Chapter II

It was one hell of a Terrorist relay group. They were in fact one large group, but they operated in three different organisations, each in its own area. Canada, Russia and the Middle East. There were camps in all three countries; each camp served its own "freedom fighters" and the splinters of the main terrorist group – those who stayed with the resident terrorist power, and those who travelled from place to place. In each area they worked with those in control, trading weapons, information and tradecraft. It was a highly evolved terrorist organisation, developed over decades. They dealt with each of the smaller groups separately, a part of each through their representatives, but of their own, so there were never any conflict of interests. And it kept them covered, on the move and constantly changing. It made them nearly impossible to track one hundred percent.

At the moment they were in Québec, with a group of Separatists. Helper had made sure everyone had a bumper sticker saying "Vive le Québec!" somewhere prominent on his or her personal items, like a suitcase or knapsack. She honestly couldn't care about the Separatists; in fact, couldn't understand their ideals, but alliances weren't always about agreeing with politics. They were about money, weapons and manpower. If someone was willing to die for your cause, you had better support them in theirs, agree or disagree.

A smile brightened her face as she looked around the forested camp. There had been a clearing created deep in the wood where targets were set up. No one ever came this far unless they were completely ass-backwards lost or were supposed to be there, so they had no worries about discharging weapons. There was a trail leading from the upper outskirts of base camp to the target area, so everyone was safe from friendly-fire as long as they stayed where they were supposed to. At camp they had a pavilion with picnic tables for mealtimes; at the one end of the pavilion was a buffet set-up where the food was cooked and served for the men and few women. The rest of the area was filled with cabins. It had been there so long that the ground in the middle of the circle of cabins was worn to dirt. Around the whole camp, threading through the woods, was a path on which they could run – did run – as a part of their training.

Mistress came up to Helper, black gun in her hand. She was turning it over gently, long, elegant fingers wrapping slowly around the hilt. Sitting beside her favourite soldier, she blessed her with a smile, pulled the slide of her gun back, let it snap into place and laid it on the picnic table.

"You have my computer?"

"Yes, Mistress. It's at the base in Montreal."

"Good." The woman nodded, her fine features alit sinisterly. "The General will be pleased."

Helper nodded solemnly. "I live to serve."

Back at the NSA, Lambert was pacing, a hand to his forehead, as Fisher sat calmly in a chair, booted feet up on a large table. Things weren't going exactly as they had hoped. Sam wasn't so worried; he'd just do what he was told. But his boss actually had to think of something, and he could only imagine what that must be like.

"Grim has nothing?" Sam wondered aloud.

"She said they have to be hidden somewhere in Québec – she doesn't understand the Montreal reference."

"Can't she figure it out?"

"How could a terrorist cell . . ." he trailed off, letting his question drop. They both knew that terrorist cells could work anywhere. And they had.

"But how could they have a camp," Fisher said, pushing the lost statement to the next level. That's what they were really wondering. A camp in Montreal? There had to be some mistake.

"Find out what's going on Fisher." Lambert walked over to the table and leaned over, hands gripping the edge. His eyes bore into those of the lounging man. Sam straightened up, crossing his arms.

"I'm listening."

"You will go to Montreal. Get the information you can."

"Don't you think this sort of assignment is better suited to someone else?"

"I'm not classifying someone else, and besides, this information will affect you later anyhow. May as well keep it with you."

Sam grunted, but didn't argue. Lambert had a point. He sat in thought for awhile, wondering how he would manage this assignment. He usually didn't go around asking people for information: he forced it from them or stole it. Then he wondered why this was so important. It wasn't as if these people were an immediate threat to US security. Not at the moment. There were probably more pressing matters he could be working on, like the terrorist group in the Middle East. There had been another holy war, or jihad, declared on America. There was usually one going on, but this was one of those where everyone wanted to take up arms and attack. It wasn't a quiet grumbling, but a massive roar. Shouldn't he be diffusing that situation, or even the one in Russia where there was an underground faction of the KGB wanting to destroy America for some reason or another. The animosity between the two countries was based on forgotten facts and long lost times. No one knew why Russia wanted America gone and America couldn't really figure out why they cared about Russia anymore, what with them getting attacked by other groups all the time Russia seemed pretty dormant. But now with the new terrorists in Russia, it was making it a much greater threat. With all this going on in the world, with these two places spawning major terrorist revival, why was he being sent on a hunt in a place where they spelled funny and had strange names for winter hats?

"It's a touque Fisher. A touque. You'd do well to remember that, yankee."

Lambert noticed a slight smirk twist his operative's mouth and he wondered what he was thinking about. It was the closest thing to a smile he'd seen in awhile. But it wasn't his place to question: that could alienate the man, which was the last thing Irving needed.

"Why Canada?" Fisher muttered, unfolding his arms and cracking his knuckles slowly. Sara told him weekly that he shouldn't do that, but he never stopped.

"Because they're more liberal."

"So are these actual Canadian terrorists," that was probably the first and last time he would ever use that phrase, "or are they from somewhere else and just stopping over in Canada?"

"That's what you're going to find out."

But why, Lambert? Why? That was the burning question in Sam's mind even as he stood to get ready. He wouldn't question his assignment per se, but he just wanted to know. What was so important about this group of people, led by this "Mistress", who were spoke of as a pseudo-terrorist cell? They weren't even real terrorists, yet they were taking up his time. Just because they got away with a computer? There was definitely something he wasn't being told. But would Lambert keep this from him? Was he getting his orders on this from higher up? Questions flooded his mind as he walked out of the large room, following the corridors out of habit, to get ready for his trip.

In the government car, Coen drove as she hummed along to the radio. They were headed to the airport, where Sam would look and act like a regular tourist. His bags were packed, guns and battle-wear hidden under his clothes, which were on flat sheets that lifted out with his gear and tools hidden in compartments. His everyday-wear for travelling the city was perfectly normal: noticeable to all, making him completely undiscernible to anyone. Having dropped down into his usual seat, Fisher stared off blankly, his questions surfacing in full once more. They were more interesting than serious; whether they were answered or not didn't affect his work one whit. Still, it'd be nice to know exactly what he was doing. As he had learned in the past, however, that wasn't how it worked. He was told to jump, he jumped. And if he was told to kill a seemingly innocent person instead of jumping, well, he'd do that too. No one said it'd be enjoyable, but it had to be done.

"Have you ever been to Canada?" Coen asked, looking in the review mirror to him.

He glanced up, green eyes shining as life came back to him. Blinking away his mental postulating, he nodded slowly.

"A few times." Not caring to elaborate, and not being pressed for a reason for ever going to Canada, he didn't bother going any further.

"Did you enjoy it?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes."

"Is it much different across the boarder?"

"Somewhat."

Coen smiled slightly, knowing he wasn't the greatest conversationalist. In fact, she had done rather well, getting that much information out of him. It seemed as if his guard was down and he was trapped inside his mind. There was more going on behind his eyes at the moment than she had ever seen. He usually hid everything from view, but she supposed that sometimes there was just too much for anyone to hide. Once again he seemed lost in his thoughts, so she didn't press him with anymore questions. He would probably be curt with her anyway. Instead, she just concentrated on her driving.

The little café was indicative of these streets. Fashionable, filled with smokers and anything from actors to laypersons, it was full of life, cramped, and the perfect place to do top-secret work. The more people to see you, the less actually see you. Helper sat at a table outside, just off the street, her laptop where her plate should have been, her food on her left. She typed one-handed so she could eat. Even though she was studying, modifying and helping to write up the plans to destroy America, the ways of the West, she wasn't a robot. She still needed to eat. It was interesting how people thought of terrorists as automatons. They never slept, never loved, never got sick: they were always there, ready to knock on the door, to shoot up the so-called innocent people.

Well, perhaps some were like that. But she knew for a fact there were some Western soldiers like that as well. And plus, organisations like the CIA, FBI and NSA never slept. They were on twenty-four seven, never giving those they called terrorists a break. They were always working, spying, scheming. The terrorists didn't have the ability to be on call like the Americans could be. But the terrorists had passion for their beliefs, while in the West, it was just something you had to believe. You were given no other choice but to defend your way of life, never thinking of the people it harmed.

Those thoughts running through Helper's mind, she added some notes to the General's speech. She would give it to Mistress, and she would give it to her husband. In a way, Helper was really third in charge. And considering the fact that this group was really spread over the world, that was quite a feat. While the Americans thought of going after the "Russian Terrorists" or the "Middle Eastern Terrorists" they didn't realise that they were one and the same. (Of course, no one every spoke about "Canadian Terrorists" or even "Central American Terrorists").

"La Sangre de la Libertad" was the main terrorist group. That was the core organisation, based in Central America. From there spawned the groups in Russia, the Middle East, and Canada. Each spawning group was connected to the area's terrorist organisations, but they were really just part of the core. They each learned new things, scratching backs in anticipation for when their own got itchy. And it provided cover. The three groups were thought to be separate, and the core wasn't even known to exist.

It was a beautiful set up. Her sandwich was absolutely delicious. She ordered another, along with a refill of Pepsi. Licking her fingers, she started typing, making the keys slimy with mayonnaise and saliva. Taking the napkin from under her plate, she carefully wiped the keyboard down; then she wiped her hands off. She stared at everything she had written, added in her conclusion and suddenly realised; she had been working up to this for years. Now it was going to happen. She didn't know when, but very soon. Soon the world would tremble before the true global power. One who had stayed hidden, used the most powerful terrorist groups to its own advantage, made them their own; they would strike America and the West down.

They would be victorious.

Fisher pulled out an ancient book from his suitcase. He was standing in his brightly lit hotel room, the furnishings only slightly shabby. Never expecting much from his government, he was somewhat surprised at the nice area he had been put up in. Not that it mattered as he was here to do work, not sightsee and be comfortable, still, it would be nice to relax even for an hour. That's when he found the book tucked in a side pocket as he was unpacking; a old, worn, dog eared book. It had either been put there strategically by someone, or he had forgot it the last time he had unpacked this bag. Flipping through it, he decided to re-read it for the thousandth time, when a picture fluttered out of it to the floor. Stooping over, he picked it up and examined it. Those had been good times. That had been the only brat from the CIA he had ever enjoyed teaching. He had even grown fond of her.

Tucking the picture away, he didn't bother with the pain welling up. There wasn't a point to it. Emotions just ran you down, wrecked you from the inside out. The only acceptable emotion was the love for your own child. Whatever had happened to that grinning woman in the picture was beyond him. Some said she was MIA, others said KIA. Still some others, the ones more susceptible to conspiracy theories, said that she was neither, but kept under tight guard by the CIA, doing ultra-top-secret work. That one tickled Fisher's funny bone, because if there had been "ultra-top-secret work" he would have been in on it.

A slow sigh escaped him as he sat slowly on the bed, then stretched out. Lifting the book up, he began reading, although he wasn't really taking in the words. As his eyes scanned over the groupings of letters, he saw them, but none registered. Instead his thoughts swam as his eyes automatically went over the same area of the page five times as he attempted to read it. His so-called mission was on his mind. How was he going to find the information he needed in a city of civilians? Ah well, he'd figure something out.

Awhile later, Fisher glanced at the little clock on the bedside table. His brows rose slightly as he noticed he had been reading for too long. Though he had given himself an hour to relax, he had taken more than that. Two and half hours to be exact. It seemed that his brain really had settled down when he told it to. Swinging his legs off the bed, he put the book aside and stood, rubbing his temples. Where he would go, he had no idea. But he had to do something. There was a much better chance of finding his enemies by actually going outside and scouting the area, asking questions, rather than laying inside, mooning over what to do. He stood, hands dropping and walked to the door. Pulling on a pair of shoes, he decided against a coat. Although it was a bit cool for him, it wasn't that bad out, and the sun was beating warmly so he figured he would be fine. Reaching for the doorknob, he pulled it open and checked the hall quickly, out of habit. Then, striding out, he headed for the outdoors.

A woman in a summery black dress practically flowed into the chair at the small table. There were people bustling all around, on the sidewalk, through the streets. Lunchtime was finishing and most of the pedestrians were heading back to work. They were part of their own world, passing by the relative calm of the café, on parade for those who had no obvious rush to their lives. Separate from those resting, they shouted to friends to hurry up, or muttered apologies to strangers that they bumped. Cars honked as people j-walked, trying to get to work on time. All and all, it seemed an average day.

The crust less sandwich that had been rising to her mouth now lowered slightly. Blue-grey eyes lifted from the laptop, to the woman perched on the chair beside her. Helper then stuffed the sandwich point in her mouth and continued to write, eyes still locked on Mistress.

"You're always working."

"I have to get this done," Helper said, mouth full, as she neared the end of her writing. Mistress smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling somewhat.

"Is it so urgent that you must work through lunch?"

"Safest place to work," was the mumbled response. She took a sip of Pepsi and glanced back at her leader. "It's going to happen soon and I want all our ducks to be in a row."

"Are you so sure?"

A frown darkened the young woman's face. She was relatively pretty when smiling, but her frowns made her look almost fierce.

"The Americans still think we're nothing but a stupid, wannabe terrorist group. We have to hit before they figure out otherwise. The General has to present his speech, our core has to emerge, and then WHAM!" she smacked her left hand with her right, "the little group that was thought to be nothing turns out to be America's downfall." She cleared her throat and took another sip of pop. "It can't happen any other way," she grumbled, looking around. Luckily in the after-lunch din no one heard her.

Mistress nodded. "It hasn't been easy keeping the image of a blundering cell unworthy of any assignments, I'll grant you that."

"Exactly. Our time is coming soon according to how all these things are nearing completion and such, which is good, because I don't know how much longer the charade could be kept up."

An angry look flickered across Mistress's features as she got up to leave. "It will keep up as long as I need it to."

Helper nodded quickly, not wanting to anger her leader, knowing what sort of trouble that lead to. She hadn't meant the comment as an insult; it wasn't that Mistress was unable keep the image they had. It was just in the nature of things for the truth to eventually come out. Especially when dealing with many people who were all eagerly awaiting the same ends.

"Come," Mistress said, chin up as she slid on a pair of shiny black sunglasses. "We're going shopping. Put that damn computer away."

"Yes, Mistress."

The lunch crowds had dispersed by the time Fisher got out onto the sun-warmed street. He rather liked this weather and felt calm and tranquil for the first time in a long time. Hands in his pockets, he just walked, looking around, hoping he was acting like a tourist enough to be ignored. Every so often he'd stop and stare into stores, pretending to window shop. He even found an information booth and got some pamphlets on the area. Well, his cover was at least somewhat established. He hadn't done this sort of work in so bloody long that he feared he might actually be caught. Wandering around and pretty much getting himself lost, Sam decided it'd probably be best if he took a rest. Just a short break and he'd be back to actively doing nothing. Stopping at a café, he decided to take it up. It was the nooks and the places with atmosphere you wanted to go to, he remembered. Unfortunately, one thing he didn't remember was his crash course in French. It was almost scary, going to a French Canadian and not being able to speak the language, with all the language laws banning English. But he found the hostess to be really nice, and she spoke good enough English – once he tried speaking French and couldn't get very far. She took pity on Fisher and sat him down at a nice table outside. At least he had tried to speak French; if he hadn't things could have been different indeed.

All he ordered was a simple lunch with a glass of juice. His mind was too busy to bother with complicated food. In his briefing Grim said it was suspected that the pseudo-terrorist group was working with extremist Separatists. Both of them were somewhat confused as to what Canadian politics had to do with the rest of the world, but orders were orders. They didn't know why their respective talents were being wasted on some Canadian housekeeping, but Fisher still planned on finding out. Taking the hint from the information given earlier, he decided to start asking about the Separatist movement. When the hostess, doubling as waitress for the patio area, returned to his table, he asked her about it. At first she was taken aback but he had a ready excuse. He knew nearly nothing of Canada and was just interested in what most Francophones thought. The hostess gave him nothing much, just sundry information. The Separatists wanted to get away from Canada, they thought things were unfair; she didn't agree with them, especially since most of the land belonged to the Aboriginals, who didn't want to leave. If Québec were to separate, most of the province would stay with Canada anyway.

Not exactly what he was looking for, but he thanked her, gave her a normal tip and left with an interesting piece of trivia, but nothing more. He left, walking at a moderate gait, hands stuffed back into his pockets. What now? He could wander around and hope to find some Separatists, but would that really bear fruit? It would take months for him to undermine a group well enough to be able to join the extremists. There was no other way to get the information. It wasn't like they were handing out information on their terrorist groups.

Returning to his hotel, feeling extraordinarily disappointed in himself, Fisher took a short shower then contacted Lambert. There had to be something to do, to find out information. He was sick of asking why he was doing this in the first place; he just wanted it over with. And now he had been presented with the problem of getting information and he wanted to successfully complete it, damn it!

"Lambert?" he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Fisher? Just a minute." He left Sam in curious silence for slightly longer than a minute, but before he could comment on it, Irving was back.

"There's been a development. Don't move until we have this sorted out." Lambert was out and Sam was left with a puzzled expression. The wall he was staring at wasn't relinquishing any answers, but he wouldn't let his mind drift to what sort of developments there had been. How the hell had their been developments? There wasn't even anything happening. He forced all thoughts from his mind, took a few deep breaths, and cleared himself.

He would find out soon enough. That had to tide him.

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I thought in the game as Fisher grabbed someone he pulled his pistol out then? I'll check it all out later, when I'm not feeling so lazy :P

WG