Chapter 3
A Small Matter of Trust
Wednesday, 6:10 PM
Rupert didn't turn around to look at his once friend / often enemy – the notorious Ethan Rayne. He looked instead at MacKenzie. "You arranged his release, then?"
"Aye," said Mac, "it was necessary."
"Aren't you glad to see me, Ripper?" Ethan said, and Giles finally turned around.
"Every time I've seen you, you've been trying to destroy me!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, that bit o' fun in Sunnydale? Please, Ripper, I served my time. I'm reformed now." The last time Rupert had seen Ethan, he was being dragged away by the U.S. Military on the orders of Riley Finn. There had been several times before that, including one Halloween where everyone had turned into whatever their costumes were. Ethan was an anarchist, pure and simple. He used his power, his magic – especially his ability to transform others – in order to create chaos. While he may have served his time in the U.S. penitentiary (and Rupert suspected that MacKenzie had arranged his release before that sentence had been completed), he would never be reformed. He could also never be trusted.
"Perhaps we should get ourselves a table over here and have this discussion in a bit of privacy." Mac's words left no room for argument. Rupert, Ethan, and he moved over into a corner. "Now then, Ethan lad, let's see what you've got to show us."
* * *
"I've got something!" exclaimed Analyst (2nd class) Miles Winthrop. He turned in his chair to survey the room, a large open space populated by desks, computers, phones, maps, and very frantic people. The MI-5 operations center was in full swing, all agents called in and placed to work.
The bee hive of activity vibrated with unsuppressed urgency. Less than two hours before, a bomb had detonated in a London suburb. The highly targeted blast had killed three men inside the truck, but injured no one on the street. Around the corner in an alley, another man lay shot to death; he had been carrying a compact machine gun. Within the building, a flat had been ransacked by another group – one member of which had been shot by Special Section officers when he brandished his gun.
In the intervening hour, MI-5 had been alerted and then mobilized. This was not a known terrorist group. They were operating – undetected – under their very noses. And it had erupted into violence. Number 10 was not happy, and they were demanding answers.
Section Chief Roger Crombey had already reached his very special level of pissed. This was generally reserved for truly severe screw-ups. Most of the staff of entry- and mid-level analysts had only heard of it, tales told in hushed tones in the lunch room. It was obvious that the PM had reached his very special place as well, and was directing the full energy of his pissedness at Roger Crombey. Roger, likewise, was directing his blasts of vitriol at the staff busily trying to sift enough clues out of the West End carnage.
Just ten minutes before, he had stormed out of his office after a particular vicious verbal flaying by the PM and announced that, "Whomever of you wishes to still have a job in the morning had better bring me something. NOW!" With that, he had marched back into his office and slammed the door with so much force that it was a wonder that the bullet-proof glass hadn't shattered.
And so, Analyst (2nd Class) Miles Winthrop breathed a huge sigh of relief after his supervisor had checked his work and patted him on the back. "Looks like you get to show up to work tomorrow," he said, handing the information to one of the agents. Miles managed a weak grin.
Agent Jonathan Trimble walked over to the Section Chief's office and rapped on the door. Crombey was looking through a file while another Agent, Jenny Thatcher, waited. Crombey looked up with mild irritation, but seeing that it was Jonathan, he waved him in.
Jonathan entered the office and carefully closed the door behind him. "One of the analysts got something," he said, walking up to the desk.
"First look at this." Crombey handed him the file. "That's the dead man in the apartment."
The file contained photos and background on Thomas Bennet, a former British Marine turned mercenary. He had mostly operated in the Balkans and Africa, organizing fighting troops and commando raids. He worked for whoever could afford him, showing no particular ties to any kind of cause or philosophy. He simply did what he was trained to do – kill the enemy. His last known sighting was nearly three years before in Kosovo. He had disappeared after that and had been presumed killed in action.
Trimble looked up from the report. "This doesn't hold at all," he said. "Bennet's never operated within the country, and he's never been tied to this kind of operation. He's an open range fighter, not a spy or a terrorist."
"Exactly our conclusion as well," replied Crombey. "What have you got?"
"South London phone box, fifty-two minutes after the blast. A call was made to one of the numbers that Rupert Giles had called seven times in the last thirty days." Trimble tapped on the conference table keyboard to bring up a set of images projected onto the far wall. "These were taken by an ATM machine's camera across the way."
The photos clearly showed Rupert Giles making a phone call. No one around him, no one threatening him. "Looks like our Mister Giles isn't a kidnap victim after all."
"Who'd he call?" Roger Crombey wasn't liking this at all.
"Gretta Stevenson, in Sussex. Police are on their way now and we should have a team on the ground there in seven minutes." Trimble hadn't waited for those orders. He knew what needed to be done. A small smile from Crombey was confirmation of that. "We're pulling her records now, but she definitely hasn't been red-flagged."
"Where are we on Mister Giles?" Crombey asked. Jenny Thatcher answered.
"He was a long-time employee of the Weber Institute, although it's not clear in what capacity. He worked as, of all things, a middle-school librarian in the United States as part of their 'cultural exchange' program."
"Cultural exchange, my arse," Crobey muttered.
"His employment with them was terminated three years ago, but then was reinstated with back pay. Quite mysterious. He's traveled back and forth between England and the United States several times. He's never shown up on our radar before this."
"What do we have on the Weber Institute?" Crombey asked. Jenny hesitated, her eyes shifting to Trimble and back to Crombey. "It's all right, Jonathan needs to know."
"They're listed as 'Do Not Investigate'" she stammered. "Queen's Seal," she added. Crombey nearly choked.
"Bloody Hell!" he exclaimed. "Get Number 10 on the phone, right now. I want this Weber Institute thing opened up."
"That won't be necessary," a voice said from the door.
"What the – " Jonathan began, but the figure in the doorway held up his hand.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Reginald Turcey. I'm from the Weber Institute. Her Majesty has asked me to cooperate with your investigation." Everyone in the room looked dumbfounded. Reginald Turcey, the Fourth Speaker of the Ring of Arinoth, smiled and entered the office. "Let's see if we can't find Mr. Giles together," he said, then smiled to hide the menace in his eyes.
* * *
"What makes you think we can trust him?" Rupert asked MacKenzie, glowering at Ethan.
"Show him," Mac replied.
Ethan moved his chair away from the table and pulled up his pants leg. An electronic tracking bracelet was snapped around it. More and more these were used for non-violent criminals, placing them under 'house arrest'. They could serve out their sentence in a highly restricted lifestyle, allowing them only to go to work and home and practically nowhere else. For the benefit of this freedom they were no longer a burden to the government for their room and board.
The bracelet locked onto the ankle and couldn't be removed without setting off an alarm. It was worn twenty-four seven, even in the shower. It used GPS to track the prisoner, and could communicate back to the tracking authority wirelessly. It was not a fool-proof system, but it was highly reliable. And while it wasn't real freedom, it sure beat the inside of a prison cell.
"So, in exchange for this, he's agreed to help us?" Rupert shook his head. "What's to stop him from double-crossing us? There's no telling what he could do with the spell once we're out of sight."
"Aye, well that," MacKenzie said. "That there is a very special model that I've built myself. I can call it up from anywhere. And if I do, well, let's just say that there's no amount of magic that can stand up to a couple hundred thousand volts." MacKenzie smiled a predatory smile at Ethan. "As long as his spell keeps working, he stays alive. If I even think he's double-crossed us, they'll be using dental records to identify him."
Everyone looked back and forth across the table at one another. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Rupert didn't think it could get much more desperate than this. They needed Ethan and his magic for no other reason than that they could control Ethan and his magic, at least until he figured out how to circumvent the security measures. There was no question that he would try – he had probably been going through dozens of spell books already trying to find the right method to get him out of this predicament. It was only a matter of time, thought Giles.
It was, if anything, a gamble. MacKenzie was betting that he could get where he needed to go and do what he needed to do before Ethan found a way to get out of his slave chain and stop the spell's effects. MacKenzie was a gambler; Rupert was not. Immediately his mind began to swirl through possibilities. In the time they had, which could be weeks and could be hours, how could he prevent Ethan from double-crossing them? Was there some way he could duplicate the spell, or isolate it from Ethan's control? Nothing was immediately coming to mind, but he kept thinking through the ideas in the back of his mind. There was a way, he was sure of it. He only needed the chaos to stop long enough that he could think through the possibilities. In the meantime, though, Ethan was setting up his components. Rupert pushed the other thoughts to the back of his mind and watched the preparations.
Ethan set four candles on the table, each one at one of the cardinal compass points. In the center, he placed a small idol of Janus. It had been the Janus idol that had led to all of the problems in Sunnydale. The very thought brought shivers to Rupert's mind – that ghastly Halloween when everyone had become their costumes. Buffy, dressed as a fair maiden, had become completely helpless (and prone to the vapors); Willow, dressed as a ghost, had become insubstantial. Those who had dressed as goblins and demons, though, had become something much more frightful.
In front of the Janus idol he placed two packets of dried herbs. Rupert could make out the rosemary, baby's breath, and St. John's wort; there were, however, other ingredients he couldn't immediately identify in the bundle. Each bundle was tied with a purple silk ribbon.
Ethan then took out two keys, and slid one into each of the herb bundles. "These will be the keys to the transformation. The symbolism is rather simple, but I really didn't have time to prepare for something more sophisticated." He arched his eyebrows at them, making clear the implied disclaimer. "Now, then, the photos."
MacKenzie pulled out his wallet and drew out the driver's license. He motioned for Rupert to do the same. They handed Ethan the photo ID's, which he placed under the bundles. All was prepared. Ethan centered himself, drawing long, deep breaths. A silence seemed to settle around him despite the loud punk rock still blaring from the speaker system. Ethan hummed a tuneless drone to himself as he focused his magical energies on the task ahead.
He began first by invoking each of the protective spirits, symbolized by the four candles. Fire in the East, Water in the South, Wind in the West, and Earth in the North. As he called upon each one to offer its power and protection, the candle lit itself. When he had finished the final invocation, a light glow seemed to surround the table.
Gazing into the candle flames, Ethan settled even further into himself. His breathing became shallower, more urgent, until it seemed that he was going to hyperventilate himself into unconsciousness. Before that happened, though, he began a sing-song chant invoking the spirit of Janus.
Janus, the two faced god, one looking to the past and one to the future. Such a god also represented the power to change one face into another. And so Ethan requested of the old roman deity – that the face of the wearer of the key be made over in the likeness of the picture – that those who looked at him would see the false face, not the true one.
The eyes on the statue of Janus began to glow. Murmurings fell from its stone lips, and with them the keys began to glow. Again Ethan invoked the spirit of the old god, and again the murmurings issued from its stone lips. A third time the ritual was repeated, and this time the keys glowed hotly. Beneath them, the dried herbs charred and began to smolder, the smoke swirling around Janus's fierce eyes.
The hypnotic murmur died on Ethan's lips quite abruptly. And then, it was over. The candles faded into insignificance and died completely. The stone head of Janus became simply that, a stone. The glow of the keys subsided until they were simply dull metal once again.
With the fading of the spell, the surroundings seemed to drift back into focus. The punk rock music seemed to suddenly jump in volume, although Rupert knew that this was simply the effects of coming out of the enchantment and fully back to the real world. With the sound came the smell of sour beer and water pipe smoke. Rupert and MacKenzie shook themselves.
Ethan passed them each a key, now strung with a length of twine. "Put these around your neck," he instructed. "As long as you're wearing them, people will see the men in those photos." To Giles, it was eerily reminiscent of the Amulet of Arinoth, but he complied despite his misgivings. "It has to be kept next to the skin," Ethan added. Both MacKenzie and Rupert dutifully tucked the keys down inside their shirts.
The effect was instantaneous. Where they once had been, now stood two completely different people. The effect was not just their faces, either. Their body mass appeared proportionally altered, as well. As long as the effect held, they would be disguised from even the most careful visual inspection.
MacKenzie was now smaller, rounder, and balding. He seemed to be twenty to thirty years older, although still spry enough. Grey hair stood around the rim of his pate, not quite laying flat. All semblance to his Scottish heritage was gone; the figure he had become was clearly Saxon built.
"We're good now, right?" Ethan asked MacKenzie – or the figure that stood where MacKenzie had once been.
"Three days," the figure – MacKenzie – responded. The voice was older, more frail – but the accent was still strong. "If this holds up for three days, I'll deactivate my trap." He nodded once, firmly. While the face and body might seem to be someone else, the body language was all Mac.
There being nothing further to say, they left.
* * *
"Hold up, Jonathan," Crombey called as the staff walked out of the briefing area. Jonathan Trimble waited until everyone else had exited and then closed the door. He turned and glared at Crombey, clearly upset that Jenny Thatcher had been given the lead on tracking down Rupert Giles and former Captain MacKenzie. It wasn't that he thought that Jenny was incapable of the action, but he thought that in this case the 'A list' was required. That was clearly his team. Crombey, however, had allowed no discussion on the matter. Jenny and her agents were to work with Turcey; there were other issues that required Trimble's attention.
What those issues were, Jonathan didn't know. There was nothing else that had happened in the last two hours that could possibly compare with this threat. Besides, there was certainly quite a bit of this that wasn't adding up. Reginald Turcey had given them his story, but Jonathan wasn't buying..
The Weber Institute guarded the British Isles against non-traditional threats. What those threats were, Reginald was not at liberty to say. Rupert Giles had been one of their agents, but he had gone rogue. He was being aided by a former SAS commando, Captain MacKenzie. Together, they had stolen something valuable from the Institute, and they were hiding it. The Institute had put Rupert under surveillance in order to try and recover it, but he and MacKenzie had escaped them – killing four of their agents in the process. The Institute couldn't say what it was they had stolen, but it was important and it was dangerous, and they needed to find Rupert Giles in order to recover it. Captain MacKenzie, on the other hand, was expendable.
Several things were immediately suspect to Trimble. If Giles and MacKenzie were sophisticated enough to have stolen something as valuable as they say, and bloodthirsty enough to elude their surveillance with bombs and guns, how had he come under their surveillance in the first place? Giles had made no attempt to disguise his identity in any way; he had even rented the flat under his actual name. This was not the action of a master thief and a commando.
More importantly, Turcey had been too evasive on the nature of the threat. What threats did the Weber Institute protect us from? What had Giles stolen, and what kind of threat did it pose? Every time they tried to get any sort of detail, Turcey had invoked the Queen's Seal and shut down the conversation.
It seemed to Jonathan Trimble that they were going after two men with very little evidence, which wasn't too much of an issue in his mind. More importantly, they were going out with very little concept of what kind of threat they might be facing – that was a recipe for disaster. And Turcey's insistence on MacKenzie's expendability was even more suspect. Jonathan didn't trust a word the man was saying. However, Jonathan was not one to argue in front of the others.
He faced Crombey and waited. Crombey, for his part, rubbed eyes in frustration and gestured to a chair. Jonathan sat down. The moment began to grow uncomfortable, and then there was a discreet knock at the door. Another one of the agents stepped in and handed a folded piece of paper to Crombey, then turned and walked out without a word. Crombey examined the note and nodded.
"Alright, Jon, give me your honest assessment," he said.
"The whole thing stinks to high heavens," Trimble replied immediately.
"I agree," Crombey replied. He gestured to the note he just received. "So does Number 10. The PM has authorized us to ignore the Queen's Seal." He waited for Jonathan to absorb the import of that statement. If their suspicions did not prove out, they would all face disgrace. Or worse. "While Jenny is entertaining Turcey and looking for his missing agent, your team is going to find out what the hell this Weber Institute is up to. But no one is to know – this is top secret, even inside this office. Especially inside this office." With Reginald Turcey officially 'cooperating' with the investigation, Jonathan would need to run his operation secretly right under the man's nose.
"I was shutting down the Heathrow investigation, but I can use it as a cover for this."
"Good thinking," replied Crombey. "Now, I don't have to tell you, if the PM hadn't approved this it would be grounds for Treason."
"It's a good thing he approved it then." Jonathan eyed the note Crombey had received, sitting next to him on the table.
Crombey picked it up and dropped into the small shredder in one corner of the room. The machine whined as the note was destroyed. Crombry turned back to him. "All the same, let's make sure none of the MPs know. All right?"
Jonathan nodded once. He knew the unspoken truth. The PM hadn't approved the investigation. They were definitely operating outside the law. But Crombey was taking the potential blame for it all; Jonathan was operating under the belief that it had been approved, which officially absolved him of any culpability. But he knew the truth, and so he would do whatever he needed to in order to make sure that the investigation went on in absolute secrecy. He would protect Crombey just like Crombey was protecting him.
Jonathan Trimble left the room to go commit treason.