"In the house of stone and light
Holy Lady, show me my soul;
tell me of that place where I must surely go
Old man waiting at the gates for me,
give me the wisdom, give me the key"
"In the House of Stone and Light" - Martin Page
21 January 2000
Paris, France
The Hotel Raphael
Two bottles of Teeling Single Grain Whiskey sat on the coffee table in front of Dublin. Both of them had been full that morning. Now, in mid-afternoon, one was empty and the second a good fourth measure down. He had said nothing all morning, only humming the occasional tune under his breath as the tumbler balanced precariously on his knee. Somehow, his coordination remained decent enough to allow him to refill the glass when he needed it. In his other hand, a replacement hacky sack hopped up and down without fail.
That last fact amazed O'Banian the most. She had a mental bet going, wagering to herself that he would drop the damn thing after a while. He never did. Though he did hum out of tune often enough, the little bag never slipped from his grasp.
She wanted desperately to say something to him, to somehow ease the pain she knew he was feeling, the agony that he thought he could only squelch by imbibing copious amounts of alcohol. Sitting next to him for a time had not helped. He may have appreciated the gesture or he may have not; she couldn't tell. He had not responded either way. When she had finally moved away from him two hours ago, he had not changed his activities in the slightest.
She loosed a mental curse at Ashton for letting Dublin fall into this abyss. At least when the man had him running around the city on some sort of errand for the past several days, he had been distracted and unable to focus on his inner demons. Now, he had no such tasks to keep him occupied, only the whiskey. She toyed with the notion of confronting the Minoan and demanding he send Dublin off on some chore, but dismissed it. There was no point in it. She knew the man was just likely as deep in his cups by now as Dublin was. He had given his directions to his minions and now he was waiting for God knew what.
O'Banian stood, running her fingers through her long hair as she made her way to the kitchen. Maybe Dublin could go the whole morning on booze alone, but she wanted some more substantive. Anything would do. A loaf of bread on the counter caught her eye. Sandwiches. Yes, that would be fine. A nice ham and cheese would do her well. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the crisper drawer. She sighed. Of course. Ashton had done the shopping before they had moved into the suites. There would be no pork products in the fridge. But there was chicken and roast beef. Those would do just as well.
Taking a tray of sandwich fixings back into the sitting room with her, she set the lot on the coffee table and began to prepare a roast beef sandwich with mustard for herself. Maybe the sight of food would draw Dublin from his doldrums and get him to eat, as well. She could hope, at least. The dark pumpernickel was not her first choice in bread; she preferred white. The black bread gave the sandwich a unique flavor, though, one she had to admit was not altogether bad. That coupled with the stone ground mustard and the beef made for quite the pleasant combination. She reminded herself with a smirk never to mention that to Ashton.
Her eyes flickered to Dublin. Nothing. Not a bit of interest in the food or in her. He certainly curled up close enough to her at night. He was aware of her then. Why not now?
Because he's thinking of his little brother right now. That's why. He's not thinking about me.
Yeah, I wanna get jealous o' that, but I can't. He loved that kid. I admit, for tha short time I knew him, I did, too, but nothin' like what he did. How can I compete with that?
I can't.
Her sandwich finished, O'Banian let her eyes wander around the room. She looked at anything but the man on the couch. She couldn't bear to see him and the ever dwindling bottle of whiskey. Or the constant rise and fall of the hackey sack. Even the minute crunch of the tiny beads inside the bag as it impacted Dublin's palm galled her.
Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack.
Oh, God, please stop. Please, Darren, please, for all that is holy, please put the damn thing down and do something else. Anything.
Anger blinded her. She had to act, had to do something, but what? Had any recourse been created upon this Earth which would allow her respite from this Hell? She didn't know. She only responded; she didn't think.
"Yes?"
O'Banian blinked. David Ashton stood before her, the door to his suite open. The expression on his face intimated he was awaiting some sort of response from her.
"Er, uhm…" She lowered her hand, the one with which she had knocked on the door and stared at him, her eyes vacant.
Ashton stepped aside. "Would you like to come in?"
"Uh, yes, please." She stepped inside. "Darren's been drinkin' all mornin' and I can't bear it anymore. I needed ta get out."
"So you came here…" He let the remark remain unfinished.
O'Bananian crossed her hands in front of her, a small grin on her lips. "Yeah, even a bastard is better than a drunk, right?"
Ashton said nothing, only pointing to the half-empty bottle of Scotch next to his laptop. Next to it was a photograph turned facedown.
"Oh, what's this?" O'Banian stepped toward the photo.
Ashton beat her to it, placing his hand over the picture and sliding it into his pocket.
"That," he said, "is something personal. You're welcome to stay as long as you like, but no questions about this, if you please."
O'Banian stepped back a pace. "Alright. Fair enough." She pointed at the Scotch. "Mind if I have some o' that, then? I might as well join ya if I can't beat ya."
Ashton smiled at her. "That I can do. I was about to order room service. Would you care for anything?"
"Well, I did just have a sandwich, but a bit more wouldn't hurt now that I'm gonna be drinkin'. Can't have ya takin' advantage while I'm tipsy, can I?"
Ashton laughed aloud. "Don't worry about that. I don't make moves on the women of my friends. Drinking with them is another story, though."
Who knows? the Minoan thought. Perhaps we can even have a pleasant conversation for once.
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22 January 2000
Paris, France
"You know, Padilla, sometimes being a Watcher can be quite fun and at other times it seems an awful lot like just being a cop on a stakeout."
Donald McShayne sat back as far as the driver's seat of his car would allow him without adjusting it down and looked out the window. One hand waved across the air vent to catch a bit of warm air before he rubbed it across his forehead. Francis Padilla laughed at him and stretched his short legs.
"I don't know. It's a whole lot better dan bein' infantry an' more relaxin' dan yellin' at pri'ates like I did as a drill sar'nt back in da day. I had ulcers and sore throats all da time. Dis is baby shit. Ya jus' gotta enjoy da easy times when dey come."
"By the way, man, where did you learn to speak English? You sound like you're gargling marbles all the time."
"Eh, fuck you, man. Ah'm from Weezeeanna. Ah'm not like you Yankees."
McShayne grinned at the shaven-headed man and winked. "That's obvious."
Padilla gave him the middle finger. McShayne laughed.
"So you retired from the Army and became a Watcher? Why?"
"Hah!" The former soldier smiled and rubbed his hands together. "Ah got drunk at mah reetarmint party. Ah asked mah commander what his tahtoo meant an' he was drunk enough to tell me. Raht away he realized his mistake an' said he had ta fix it. He dragged me away and tol' me about Immortals an' shit. Ah thought he was fuckin' wit' me cause ah was drunk but he swore it were true. He took off 'is uniform jacket an' said 'e was't talkin' as an officer, jus' as a man an' 'e weren't fuckin' wit' me. It was all true.
"He offered me a job raht outta da Army if ah took an oath. Well, ah couldn't turn dat down. 'E swore me in raht dere an' ah was in. Ah still thought it was all bullshit, but ah learnt differ'nt real soon. Da school was hard but ah made it through it all. Ah needed help wit' dat Sanskrit shit an' all - still need someone to write all dat stuff for me for mah reports - but da job is great. Jus' gotta keep mah head down an' watch da guys do dere thing an' tell da bosses. Easy shit."
"You have such a way of simplifying life, Padilla," said McShayne. He gave the man a goodnatured punch to the arm and turned back to the window. "How did you end up in France? Did someone confuse your fucked up Creole for French?"
Padilla let loose with a loud guffaw. "Ah don't know. Ah was workin' in Weezeeanna for three years aftah reetarmint and got transferred here six months ago. Was kinda nice 'til dis whole mess started up. Couldn't tell whatda hell anyone was sayin' do'. Needed Mancuso to talk fer me. 'Til 'e got killed last week anyway. Fuckin' Hunters."
"What happened?"
"Dey took out our guy, our Immortal, an' got Mancuso, too. Ah barely got away."
"Did you get any of them?"
"Ah got a few shots off. Hit one, but don't think ah killed 'im. 'Ad ta get da fuck outta dere, not see what damage ah'd done."
"Yeah, I get it, man. You don't have to explain that kind of shit to me. I get it."
"You been in fahrfights?"
"Believe it or not, yeah, I have. I've been a Watcher for seventeen years and I've seen a lot of shit go down. Would you believe I used to be a reporter for a newspaper? Well, as a cub reporter, I witnessed a beheading and a Quickening. Soon after that, stunned and reeling from the experience, I was recruited into the Watchers. I graduated fifth in my class in 1983.
"After graduation, I received possibly the least glamorous job available, the Watchers Administrative Division. I spent a year and a half in an office at the Watcher local headquarters in New York City.
"Finally, my request for transfer to the field was approved and I was assigned to train with Senior Field Agent Jerry Whitcomb, the man who had originally recruited me. I spent several months learning from Jerry, who showed me the ropes. Then, in February 1985, I was given my first assignment: watching the Immortal, Ambrose Barron. I had to move to Atlanta, Georgia, where I took the cover occupation of a photojournalist. I met Patti Ann, the woman who would become my wife, when she was a student at the college where Barron was a history professor. Patti Ann saw Barron behead another Immortal and take the Quickening. I recruited her into the Watchers the next day.
"We got married in 1986 and stayed at the college where I remained Barron's Watcher until 1989. At that point, I was reassigned as an all-purpose field agent, basically given a number of short term assignments and travelling all over the world. Patti Ann and I moved back to Pennsylvania soon after the reassignment as Patti Ann was assigned to the Watchers local headquarters in Philadelphia as an Archivist. However, I was seldom home as Watcher business took me everywhere.
"In 1996, after thirteen years of service to the organization, I received a promotion to Senior Field Agent and was assigned as a trainer to new field agents. I did that for three, almost four years and then, about eight months ago, was reassigned to Europe as one of Director Sather's investigative agents. At least I got to bring Patti Ann with me. When Sather was brought onto the EDOW's special staff, he dragged me along with him. I don't mind it because I'm still mostly out in the field doing what I enjoy, but it is still a bit different from being a standard Watcher."
"Like what we're doin' now," said Padilla.
"Yeah, exactly. I mean, sure, we're out here keeping an eye on Immortals, but it's not like we're doing it for the same purpose as keeping up their chronicles. Somewhere out there, other Watchers are freezing their asses off doing that job. We're here pretty much as babysitters, for the most part, just to let Sather know if there's any trouble."
McShayne pointed at the Immortals half a block away. "Hopefully, there won't be any of that, though. They're having enough of a time just dealing with the cold as they move into their new house."
Padilla chuckled. "Yeah, dey look like new pri'ates movin' into da barracks. Boxes an' bags in deir arms an' ever'thin'."
McShayne joined him as he laughed again. So into the brief merriment was he that he almost missed Padilla's snicker fade and his brown eyes narrow as he focused toward the front.
"Wha''s dat?" the old soldier asked, gesturing with a knife hand.
McShayne glanced in the direction Padilla pointed.
"What? I don't see anything."
"Dose cars. Da green one an' da black one. Dey've been at dat intersection t'ree blocks away for four, maybe five minutes."
"Give me the binoculars."
McShayne held the field glasses to his eyes, turning them minutely to get the focus right. He balanced his hands on the steering wheel to steady himself.
"Oh, God."
"What?" asked Padilla.
"Both cars are packed with men, at least four or five in each. One of the men in the green car is Erik Loggins. He's one of the guys on the suspected Hunter list. And wait. The driver is Stanley Wells. He's on the list, too."
McShayne lowered the binoculars. "We need to call this in." He dug into his jacket for his cell phone and hit the speed dial for Devon Sather.
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22 January 2000
Paris, France
The Hotel Raphael
"Is this why you left Paris a while ago?" O'Banian leafed through several pages of faxed documents Ashton had left near his laptop. "To buy this stuff? It looks like yer equippin' a small personal army."
"You could say I am. I have recently learned some information about the Hunters. This equipment will be used to deal with them when the time comes."
"And when is that?"
"I don't know yet."
She turned to a page and began to read off items at random.
"Forty AK-102 rifles, eleven H&K MP5 submachine guns, two Dragunov sniper rifle, eighty Claymore mine sets, twenty M136 AT4 anti-tank rockets, body armor, helmets, uniforms, rucksacks, buttpacks, holsters, knives, grenades, binoculars, fifty one-hundred meter lengths of rope, night vision goggles, batteries out the ass, one hundred carabiners, thirty foldable entrenching tools, twenty pick-axes and shovels, two hundred sandbags, twenty five-liter water jugs, thirty satellite phones. My God, you've thought of everything, haven't you? You've even got insect repellent and water purification tablets on here."
"I've done this a time or two," said Ashton, refilling both of their tumblers of Scotch. "I'm sure I missed an item here and there, but the people I have working on that job will find a way to get what they need."
"And that's why you're delaying the meeting with my people? You want to know how these guys fare first?"
"Yes. I believe, if they're successful in verifying the information we have and then eliminating the target, it will have a significant impact on what we're trying to do here."
"Well, thank you," said O'Banian, nodding, "fer lettin' me in on that little bit of intelligence. I appreciate it."
"If we are going to work together, which I hope we can, we have to be open with each other."
O'Banian lifted her tumbler in the air. "True enough."
The phone on Ashton's desk rang as he was reaching for his own glass. He diverted his hand to pick up the receiver.
"Oui?" (Yes?)
"Ashton? It's Sather." The Watcher's speech was rushed, almost impatient.
"Yes, what is it, Sather?"
"There's trouble at your safehouse at 14 Rue de la Concorde. Two of my guys spotted two cars full of suspected Hunters a few blocks away. Your people were still moving into the house. All I can say for sure is right in the middle of their report, my guy leaned on the horn of his car for about five seconds. He then said he was vacating the premises and hung up. I think he was trying to warn them."
Ashton stifled a curse. "Thank you, Sather. I'll call over there to make sure they're aware of the threat. I'll also get a nearby team to move in to support them. Thanks again. Out." He pressed the switchhook and, releasing it, began to dial again.
"Dalla," he said when he got an answer. "I need your team to get over to Pad's house now. They're in trouble. Go."
He didn't wait for a reply from Selbjorgsdottir. He just hung up and dialed Griffin's number. Fingers drumming on the desk, he listened through five, six, seven rings before giving up and setting the receiver back on its base.
"Problem?" asked O'Banian, though her expression made it clear she knew the answer and its cause.
"Yes, there are Hunters at Pad Griffin's safehouse."
"Not so safe then, is it?" She grinned at her joke.
"Not now, Siobhan," he growled.
Her grin vanished. "Sorry. Blame the booze."
Ashton lifted his own glass of Scotch and knocked back its entire contents. He looked at his watch.
"Ten minutes. I'll give it ten minutes and call again."
"Why the bloody hell don't you go there and help them yourself? Why are you just sendin' others to do your dirty work?"
"Because, Siobhan," answered the Minoan, his eyes narrowing at her, "they are the other side of the Seine right now. It would take us far too long to get there to be of any use. The people I called are just a kilometer away by car. They might be able to get to him and actually be of some kind of assistance."
As he spoke, Ashton stood and walked over to his humidor. He selected a cigar from inside, holding it up to O'Banian. She shook her head. He shut the lid and clipped the end with a V-notch cutter. Lighting the nineteen centimeter stick with a butane lighter, he returned to the desk and reached for the Scotch bottle. He filled the empty tumbler nearly to the top. He offered the bottle to O'Banian. This she did accept and filled her own glass almost as high. She sipped the liquor while Ashton took rapid puffs on his cigar and alternated them with Scotch. He filled the glass again.
"You don't like waitin', I see."
"Not that, necessarily," he said. "There is a time and a place to wait. Most of the people on both of those teams are dear friends of mine."
O'Banian lowered her head. "I get it, then. Yer worried about them."
"Yes. As you intimated earlier, it would be easier if I could do something myself. Instead, all I can do is sit here and wait. I don't like it. I would rather be there with them."
"I can understan' that."
They sat in silence, nursing their drinks, until it was time to make the call. There was still no reply. Ashton grimaced as he set the phone down and tapped a thick section of ash into a nearby tray.
"Ten more minutes," he sighed.
"I think we're gonna need another bottle. This one's almost gone."
He pointed to the kitchen. "There are more in the cabinet by the refrigerator."
She went to inspect the contents of the cabinet for herself. There were at least a dozen bottles of Scotch stored there, primarily Macallan and Glenlivet, but a few others here and there. Deciding for something a little different, she chose a bottle of Bunnahabhain and removed it from its outer box.
"Will this do?" she asked upon returning.
"Perfectly," he said, nodding. He was back at his laptop, eyes focused on its screen. His ashtray and empty tumbler were next to the computer. O'Banian filled the glass. He nodded his thanks and started typing, mumbling under his breath.
"Wait?" She stared at the man as he glanced up at her. "Did you just say "Sell five million at one hundred forty and buy at eighty?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Just what are you doing?"
"Sending advice to one of my brokerage houses. They wanted to know what to do about one of the securities they're watching."
"You're ordering a short sale of a stock while there's a battle goin' on?"
"It's called keeping myself busy - or distracted - while I wait. I may as well do something useful."
O'Banian's jaw dropped. "I've heard o' keepin' busy, but not like that. Clean somethin' or smoke that cigar, but stock trades? That just seems psychotic…to be able switch to businessman mode like that." She took a gulp of the Scotch. "By the way, how much will you make from that trade?"
"Three hundred million dollars."
"Shite! An' you did that in the time it took me to refill a drink glass?"
"Well, it's not like I personally get that money. My company does. But yes. Being aware of how one factor affects another is a great help. For example, I think this year's French wine production is going to go very well. That is going to negatively affect other sectors of the market. There is always a give and take, you see. I'm just telling the brokers to take advantage of one of the takes. They knew it was there, they just wanted to know how far to go on the buy and sell."
"And this is what you did before these troubles started?"
"One of them. I manage several companies." He patted the laptop. "All with this and a phone. I rarely have to show up in person."
"Damn, I'm in the wrong line of work."
Ashton smiled. "With the way technology is advancing nowadays, there are numerous ways people can make good money for themselves. I believe it will only improve with time."
He checked his watch again. "Time to call Pad." He lifted the receiver again and dialed.
"Pad, I'm glad you answered. What happened there? Is everyone okay?"
Griffin's breathing was elevated. He took several breaths before attempting to answer Ashton's question.
"It wasn't good, sir. We were moving our belongings from the vehicles into the house when we heard a car horn from down the street. That made us look about and notice two approaching cars. At first, we just watched them come down the street - like a bunch of bloody amateurs, dammit - before we did anything. I finally screamed, "To arms!" and everyone finally started actin' right.
"We were still too slow, though. Yeah, we had our weapons on us, but they were under our jackets and those were buttoned up due to the cold. The two cars stopped and armed men started pourin' out. They were shootin' as soon as the doors opened. Kjellson and Madsen were hit right away, before any of us could even bring our weapons to bear."
Griffin paused, taking a long breath. "Oh, God, we were just too slow on the draw. By the time we started returning fire, they already had men with hatchets and machetes all over Madsen and Kjellson and Cooke was also hit by then. Bezdek was trying to drag him back while Forrester, Pellier, and I provided covering fire. The Quickenings hit Cooke and Bezdek and stopped them cold in the yard. The Hunters tried to run at them, but we drove them back. We were able to kill two of them.
"We kept shooting and I ordered Forrester and Pellier to go out and get the others. They had to stand off and just provide cover fire while the Quickenings continued, but they managed to get another Hunter. It looked like they were going to reach Cooke and Bezdek, but then Pellier was wounded and then Forrester, too. Cooke had just recovered from his Quickening and started to shoot, but they gunned him down soon after. I had to reload again and things really looked bad. The Hunters were fanning out and coming at the guys with their hatchets.
"That was when Dalla and her boys arrived. They were shooting out of their car windows before they even stopped. They came in on the Hunters' flank and were disembarking from the vehicles and spreading out. The Hunters lost another man and decided to get out while they could. While four of them fired back at us, another shoved their wounded guy in their car. They then left their four dead and sped off. They were good, disciplined, calm under fire. Scary, in fact.
"Dalla told us you sent her team to us. Thank you, sir. You saved our asses. We all would've been killed without them."
"I'm glad to hear that most of you are alright, Pad. Take care of Winter and Joseph and get yourselves to the alternate safehouse. Dalla and the others can help. I'll be out there later on to check on you, okay?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you for checking on us."
"Sure thing, Pad. Goodbye." Hanging up, Ashton looked over at O'Banian. "I need another drink now, please."
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23 January 2000
Portopalo di Capo Passero, Sicily
"Okay, Alan, Sandy, lay it out for me. What's the status of the men and equipment?"
Jankowsky sat at his map table, a cup of coffee near his hand, and looked across at the two men. He leaned toward his notepad with a pen in one hand and pushed his glasses closer to the top of his nose.
Weatheral glanced at Traynor. The Scotsman shook his head, letting him go first. Clearing his throat, Weatheral reported, "The men finished their last rehearsal three hours ago. They have finished cleaning weapons and have given them over to Sergeant Traynor's detachment. They're still cleaning the rest of their gear and getting it prepped for loadout on the plane. They'll have that ready in another two or three hours, I'd say. Once that's done, we can give them a bit of a break."
Jankowsky nodded and ticked off a section on his pad. Sandy Traynor added his part next, his craggy face still in its perpetual scowl.
"Some o' the boys are test firin' all the individual and crew-served weapons at our improvised range now, sir. That will take a few hours and, so far, there are no issues. Once they're done, they'll pack 'em up and have 'em ready to load. I don't think that will take much longer than equipment cleaning and loadout. Everything should be complete by fifteen or sixteen hundred today, sir."
Jankowsky smiled at the two retired sergeants. "That is exactly what I was hoping to hear, gentlemen. Thank you. Now let's see what the real boss has to say about it all."
Rolling his chair back, the colonel picked up the telephone from another table and dialed. The line was answered seconds later.
"Oui?"
"Hello, Megatron," said Jankowsky. "This is Soundwave calling. Your cassettes are recorded and ready for shipment."
"Excellent. Ship them as planned."
"Will do. Goodbye."
Hanging up, the colonel smiled again. "We're a go, gentlemen. Once the men have everything loaded up, set them free for a little R&R. They've earned it. They're in for some hard times once we hit the ground.
"Alan, be sure to tell the TOC staff they're to head out a day early."
"Yes, sir."
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25 January 2000
Paris, France
15 Avenue Etienne de Montgolfier
"Sumei Hu, it's such a pleasure to see you again," said Karl Eichman with a smirk. "And so nice of you to have prepared dinner for us. That's just too kind."
Hu's dark eyes glowered at the German. Behind her, Frost and Razumov each kept a hand on her shoulder, pinning her to her knees next to the dining table. An MP5 submachine gun touched either ear. Eichmann stood before her, a bowl of rice in his palm.
"Had I known you and your goons were coming, Karl, I would have poisoned the rice," she hissed.
"And what a waste of good rice it would have been, my sweet," Eichmann cooed, sweeping a few grains into his mouth with her chopsticks. "You've always been a better host than that anyway."
"Psst. Only for those who deserve it. You don't."
"Mind your manners, Sumei," chided Eichmann in a soft voice, setting aside the rice bowl and easing his Longquan straight sword from its scabbard. "Remember I still haven't decided whether to let these three have their fun with you before we settle our differences."
Hu's lids squinted, her gaze focusing on De Lioncourt before flickering up to Razumov and Frost.
"Not even you would stoop so low."
"It's not what I would do. It's what they would do which should concern you."
Hu wilted, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Just let me have my sword and let's sort this out the right way, can't we? No guns? No more games?"
"Hmm…" Eichmann grinned as he paced. "Maybe." He gesticulated with his own blade. "But, you see, I like the games. They're entertaining to me. Almost as much as the actual fight, when it finally comes."
Hu straightened, looking into his eyes. Eichmann smiled.
"Or if it comes." Frost and Razumov stepped back as his sword flashed. Sumei Hu's head dropped to the floor, her body alongside it in spasms.
"Ah, now we're talking," breathed Eichmann, letting the blade fall from his hand. "Goddamm, this is fun."
