Chapter 2
Blast from the Past
Wednesday, 5:08 PM
The jeep moved through central London at a more sedate pace than their previous breakaway. At this phase discretion was more important than speed. Twice they passed police cars who were obviously casting about for the blue Range Rover, but the quick switch at the car wash enabled them to cruise by without attracting any notice whatsoever. Rupert Giles sat slumped in the passenger's seat with his cheek resting in his hand, effectively obscuring his profile from any who might be watching.
The traffic slowed with the combined effects of the truck bombing and normal end of the day commuters. They crawled along through lanes of traffic without speaking. For Rupert there was a great deal to digest so far, including whom from his past might possibly be involved in this. There were plenty of people who had the power to assist him, but none that he could think of who would've been in contact with MacKenzie.
The others in the Watcher's council were the most likely to help, but there would be far too many risks. Arinoth and his cohorts had infiltrated the Watchers' council deeply, corrupting it, possibly to its very core. Even if there was someone within the watchers who could and would help them, it would be nearly impossible for them to do so without the council finding out.
It was conceivable that one of the independent covens in England could help. It is even conceivable that MacKenzie could've been in contact with them. But Rupert considered whether or not that could've been done in such secrecy that he wouldn't have found out about it. Even if Rupert's contacts were somewhat rusty, the coven where he had placed Willow for safekeeping would've known.
Unless, of course, it was an evil coven – or if not evil, at least one of the 'grey' covens that operated with their own sense of morality. Those groups would be operating with their own agenda, though. To work with them would be extremely dangerous. And they couldn't be trusted to do what needed to be done. Rupert would need to be doubly careful if he was dealing with one of those. It would be too easy for them to add components to the spell – components which could easily compromise their secrecy at the most critical moment.
There was no question in his mind that it was a magician they were going to see. Nothing else could transform Rupert into the identity in the wallet that he had been given. The face staring back at him was easily twenty years younger. He also had blonde hair to Rupert's brown, blue eyes, and easily an additional hundred pounds of weight. Any hope of standing up to any kind of inspection was going to require a sophisticated spell, and Rupert would be at the mercy of it.
Mac's mobile phone chirped, bringing Rupert out of his reverie. It wasn't a ring, and it took Giles a moment to realize that it was a text message. Rupert had never been one to embrace the height of technology. Anything past Guttenberg's printing press was likely a bad idea in his opinion – with the possible exception of the Dish Network, which had allowed him to catch the Manchester United games while he lived in America.
Mac read the message carefully while driving, and then placed his mobile back in his pocket. He looked over at Rupert and smiled. "You've been officially classified as a kidnap victim, although they think you must be involved in something illegal to warrant it. So, you're also suspected of something, but they're not sure what. MI-5 is going to be looking through you're knickers with a microscope, I would expect.
"They're listing Arinoth's people as suspected terrorists, and the explosion as an inter-organization falling out. The fact that they have no idea about either faction is going to send them into an absolute fit. I've no doubt they're calling in everyone on this and starting to squeeze every snitch and contact they have. The very thought of having two organizations in such a rivalry operating undetected in London has got to have them steaming like a tea kettle in a blast furnace. The fact that the first clue they get about it is by having a truck blow up in a nice neighborhood is going to mean their superiors are going to be looking for someone's arse to take a penalty kick on."
He paused and drove, letting Rupert take it all in. This had immediately gone way beyond anything he had been expecting. This was no longer a police matter, or even Scotland Yard or Special Section. This was now an MI-5 issue – Her Majesty's Secret Service. The world was more familiar with MI-6 and its fictional hero, James Bond. MI-6 handled external security, much the way the American CIA did. MI-5 was internal security. While Americans might reasonably make the analogy to their FBI, to do so would greatly underestimate MI-5. Her Majesty's Secret Service was a spy organization, plain and simple; and while it might be operating on its own soil, it did so with the same fervor, methods, and tools of their international Big Sister.
In short, the big guns had come out to play, and they weren't happy about it.
"What about you? Is there anything about you in that message?" Rupert asked.
"They haven't made my identity yet, or even developed a reasonable sketch. I made sure I wasn't picked up by anything. They'll be going through the footage of every security camera in the area, public and private. Unless I've messed up deliciously, though, they won't find a thing."
"You're sure about that?" Rupert asked.
"Aye, well, as sure as a professional can be, under the circumstances." Mac continued to drive, no further explanation being required. Mac was a professional, and as such he knew that there was no such thing as absolute certainty. No plan survives contact with the enemy, went the old axiom. Its truth was nearly absolute. There was no way to plan for everything; no way for every part of plan to go right. So, a professional didn't plan for things to go right. They made their plans and then planned for failure at each and every step. Then they planned for their alternate plans to fail. They expected failure, and that's why a professional was always prepared to meet it when it happened.
Rupert didn't care to ask what would happen if this part of the plan didn't work. It wasn't so much that he had absolute faith in MacKenzie, he simply had too much on his mind right now to worry about it. "I need to make a phone call," he said instead.
MacKenzie nodded. "Thought you might." Several blocks went by, and then Mac pulled into a street side parking space near a phone box. "Make it quick."
Rupert didn't need the warning. He got out of the car and went quickly to box and shut the door. He scrounged through his pockets for coins and found himself too nervous to count properly. Instead, he simply dropped them all into the coin slot and dialed.
"Hello," said a cheery voice on the other end.
"Gretta, it's Rupert," he said breathily. "I've only a moment, but you have to listen to me. You need to move Willow; get her out of there. In fact, get everyone out of there. Hurry. Now."
"Giles, what's going on?"
He rubbed his forehead in frustration. "I can't explain, really I can't. It doesn't have anything to do with Willow, at least I don't think it does. Not yet, anyway. But please, just do as I ask."
"All right," came the cautious reply. "But I'm not sure where to go."
"Go to the farmhouse in the country, the one that belonged to Veronica. Go there, but don't tell anyone. I'll contact you there."
"Giles, is there anything we can do to help?"
Giles thought for a long moment. He took his glasses off and leaned against the glass of the box as he rubbed his face. Finally, he shook his head. "Not right now, but if there is I'll let you know." He moved to ring off, but then pulled the receiver back to his ear and called out. "Gretta!" He hoped he get her attention without having to ring back.
"Yes, Rupert?"
"Don't trust anyone," he said, and then hung up.
* * *
"How many times have I told you that you can't trust anyone?" the Fourth Speaker of the Circle raved at the remnants of Arinoth's surveillance team. "What were you thinking, getting outside help like that?"
The team squirmed. There were six of them left, none of whom were team leaders. The Captain had been in the truck when it blew up along with two others. The second in command, a sour ex-mercenary by the name of Bennet, had been shot by police exiting Giles's apartment. It was unclear what his condition was since nobody had stuck around to find out. Truth be told, no one had stuck around much after the first sirens. Once it became clear that the police were in the neighborhood, these six had taken off in separate directions and worked their way to the rendezvous point, ditching electronics and weapons along the way. Only Bennet had stayed behind, intent on finishing the search of Rupert's flat. That's what had led to his getting cornered and, when he had threatened police with his compact machine gun, shot by the Special Section.
This the team had learned about through an illegal police scanner. Once they had garnered that piece of news, they ditched even that. It was a quick walk to this meeting place, where they had found the Fourth Speaker already waiting for them. None of them were quite sure how he had known to be here, or how he had managed to be here before them. But he was here and he was livid.
The Fourth Speaker, for his part, struggled to control his fury. He paced back and forth in his immaculate navy blue suit as he stared at them. The summons which had called him here had taken him away from a very important meeting, which was bad enough. He'd had to use portal to transport himself here ahead of the team, which meant an extreme waste of magical energy in a time of crisis. Those things alone, however, were simply nuisances that went along with this kind of operation.
No plan ever survives contact with the enemy, he had reminded himself when he'd first begun questioning the survivors. He couldn't really blame them if something unforeseen had happened, that was simply the nature of this kind of operation. However, upon finding out that it was likely their newest recruit that had set up the blast, the Fourth Speaker had lost all control.
To begin with, they had not been authorized to recruit any additional operatives to this task. Second, the operative they had recruited had been done so without the screening and scrying of the Ring of Arinoth. Third, they had apparently recruited someone who wasn't even loyal to the money they were paying him, which could only mean that they had actually "recruited" one of the enemy. And all this had been done without him having the slightest clue, which could potentially mean death at the hands of his master.
No, the Fourth Speaker was in an absolute, raving fury.
"But we didn't have the bugging expertise for this one," said one of the team members, a slightly greasy and overweight specimen named, aptly, Rodney Stout.
"What do you mean, this is a basic function of what you do!" screamed the Fourth Speaker.
"Well, it is with old Tom and Mickey on the team," he replied sharply, refusing to be cowed. "But Tom got himself right ponied a couple weeks ago, which you knew, and then Mickey got the sudden need to 'find himself' and went walkabout, which you also knew. And as the job needed to get done, the Cap'n did as need be and got us a replacement. Was it our fault he turned out to be the wrong bloke? Why wasn't you recruitin' when Old Tom got nicked?"
The Fourth Speaker didn't bother to reply to the man. He simply lifted his hand, his well manicured nails hooked into claws, and shot a bolt of electricity out his fingertips. Rodney Stout burst into flames and began running about, screaming. The others on the team were too shocked by what had just happened to react; fortunately for them, the screaming came to an abrupt end with another burst of lightning from the Fourth Speaker's fingertips. Had they attempted to interfere, they would've received the same treatment.
With visible effort, the Fourth Speaker got his emotions under control. He careful adjusted his shirt cuffs so that the exact amount of white showed beyond the end of his suit coat sleeve, with the glistening twinkle of the gold and diamond cuff links on display. He adjusted his tie, and then tilted his neck until he got a satisfactory pop from one of his neck joints. His color retreated from the mad purple of a moment ago to an only slightly flushed red.
"Now then, gentleman, who here has more of an opinion to share?" he asked. The calm he now had in his voice was even more terrifying than the ranting of a moment before. To his satisfaction, no one else saw fit to reply. "Excellent. Now that we're done sharing our feeling, let's get down to work."
He walked through the group of survivors – now five – looking each one in the eye with a devastatingly cold glare. Each one dropped their eyes almost immediately sensing that this was not the time, the place, nor the person for defying authority. Now was the time for subordination and cooperation. The Fourth Speaker smiled.
"Now then, you will each tell me everything you know about this new team member, from what he looked like to what he called himself to what kind of toothpaste he used. You will tell me everything. And then I will see crushing him."
* * *
"We're here," Mac said, having parked the jeep in a garbage strewn alley in a more industrialized section of London. "Ready to make up for lost time?" The question was mysterious, and so Giles didn't see fit to reply. It didn't matter, though; Mac was already exiting the jeep and Rupert hurried after him. He crossed the alley and walked down several doors, stopping when he came to a brick stairway heading down into the building's basement. "Stay close," he said.
Together they descended the stairs to a large steel door. Mac knocked – one long, two short, two long, three short. A small panel in the door opened and someone peeked outside. "No one here," the voice said.
"Well then, I guess I'll just have to keep myself company," Mac replied. The man behind the door said nothing as he closed the small viewport. A moment later, the door unlocked and opened. MacKenzie walked in confidently, Rupert trailing behind. Just beyond was another staircase going even further down into the brickwork basement. The man behind the door was nowhere to be seen. Paying little heed to that fact, they descended into a large, Victorian era storeroom.
Well, it was clear that it had once been a Victorian era storeroom, although that was clearly not its purpose now. Now there was a bar set up across one end and several dusty tables and rickety chairs set about. There was music playing – classic punk rock – but the sound quality gave testament to the age of speaker system. There appeared to be only one other person there, a gaunt, pale figure wearing a long black coat over layers or black (and artfully torn) clothing. The figure smoked a water pipe set on the table in front of him and stared out into nothingness. His eyes, though, did a sudden movement to take in the two new visitors, assessing and dismissing them in that single glance, in order to more quickly return to their vacant staring.
Mac walked confidently up to the bar and leaned against it, waiting. A minute or two passed before the bartender appeared, coming from a back area and manhandling a keg obviously intended for installation behind the bar. The barkeep was old – at least fifty – balding and fat and sweaty. He wore leather pants and a leather vest, biker boots and chains at his waist. He looked up to see them standing there, and abandoned his burden to approach them.
He obviously recognized MacKenize, and just as obviously was not pleased to see him at the establishment. He looked beyond him at Rupert, assessing him up and down for a long moment, before looking back to Mac. He opened his mouth to say something, but then his gaze drifted back to Giles. His eyes widened in recognition.
"Ripper!" he exclaimed.
Rupert was taken aback by the exclamation. He hadn't gone by the name 'Ripper' since his college days. Now, here was this man who obviously knew him by that moniker, but for the life of him he couldn't place him.
"Theodore," said the main, pointing back to himself.
Suddenly, it clicked for Rupert. "Razor," he replied. "Teddy 'the Razor' Buchanan." Pieces began to fall into place.
Long before he had become a watcher; before he had settled into the life of a 'settled' Englishman, Rupert Giles had raised hell, both literally and figuratively. He had been a punk in every sense of the word, although it was before the actual punk music fad had spread throughout the world. Back then it had been the Who and the Doors. Rock music, disaffected youth, whiskey and cigarettes and girls.
And demons.
Back then, Rupert had been known as 'Ripper', mainly for his ability to play guitar. He'd also been a member of the cult of Eyghon. Eyghon, the demon, whom they would summon when high and wound and feeling immortal. The magic was like a drug to them all, and summoning Eyghon brought on the magic.
Razor had been a member too, although he looked quite a bit different then. He hadn't ever been part of the summoning of Eyghon, which is the only reason he was still alive today. Eyghon had destroyed the others. The years of hard living had not been kind to Teddy Buchanan. Giles smiled as best he could at his old chum. Teddy had been the oldest of them back then, and now he wore every year on his stocky frame as if it were two.
"Good to see you, Razor," he managed at last. "Nice place you have," he added.
Razor simply nodded, glancing back at MacKenzie. "I see now," he muttered. "I see why it has to be here, and him."
Rupert wondered for a moment who Razor was talking about. There was only one person who he could remember that Teddy had ever felt that way about.
And then the pieces all jumbled together. One person who could do this spell. One person who was tied to Razor and himself. One person whom Razor hated. One person who couldn't be trusted. Rupert didn't bother to look behind him as the footsteps approached.
"Hello, Ethan," he said.
"Ripper, old chum. It's so good to be a free man again."