"Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muss man schweigen."
("Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.") -- Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
Chapter 3*27 May 1999, Dr.Sydney Fox's office*
"You can't be serious!" Sydney said incredulously. "You came all the way from Athens chasing these guys, and now you're just giving up?"
"Do I look like Indiana Jones to you?" Adam Pierson asked. "Look, I'm just a researcher, and all this cloak and dagger business is not in my line. Besides, I'm sure you'll manage just as well without me."
"But I've found out that the cache is here in town! It's hidden somewhere in the warehouse section near the docks: we just need to find out which warehouse."
"I rest my case. You didn't need me to find that out."
He watched the Sydney's ill-concealed disgust, and her assistant's more restrained reaction with interest. Nigel was looking thoughtful rather than angry.
Methos stiffened as the buzz hit him. Casually, he manouvered around to face the door, as a tall red-haired man walked into the office.
"Hello Sydney, Nigel. I hope I'm not interrupting anything?" the newcomer asked, with a polite smile for each of the room's inhabitants. He was tall, quite handsome, appeared to be in his late thirties, and wore an elegant, if conservative, dark blue suit.
"Hello David," Sydney said, forcing a welcoming smile. "I wasn't expecting you for an hour." Responding to his enquiring look, she introduced Adam.
"Dr.Adam Pierson, meet David Ferrars. David is one of the University's largest patrons. The history department is having a fund-raiser tonight, and David is here to pick up some schedules. Dr.Pierson is an Antiquities expert from the Sorbonne."
Ferrars nodded at the other man, who hitched a lean hip onto the edge of Sydney's desk. "Nice to meet you, Dr.Pierson. What brings you to our fair city?"
"I'd hoped to find some interesting material to study, actually. But I've had a change of plans, and I'm leaving tomorrow." He picked up a pen and started doodling idly on the notepad that lay next to him.
"Oh. That's too bad," Ferrars said, with apparent regret. "I hope this short visit hasn't been a complete waste of time."
"Quite the contrary. But duty calls," Adam rejoined, apparently losing interest in the conversation.
"Thank you, Sidney," Ferrars said, accepting the sheaf of papers she held out to him. "I look forward to seeing you later this evening. Will you be joining us, Dr.Pierson?"
"I don't think so. Packing, and all that. I have an early flight tomorrow. In fact, I should be going now. Goodbye, Sydney, Nigel. It was nice meeting you, Mr.Ferrars." He strode out of the office.
Ferrars caught up with him outside. "Remember me now, Doctor?"
"I rarely forget a face, but in your case I'd have been glad to make an exception."
"Come now, that's a bit ungracious, isn't it? Don't you want to renew our old acquaintance?"
"Not really, no."
"Wise decision, Dr.Pierson. I was sure you'd see it my way."
"Were you?" the taller man asked, sardonically. "How astute of you."
"It doesn't take a genius to predict your reactions, Doctor. You've never been in the habit of standing and fighting, after all. Especially not over something as paltry as a set of ancient relics. I learned that the last time we met."
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*1809, Athens Acropolis,at the site of the Parthenon*
"Ham-handed poltroons!" Byron exclaimed in accents weighted with disgust. "All this sweaty toil in the service of an acquisitive Philistine who vandalises their heritage!"
He was referring to the Greek laborers who were carrying the sections of the famous frieze of the Parthenon away in sections, under the supervision of Lord Elgin. Byron's tall, hawk-faced companion stared impassively at the scene. Both men turned at the sensation of another Immortal approaching. It was Lord Elgin's friend and fellow 'classicist', David Campbell. The elder (adopted) son of a wealthy Viscount, he had already built a reputation as a collector of antiquities. Beside him was his mentor, Lord Elgin himself.
The two men joined Lord Byron and his friend on their stone platform.
"You don't approve of our efforts here, my Lord," Lord Elgin commented, with a grin at his companion.
"I do not, sir," The poet assented haughtily. "No sensible man could, who witnessed the looting of this last poor plunder from a bleeding land."
"Plunder, my Lord? I seek only to preserve the relics of a glorious past, and have them displayed to suitable advantage in the proper setting."
Byron's tall companion spoke. "Does it not seem to you, my Lord, that the proper setting for such works of art is the very sanctuary where they have stood for over two millenia?"
"The Greece of Pericles is long gone, Doctor, and its glories have no true place here, amidst these degenerate descendants of great men. Look at those illiterate barbarians! Are the splendid works of Ictinus and Phidias to be left to the likes of these?"
He turned to Byron, arguing earnestly. "I tell you, sir, their true home is in London, where they may be appreciated by men of worth and wisdom. Surely, as a good Briton, my Lord, you would agree that Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom, is nowhere more truly valued today than in our own land?"
Byron barked a disdainful laugh. Then shooting a malicious glance at Elgin and Campbell, he declaimed dramatically, turning to face the shrine, and flinging his arms out:
"Daughter of Jove! In Britain's injur'd name,
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim,
Frown not on England -- England owns him not;
Athena! No -- the plunderer was a Scot."
Elgin turned red with annoyance at the derogatory reference to his origin. He was not best pleased at this reminder, and nor was his comrade, who went rather pale.
"Barbarians, indeed," the poet continued, his fiery eyes blazing scorn at his targets, "The only barbarians I perceive here come from a land of meanness, sophistry and mist!"
He continued to pour his contempt out in scathing verse:
"But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,
To rive what Goth, and Turk and Time hath spared;
Cold as the crags upon his native coast,
His mind as barren and his heart as hard,
Is he conceived, whose hand prepared,
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains;
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,
And never knew till then the weight of Despot's chains."
Campbell was white with rage by this time, and stepped forward to confront the poet.
"I brook no such insult from any man! You will meet me for that, my Lord, honour demands it!"
"Honour, in a Scot. A pleasant idea," Byron sneered.
The Doctor stepped in hastily to separate the two snarling men. "Enough, gentlemen, the jest has gone too far, I think." He clamped a warning hand on Byron's arm. "Come George, we have other business that awaits us."
Byron glared at him, but gave in, sullenly following him as he retreated.
"Your principles, Doctor, are therefore not quite as deep as you led us to believe," Campbell called after them.
"My principle, sir, is that sensible men do not risk their lives over a few pieces of lifeless marble," was the only reply.
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"And it seems that your sentiments haven't changed," commented the man who now called himself David Ferrars.
"Neither have yours, Campbell. Once a looter, always a looter, I see. Do you still claim to be preserving history?"
"You misjudge me, Doctor. My motivation is pure profit. There were nearly a hundred pounds of gold and silver coins in that cache. It's worth a fortune! And I know of many private collectors who would pay many times the value of the coins for the scrolls."
"Ah, good old-fashioned greed. That makes me feel so much better," Adam said.
"Does it really matter, Pierson? I know you agree that it's not worth risking your head over relics of a bygone age, unlike our idealistic Sydney Fox. I have no quarrel with you. As long as you leave town, you have my word that I will leave you and your girlfriend alone."
"What about Professor Fox? She strikes me as a persistent sort of lady."
"True. However, she won't be a problem for much longer. In any case, you would do far better worrying about yourself and your lady friend. Do we understand each other?"
"Oh, I understand, all right. Subtlety is a gift you've not managed to acquire over the years." He turned and sauntered off, hands in pockets, leaving Ferrars to stare after him.
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"I cannot believe that man!" Sydney said angrily to Nigel. "After all that work, tracing those looters here, he just walks away! What kind of man does that?"
Nigel was looking down at the notepad that Pierson had been scribbling on. "What kind of man doodles in Hittite, Demotic Egyptian, and Sanskrit? Sydney, come and look at this!"
She walked over, her curiosity piqued at the sharp note in her assistant's voice. She frowned at the notepad, exasperation dawning as she deciphered the symbols. Her name, followed by several lines she didn't readily understand.
"A note. He left us a note. Is your Sanskrit any good?"
"Not very. I'll get a dictionary."
Minutes later, when they had figured out the message, they exchanged grim looks.
"You know, for a mild-mannered researcher, this guy is a bundle of surprises. How do suppose he found that out?"
Nigel shrugged. "Heaven knows. I'm a bit puzzled about how he managed to trace those smugglers so quickly. It doesn't quite fit. If it weren't for his impeccable references, I'd be tempted to believe he was a relic hunter himself."
"Maybe. But we're not learning anything more about it waiting here. Let's go," Sydney said, hurrying out of her office with a reluctant Nigel trailing after her.
She had just reached the car park, when her cell phone rang.
"Sydney, this is Adam. I assume you've managed to decipher my note?"
"Yes," she said curtly. "I thought you didn't do the cloak and dagger stuff? And do you have any proof of David Ferrars' involvement in this smuggling business?"
"Just a tip off from a reliable source. I can tell you more when we meet. By the way, I'd recommend extreme caution, because it's entirely possible David Ferrars has an unfortunate accident planned for you."
"Yeah? For instance?"
"For instance, you should probably check your car for tampering. My informant just told me that quite a few of his business associates have had automobile accidents. Car bombs, brake failures, and so on."
The 'informant' was the Watcher database, and the sketchy details contained therein about the dubious business practices of the Immortal known as David Ferrars. From the absence of regular updates, Methos deduced that the Watcher assigned to Ferrars was not particularly conscientious.
Sydney handed the cell phone to Nigel and looked the car over carefully. It didn't seem as though anyone had broken in. Playing a hunch, she went down flat on the ground and peered under the car. Nigel watched, wide-eyed, as she slid partly under the vehicle. Some interesting noises ensued, and then she emerged, holding a bundle of -- something -- Nigel concluded, unable to identify it. There were wires dangling from the package, whatever it was. The young TA noticed that Sidney now had grease smeared across her nose and cheek. He stared, bemused, reminded of war paint, as she grabbed the phone back from him.
"Bingo," Sydney informed the man waiting at the other end of the line. "Someone planted enough plastique under the car to blow me sky high the first time I went over a bump in the road. Thanks Adam, I owe you one."
"You're welcome. Now, if the two of you can manage to meet me at the rendezvous point in two hours, I should have a location for us to start our search."
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Methos let out an exasperated breath. "Look Amy, I can just as easily do this myself, you know. Why don't you make my life easier? It will save us some valuable time if you do the checking. All I need to know is if David Ferrars owns any property near the docks."
They were sitting in the hall of an anonymous little house that Amy Thomas had found through her local Watcher contacts.
The young Watcher frowned at him. "You know the rules as well as I do, Methos. I'm not going to call on the Watcher network to help you hunt down another Immortal, let alone some Bronze Age relics you're after."
"Now, you don't want to break the rules? Oh, that's convenient. Need I remind you that you're already breaking the rules, and this particular Immortal has threatened you, too?"
"Yes I know, and I know that your normal reaction would be to leave town immediately, with me in tow, if necessary. What's so different this time, Methos? And don't tell me this is about breaking up some illicit smuggling ring."
"Are you always this annoying?" he asked. "Or is it something you reserve just for me?"
She didn't bother to dignify that with a response. He finally threw up his hands and sighed.
"All right! It's the scrolls. I can't afford to have those scrolls become public knowledge. And neither can the Watchers, not if you want the existence of Immortals kept a secret."
She waited for him to go on.
"They were a part of my journal. Left them behind with some of my other stuff when I parted company with the Horsemen," he gritted out.
"Well, why didn't you just say so in the first place," she said irritably, after an awkward silence.
A half hour later, she hung up the phone and turned to Methos, who was pacing restlessly around the room.
"I have a confirmation on that address. It belongs to Ferrars, all right, he owns a chemical factory, and that's where he supposedly stores the stuff for shipping. His Watcher says that Ferrars visits the warehouse frequently, usually at night."
"Thank you." He pulled his duster on and turned to leave.
"Where are you going?" she asked, getting up to follow.
"To meet Sydney Fox and her assistant. May I suggest that you stay out of sight? There's no reason for them to find out about you or the Watchers. And we don't need one of Ferrars' men picking up our trail either."
"Oh, blah, blah, blah. I know how to do my job, Methos."
"Could have fooled me," he muttered under his breath, stalking out of the house.