Chapter 14
The Old Network
Thursday, 6:05 PM
They abandoned the helicopter in a field about a hundred kilometers from the farmhouse. The flight had been tense, each of them privately wondering what would happen when they crashed. It seemed that crashing was inevitable, but by some miracle Mac had kept the helicopter aloft and going generally in the right direction. At least they assumed it was the right direction, since only he seemed to know where it was that he was heading.
The only piece of interesting conversation had been when Jonathan Trimble had actually introduced himself. It had been awkward and stilted, but he had felt that it was important to do so while they couldn't immediately leave him behind. "I should probably introduce myself," he'd said. "My name is Jonathan Trimble. I work for Her Majesty's Secret Service." There'd been a palpable silence. "I know who you are, of course. More importantly, I know what's going on."
"Do you, now?" MacKenzie's reply had been cuttingly dry.
"You're working for Sir Radcliffe Holm, trying to stop the Weber Institute from gaining control of the Slayer. When you brought her here to England, they took it as an opportunity to grab her, but you had her hidden away with Gretta Stevenson."
"He thinks I'm Buffy," Willow had bubbled, her ability to find something fun in even the most dire circumstance belying any logical explanation. "That is so cool. I can't wait till she finds out."
MacKenzie had smiled. "Well, with one small exception, he actually does know what's going on."
"I want to help," Jonathan had continued. "I don't think you can do this without me. The rest of MI-5 is after you. I can help."
"We'll see." MacKenzie had turned his attention back to flying. Twenty minutes later, he landed in the clearing, and they were off on foot.
They headed across the field, away from the helicopter and into a stand of trees. It was small stand of oak, and the four passed through it in a moment. Beyond it was roadway, and directly across from them a driveway. A small house was set back just beyond the line of sight, and Mac led them unerringly towards it. It was a short walk, but everyone felt their own tension build. Mac was confident, but the others had no idea where they were going … or why.
Just down the gravel roadway was a small rose garden, and they saw the old man working in it. He was large, once muscular, but age had turned the muscles to something in between muscle and fat, or a mixture of it. He still wore his hair in a military style buzz cut, although it was white where once it had been dark brown. He wore a short-sleeved shirt in the summer sun, the tattoos on his forearms faded but still visible. Even a blind man could see that he had once been a military officer.
He looked up as they approached, his heavy face turning into a broad smile. "MacKenzie, m'boy!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms out wide. In one had he held a small pair of clippers, but they dangled harmlessly away. He was glad to see them. "You've brought me visitors. Come, come." He waved them towards the house. "I'll put some tea on."
They wandered up to the house, the old man chattering about the roses. "The summer's a hot one, I've got to keep the water on them. And you've got to watch for the aphids. Nasty little bastards, I'll tell you." He went on, drawing them into the kitchen, where he set a kettle and began pulling out cups and tea. He quickly pressed Willow into service, which she was happy for, because it gave her something to do. "You remind me of my own daughter," he said. "Of course, it's been thirty years since she was your age." He laughed at that, a full, hearty laugh. His face creased with the humor.
He set the tea out around the table, and sat down. His next statement took them all by surprise. "So," he said, turning to MacKenzie, "are you still a terrorist?" He smiled broadly, but no one else did.
"Tom," Mac replied, "we need to steal your truck."
The old man laughed. "That's not going to get you into London. No." He shook his head. "They're going to be looking for you." He sipped his tea for a moment, thinking. "I can check with Brother Mansfield, his son works for Special Section. Just give me a moment."
He got up and went to the telephone. He dialed and waited, then spoke. "Robert! It's Tom. Have you heard from your boy? Anything about Brother MacKenzie? Ahh, good to know. Aye, he's here. Aye, I can keep him. Fine, fine. Call me then." He hung up the receiver and turned back to the group at the table. "I'm to keep you here for now. Mansfield will call when we have an opportunity to get you into London." They all just sat and looked at the old man.
"I suppose an explanation is in order," said MacKenzie.
* * *
Ethan Rayne drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He had only a moment to savor it, and then his head was thrust back under water. He struggled against the iron grip that held him there, his head locked in place. He held the breath until his lungs burned, hoping beyond hope that he would be given another chance at a breath. Stars danced in front of his eyes, and he felt that his lungs would pop. Just then, as he was about to pass out, he was hauled back out of the tank. He tried another breath, but that was forced out of his body as he was lifted high in the air.
The creature that held him was huge – it stood nearly twelve feet tall. It was twice as broad as a professional wrestler, all ebony muscle. Its hands wrapped around Ethan's head like a small apple, its talons digging into his scalp. It lifted him by the head and held him high above the cold, stone floor of the chamber, deep beneath the Earth.
The creature's bat wings flexed from its shoulders, spreading out and flexing. Its angled, chiseled face split in a death's head grin. Fangs shone vividly, three inch long teeth as sharp as razors. Deep red orbs gazed at Ethan, the jaws snapping absently. The creature gave Ethan a small shake, like an angry child with a rag doll.
Some part of Ethan's mind took note of the demon that held him. It wore only two things: a small set of cutoff pants – or trews as they were known – apparently made from human skin, and a glowing iron collar. It was the collar, of course, that drew Ethan's attention. It was completely incongruous with everything else he was seeing. The demon would surely be more than willing to simply snap him in half and eat him, but its will was not its own. It was a slave, doing a slave's bidding. But who is its master, he wondered, and then found himself plunged beneath the water once again.
* * *
"It's called 'the old network'." They were all sitting around in Tom's den, cozily finished in a style that had been popular in the forties. They had decided that they needed to get everyone onto the same page about what was going on, to get all of the information out and shared. That meant no holding back. It was a life and death situation, and they needed to know who they could rely on, what resources they had, and what they could count on. MacKenzie was explaining how he and Sir Radcliffe had worked, and how it was that they were getting help now.
"It's called that because most of us are old, y'see?" Tom laughed at his own joke, his face crinkling a bit.
"It's more true than you might think. The network is built in concentric rings, layers really. Not like cells, so much, but built through personal relationships. The first layer are people that worked with Sir Radcliffe in the resistance during World War II. Men like Tom here, old soldiers most of them." Tom shrugged a bit, depreciating his role in the whole affair. He would never claim to be a hero, despite the fact that he was exactly that. He didn't need that kind of validation, he only wished to serve his country.
"The network extends through the Lodges, mostly," Tom supplied. "Old friends, their children, their children's friends. In some cases even their grandchildren."
"Are you saying that the Freemasons are some kind of organized resistance?" Giles rubbed his forehead, unwilling to grant that the rumors of the Freemasons as a shadow government might be true.
"Hardly," snorted MacKenzie, his face bursting into a smile. "You might call them a dis-organized resistance, but the only thing they really resist is being organized!"
"True enough," remarked Tom. "Ninety-nine percent – more even that that, I should think – are simply what they appear to be. They are good men looking to be friends with other men, to do a spot of charity work, and to carry on some good moral traditions. It's a loose affiliation, bound more by habit than anything else. But the vows of a Freemason are solemn, and we take them very seriously. A mason will keep the secrets of a brother – with some obvious exceptions – and will go to some lengths to help one. Now then, take among these men those who are both old soldiers and old friends, see? A man would do much for a friend, especially one he's been to war with. A mason will do much for a brother mason. Now take men who are bound by all these ties – friends, soldiers, and masons all – and you have something very powerful, and very personal." He smiled, seeing that they understood. "Not organized, no. Not that, but effective, none-the-less."
"And you've been using this loose network of personal relationships to conduct a covert operation in absolute secrecy for nearly two years, right here on British soil, without the Secret Service having a clue." Jonathan Trimble shook his head. "Incredible," he muttered. "God help us if you ever did get organized."
MacKenzie nodded. "We're losing the network, obviously. There's only a few veterans of Sir Radcliffe's resistance left alive. The network only works because of the personal recommendations of one member to another. I couldn't access the outer layers of the network if I wanted to, and even if I did, they would do nothing for me. Once these men are gone, everything that ties it together is gone with it."
"But that's not yet, Mac m'boy." Tom nodded sagely. "We've still got a fight or two left in us, and we'll see that you get to this one." He looked over at Jonathan, assessing the man, deciding whether or not he could be trusted with had to be said. He decided he could. "Most of the men, you know, were military men. Most of them have military families, too. Their sons and grandsons, and even a daughter here or there, still serve today, in active duty. They can be counted on, when it's necessary, to do something not strictly within their orders. They know who they can trust, and they'll do what they need to do when it's asked of them. You understand?" He waited while Jonathan digested the subtle message he was being given.
"You mean the encryption key from the foreign office." It was beginning to make sense to him. "The 'old network' of yours, through some on-duty military personnel, lifted that and got it into our hands. Is that it?" Tom nodded, waiting to see whether or not Jonathan would take any action. For his part, Jonathan thought it over. "It seems to me they did the country a great service," he said finally, "but I regret it can never become known." It was a reassurance that the secret was safe. "I don't understand why it was necessary, though. If the foreign secretary is on our side, why didn't he just cooperate?"
"The Foreign Secretary isn't part of the network," MacKenzie supplied. "He got the contact into Arinoth's organization through one of Turcey's assistants back when they were looking for a General to peddle the Slayer to. He's kept that contact very secret, playing at his own game, to some respects. He knew that Arinoth had to be stopped because he knew that they were the ones to attempt to kill Sir Radcliffe. He's cooperated, for what it's been worth, but in the end he doesn't trust us and we don't trust him."
"Interesting." Jonathan rubbed his hands together, trying to work out the rest of the impacts. "But now what? We know that they want the girl, and they also know that we have her. They'll be coming after us, but it seems that no matter what, they can bury us. How can we hope to stop them? Even if we prevent them from getting the girl, it will still look like you two are terrorists, and I've got a count of treason hanging over my head."
"We need to make them tip their hand," MacKenzie replied. "We need to draw them out, make them think that they can get their hands on the girl and get rid of us without too much official inquiry. Now that you're involved and working against them, they're going to think twice about involving MI-5 in the arrest. They want to do this with no witnesses, so we need to give them that opportunity." MacKenzie knew that with the right bait, Arinoth and his private army would come after them. They only needed to give them that chance.
Jonathan looked up, a figurative light-bulb bursting visually above his head. "I've got it. There's a secure communications channel that the Foreign Secretary was using to pass messages back and forth with his contact in the Weber Institute. We managed to crack it, and I have to believe that if my operation is compromised then Jenny and Turcey will have cracked it as well." He waved one finger, mentally checking the contingencies of the plan he was proposing. "Let's assume, though, that they don't know that you know that the link is compromised. Any message you send through it they will pick up, and they'll have every reason to believe that it is genuine."
Everyone seemed to nod at that idea, the format of the message already coming to mind. They would set up a meeting time, and Turcey would lead Arinoth to it. "The problem is that it requires that we embed the message inside another electronic object, and I think my man for that has been captured."
"You mean stegonographic encryption?" Willow piped up.
"Yes," Jonathan replied cautiously. "You know of it?"
"Well, who doesn't?" replied Willow, having no clue how absurd the statement sounded to all the others. "What's the encoding sequence?"
"Least significant bit on the red hue, every seven hundredth pixel. Posted to an Internet newsgroup." Jonathan waited to gauge her reaction to it.
"Is that it?" she asked, quirking her head to the side. "You're not, like, pre-encrypting it with a public key, or coding it in EBCDIC, or running it through some kind of electronic scytale?" She stopped abruptly, seeing the appalled look on his face. "What?" she asked meekly.
Jonathan said nothing, but Mac stepped in. "I take it that means you can do it, then?"
"If you've got a computer and an Internet connection. It might take a bit because I'll need to download a couple of tools, but I should be able to get something posted in about two hours." Willow shrugged. She'd left her laptop back at the farmhouse – she really could've used it right then.
"Time we have, at least some of it. How about a computer?" Jonathan was clearly impressed, but trying to not get his hopes up too much.
"That shouldn't be a problem," Tom spoke up. "My nephew lives just down the way and works at one of those IT jobs. I'll have him bring his laptop down as soon as he gets home."
"We'll work on the content of the message," Jonathan offered. With that, the impromptu meeting seemed to break up.
Ripper drew Willow away and into the kitchen, wanting to talk more about her experience with Mr. Gray. "Tell me," he asked, pouring them both another cup of tea. "Did Mr. Gray say anything to you? I thought for sure he was evil, and yet he appears to be helping us. I really don't understand."
Willow nodded. In fact, she'd had a lengthy conversation with the being. "He tried to explain some things to me, but I'm not sure I understood it. He said that he was trying to prevent snags in the fabric of destiny. He kept gazing off at nothing, it seemed, like he was looking at something only he could see." She sipped the tea, thinking for a moment. "He said that he was truly the gray man, and that his job was to maintain that."
Ripper contemplated the thought, understanding dawning on him. "Of course," he said, "the gray man." The pieces began to fall in place for him, memories of legends and half-forgotten passages from old books. Eastern philosophy and Greek myth, combining in some semblance of a story. "Neither black nor white, the keeper of balance. It seems that perhaps he wasn't acting against Angel, but truly trying to make sure that they accomplished what they needed to. He couldn't allow a Slayer army to fall into the hands of one being, good or evil. That would upset the balance too much, and so he intervened. Fascinating." Ripper sipped his tea. "Seems a bit brutal, for all that."
"He said that most people's lives are threads that are two small for his consideration. Only those with a stake in the future of the world merit his concern." Willow shrugged.
"Sounds awfully self-centered of him," Ripper replied. "Anything else?"
"He said that what Arinoth failed to do, I would accomplish." She shrugged. "I don't get it."
"Neither do I," Ripper replied. It would be another year before he would understand, not until Sunnydale got destroyed. It would be when Willow would release the Slayer spirit, making every potential Slayer a real Slayer. She would create the Slayer army, but not one under the control of a single person. Each one would be an independent person, capable of choosing good or evil, bravery or cowardice. It would be then that Ripper would understand this odd pronouncement, but not until then.
Willow contemplated the other message that Mr. Gray had given her. If Giles didn't understand this one, there was no point in bringing up the other. But she knew that this was a time of testing for her, to see if he could trust her. So she told him anyway.
Ripper shrugged. "I'll have to think about that one."
For now they simply sipped tea.