Chapter 7

Remembered Rituals

Thursday, 6:03 AM

            "Morning, Ripper." Although the sun was just beginning to peak above the horizon, MacKenzie was already awake, dressed, and enjoying his second cup of coffee. He had, in fact, already done a perimeter check while it was still dark, armed with stealth and a compact rifle. There had been nothing to worry him. He had only gotten a couple hours of sleep, but it would take several days of that before he began to lose effectiveness. He could easily operate for seventy-two hours straight without rest, and had done so on several occasions. Eventually he would need to sleep – deeply, in a place where he felt reasonably safe – but that wouldn't be for some time.

            He sipped his coffee, taking in the disheveled Rupert Giles. It didn't look like the man had slept a wink. The circles under his eyes were dark, his eyes somewhat haunted. But he had slept, Mac knew. Fitfully, yes, but sleep was sleep. Mac pointed towards the coffee pot and Giles helped himself to a cup. "So," Mac ventured, a quirky smile on his face, "how's your first morning as a wanted terrorist?"

            Rupert, or Ripper as he was now being called, took the comment with humor. "I'm not sure I feel any different," he said, rubbing his hand over the stubble on his chin. "On the other hand, I'm sure there are many out there who might feel differently about me." He sat and looked at MacKenzie, and for the first time it dawned on him that he was seeing the 'real' Mac, not the magic borne illusion. Instinctively, he reached up to grasp the key he was still wearing.

            "You're illusion's still in place, don't worry," said Mac over the rim of his coffee cup. "But I recommend you take it off before you try to shave."

            Ripper cocked his head to one side, considering the illusion from that angle. "I hadn't really thought of that," he replied. "But you're quite right, that could prove quite difficult. It's a good thing I haven't got a haircut scheduled anytime soon." He shrugged once again, and drank his coffee.

            Ten minutes later, they were both draining their cups and feeling more refreshed. "Go get cleaned up," Mac said, picking up the two cups and carrying them to the sink. "He'll see you as soon as you're ready."

            "I'm ready now," Giles offered, but Mac shook his head. It wouldn't do for Ripper to meet Sir Radcliffe looking like a rumpled alley cat. Besides, there was time enough for civility. Ripper desperately wanted to forge ahead as quickly as possible, and, by extension, for it all to be over as quickly as possible. But as often was the case, they were in the 'wait' phase of 'hurry up and wait'. They couldn't leave again until this evening, so there was no need to rush through things this morning. Besides, this would be a meeting of some significance; best that it all be done correctly.

            "There's time enough for a bit of civility," Mac replied. "Besides, he's not ready to meet you quite yet. Go get cleaned up, you'll feel better." It was a dismissal, which Ripper knew, and he took it that way. Without a word, he turned and left.

            Mac finished with the cups and then turned off the coffee pot. They could always reheat it later. Then he went out and checked on the jeep, making sure that everything was in place should they need a quick getaway. He didn't think they would, but luck favored those who were prepared. When he returned to the house, Ripper was descending the stairs, clean and dressed, although still a bit dripping. He had chosen to leave off the illusion, which was good. It would've been required of him anyway, and having him do it without being asked demonstrated a certain level of awareness that Mac felt was important. Mac motioned for him to follow, and then led the way to the study at the back of the house.

            Reaching the doors he knocked, just as he had the night before, pausing only for a moment and then turning the handle. The door opened easily, and he led the way in. The room was a bit different than the previous night. The chairs and table had been moved to stand against the walls, leaving a large open area in the center of the room. In that space, over the old mahogany floors, had been spread out a carpet of alternating black and white diamonds. In the center of that had been placed a small table, upon which stood a large, old Bible and several other items. The fire in the hearth had gone out, but the Sun's rays were beginning to penetrate the old, glazed windows to provide illumination.

            Ripper only had a few moments to take it all in, because he was immediately approached by a white-haired old man in an immaculate black suit. The suit itself was cut in an antique fashion, but it had every appearance of being brand new. The man reached his hand out to him and took his, which Ripper gave to him automatically. The grip was firm, the shake vigorous. The voice, which he had expected to be frail but was quite the opposite, was tinged with barely suppressed glee.

            "Mr. Giles, Mr. Giles, what a pleasure to finally meet you." He pumped his hand once more but didn't let go. "Mr. MacKenzie has told me so much about you, but it is a rare pleasure to meet you at last in person. A rare pleasure indeed. Positively capital." The sparkle in the old man's eyes seemed to penetrate Ripper, the smile on the man's face was infectious. The old man continued to smile as he placed his left hand over their clasped right hands. And then, quite without warning, the grip of the handshake changed.

            The smile on the old man's face remained exactly as it had been, his eyes looking somewhat expectantly into Ripper's. But under the cover of his left hand, his right one changed, the position and the pressure adjust just … so. It was a signal, one to which Ripper knew the appropriate reply. He adjusted his own part of the grip accordingly, and the old man's smile brightened just a little bit more. The sign and countersign had been given.

            "Then you are a mason, I presume," the old man said simply. The innocuous statement was much more than it appeared, though; Ripper responded with the ritual reply. The old man nodded, and released his hand. He turned to MacKenzie. "Well done. This will be much simpler, much simpler indeed."

            "I'm not sure I understand," Ripper stated. "What does the fact that I'm a Freemason have to do with any of this?" He had joined the lodge of Freemasons in his late twenties. It had been the same lodge his father had been a member of, and after having been quite a hell-raiser (both literally and figuratively), it symbolized his reformation. He had learned his parts of the ritual, and had been active for the first few years. But the work of the Watchers had moved him around, and he had quite unintentionally grown away from the organization. Once he had moved to Sunnydale, his disassociation had been complete.

            The old man didn't stop smiling, but his tone grew slightly more serious. "There is much you need to know," he said, then paused to think through what he needed to stay. "Much of what I have to tell you is … sensitive. So much so that it must be communicated in absolute secrecy, and held as such. One such way to do this is within a Freemason's lodge."

            Ripper understood, now. The word 'lodge' was used to mean several things. A lodge of Freemasons was, in the strictest sense, the group of people who comprised it. It was the membership. The word was also used to designate the place where that membership met. But the phrase within a lodge was more specific still. It meant during a ritual meeting of Freemasons.

            A meeting of Freemasons was opened and closed with ritual, which for most masons was simply the process that was used to call the group to order. But for those like Ripper who were familiar with nature and structure of magic, it was far more than that. It was a process of erecting wards to guard against outside incursion, and to bind those inside at an esoteric level to the oaths they had sworn there – to not betray the secrets of the lodge. For most Masonic meetings, the ritual was empty of esoteric power, because the masons who practiced it were simply not magicians.

            Ripper remembered, though, the powerful magic that guarded this house already. This ritual opening would be laced with magic, because the old man in front of him was so powerful, or at least had access to something that gave him power. The house was already warded against intrusion, so there was little need for that. However, the opening would bind all of them to their oaths – to not betray the secrets that would be revealed in the meeting. That binding by such strong magic, especially given the depth of those oaths, would be formidable.

            Ripper nodded. "How did you know that I was a Freemason?"

            The old man's eyes twinkled. "Ah, I have my ways, yes. But knowing that you had once been an active member of a lodge was sufficient only to make plans. I needed to be sure that you remembered the ritual, and the oath, before I could act on them. You have given me that confirmation, and therefore we can proceed." He turned and walked over to a space on the opposite side of the room, on the very edge of the diamond pattern carpet. The windows on that side were awash with the sunrise, and Ripper realized that it was the east end of the room. The significance was not lost on him.

            "There are three of us," the old man said. "That is enough to open. Mr. MacKenzie, if you will take your station in the West, please. Mr. Giles, please take the South." And with that, the ritual opening was begun.

* * *

Jerome Barrington sipped a cup of tea from a paper cup. The early dawn was chilly, and he was low on sleep. But the shiver he got was from neither of those issues; he shivered in excitement. He was on the hunt, and in only a few moments his prey would walk into his unsuspecting trap. On mornings like this, Jerome loved his job.

He was standing behind a wall just outside Sir Mark Blackwell's townhouse. Sir Blackwell had been disinclined to meet with MI-5 this morning when Jerome had called twenty minutes before. He knew that meant that Sir Mark was also going to instruct his secretary that he would be unavailable for the rest of the day, at least as far as MI-5 was concerned. And by lunch time the PM would have called the Crombey demanding to know why they wanted to talk so badly to the foreign secretary, and the whole thing would be scrapped.

Jerome was disinclined to let that happen. So he waited outside the Sir Mark's home, hidden from all eyes inside the house. He knew what was going to happen next. The black sedan pulled up to the curve as it did every morning at this time. Sir Mark would see it, put on his coat, garb his case, and walk out the door. Then Jerome would have him.

            The driver got out of the car and approached him, clearly on guard. He was more than a driver, he was security as well. Jerome would've been quite disappointed if his presence had not aroused the driver's suspicions. Jerome slowly took his ID out and showed to the man. "Barrington, MI-5. The foreign secretary and I are going to take a little walk. You can follow along in the car, but you can't listen in. Got it?"

            A close inspection of the credentials was all that was required. The driver turned and got back into the car just as Sir Mark Blackwell walked out the gate. He looked from the driver to Jerome, his face contorted with confusion and distrust. Jerome held up the ID, still in his hand. "Sir Mark," he stated with a nod.

            "I told you that I'm disinclined to speak with you today, and waiting outside my house isn't going to make me any more inclined to help you. The PM is going to hear about this!" His heavy jowls were tinged red with his anger, but Jerome smiled coolly at him.

            "Collum MacKenzie committed an act of terrorism yesterday, Sir Mark. Now I'd like to know why you were arranging for the release of a U.S. prisoner into his custody just four days ago." Jerome smiled predatorily. The information from the Foreign Secretary's encrypted files had given him plenty of leverage.

            Sir Mark's face underwent several sudden transformations: shock, livid anger, and then cold, calculating solidity. "What do you want?" he hissed.

            "Let's take a walk," Jerome replied. Sir Mark Blackwell complied.

* * *

            In the center of the room, the large Bible now stood open, the square and compasses set on the open page. This was the external symbol that the lodge was open and in session. At an esoteric level, though, it was much more. They formed an anchor point in the center of the room, half-way between the east and west stations, and directly aligned with the south station. These three stations were the border points which defined the scope and limits of the wards that had been raised during the opening ritual. The power of those wards derived from the power of the symbols set at anchor – the Bible, square and compasses. Within the sacred confines of this warded area, the men were both protected from outside intrusion and bound to their oaths as Freemasons.

            The old man cleared his throat, and sighed, letting the power they had just raised settle about his shoulders like a mantle. He sat in the East, the position of the Worshipful Master of the Lodge. Opposite him, in the West, sat MacKenzie, taking on the role of the Senior Warden. In the South sat Ripper, the Junior Warden.

            Normally, a lodge could only be opened at its designated location unless special permission had been given by the overseeing body, in this case the Grand Lodge of England. It was important that the lodge be anchored as much as possible to a fixed place and a fixed schedule. Indeed, lodges were tied not only to physical locations, but were chartered to have a scope and authority over a particular region. Ripper had become a member of Dumbarton Lodge number 419, which was the lodge for that town. A lodge did not travel, even when its membership did. There were known exceptions, of course – the Grand Lodge of Texas had given a special charter to Buzz Aldrin, who had carried it with him on the Apollo space missions and through it formed Tranquility Lodge number 2000, whose location and scope covered the moon. The membership of Tranquility lodge were unable to meet at its proper location (lacking regular space travel), and so had been granted permission to meet at more convenient, terrestrial locations.

            With that history firmly in mind, Ripper was surprised to hear the lodge opened as Logus en Persona au Dispentatia Perpatua – a lodge in the person of the Worshipful Master operating with perpetual dispensation. He'd never heard of such a thing, and looked worriedly towards the old man. If this were not a regular, legal lodge, he could be disbarred from his other lodge for so associating with it.

            Sir Radcliffe had noticed Ripper's hesitation during the opening ritual, and knew that he had to get a number of things clarified right off the bat before he could launch into the important parts of his story. "My name," he began, thinking it best to get that out of the way up front, "is Sir Radcliffe Holm. I was, until recently, the Director of Special Projects for her Majesty's military. It was I who made sure that Captain MacKenzie was put on Sheffield's team when they were sent to Sunnydale, knowing that they had to be stopped, and that Mac would be just the person to do it.

            "As you can no doubt surmise, I no longer hold that position, but that is merely a misunderstanding. I have been presumed dead for nearly two years now, and it has served my purposes for that belief to linger, especially in the mind of our common enemy.

            "As for this Lodge - en Persona au Dispentatia Perpatua – I can assure you that it operates under a legal charter from the Grand Lodge of England. It is, to the very extent of my knowledge, the only one of its kind. Of course, it was created in deepest secrecy at a time of great urgency, and there is no doubt that others could have been created in similar circumstances."

            "What circumstances are those?" Ripper asked, curious now, although not completely convinced.

            "This one was created in World War II, the charter given to me that I may open and invoke lodge under my own authority, wherever need be, and under whatever circumstances. The reason was simplicity itself. Meetings needed to be held, and those meetings needed to be bound in secrecy and security. You have no doubt sensed the power of the bindings in place in this lodge. Those come not from me, but from certain artifacts molded to this purpose. I was able to carry those artifacts with me, often into occupied or enemy territory, and with them open a protected lodge. Within the strictures of this power, those attending the lodge were bound to secrecy. Within them, plans were made to stop the evil spreading across the land – plans which could not be revealed to anyone else, even if the person wanted to. The magic prevented that." Sir Radcliffe's eyes took on a slightly dreamy expression, remembering times past. "Indeed," he whispered, almost to himself, "even when we were infiltrated by Nazi spies, they could not reveal our plans to anyone, or betray us in any way. It was dangerous work, yes, but it saved many lives."

            The explanation made sense. Ripper could see how that kind of power used in this way could be a great accomplishment, how it could assure the secrecy of those whose very lives depended on it. That kind of power was not easy to come by, though. "Where did you come by those artifacts?"

            "They were made for us," Sir Radcliffe replied, and then smiled like a child with a secret, "by the Watcher's Council." This took Ripper back, and the surprise showed on his face. Sir Radcliffe smiled in delight. It was not often anymore that he was able to surprise someone, especially with his self-imposed exile. It was a special treat for him to be able to do so. "At the time, the Watcher's Council was as threatened as we were by the Nazis. More so, since Hitler was obsessed with finding magical artifacts to aid his conquest of the world. We could trust them, then."

            "Who is 'we'" The use of the plural had been bothering Ripper.

            "The government, in general. Special Projects, in particular. But …" He drew the word out, letting it hang in the air for moment as his mind flashed back again to those days. "At a more personal level, I mean the Queen and I. We could trust the Council then. They aided us, and we protected them."

            Ripper filled in the rest of the unspoken thought. "That was before Arinoth grew to power with the Council, and corrupted it, though."

            "Quite right." Sir Radcliffe's eyes were pulled back to the present, and the sparkle of anticipation had returned. "In truth, it's my own fault. Arinoth found out about the watchers through me. If I had been more on guard, more aware of what he really was, I would never have told him. But we had been friends a long time. It's hard to imagine that after all we had seen and been through that I didn't really know him at all."

            "How did you meet him?" Ripper asked. It was the next logical question.

            "We were both teachers at Oxford," Sir Radcliffe replied. "I taught mathematics, he taught natural philosophy. It lacked the scientific focus the topic has now, but the students liked it. It was … how do you say it? … an 'easy A'." He hummed to himself for a moment, drawn back to those early days. "It was much different then than today, of course. Much different."

            Ripper placed the man at being near eighty or so, but he couldn't have been older than twenty-five to have been a professor before the Great War. That seemed very unlikely, even for a prodigy. That would mean it would've had to have been after, sometime in the late 40s or early 50s. "This was after World War II, I take it."

            The old man smiled. "No, no. It was the summer of sixteen eighty-five."