Chapter 15
Beating Plowshares Into Swords
"Just lay your head back on the ground
And let your hair spill all around me
Offer up your best defense
But this is the end."
"The End of the Innocence" - Don Henley
25 September 1999
Wembley, England
"Here is the key to your room, Mr. White," said Mrs. Dursley with a pleasant grin as she accepted the man's first two months of rent in cash. "I will let you know what the utility costs are at the end of each month. I will prorate your cost of them based on the square meters of the room versus the whole house. Fair enough?"
"That's perfectly fair, Mrs. Dursley," replied Darren Dublin with a smile. "Thank you very much. He hefted his bag onto his shoulder and looked at the nearby stairwell then back at the middle-aged woman. "Once I drop off my belongings, where is a library? I haven't a laptop and I would like to check my email. I haven't done so in a good while and I'm sure it's piling up on me. There might even be something worth reading rather than a bunch of junk mail."
"Oh, that's easy," said Mrs. Dursley, her grin growing. "You're actually less than a kilometer from a library. Are you going on foot or in a car?"
"On foot."
"Okay. Head southeast on Coopers Lane for about one hundred meters. Then turn left onto Brill Place and go about sixty meters. Turn right onto Midland Road. Go about four hundred meters. Turn right onto Euston Road - it's also called the A501 - and go about eighty meters. Turn right, go another hundred meters to 96 Euston Road, and you're there. You should get there in about nine or ten minutes. Got all that?"
"Yes, I do." Dublin repeated the directions back to her.
"Very good," she replied. "Most people mess that up the first time."
Dublin laughed. "I've done this a time or two. Thank you very much."
The directions were spot on and Dublin entered The British Library twelve minutes after he deposited his bags in the one-room flat. He checked out a computer and made his way to the assigned terminal. Logging into a proxy server before going to his webmail, he entered his login ID and password. His email inbox opened up before him.
As he expected, there was a substantial amount of mail he did not need to read. His email address was a random array of characters on the Yahoo server. It was no surprise to him that a large amount of spam mail arrived in the inbox. The likelihood of his address being guessed by a typical phisher, however, was another story. He spent his first ten minutes selecting spam and sending it to the trash. Less than ten messages remained when he was finished. He started with the oldest and worked his way up to the most recent.
The first message, from nearly four months ago, was from Jonny Fairbanks. The boy had written him a lengthy letter detailing his life in Atlanta and inviting him to come visit anytime. Dublin smiled and moved the message to his "Reply Now" folder. He would answer that one before he left the library. He moved on to the next message.
The next six emails were the normal chatter from friends of his, just the typical "hello, how are you? Come see us. We should talk more," kind of messages. Dublin chose to answer some now and some not at all. The eighth email, though, was completely out of the ordinary. It was from David Ashton and had arrived two days before. Dublin read the short message in its entirety. Then he read it again.
"Shit," he whispered.
He read the email one more time, committing the key points to memory and logged out of the email server. There were more important things to do right now than read mushy letters. He had to get ready for war. What he had seen in Spain was obviously not a localized event; it was an epidemic. He had a lot of work to do. He walked out of the library and sent straight to the nearest public phone. He called the hotel Ashton had mentioned and confirmed his attendance at the meeting on the third. He then called the train station and booked a ticket for transport to Winchester on the second. That done, he began his walk back to his flat, his mind racing with the other tasks he still had to accomplish before he met with Ashton.
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26 September 1999
Seattle, Washington
Sighing with relief, Alan Ottenbreit sat behind his desk and sipped a cup of coffee. The Regional Director had not been pleased to learn of the death of four Watchers, especially when one of them was a new recruit, six days ago and had ordered an investigation. Ottenbreit, Gironelli, and the other Hunters had to create an airtight cover story on the spot and deal with a horde of besuited agents scouring the facility for the last several days asking endless questions. It had been a maddening affair. Now, at last, it was over. The agents were satisfied that the new recruit, Natalie Lansky, had some sort of underlying psychological issue, had snapped, killed three men, and had been shot before she could cause anymore trouble.
Now Ottenbreit could concentrate finally on the ramifications of Fairbanks' escape. He'd had great plans in store for the boy Immortal. Now those were dashed. He'd have to come up with an alternate idea quickly or the other phase of the European operation would quickly falter. It was already at a standstill due to the actions of Max Correll, damn him, and had only continued for a time based on the limited work they had been able to do in advance of the man's treachery. Werner Heinz may have taken care of Correll but that did not solve the underlying problem. Ottenbreit sipped from his mug again and let his thoughts wander. He needed a solution fast.
The Hunter grinned to himself. He had only to foresee the actions of his enemies, as much as that was possible, and make the necessary moves to meet his needs despite them. It was all too easy. He had all the updates from Europe telling him of recent events already. The Immortals thought they were going to counter his campaign against them. Well, he would see to that. He could get what he needed and even strike a blow against them at the same time.
Chuckling to himself, Ottenbreit picked up his phone and dialed a number. He waited for the odd tones to switch over to the European lines. A man's voice answered.
"Hallo?"
"It's Ottenbreit," he said in English. "I think things may still work out for Checkmate. Find me one like Target One Eighty-Seven. Notify Spencer and Ulrey to stand ready."
"It shall be done." The man hung up.
Ottenbreit sat back and smiled. He already knew the basic moves his opponents would make. He just had to guide them in the right direction so that they moved their pieces across the board as he desired. Yes, it was all too easy after all.
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27 September 1999
Seattle, Washington
Fairbanks had linked up with the Whitakers, Todd and Sheila, the night he escaped from the Hunter facility. He had dumped the car and called them from a public phone, arranging for them to pick him up several kilometers from the dump site. He then ran from the pay phone to the location he had chosen. He kept to the shadows as much as possible, not sure how the residents would respond to the sight of a shirtless, barefoot boy dashing through their neighborhoods, especially when he was carrying a sword in one hand.
While waiting concealed in some shrubbery, Fairbanks had examined the blade of his wakizashi for damage. He knew dragging it across the ground as he had was not good for its edge and it would need some care once he was safe. As he thought, there were a few little knicks along the blade. They could be buffed out, given the right tools, which he had in his bag, but it was back at the compound. He hoped Todd Whitaker had similar equipment. He was grateful that his other prized weapons, his Fairbyrn-Sykes dagger and his NAPOLA knife, were safely packed away in the baggage being transported overland and not lost forever with his suitcase.
The Whitaker's car drove slowly along the road, its headlights off, only the running lights on for now. Fairbanks stepped out of cover so they could see him, waving a hand just to be sure. The car stopped.
"Hi, could you guys give me a lift to Burger King?" he asked, smiling.
"Sure," answered Sheila from the passenger seat, "but I'm buying the first vanilla shake."
That was the prearranged response. Fairbanks opened the door to the backseat and got into the car, slamming the door. He heaved a heavy sigh.
"Thanks for coming," he said.
"No problem," answered Todd, stepping on the gas and turning on the headlights. "Do you think anyone's behind you?"
"I don't think so. Let's cruise around for a while, just in case, though."
"Will do," Todd replied.
When they got to the Whitaker's home later that night, Sheila had given Fairbanks a t-shirt to wear. It was still too big for him, but he accepted it anyway. The next day, they went to a thrift store and got some more suitably-sized clothing for him. Sheila apologized for it not being the quality that Ashton would have provided him. Fairbanks assured her that he was perfectly fine with second-hand clothes. He was glad just to be dressed.
The Whitakers turned out to be a wonderful couple. At least the first week with them seemed to be that way. Both of them had work-from-home businesses. Todd worked as a medical recruiter and Sheila was a medical coding and billing specialist. Their house, which had several spare bedrooms, had two rooms converted into home offices and the two of them each simply walked into those rooms each morning and, just like that, they were at work. Fairbanks thought about how Ashton did the same at his various homes. He commented to them that entrepreneurship must run in Immortal blood. The Whitakers laughed. Todd replied that he got the idea from Sheila who, unlike him, was mortal.
Fairbanks was allowed to see to his own education which was very much the way Ashton had done. Being that he was only a teenager in a physical sense, it was a reasonable arrangement. There was a high-speed internet connection in the house and Fairbanks spent a great deal of time reading history and philosophy, usually in the original languages in which they were written.
In the evenings, the Whitakers made a point to spend time with Fairbanks. They would talk, play board games, or watch movies. Todd liked to wrestle on the floor and Sheila was a hugger and a cuddler. Fairbanks enjoyed all of these activities and engaged in them with boundless energy. After the third night there, he surprised them both when he started falling asleep with his head in one or the other's lap. After six years of marriage and believing they would forever be without progeny, the couple finally had a child they could call their own, at least for a while.
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29 September 1999
Kilfinan, Scotland
Kilfinan is a tiny hamlet on the Cowal peninsula in Argyll and Bute, Scotland. Located on the eastern side of Loch Fyne, the hamlet is six point four kilometers northwest of the village of Tighnabruaich. Kilfinan is the burial place of the clan chiefs of the Lamonts, in the thirteenth-century Kilfinan Parish Church. The parish covers the entire western part of Cowal. It was hardly the place where O'Banian expected to find the family of the late Andrew Dixon, but here they were.
It was a quaint little house, one-story and mostly concealed by trees and shrubbery. There was a low stone wall and even a little pink phone box along the front. On the other side of the stone wall, the stone became a stone and wrought-iron gate extending for forty meters or so before resuming its wall formation again and extending all the way down the B8000 road for at least another hundred meters. The house identified itself as Otter Estates.
"The Watchers must pay pretty well," commented O'Banian. "Still rather humble for an estate, though."
The front gate was open. The little hamlet was anything if not trusting. There would be no need for the Council, ensconced in their three vehicles, to search for a way to break through any defenses. There wasn't even a dog. The only real problem was there was another house directly across the street from this one.
O'Banian did not concern herself with this fact. It was ten o'clock at night. The lights in the other house were out and, chances were, the inhabitants of it were already asleep. Such was the way of small towns. She expected the same of the people inside the Otter Estates house. This should be an easy hit.
The nine Immortals alighted from their vehicles, a hodge-podge of weapons - swords and firearms - in their hands. They gathered around O'Banian in the darkness for final instructions.
"Alright," she said, "there are four of them in there. "The wife and three young boys. Secure the kids first and the woman shouldn't resist us after that. We'll then separate them and get whatever information we can from her." She pointed to Bilsby, MacNaughton, and Okin. "You three take the boys into their rooms and deal with them quietly. We'll take care of the wife when we're done with her. Got it?"
Everyone nodded. O'Banian then indicated De Lioncourt and Razumov. "You two keep watch out front and let us know if anyone comes up to try surprising us." She then turned her gaze to Penn and Batakova. "You two do the same in back, just in case." There were more nods all around. "Okay," she whispered. "Go."
Taking the front, O'Banian and Pittman walked through the gate, making for the front door. MacNaughton, Bilsby, and Okin were directly behind them in a line. They paused only for seconds at the door. As expected, it was not locked. O'Banian reached to the side and switched on the interior lights. They stepped through the foyer and into the sitting room. Passing through it without a sound, they made their way down the hall toward the bedrooms.
There were five doorways to the side of the hall and one at the end. They presumed one to be a bathroom and the others to be bedrooms. The first was such but had been converted into a home office, possibly for the husband. A laptop computer sat closed on the wooden desk. They continued down the hall. The next door was open, revealing a toilet and bath. The other doors were shut save one.
There was a nightlight on in the room with the open door. Its illumination revealed a small form under a bundle of blankets. Ruth Okin separated silently from the group and entered the room. Continuing on, just as they heard a mumbled, confused voice from the first room and Okin's low "Shh," Bilsby opened the second bedroom door. The interior showed all of the normal decorations of a boy of about ten, mainly cartoon heroes and spaceships. It's sleeping occupant was sprawled atop the covers in just a pair of shorts, his limbs spread in every direction. Across the wall above the bed in large blue letters, the name "NATHAN" was spelled out. Bilsby smiled and placed a hand over the boy's open mouth to wake him.
MacNaughton soundlessly opened the third child's door and took a step inside. He frowned and came out again, motioning to O'Banian. She approached him, looking into the room. Her frown matched his. There were two sleeping boys in the bed. Young Andrew Dixon, Jr. had a friend over to visit tonight. O'Banian waved a hand at Pittman and pointed inside the room. She stepped aside so he could see. With a glance, he understood her intent. He should join MacNaughton in capturing the boys.
O'Banian tapped the two men on the shoulder and whispered into their ears. They nodded. She continued down the hall toward the master bedroom alone. She found Marla Dixon sound asleep on her side of the bed, one arm flung out as if in search of her absent husband. O'Banian almost grinned at the sight of it.
You'll not be finding him, bitch, she thought, unless you go travelin' out to Skye to find his bones.
Clicking back the hammer of her .357 with one hand as she clicked the bedside lamp with the other, O'Banian said aloud, "Time to be wakin' up now, Marla. We've got some talkin' to do."
Marla Dixon's eyelids were already fluttering when the revolver's hammer began to rotate its cylinder. The foreign sound of it echoing in the bedroom was loud indeed. The woman's head turned toward the unfamiliar voice and instantly saw the clearly defined shape of the woman standing near her bed. Her mouth opened to scream. O'Banian silenced her with a point of the weapon.
"Uh, uh," she warned the mother. "Not a sound from that mouth o' yers," she said. "Ya don' want those kids o' yers ta hear their mother gettin' her head blown off with this massive gun now, do ya?"
Marla, staring directly down the revolver, its barrel made all the larger by its proximity and her fear, shook her head in shock.
"Good," said O'Banian in a soothing voice. "Now sit up and get on yer robe an' slippers. Come on into the sittin' room and let's have a nice chat. Cooperate with me an' you won't have to watch those boys o' yers die in front o' ya. Ya don't wanna see that, do ya?"
Marla shook her head again. "You haven't hurt them, have you?" she asked, her voice barely a croak.
"Oh, no," O'Banian promised. "They're fine right now. Come talk ta me now and then you and those kiddies can join their daddy and be nice an' happy an' not have to worry 'bout the likes o' me anymore."
With trepidation in her every movement, Marla stood and complied with O'Banian's orders. She walked in front of O'Banian out of the bedroom and down the hall toward the sitting room. At each child's bedroom, she slowed and her head turned. O'Banian nudged her forward again each time. Once in the sitting room, she bade the woman to sit on the sofa. O'Banian took one of the overstuffed chairs, her revolver still pointed languidly at the mother.
"Now, Marla," she said. "We're gonna talk for a bit. I'll decide what to do next after that…if I like what ya say. Don't try lyin' to me. If ya do, I'll bring yer youngest out here and kill 'im in front o' ya. Each time ya lie, I'll bring out another one until ya run outta kids. After that, I'll kill you. Fair enough?"
Marla Dixon gulped audibly and nodded. "Please don't hurt my children," she begged. "Little Daniel isn't even my son. He's just Andy's friend. He's visiting tonight."
"Then be honest with me and he won't get hurt, either, Marla," said O'Banian, grinning.
Marla sobbed, tears welling up in her eyes. "What do you want?"
O'Banian leaned forward in her seat, her elbows on her knees. "I want to know about the work yer husband does, Marla. Tell me about him. Tell me about the others like him who do the same thing."
Marla's eyes went wide, the tears dropping down her cheeks. Her face reddened. "I…I can't…"
"You can't do that?" chided O'Banian, her voice rising an octave. "Would you still have that problem if I slit yer oldest boy's throat right now?"
"No!" said Marla, holding her hands out in front of her. "No, don't do that. I… I… I'm not supposed to talk about what Andrew does. They're a secret organization."
"Are they so secret they're worthy dyin' fer?" O'Banian asked her.
Marla only considered the question for a heartbeat. "No," she replied.
"Then talk."
"They're called the Watchers. They keep an eye on Immortals and write down facts about their lives. You probably think that's crazy."
"That they watch people like voyeurs?"
"No," answered Marla, almost grinning, "that Immortals exist. People who can live forever."
"Oh, no. I've heard of stranger things than that, Marla. Much stranger things."
Marla's jaw dropped nearly to her chest.
"You're an Immortal yourself." O'Banian nodded. "And my husband was watching you?"
"He was doin' a bit more than that, Marla. He an' some o' his buddies were tryin' to kill me, to take my head, a few days ago."
Marla's jaw fell again. "That's not what Watchers do. They only record the lives of Immortals. They don't kill them."
"He tried to. Now, tell me more about him and the others."
"I don't know anything else. Anything else would be on his computer in his office."
"Is there a password or any other sort of security to get into it?"
"There's a password," Marla admitted.
"What is it?"
Marla hesitated. O'Banian raised the revolver.
"Glenlivet," Marla nearly screamed. "Capital G."
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
"Thank you, Marla."
O'Banian fired the .357 magnum once. The round passed through Marla Dixon's left eye and penetrated the back of her skull, embedding itself into the wall behind her. Standing, the red-haired woman stretched slowly, letting her spine pop several times before turning toward the hallway to call out to her compatriots.
"It's done. Let's get the computer and go."
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30 September 1999
Glasgow, Scotland
"This computer is a gold mine," commented James MacNaughton, his fingers tapping on the laptop's keyboard. "We've got everything we could want here. Names, addresses, everything. It's all here."
O'Banian grinned at his statement. "Not bad fer our first outing, then. We can really make some money, so ta speak, from now on."
"It's a good thing we're not going after Immortals," added MacNaughton, "because that's all here, too."
"Heh," scoffed O'Banian. "That might be useful. A little bit. But I don't really care about other Immortals. It's the Watchers I want. All of them."
"Well, you've got them," MacNaughton grinned. "You're even able to tap into their private network with this thing. As long as they don't find out you have it and shut out this particular machine, you can keep tabs on everything they do. You've got an inside look at everything Andrew Dixon could see."
"How much is that?"
MacNaughton leaned toward the screen. "From what I can see here, there are different levels, think of them as ranks, I guess, each with their own degrees of access to information. Dixon was a Field Watcher. That's the lowest rank, but the most numerous. They still have access to a hell of a lot since they're out there in the field. I guess they have to since they come into contact with other Watchers and Immortals. Dixon has a listing of every Watcher in Europe and a worldwide listing of Immortals. He can also see the structure of the organization.
"The Watchers have an interesting structure to their organization. Worldwide, there are over eleven thousand Field Watchers, seven hundred twenty Area Directors who may be responsible for a small country or part of a larger country, seventy-two District Directors who may be responsible for one or more countries, six Regional Directors who have a continent each except for the South American director who also has Antarctica, and one Executive Director of Watchers who is the boss of them all. There are also over twenty-three thousand archivists and researchers who solely work on the chronicles of Immortals. I guess they're like librarians. Then there are another twenty thousand or so that are support staff for the rest of them. That's over fifty-fix thousand people in total.
"That's a huge organization, Siobhan. And you want to take down the entire thing?"
O'Banian tossed her red hair over her shoulder and nodded. "Yes," she affirmed. "All of it. Every last one of them and down to the last stone. I don't care how long it takes."
