Chapter 11

Old Friends

Arinoth stared at the pieces on the game board. He contemplated them deeply, apparently oblivious to the actions of his servants around him. He was, however, perfectly aware of all that was happening. One part of his mind was aware of every breath of his butler Mansfred as he arranged the roses in a vase. He was aware, for instance, of the subtle wheeze that would soon develop into a full-blown infection if not treated. He was aware of the subtle shaking of the man's hands that gave away his age. He detected from the small hitch in the man's step that his left leg was beginning to bother him again.

Mansfred had been in loyal service for more than thirty years, and the one thing that Arinoth was not aware of, could not yet detect, was whether or not the man was a traitor. There was a traitor in the organization – someone who had sent confidential information to the California Congressman, Jackson Greene, that led to his interference in Project Eve. And while Arinoth could know every breath and step that Mansfred took inside this house if he chose, he could not see inside the man's heart.

What was more important was that the same was true for everyone that Arinoth trusted. He could know all that they did if he so chose – everyone in the Ring and associated with it. He could not, however, know what they thought. Not without some truly invasive measures. Even at that, he would have to guess correctly the first time. Any action to invade the minds of one of his associates would tip off the rest of them, and the guilty would disappear before he could discover the extent of their treachery. Worse, if it was one of the other witches or warlocks, they might be able to bury their deception deep within the folds of magic and escape detection.

He must, therefore, discover the likely traitor surreptitiously, through observation and deduction. Only then could he take the element of surprise and capture them in a web of magic, strip their mind clean, and find out not only what was done, but also who was behind it and who else might be involved.

It was conceivable, of course, that it had been a fringe action. It could have been some minor worker, visitor, or even a patient at the clinic. They might have heard a little, surmised nothing from it, but still sought to warn the Congressman. That was possible, but unlikely. More likely was that it was someone who had associations within the Watcher's Council and who had infiltrated the clinic looking for evidence.

Rivalry among the factions of the Council was ill-disguised. Only the Grand Councilor even knew how many arms of the council existed. Arinoth served at the will of the Council of Magic, which was the most well-known arm. Those whose positions involved the Slayers and, to some extent, the demons, formed another. That, however, accounted for only two arms of the Council. There were others – many others. Like any secret organization, they were divided into cells and had little knowledge of one another. What were their interests? What were their secrets? What did they watch?

Every ambitious Watcher sought those answers of the other cells. That was the way to power; to controlling the whole thing. The discovery of Arinoth's operations by another cell would be notable, and their actions to stop him predictable. Such a one would be expected to wound the project, but not kill it. They would want to take it over and complete it, and gain another cell of power.

That would explain much, but not everything. It wouldn't explain MacKenzie.

Arinoth continued to stare at the game board. His age was indeterminable. The brown, leathery skin that stretched across his skull was a size too small and creased with wrinkles. His head was bald, betraying neither the white hair of old age nor the dark, thinning hair of middle age. He could be any age from forty to ninety. His eyes, though, which stared at the game board, were ancient. Only when someone looked in his eyes did they begin to realize how old he truly was – how many lifetimes he had lived.

His claw-like hand reached out to pick up one of the game pieces. At first glance, the game seemed to resemble chess, or possibly backgammon. It was, in fact, far older than those. The game of draughts had been played by the Egyptians, and Arinoth had played it when it was still new.

He gazed at the piece in his hand, lovingly carved in the figure of a warrior. He had scratched the name "Mac" at the bottom of it. He contemplated the representation of the rogue commando. He could simply ignite the piece, melt it in his hands, and the same would happen to MacKenzie wherever he was. He would spontaneously combust there in the middle of L.A., and oddity for the back page of the Times and the front page of the Weekly World News.

That, however, would destroy his one thread to the traitor in his midst. Someone had put MacKenzie in play. Someone had moved him onto the board with devastating effect. It could have been simply MacKenzie himself, or the wild interplay of circumstance, that had put that man in that situation. In other conditions, Arinoth would have considered such a possibility and simply eliminated him.

But the presence of MacKenzie and the presence of a traitor were a pair of circumstances, and the Creator of the Ring could not afford to dismiss them as unrelated. If they were related, then it was not some competing watcher who was involved. No other cell leader, not even the Grand Councilor, could have put this piece into play so effectively and so subtly.

That left only one other person on Earth.

Arinoth sighed deeply. His old friend was seeing fit to interfere once more. Arinoth had suspected him on occasion of interference, but had never been convinced of it. This time, however, there was no denying it.

"Anything else, Sir?" Mansfred inquire.

"Yes," Arinoth said without looking up. "There is an envelope on the table. See that it gets mailed immediately." Mansfred left with the letter, oblivious to its deadly contents.

It was time for Sir Radcliffe Holm to die.

* * *

            Sir Radcliffe Holm glanced at the few pieces of mail that his adjunct had set on his desk. He didn't touch them. He never touched his mail right away. Instead, he sat and thought, staring at it. He never got unexpected mail. He'd seen to that. There were three pieces on his desk, and he reasoned what two of them were.

The large white envelope was the efficiency report from the latest set of fighter tests. He had requested them personally, and had been expecting them. The envelope was the right size, and he quickly detected several other telltale marks that indicated its authenticity.

The small yellow envelope was a check. He would put it in a drawer for several weeks, and then eventually the comptroller would harass him about it and he would deposit it. Later on, he would move the funds through several accounts, until they were in one of his private accounts. From there he would distribute the funds throughout his own private network of operatives. He really hated dealing with money, but the maintenance of his unofficial organization required it – and he required such an organization. There was much he could do from his office in the Government, but stopping an RAF Briagdier General too stupid to see the ramifications of his own secret projects was not one of them – especially when the man had engaged a being as serpentine as Arinoth.

The one on top, though, was troubling. It was a plain envelope, addressed exactly as the others. The postmarks and other indicators were equally as non-descript. It was, however, unexpected. There was nothing he was expecting that could have accounted for it, and that made it suspicious.

Suspicious was nothing new. He got several suspicious pieces of mail a month. Things he hadn't expected, or which he had but had come from routes he hadn't anticipated. Each one was carefully scrutinized. For most, with sufficient scrutiny, the origin or purpose could be discerned before opening it. For the rest, certain precautions were taken before opening them.

This one was different though. It was exactly what he had been anticipating from one of the many internal departments he had frequent contact with – but he had already received that communication. He had received it yesterday. It was, in fact, the last piece of mail he had handled yesterday.

He called it up in his minds eye. He recalled everything about it: every smudge of dirt on the envelope; every crease and exactly how the corners were nicked; even the slight skew to the stamp. When he had that image firmly fixed in his mind, he looked down at the envelope on his desk. It was the same – exactly, in every detail, the same.

His mind raced through the possibilities. It was inconceivable that two envelopes should arrive that were exactly the same, down to every smudge of dirt. It was likely, then, enchanted with a chameleon spell of some kind. The fact that it had cloaked itself as the last bit of mail he had previously touched was all but confirmation of that. Had it been something he had touched a week or a month ago, he wouldn't be so sure – his memory was not what it used to be, and he would've doubted his own recollection. But such was the nature of these spells, the need for proximity in place of possession. The sender didn't possess an envelope of his from a week or month ago, so the spell must take its form from something in its proximity – the last thing he'd previously handled.

Given that his conclusion was valid, he needed to reason through who and why. It was obviously a powerful magician. One who wished to communicate with him without being face to face. There could be any number of reasons for that. There were few enough magicians in the world who even knew of his existence. Of those, who would want to communicate with him this way? And who would want to disguise it?

The answer came instantly, with painful clarity. Arinoth. This was letter-bomb, or the magical equivalent of one, sent by his old companion. Arinoth, then, had deduced Sir Radcliffe's role in the unraveling of his plan. He probably thought that, with Sir Radcliffe out of the picture, the mole in his organization would attempt to contact or even aid MacKenzie. That would expose the mole to Arinoth's wrath.

Sir Radcliffe sniffed. Arinoth was hardly giving him credit. The only person who knew anything to connect MacKenzie with himself was Sheffield. He had given the order directly to Sheffield, in this office. No one else, not even the mole, knew that MacKenzie had been Sir Radcliffe's decision. His death would not give Arinoth the wedge the old magician thought it would. It would accomplish nothing at all for him, except remove Sir Radcliffe from his consideration.

That was why Sir Radcliffe had to give Arinoth exactly what he wanted.

After carefully reflecting on the entire problem, Sir Radcliffe checked his watch. He had spent too much time considering the problem. Arinoth would know when the envelope had been delivered – the magic would tell him that. Any more time spent thinking about it and Arinoth would become suspicious. Sir Radcliffe knew that he must move quickly. He picked up the phone and buzzed his adjunct.

"Bill, please run down to the cafeteria and get me banana." He said. "Make sure it doesn't have too much brown on it. But not too much green, either."

            "Yes, Sir," the young man in the next office replied. He got up and left the office, headed for the elevator. Before he was even halfway there, the hall was rocked by an explosion. Sir Radcliffe's office, and his own, had been destroyed by some kind of blast.