man was exhausted. He was not the type to push his men without driving himself just as hard.

"Have some patience, Adam. There were thirteen hundred three Immortals in Europe when we began. It will take time to cleanse them all. Pace yourself."

"Yes, sir. We will." Matzel sighed. "We could use an infusion from Harlan whenever he finishes training his group, though. More men would help greatly."

"I'll pass the word to him. It won't be long before you see the results of his first class."

"Good," said Matzel. "We already had one hiccup in Austria. It cost us five men. There will be others."

"We expected casualties all along, Adam. That was part of the plan."

"Ones and twos, yes. Not five at a time, a whole cell."

"As you said yourself about plans, Adam…"

"Yes, very true. And speaking of plans, I should mention the other one, Checkmate. We've exhausted the entire list. We'll need a new one before we can continue with that plan.

"Don't worry, Adam. I have my own contingency plan for that. I'll have a new list for you guys soon. Just be patient."

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14 September 1999
Stuttgart, Germany

David Ashton shook hands with General Honnecker and Charles Ulrich, smiling as he did so. He had not seen either man in a decade and was glad to do so again. Honnecker introduced the Minoan to his three assistants. The other Immortals were known to Ashton by reputation, but this was the first time he had met them. Lawrence Channing was American and had come into Honnecker's service soon after the United States completed its civil war. Only thirty-six when he became Immortal, he was now one hundred seventy-four. Viktor Petrov was Russian by birth and the oldest physically at forty-two though he was eighty years older than Channing. The oldest, by far, in total years, fourteen hundred twenty-eight, and the youngest in biological years, at twenty-nine, was Jasper Marion, or Sachiro as he said his original Mayan name was.

Each man gave Ashton a brief summary of how they came to be under the General's command and how they were happy to be so. They also expressed their respect for Ashton's own reputation and pleasure for having at last having met him. Ashton shook their hands and welcomed them to the small team resisting the Hunters. He then turned to the General and asked for an update of the situation so far. Honnecker led them into his dining room and made sure each man had the drink and cigar of his choice before he began. Ashton offered the seat at the head of the table to Honnecker but the general refused, insisting Ashton take it.

"I received an anonymous phone call on the twenty-fifth of last month from a man claiming to be something called a Watcher. He said Watchers are an organization which maintains surveillance on Immortals and keeps records of our lives."

Ashton nodded at this. "I'm aware of them," he replied.

"You are?" Honnecker asked. "For how long have you known about them?"

"Since 1929," Ashton answered.

Honnecker looked around the room, smirking. "And here I thought I was the one who was good at keeping secrets."

"Please continue, General," asked Ashton.

Honnecker cleared his throat. "Yes. Well, this caller said that a rogue group of Watchers, whom he dubbed Hunters, had begun a campaign of murdering Immortals throughout Europe since about the middle of last month. He said that since the fifteenth to the date he called, forty-six Immortals had been killed. Just from reading the news reports across the continent and separating out stories mentioning beheadings, we can glean that there have been at least fifty more since that time. This is a well coordinated campaign."

Ashton raised a finger. "Did your caller mention anything regarding the number of Immortals in Europe or the number of Hunters he thought we might be facing?"

"As far as the number of Hunters, he only spoke in generalities. He said such uprisings had occurred in the past, but always in small numbers, ten or fifteen at a time. He believes this group to be significantly larger. The documents he emailed to me after the call, from an anonymous Hotmail account, I should add, mentioned slightly over thirteen hundred Immortals in Europe." Honnecker held up the printout of the documents he mentioned and slid the thick packet across the table to Ashton. The Minoan picked it up and perused it as he continued listening.

"We believe the Hunters are operating as independent cells for security reasons. Oberst (Colonel) Ulrich and I successfully took down one cell of Hunters in Austria recently. From there, we were able to obtain limited information about some of the Immortals they were targeting and warn them. We did not learn anything further regarding the identities of other Hunters or their whereabouts. Since that time, we have had our people out searching for any information which might lead us in the direction of other cells."

Ashton nodded. Dividing into small cells for such operations made perfect sense. It was a common practice in guerrilla operations. It allowed for freedom of movement for a small group and security of the larger group. If one cell was compromised and captured or destroyed, the other cells were in no danger because the compromised cell did not know where they were or who was in them. There would be a control cell somewhere which knew the composition and location of all of the others. Finding it would be a critical task in stamping out the Hunters. But how?

"Have they found anything yet?" Ashton queried.

"So far, only rumors. They're investigating further," Honnecker replied. "And those rumors spread as far as Scotland to Russia. It will take some time to check them all."

"Anything on the identities of any of the Hunters, particularly their leadership?" Ashton asked the general.

"The only name we have right now is apparently a low-level Watcher named Michael Crouse. Oberst Ulrich is following up on that lead."

"And what have you learned so far, Charles?"

Ulrich sipped his brandy and turned his gaze to Ashton. "Crouse is American and currently running operations in North America. We learned of him from an unencrypted email from one of the Hunter's computers. There is a possibility, of course, that he is just an innocent Watcher, but the language in the email seems to indicate otherwise. We have also found some news reports of apparent Immortal killings in North America but at nowhere near the scale as in Europe. We believe it to be a distraction operation since that is where the majority of the previous Hunter activity has been located."

"From the frustrated tone I caught in the voice of my unknown caller," added Honnecker, "he believes the distraction is working. He described a "piss poor reaction" from the Watcher leadership in Europe."

Asthon smiled at this. "Sounds like a soldier complaining about the inaction of his officers during a crisis."

"I thought the same," replied Honnecker. "I definitely detected an air of prior military about the man. I do not know what position he holds in the Watcher Organization, but it is certainly high enough to know that at last some of those in charge are dragging their feet."

"One of the rules of the Watchers is to not interfere with the lives of Immortals," stated Ashton. "They are essentially historians. They observe us and write down the facts. That is supposed to be the extent of it. Injecting themselves into our day-to-day lives is forbidden. It's one of their most extreme rules. I have even read of them executing Watchers for violating that prohibition. It's possible their leadership sees reacting to the Hunters as a breach of that rule."

"But haven't they stepped in to stop Hunters in the past?" asked Petrov.

"I would imagine so," said Ashton. "I have heard only rumors of such things before and there was little about them which stated how the problems were overcome. It may have been Immortals who stopped them or it may have been the Watchers themselves. I do not know."

"Do we have a way to contact these Watchers?" This question came from Channing.

Honnecker shook his head. "Other than the email address which was used to send me that," he pointed at the packet in Ashton's hands, "I know of no method to reach them. I don't even know if that account is being actively monitored. General Ashton, do you know a way?"

"Please, Max," replied Ashton, waving a hand, "the last time I held general's rank was 1871."

"And, the last time I checked, you were also once known as Themistocles, Hannibal, and Alexander, all great generals. I believe that would make the rank permanent regardless of what grade you may have held this century. Besides, I am asking you to lead this campaign against the Hunters while I take a supporting role. This is more your type of war, not mine."

Ashton nodded and sat back in his seat, motioning for the general to continue. In front of him, the other Immortals, except Honnecker and Ulrich, gawked openly at the revelation of some of his previous identities.

"I believe you are right, Lawrence, and we should try to contact this unnamed Watcher," Honnecker resumed. "He may have other information which could be of use to us. I will respond to the email address and see what happens.

"What about you, General? You knew about the Watchers before any of us. Do you have a way by which they can be contacted?"

Ashton shook his head. "I do not. One of my associates, Darren Dublin, was contacted by one of them back in 1986. It was only that one time. That was the only time I ever heard of a Watcher reaching out to an Immortal. It looks like your email address is our only avenue."

Marion spoke up at this time. "How can these people have remained such ghosts all this time? How long have they been watching us?"

"According to their own history, for about four thousand years, since the first of them saw Gilgamesh coming back to life."

"Wait," interrupted Channing. "Gilgamesh was real? Not just a character in a story?"

"Apparently so," replied Ashton. "They've been watching us ever since."

"How do we identify these Watchers if we see them?" asked Marion.

Ashton held up the first page of the packet in his hands and pointed to the blue symbol at the top. "In past ages, all Watchers wore a medallion of the symbol of their organization. In modern times, each Watcher has this symbol tattooed on their inner wrist. The challenge, of course, is seeing them at all. They are very skilled in surveillance and remaining unseen themselves."

"They would have to be," interjected Ulrich, "to be able to surveil us for so long and not be detected."

"Exactly," agreed Ashton. "Being spotted could be quite dangerous for them depending on the Immortal they're watching. Invisibility is their security."

"How do we fight phantoms?" Petrov inquired.

"Only the Watchers remain hidden," reminded Ashton. "The Hunters have to come out in the open to attack us."

"I don't much care for waiting for the wolves to come for us to have a chance to grab them by the hide," declared Marion.

"Nor do I," said Ashton grimly. "At the moment, though, it's all we have. We have to try to take one of them alive and shake some information out of him."

xxxxxxxxxx

15 September 1999
New York, New York
The Rose Bar
The Gramercy Park Hotel

"I have to say, Taiki, you really know how to show a guy a good time." Locke grinned at his friend as he downed another whiskey sour. He raised his hand to the waitress to signal for another. She nodded to him with a smile. Locke leaned against the plush cushioned seat and admired the Andy Warhol paintings on the wall. He had always been a fan of the artist's work. He wondered if that was partially why Tokawa had brought him here or if it was just a happy coincidence.

Regardless, he was astounded by the beauty of the place. At the end of the solid walnut bar was a hand-carved limestone fireplace and Douglas fir columns. This far north, a chill was setting into the air so the fire was a welcome sight. The scenery around the fire added to its enjoyment all the more. Locke stood and ambled over to the fireplace to take in its welcome heat. Tokawa followed him, a dopey drunken grin on his face.

"I tell you this a good place, Vincent." Strangely, Tokawa's English always improved somewhat when he drank. "I always like coming here. Is fun place." Tokawa stared into the flames as if hypnotized. "Fire is pretty," he commented.

"Careful," cautioned Locke. "Don't get too close and burn yourself, Taiki."

Tokawa turned his eyes to Locke as if surprised by the fact that fire burns. Starting to sway in time with the motion of the flames, he smiled at his friend. "You're right, Vincent. I be careful."

"What are you doing, Taiki?"

"I dance. Drinking make me want to dance." Tokawa continued to move in time to music only he could hear. It certainly wasn't along with the tune being played by the disc jockey across the room. Laughing to himself, Tokawa reached out to a passing woman. Her gait indicated she just might be as drunk as he.

"Want dance?" he asked her.

"Surre," she slurred, approaching him.

Locke took a few steps back and watched as the two drunkards gyrated with each other. The couple began to draw a small crowd of cheering drinkers. Before long, they had ten or so revelers clapping and encouraging them to continue. Tokawa stumbled once and took a few clumsy steps toward the fireplace. Catching himself before he dove headfirst into the fire, he stared into the bright flames for a moment. He turned back to face his dancing partner.

"Drink and fire make me too hot," he announced. "Too many clothes." With that, he shucked his suit jacket and began loosening his tie. The drunk woman giggled and began to follow his example. Her fingers began to awkwardly unbutton her blouse. The crowd began to cheer louder. The DJ, noticing what was happening, announced the event for everyone in the room. Other patrons rushed to see the hot young woman and crazy Japanese man as they stripped.

Tokawa finally finished unbuttoning his silk dress shirt, only breaking off two buttons in the process, and pulled the garment off his body. Only a white t-shirt concealed his upper body. He whirled the shirt over his head, whooping with glee.

"I not Taiki Tokawa tonight. I now Taiki Toff."

The gathered crowd roared with laughter at Tokawa's joke. The volume of their laughter grew as the twirling shirt slipped from his fingers and flew behind him…directly into the fireplace. The shirt erupted instantly into flames. Cheering with glee, Tokawa's drunken partner, now free from her blouse, balled up the vestment in her hand. It followed Tokawa's shirt into the flames. She stood in her skirt and brassiere, laughing merrily. Seeing Tokawa reach to remove his t-shirt, she also put her hands behind her to unclasp the bra. The crowd cheered again.

"Alright, folks, hold it right there."

The cheering diminished. Heads turned toward the source of the bellowed command. The bartender was waving his hands over his head trying to gain everyone's attention. From the man's expression, he did not want to say the words he was about to utter as much as the patrons did not want to hear them.

"I'm sorry, folks. You're going to have to keep some acceptable level of clothing on or you'll have to leave." He squinted in the dark room at the woman near Tokawa. "It might be best if that lady went home anyway," he added.

"You're right," said a young man stepping out of the crowd toward the woman. "She's my girlfriend. I'll see she gets back to our room safely." The young man glanced at Tokawa and grinned. "Thank you for making her so happy."

Tokawa returned the grin and gave the man a thumbs-up. "Was my pleasure." He put a hand to his head and stumbled. Locke stepped forward in time to offer his steadying support. Tokawa leaned on his shoulder for balance.

"Come on, Taiki," he said. "I think it's time to go now."

"So what you think about job?" Tokawa asked him when they were in a cab a few minutes later.

Locke smiled at his friend and pushed him against the far door so he could pass out. As the Japanese man's eyes closed, Locke said, "Sure, Taiki, I'll take the job. I can't leave you here alone, can I?"

"Good," replied Tokawa, drifting away. "Tell me tomorrow to pay temp handyman to stay for another month until they hire replacement."

"Sure, Taiki, I'll tell you," promised Locke, but Tokawa was already snoring.