Author's Note: Greetings, loyal readers. We offer our most heartfelt apologies for the abhorrent lateness of this chapter. Life conspiring against art again, you all know how it is. Hopefully the next chapter won't take three weeks to appear (cross fingers, cross toes, cross eyes, fall out of computer chair...).
Cheers,
Jai, Dru, and Meg
Possible Trajectories
Soundtrack: Erin Shore (Traditional Irish, we recommend The Corrs, which is our only recording)
The house was the epitome of a cosy country retreat, Hollywood's idea of a quaint summer home. Faded, overstuffed couches and chairs were scattered on the woven rug, encircling a battle-scarred coffee table that faced a large brick hearth. A thin metal staircase in the corner spiralled up to the loft room above. Morning sunlight streamed through the windows, warm rays where dust floated, perhaps seeking a new and exciting place to rest.
Not that it would have any difficulty in finding such a place. The entire house was jammed full of clutter, from scattered files to old newspapers to computer innards that just hadn't been put back in the hard drive yet. There were also several intact computers with large screens, old-fashioned power lines linking them all together. It certainly didn't look like an intelligence headquarters, which, Barry supposed, was the entire point.
Barry watched as the new Mrs. Stuart threaded her way past the kitchen counter, somehow managing to squeeze past without starting an avalanche of debris. Pouring tea from a massive chipped pot, she handed out mugs of steaming liquid, then perched on one edge of the kitchen table. Finn and Barry settled into straight-backed wooden chairs and waited as she rifled through a computer printout.
Erin Stuart was one of those fortunate women who will look twenty five until the day she turns forty. Heavy waves of reddish-gold hair had been rather haphazardly secured at the back of her head by a pair of chopsticks. She had a bright, pretty face, and her body was trim and muscular. In short, she was the type who could fight off three armed muggers without breaking a sweat.
And she had a lovely smile.
His brother was a lucky bastard, Barry decided. He'd found a woman who could not only accept his rather more clandestine activities, but even take part.
"Found it," she grinned, triumphantly hauling a printout from the mess on the table, seemingly indistinguishable from every other loose file. She scanned the information quickly, and then whistled softly. "According to Glorfindel, they should have shown up in Paris at least forty-eight hours ago."
"What airport?" Barry asked.
"De Gaulle."
"Then what's the problem?" Finn asked, running his hands through his hair. "Where the hell are they?"
"When you lost track of them, did you get their coordinates?"
"Of course," Erin replied
"Okay. Have you run an analysis on possible trajectories after you lost them?"
"We did," Finn affirmed, fishing out yet another file from under a plate of half-eaten muffins.
"I am in awe of your filing system," Barry remarked dryly.
Erin swatted him lightly, and took the readout from her husband. "Call this up on one of the screens, will you?"
Finn twisted in his chair, and punched a few commands on a nearby keyboard. A detailed map of Britain, the Channel, and the coast of France appeared on a computer screen, inexplicably located halfway across the room from the keyboard.
Barry sighed and got up, careful not to spill his tea. He stared at the screen, willing it to tell him where his missing friends were. A solid red line marked the plane's trajectory previous to its disappearance, and after that, several hundred thin green lines radiated from the point, marking possible destinations. "Christ, they could be anywhere by now."
Finn joined him beside the screen. "There were more trajectories, but we managed to eliminate a few dozen based on fuel allotments, landing space, and other logistical considerations."
"All right, let's try to get rid of some more." Barry sat still for a moment, considering. "Delete any that aren't headed for France." Erin, from across the room, punched in the command, and almost a hundred lines disappeared.
Finn shrugged. "That narrowed it down somewhat." Biting his lip, he continued, "Let's think about who we're dealing with. Narrow parameters to a twenty kilometre radius of the White City." As yet more lines vanished, he explained: "Think about who's directing their movements. Legolas knew the contact, and he knew where to go when they reached Paris, so we must assume that he's currently out of the picture. If it were Adam, he would have come looking for me or Barry. At least, I *hope* he would have. This isn't going to work very well if Adam doesn't trust us."
In the silence that followed, both men could only think of the kid who'd been as close as a brother growing up, the son of Darryl's business partner. Hell, after Alex and Gayle had died, he'd practically *been* a brother.
After all, wrecking a car and blaming it on another almost-sibling is a commonly shared bonding experience.
Barry winced. He'd *liked* that Jag.
Erin broke the silence. "Well, if it's not Adam, we can assume that either Gleason or Starr are leading them, and they wouldn't just run away."
Barry nodded. "They'd probably use a far more cautious approach." He glanced at the computer screen again. About twelve lines remained, yet even with so few, the possibilities for contact places were endless. "Right, so we'll assume they're in Paris by now. At the moment, our priorities are to get to the Fellowship before Sauron does."
"I think it's time to contact the elves again," Erin said by way of reply. "Finn, dear, would you patch through a secure communication line?"
Her husband moved to do so, but at that moment, a third screen began beeping. The words 'Incoming Transmission' flashed across, as all three moved towards it. "Looks like the elves had the same idea."
The image flickered to life, the requisite blurring around the edges demonstrating a secure link. The figure that swam into focus a moment later, however, was no elf.
"Hello, Gandalf." Barry was suddenly nervous. Of Gandalf's many names (some of which were actually polite), Stormcrow had always struck Barry as the most apropos. Ithilien Intelligence rarely heard from the Istari unless something had gone *truly* wrong. "What's going on?"
The blue-eyed wizard smiled, but there was a touch of uncharacteristic worry in his expression. "Good morning, my dear Erin," he said by way of opening. "And to you, Barry, Finn." His brow creased. "I'm afraid we've got a bit of a problem."
"I'm really getting sick of hearing people say that," Barry muttered.
If Gandalf heard the comment, he gave no sign. "We think we've located the Fellowship. They're apparently holed up in an apartment in Quartier de Notre Dame."
"Has Sauron found them yet?" Erin asked quickly.
Gandalf shook his head. "We don't believe so. Barry, I need you back in the White City, quickly. I think that Adam could use a friendly face at this point. And from Legolas' previous comments to Glorfindel and Haldir, you might be our last chance on a certain score, the one that we discussed previously." His sharp eyes narrowed. "Do you understand?"
Barry nodded. "I can be back in a few hours."
"Excellent. I'll have Eric meet you at de Gaulle airport with the address and directions. As for our newlyweds," he continued, directing his attention to Finn and Erin, "I want the two of you out of Ireland by tomorrow at the latest. I need you to talk to Eric as well, then the three of you can coordinate with the Elves. Get some techs to monitor Sauron's communications -put your best people on it. Get them to focus on the White City area. I don't want to be caught off guard."
"Alright," Finn agreed. "We'll fly out with Barry today. Is there anything else?"
The wizard shook his head. "That's all. I'll contact you again when I have new information. I myself have to get to the apartment as quickly as I can."
Erin detected a new note of unease in his voice. "Why? What's happened?"
The old man sighed. "Legolas is dying. He threw himself off a third-level observation deck at JFK. It stopped the Witch-Queen, but now he's calling out on every mental frequency he knows." Gandalf winced. "It's somewhat like being assaulted by a psychic AM/FM radio when the tuning dial is being constantly turned."
"*What*?"
"Never mind. Good Lord, you people are young. According to the Elves' intelligence, we've got four ex-hobbits present and accounted for, one ex-dwarf alive and swinging, the King of Gondor who is still suffering from unfortunate memory lapses, and a woman they've identified as Alice Cassandra Starr. At any rate, we need the three of you in Paris as soon as possible."
"All right. We'll secure things here, get a few of our people in from Dublin, and catch the next flight out. Take care, Gandalf."
"As always. I will meet you at Goldenwood Enterprises before the end of the week."