Chapter 6
Puzzle Pieces
Thursday, 5:33 AM
Willow Rosenberg woke slowly, the gossamer dawn light drifting lazily though the seams between weathered boards. The light, if it could be called that, was still merely a hint of what the sunrise would eventually be. The shadows around her were still quite deep and dark. She blinked several times, driving back the tears which were always just on the edge of falling.
The bite of cold touched her deeply. It had rained last night, and the temperature had dropped as well. Her muscles protested as she huddled deeper into her sleeping bag and began to shiver. Stilling her breathing, she could still hear a faint drip, drip of the water coming off the eaves.
She let the breath go and inhaled deeply, taking in the sharp scent of aged hay and older wood, rusting iron and stagnant water. This was, she reflected, the first time she'd ever slept in a barn. The hay was quite comfy, but it tended to make her nose itch. She sniffled a bit, then closed her red-rimmed eyes once again to try and return to sleep. The effort was fruitless, though.
Willow was awake, and with the waking came the bone-deep sense of desperation that had followed her for so long. Tara was gone – she was never coming back to her. The tears began to fall again. First, she cried for the loss of her lover. But then, as the mental movie played once more in her mind, she cried for the loss of her own soul.
She hadn't lost it completely, but that was of little consequence. In the grief and rage following Tara's senseless death, she had let evil consume her. She had drawn every bit of dark power to her in order to seek revenge. She'd had her revenge – part of it, at least. She'd killed Warren, the man who had killed Tara. Actually, she'd flayed him – one flip of her hand had stripped him of his skin. His agony had been palpable, and … delicious. She'd reveled in his pain; she'd gloried in his desperation. She had been lost to everyone, including herself.
And the madness that ensued had driven her to try to destroy the world. The entire planet – kablooey. It scared her still, not so much that she had tried, but knowing how close she'd come. She had within her the power. She could annihilate the planet, or anyone on it. She could become the Queen of a damned world, if she so chose.
None of that, however, would bring Tara back. None of it would matter.
No one had been able to stop her. Not Giles, with the power loaned to him by this coven. Not the Slayer. No one. She couldn't be stopped. But she could be reached. And that's what Xander had done. He'd reached her. Xander Harris, her best friend since kindergarten, the only one in their intrepid band with no supernatural powers or background, had saved the world. Not by stopping her, but by reaching her.
In the end, she'd collapsed: broken, grieving, and empty. She had much to atone for. Worse still, she had proven her power. She had proven that not only could she command force on a nearly galactic scale, but that she couldn't control it. It would consume her if she used it. Which is how she'd ended up here.
Well, not here in the barn, but here in England. Giles had taken her from Sunnydale and brought her to Gretta Stevenson and her coven. It was the same coven that had loaned Giles their powers to try and combat her. And reluctantly, Gretta has taken on the task of trying to teach her. She was here to learn how to control her power.
Madame LaFusce, the rogue watcher who had been a key player in their battle (and almost defeat) with the Ring of Arinoth had said that if Willow had been born here, in England, she would've been trained in the proper use of her magic. Instead, being born in America ('the colonies' as she referred to it) had left her wild and undisciplined. What she should've been learning since puberty she was now trying to force into a few months. The only other choice was, perhaps, to have her powers stripped.
At this point, Willow was okay with that option. She figured that if she didn't have any power, she couldn't hurt anyone ever again. Giles, however, was against it. That power didn't just 'go away'. It went somewhere, into someone's possession. It was difficult to control what happened to it, and that made the process very risky.
Further, the spell was very dangerous, both to Willow and to the casters. The risk of psychic injury to Willow was very high. Worse, though, was the risk that her power might fight back. Even if she didn't want it to, the magic inside her might … react. And that reaction could be devastating to everyone.
Giles had, instead, argued long and hard to allow Willow to be trained. She had already become evil, 'gone dark', once. In the minds of some that made her a severe risk for becoming dark once again, but Giles argued the opposite. Willow was a good person who had seen the dark side and was forever haunted by it. She would resist the temptation, the pull, with all her might. She would dampen the power, deny it if need be, to keep from going there again. On the other hand, putting this power in the hands of someone untried would almost assuredly guarantee that they would be called down the dark path before they even knew it. While it was a risk that Willow might go dark again, in the hands of someone else it was a certainty.
Some had been swayed, slightly; however, it hadn't been enough to convince them. But there were other discussions, Willow knew. She hadn't been allowed to be part of them, but Giles had told her. The community of witches at large knew that there were great things afoot: momentous things. The power had to be harnessed, had to be brought to bear for the power of good. Everything from the stars to portents to prophecies pointed that there was something very dark growing, moving – and that it would eventually lead to either a cataclysm … or a profound change in the very nature of the Slayer.
Had Willow been anyone else, she would have still been stripped of her powers. But they all knew about her closeness to the Buffy – the Slayer. Her power needed to be close to the Slayer, and the only way to assure that was to make sure that she kept it. Some took it as a sign that the most powerful wicca in a millennium came part and parcel with the Slayer. Others, though less inclined to see the hand of destiny in it, were practical enough to grant the logic of it.
And so, the magic community at large had voted to allow her to be trained. And Gretta Stevenson and her coven had gotten the job. It was not a plum assignment. To begin with, they were all scared of her. They tried their best to make her feel welcome, to make her feel comfortable, but their own fear rose off them like a mist. Willow could sense the whispers behind her back, and the desperation in the lessons. Teaching her was like trying to teach a ticking nuclear weapon sitting in your living room.
And there were other considerations, as well. Everything about her training, about her power, about herself, had been kept from the Watchers as much as possible. Giles knew that there were still elements in the group that could not be trusted. He made every attempt to maintain the strictest secrecy about the decision making process. Even more than that, though, had been any information about Gretta.
Only a handful of people knew that it was Gretta Stevenson who was training Willow. That had been kept on the strictest need-to-know basis. Everyone knew that it was vital that her location be kept secret. There were too many leaks in the watchers, and possibly even in the other covens. Willow was very powerful and very vulnerable right now. It was imperative that they keep her from being misused.
So, on top of all the various concerns, Gretta and her coven had to maintain secrecy. In addition to having to watch the threat in their midst, they had to watch for threats from the outside. Willow had put them all at double risk. In general, they had all put on a brave face, but the strain was telling.
And then had come the phone call. All Willow knew was that it had been Giles; she didn't know what he had said. Whatever it was, though, had caused near panic. The coven had thrown together supplies and taken off, heading for the country. They had arrived last night, late, to this old farmhouse. The looks they had all cast her way made Willow extremely uncomfortable.
So, when they were all seemingly occupied, she had grabbed a sleeping bag and slipped out to the barn. She wanted to be alone, and she thought it likely that they wouldn't mind if she was far away from them. She had clambered up to the hay loft, crawled into the sleeping bag, and gone quickly to sleep.
Her dreams had been without incident, as far as she could remember. But now, in the growing half-light of dawn, the world of her emotions was swirling around her once again. Once again, she brushed back the approaching tears. She swallowed a couple of breaths, and tried to compose her thoughts.
Her lessons drifted into her mind, nearly unbidden. She had regularly taken comfort in those since she'd been here. Perhaps she could find comfort in them once again, here in the damp and cold hay loft. She slowed her breathing, willing herself to relax. Her eyes narrowed to half-slits and she felt the power within herself.
She centered it – that is, she visualized the wild energies cascading throughout her body and pictured herself gathering them together into a single, multi-colored ball in the center of her chest. As she did, the sound of her own heartbeat grew stronger and louder in her ears. She could feel it thrum down the length of her limbs. It vibrated each hair on her body. Like feelers, they grew sensitive to the power.
Then, she began expanding that visualized ball. She spread it out, feeling what it felt as it began to touch beyond her. The straw, the wood, the gentle breeze. The hard wood beneath her had once been a mighty oak tree. She could feel the echoes of its once-life, its branches waving in the wind. She could feel the years of its life in this barn, as well. Sense the cycle of planting and harvest, of gentle winters and bitter ones, and of the echoes of midnight romps in the hay. Echoes all, they left their sensations here for her to read.
Slowly, she expanded her ball of energy still further, through the hay. A few feet away she touched another life. Its heart beating far more rapidly than hers, its small feet scratching through the hay, its hairless tale giving it balance as it moved through the world of semi darkness –
Willow sat bolt and began slapping at her sleeping bag. The bubble of energy popped as she scrambled furiously to get out of a prone position and stand. Once standing, still dressed in last night's clothes, she took many deep breaths to calm down.
"Okay," she said aloud, just to hear her own voice. "Note to self, country barns have mice." She had faced demons and hellmeisters aplenty. She'd seen things that were repulsive as only the netherworld could be. And yet, her tone of voice made it clear that potentially sleeping with mice took the prize. She took several more breaths. "You'd think that after caring for the Amy-rat, I'd be used to them." She laughed a bit at herself. Took another breath, and shook her head. She was being silly. It had only been a little mouse, more afraid of her than she was of it.
There was nothing here to be scared of.
* * *
In the shadows of the barn, back beyond horse stalls, a pair of piercing, glowing eyes peered out. She was … humorous. He allowed himself a little laugh at her, so powerful and still so, so frail. She was, after all, merely human. He cast his eyes about again, taking in everything. Not just what was in the barn, but also what was beyond it. He could see through the old wooden walls as if they weren't even there. He could hear the conversations in the main house as if her were standing in their midst. All was well, so far.
Mr. Gray took a moment to adjust his suit, and then folded his arms and settled back to his watching.
* * *
"Have we got anything?" Jonathan asked. He had just walked into the records room carrying several cups of tea and one triple latte. The team was gathered round, passing notes back and forth. Darla and Alicia were just awake, getting caught up on what had been discovered and where they were going to pick up from. Eric and Jerome were getting ready to take their turn at a few hours sleep. Jonathan checked his watch. "It's six. Jerome, I told Jen that you had something to do for me and that you couldn't be in before ten. Darla, she'll need you in by seven."
"Thanks Jonny," Jerome replied through a yawn.
"Aye," Darla nodded. "She kept about a third of the lads in last night, wants the rest in this morning. Everyone's on pager duty, though. We're just waiting for a hit on something."
"Do we have any hits on anything?"
Eric raised his hand. "Something kind of odd, yeah," he said, tapping his computer screen. "Remember that computer file restore we mentioned yesterday? Well, something else got restored with it. You won't believe what."
"Go on, then," Jonathan was not in a mood for guessing games.
"Sir Mark Blackwell's private encryption key." That was very unusual indeed. Encryption works with a pair of keys – the public key and the private key. What the public key encrypts, only the private key can decrypt, and vice versa. If something was encrypted with the private key, than anyone could read it with the public key, but the authorship would be without question. Likewise, anything encrypted with the public key could only be read with the private key.
The private keys were issued on smart cards. Only the individual to whom it belonged possessed it. It was common practice, then, for individuals to secure their documents by encrypting them with the public key. Then, only they could decrypt them using their smart card. Further, the smart card would only release the key once a password had been entered. And, for those with sufficiently high intelligence rankings, the smart card reader required fingerprint identification in addition to the other two. The system used a triple form of authentication – something you know (the password), something you have (the smartcard), and something you are (your fingerprint) in order to release the private key.
There was, however, one loophole. A copy of each private key was kept in a secure computer used to create the smart cards. After all, what would happen if one of the cards got damaged? You couldn't very well tell an MP, 'Oh well, your S-O-L, bub. You'll never be able to read those files again.' However, getting to that key backup was next to impossible. "The best part about this, though, is that it's the source file. It's not on a smart card, so we don't have any of the other smart card security to deal with. No fingerprint scan, no password."
"I take it you checked on who accessed the backup system already." Jonathan made it a statement. He knew that his team was competent.
"Uniform on duty, sir. Sergeant Bradley Pickins. It seems that Sir Mark managed to burn a hole in his smart card with an errant fireplace ember the night before last. He came in first thing yesterday, turned in the old card for destruction and had the new one issued."
"And Mr. Pickins?"
"Clean as a whistle." Jonathan chewed his lip, trying to puzzle it out. "I have a theory of my own," Eric volunteered. Jonathan nodded. "It takes a while for the smart card to be built – say about ninety seconds. During that time, the private key is sitting on the machine that is building the card. Then it's destroyed. If someone knew that Sir Mark was going in to get a new card issued, and they had the clearance, they might've been able to lift a copy of the key during that time window."
"That's a lot of 'if's, though." Jonathan waggled a finger. "In order for that to work, they would have to know that Sir Mark was going to need a new card. I don't see how that could be possible, unless they arranged for that ember to land on the smart card."
"Well," said Jerome, thinking through in his own mind. "I think it could be done, actually. I mean, it depends on whether or not he saw the ember land there, or just found the burn mark and assumed it had been from an ember."
"So, you're saying someone deliberately damage the card, and then let him make up his own explanation for how it had happened." Jonathan nodded. "That would work. Then you know he's coming in for a new card, and you have everything in place to lift the key in the ninety or so seconds that it's sitting there."
"Not impossible," Alicia said. "But how likely is it?"
"Well, it could also be done by magic," Jerome retorted, smiling wickedly.
"Oh for God's sake," Darla replied. Jonathan held up his hand to forestall any further discussion along that line.
"Never mind that for now," he said, thinking through his options. "We'll not look a gift horse in the mouth. Alicia, see what you find using this key. We need to know what else Sir Mark has been involved in." Alicia nodded. This was going to be interesting, snooping around the foreign office files. "Darla, keep tabs on their search for Gretta Stevenson. If they get a solid lead on it, I want to know about it first." Darla nodded. "Eric, you get some sleep. In four hours, I want to know who made this little gift for us."
"Got it," Eric replied, stifling a yawn.
"Jerome, I think I really do have a task for you. I'm afraid you're not going to be getting any sleep."
"If you can go without, so can I," Jerome replied. No one had wanted to mention to Jonathan that he hadn't gotten any sleep, either. It wouldn't have been politic. Jerome, however, seemed to manage to slip it in quite elegantly.
"I've been tracking down rumors all night, and I think I found something. Sir Radcliffe's body was never found." They all stared at him, dumbfounded. All their eyes seemed to say the same thing, You don't think he's still alive, do you? "I think Sir Radcliffe knew that the Weber Institute was up to no good, and I think he put MacKenzie on that team to stop it. Then there's an attempt on his own life, and yes, I think it's distinctly possible that he's survived. And if he did …" he let the thought land, trying to see who would come to the inevitable conclusion.
Unsurprisingly, it was Jerome who put the pieces together the fastest. "If he did, he's been running MacKenzie as his own private agent this whole time, trying to take down the Weber Institute."
"That's what I'm thinking," Jonathan said.
"You're leaping to a whole lot of conclusions," Alicia commented. "You don't have any kind of evidence to support this."
"I know," Jonathan replied. "So it's time we test the theory. Jerome, I want you to go lean on Sir Mark Blackwell. Lean hard. I want a name, or an address, or something. I mean it." Jerome nodded. "He gets to the foreign office by eight o'clock. Catch him before then." He turned his attention to Alicia. "Get cracking on those files. Make sure Jerome has something to use for leverage by the time he catches up with Blackwell."
They all nodded. Jonathan got up and ran a nervous hand through his hair. "In the meantime, I'm going out to Heathrow. Mr. Giles returned to this country five weeks ago. I want to see the footage of his arrival for myself."