---
"These days, the wages of sin depend on what kind of deal you make with the devil." Thing is, there are days I'm not sure if I'm the one playing the part of a modern day Faust or the dude with the pitchfork and pointy tail.
---
Another day, another useless meeting. The headache that was pounding throughout Darien's skull really made him wish Claire had not banished him from work yesterday, or alternately, had granted him a second recovery day. Being shocked sober was not effective in avoiding a hangover, and that Irish jet-fuel he had imbibed in the evening before had left him with a doozy.
Bobby, on the other hand, was raring to go, the exhaustion wiped away by sleep and other 'recreational' activities. Darien was willing to bet that neither his partner nor his Keeper had gotten the regulation eight hours last night. He forced himself not to grin and show he wasn't paying attention to the recap of yesterday's useless efforts by Coolley and Henderson. Instead, he wondered if the couple - Bobby and Claire, not Coolley and Henderson - had even made it to the bedroom before... coupling.
'Sometimes they even do it on the kitchen table.' That phrase, spoken by himself to Bobby quite a while back, caused a titillating image of the pair, sweat drenched, and very in flagrante delicto, to flash in his mind. "Man, I need to get laid," he muttered darkly under his breath.
"Care to share with the rest of the class, Darien?" The Official was doing that look. The one that meant he knew Darien had wandered off mentally and hadn't been paying a lick'a attention.
"Ah, no sir." He tried to sound contrite, but realized, too late, that the 'sir' had overdone it.
The Official harrumphed and narrowed his eyes, but left it at that. "Eberts."
"Yes, sir. We have a new addition to the list," Eberts began, folder in his hands and giving Darien flashbacks to countless other meetings.
"Who, Eberts." From Hobbes it was a demand, a sneering one with the way he stretched out Eberts' name, admittedly, but a demand all the same.
"Tormond Westgaard. Believed to be of Norwegian descent." Eberts rifled through the pages, probably looking for something of value to tell them to make it seem like they weren't heading out on another wild goose chase. "His modus operandi is to 'join' a known group and create a splinter cell, which he then uses to initiate a series of terrorist attacks in the name of the main group. The incidents typically culminate in a spectacular demonstration - they've ranged from explosions to mass poisonings - and then he vanishes, leaving the remaining members of the cell to take the fall. He's been involved with the IRA, ETA, Free Quebec Militia, November 17, Red Brigade, and Combat 18, among others."
"IRA?" Darien repeated.
"Yes," Eberts confirmed with a glance at the page.
"When? And where, if you have it." He - they - couldn't have lucked out and had the perfect info fall right into their laps. It'd be too clichéd. But then again, these days his whole life was one huge cliché.
"1989. Londonderry. Why?" Eberts asked in honest curiosity.
"Yeah, why?" Hobbes echoed, his tone making it clear he knew Darien had something up his sleeve as he turned to stare at his partner's profile.
Darien had to fight to not squirm under the sudden scrutiny. "Got pics?" he asked, ignoring the question for the moment.
"No," the Official answered, "and descriptions of the man are completely contradictory."
Eberts added, "However, by all accounts he has blue eyes. Apparently, his most memorable feature."
'Bingo. It was looking like the Imp of the Perverse had gone on vacation and Lady Luck had decided to drop by for a spell. Hobbes proceeded to toss a bucket of ice water on Darien's hopes.
"Wait a second there; if you can't identify him by sight, how do you know he's in town?" There was a supercilious sneer on Hobbes' face as he leaned back in the chair, hands folded atop his belt buckle.
"Because these two men," Eberts held up a pair of pictures with Interpol stamped across the bottom, "have been spotted. And where they are..."
"Mr. Westgaard is," the Official finished. "The man is ghost by all accounts. No one, and I do mean no one, has ever gotten a picture of him."
"Sgàil," Darien muttered softly. Plainly, Fallon hadn't made the connection to 'Tor's' bully-boys or she'd've found him long ago. That was making the bold assumption that her 'Tor' and this Tormond were indeed the same person. "Any chance there's nicknames for him in that file?"
Eberts skimmed through the pages and nodded in confirmation. "Several, including Thor, Tor and Torrie. All variations of his first name."
Hobbes snickered disdainfully. "Torrie. Chick musta thought that one up."
"Oh really, Hobbesy?" Darien questioned with glee in his voice.
"Look who's talking there, Fawkesy," Hobbes came right back with.
Darien chuckled softly, stood, and walked over to Eberts. "Can I get a copy of this?"
Eberts deferred to the Official, who nodded slightly, then handed the file to Darien.
"Why do you want it?" the Official asked.
"This," Darien tapped the folder, "should get us what we need on Papadopoulos."
---
Hobbes' Fawkes-has-gotten-himself-into-something warning lights had gone off the instant his idiot partner had said the Westgaard intel would get them the info they needed on Papadopoulos. No one had believed his partner, though Fawkes had insisted they'd be able to trade for it, which, of course, meant going back to the monkey house, or whatever it was called, and dealing with Fallon O'Neill. Alarm bells had joined the flashing lights when Fawkes had dodged every attempt to ascertain how he knew the file would do it. He just kept saying he'd done more than sleep, on his day off.
The Official might have bought the line, if grudgingly, but Hobbes knew that when Fawkes started giving those one word answers there was trouble ahead. His sneak-thief of a partner was up to something and that was never a good thing.
Once alone in Golda, heading to O'Neill's little shop of mercenary heaven, Hobbes again tried to pry what the hell was going on out of Fawkes, thinking that he'd be willing to spill it now that the Official wasn't around to overhear. Annoyingly, he was met with the same lack of success he'd had earlier, during their briefing. Fawkes might not be able to lie worth a damn, but he was perfectly capable of keeping his trap shut when necessity dictated. Why he thought it was a necessity right now was beyond Hobbes.
They were able to snag a spot right in front of the store this time and, with the file tucked under Fawkes' arm, they headed in. He was looking way too comfortable for Hobbes' taste and this was the last place he wanted Fawkes to be feeling at home. Way too many temptations for the not entirely reformed ex-con.
This time the smooth-talking suit guy - blue today with faint pin striping that Hobbes likened to that of a '30's gangster - was waiting in the showroom, almost as if he'd been expecting them, which he shouldn't have as they hadn't called ahead to set up an appointment. O'Neill had said to stop by anytime. And that made Hobbes wonder exactly how good her network was, because it wasn't the kind of coincidence he liked. The suit didn't even get a chance to begin his preamble before Fawkes dove in head first, taking the lead in this little bargaining session.
"We want to make a deal," was all his partner said, but it was more than enough to get the guy's attention. His ears perked right up, like the Keeper's pooch when Hobbes offered him one'a his treats.
With an airy wave that had Hobbes wondering if it was a signal for some hidden camera, the suit led them through the same door as last time, but instead of taking them to her office, they turned a corner and picked up Murphy, confirming Hobbes' suspicion that they were being watched.
They went through another door and into a far more utilitarian area of the building. These were the real offices, not the sound-proofed, client-friendly spaciousness they'd been escorted to before. This is where the real work got done, though he didn't really want to speculate on what was that work was. He might be forced to arrest their only potential source of information on Papadopoulos, whether or not O'Neill was on some government 'hands-off' list. A deep thrumming accompanied by a heart-pounding metallic clang was coming from somewhere on the far side of the twin doors that barred the way ahead. Sliding doors, based on the seam running up the middle of them, made of a heavy gun-metal gray steel that was about as plain and unadorned as you could get and, Hobbes was willing to bet, bulletproof and maybe even bombproof, to boot. Murphy slid them open, a blast of heat surging through as Hobbes got his first look at O'Neill's workshop.
'Not bulletproof... fireproof.' Looked like Eberts' intel was dead on; the place looked like a modern day torture chamber. Hot coals in the giant open furnace off to the left, complete with the pokers sticking out; ready to be used against tender flesh. Men in nothing more than shorts and leather aprons with sweat and dirt smudged on their faces and upper bodies. The scent of heated copper mimicked the tang of fresh blood in the air, which made his stomach twist into unexpected knots. The only thing missing were the screams of pain from the poor souls being tortured to their doom. Although, the pounding music that blasted from unseen speakers was an adequate substitute.The clang that could be heard over it all, yet matching the music beat for beat, was coming from the mistress of this dungeonesque chamber herself - Fallon O'Neill. She was leaning over a huge... anvil he guessed, or whatever they were called these days, with some piece of metal glowing a dark red held in place with one hand, a hammer or mallet in the other, which came down to make contact, sending sparks flying with every bone-rattling clang.
Murphy waited until they were the rest of the way in the room and shut the door, turned to Fawkes, and all but shouted, "Wait 'ere." It was clearly an order and he was smart enough not to argue, not that anything could be heard over the noise. That was if he had any interest in responding, which wasn't likely since his eyes were glued on O'Neill, sizing her up like a drunk without a penny to his name ogling the merchandise in a liquor store window.
'Oh, that's just perfect.' It was looking like Hobbes' pronouncement to Claire had more truth behind it than even he'd known, though Fawkes going ahead and falling for a merc was about the worst possible choice he could make, and yet... typical Fawkes.
The rhythmic ringing stilled, the bass beat continuing without the bell-like accompaniment, as Hobbes watched Murphy tip his head down to speak directly into O'Neill's ear. She said something in reply, set the mallet-thing down on a nearby bench, and then lifted what turned out to be a rough double axe blade with the economy-sized tongs she'd been using to hold it in place as she pounded on it. She dunked it into a trough of water behind her, steam rising into the air instantly and obscuring her for several seconds. By the time it had cleared, some other mook had taken her place to deal with the half-formed weapon and she was lifting the protective apron over her head.
The suit-guy that had stuck around to baby-sit them - Hobbes was gonna have to ask his name if visiting here was going to become a regular occurrence - handed O'Neill a towel as she approached. She was sweaty and dirty, just like he'd expect after being fed a steady diet of Hollywood depictions of working near a forge.
He figured she'd head back through the heavy-duty door and to her office, but she instead gave a slight nod with her head and led the way to a room right off the workshop. The cacophony ceased as soon as Murphy shut the door. It appeared to be a conference room, not as luxuriously appointed as her office, but not shabby either, and plainly not the employee room. No this place was all about business, which she proved by circling around the table that could easily and comfortably seat 20 to retrieve a slim laptop that she carried back with her and set down as she leaned back against the dark wood.
"Anything you need, boss?" suit-guy asked.
"Water, Stevie," O'Neill replied, revealing the name of the guy. Hobbes filed that away as the man left the room to fetch the requested drink. She rubbed her face with the towel, removing the majority of the grime, her hair still sweat-damp and sticking out at odd angles, before turning those disarming eyes on first Hobbes then Darien, gazing at them warily. "What're ye offering?"
Cut right to the heart of the matter, didn't she? Probably just as well, given the situation, not to mention the rate at which sand was running out of the hourglass.
That was Fawkes' cue to speak up; "Information on one Tormond Westgaard."
If the name rang a bell for her, Hobbes couldn't see it.
"He likes playing god in established terrorist groups." Fawkes lifted the file to emphasize his words. "One of his early adventures involved the IRA in 1989."
That got her attention, but it was so subtle that Hobbes almost missed it. A slight shiver ran through her body that, admittedly, could have meant she was chilled in the air conditioned heaven after the hell-like heat in the workshop, but the timing was too coincidental. Looked like his crazy-ass partner was onto something, here.
"What do ye want in exchange?" She played it cool as a cucumber, but stared right at Fawkes, and he was looking... Hobbes expected smug, but it was more like guilt. As if he was thinking he was taking advantage of her or something, which shouldn't have been possible based on her rep... and therefore set Hobbes' Fawkes alarms off yet again. What was it with Fawkes and the chicks on their cases?
"Info on Aristid Papadopoulos. Where he is and what he's planning," Hobbes said before Fawkes could get a word in edgewise and screw it up.
Fallon instantly agreed, "Done," and held her hand out.
Fawkes shot an irritated glare at Hobbes, but dutifully handed over the file. Fallon didn't even glance at the contents, just spun about, and leaned across the table to drag the fancy phone within easier reach. She pressed a single button of the seeming hundreds there. "Nikki," was all she said.
Darien sidled further into the room, away from the table and towards the huge glass window that overlooked the foundry. He'd buried his hands in his back pockets, twisted his head for a couple seconds, and then let his shoulders drop about six inches as he slouched in place. A sure sign he was upset about something. Most likely Hobbes butting in and stating what they wanted in return. But, come on, like some greenhorn punk would have any clue on bargaining with the likes of O'Neill? No way in hell he was gonna fall into the same trap she'd suckered them into last time. Learning from past mistakes and all that. Fawkes would just have to grow up and deal.
A momentary blast of sound heralded the return of Stevie with pricey bottled water for his boss. "It's a special glass," Stevie said in Fawkes' direction. "High strength and uniquely soundproof. If you notice, it's slightly concave from this side. Helps to reflect the sound away."
Hobbes blinked. When did they make the A-list for useless trivia in O'Neill's house? A'course, that led him right back to how Fawkes had known the file would get them in the door, and, better yet, what his partner had been doing on his day off. Plainly, Hobbes had been spending way too much time playing bed games with the Keep and not enough time keeping a weather eye on Fawkes. That realization caused more than just twinge of guilt to smack Hobbes upside the head. Yeah, he knew Fawkes was... lonely, it was a regular topic of conversation between the Keep, Monroe and Hobbes lately, but not a single one'a them had come up with a solid solution to the problem. He'd forgotten the golden rule - never bail on your partner... even for a dame. And left to his own devices, the devil only knew what kind of trouble Fawkes was getting himself into. When all this was over, he'd be owing Darien a huge apology and, more importantly, some of his time.
The conference door opened again, this time admitting a kid of about 20, who had 'geek' practically stenciled across his forehead, along with a blast of raucous music. O'Neill was in front of him in a flash, file in hand.
"Nikki, get this downstairs and into the database." She gave him the folder and tapped it lightly. "Cross reference with the Aristid Papadopoulos info."
Nikki glanced down at the quarter-inch thick file and then back at Fallon. "That's going to take a while."
She shook her head. "Start with the most recent info - that's what'll tie to Aristid - and work back from there."
Nikki nodded. "Can do. Figure... three hours minimum," he told her.
"Ye've got one. Start with the basics, fill me in as ye get more." Fallon glanced over at Fawkes, who was wearing an inscrutable expression. "I've the feeling we need to 'urry on this one."
The geek asked, "Bonuses?"
O'Neill's lip twitched upwards, as if fighting a smile. "Possibly," she finally answered.
That got a huge grin from Nikki. "Rush job it is, boss."
By the time the door shut, Fallon had downed half the water and was typing one handed on her computer. There was no mouse, just one'a those touch pads below the keyboard. "Bloody 'ell," she muttered. "Stevie, reschedule my four o'clock, would ye."
"I can handle it," Stevie told her, cracking the knuckles of one hand. "I've been at all the meetings with Tuturro, it shouldn't be a problem."
"He still owes 'alf," Murphy reminded her.
"'Ave Box join ye," she said. "'E'll make sure things go the way they should. Tuturro still thinks 'e's scarier than me. Ye get to convince 'im 'e's wrong."
"You got it." Stevie headed for the door, but Fallon's softly spoken words stopped him.
"Oh, and Stevie."
"Yeah, boss?"
"Thanks."
Stevie gave her a smile and left the room. Hobbes found the interplay between Fallon and her employees interesting, giving him a hint as to her working dynamic. It was clear she was in charge, but that it wasn't a dictatorship by any means. Most mercenary companies followed a military-style hierarchy, with the person at the top givin' the orders, period, end of story. Plainly, the situation was different here, she was their leader, but not their commander, or so it seemed. Which meant...
Hobbes pondered everything he knew about her (admittedly little), Phoenix (quite a bit, now that he had a need to remember it), and what he'd observed. It was a fair bet that her core 'employees' were her former compatriots from Phoenix and had left when she had. They would be here out of loyalty and would probably stay no matter what the winds of fate dealt them. Tibbett's and therefore Phoenix's rep might have been trashed by the end, but clearly, O'Neill's wasn't. Oh no, it was certainly good enough to bring in new blood like that Nikki-geek and make him bold enough to ask for a bonus up front. That meant she not only paid well, but that bonuses were a regular occurrence.
'Damn.' She sure as hell weren't no ordinary merc, that's for sure. Question was: could he use that knowledge to their advantage?
"So, what have you got for us?" Hobbes moved to stand near the end of the table beside her and she waved for him to sit, which he did. Fawkes was still by the window, but had turned about to lean back against it, rolling his shoulders with a look of discomfort on his face. If Hobbes didn't know better he'd think the kid was on the verge of one'a his headaches, and getting ready to take the next train to nutsoville.
"Every year Athens 'olds a Greek festival that lasts several months," she began.
"Yeah, I've heard of it. Classic Greek plays, orchestras, ballets, all the stuffed grape leaves you can eat, and then some. Sounds pretty cool," Fawkes said in a wistful tone, as if knowing there was little chance he'd ever get to see it for himself. He sauntered over to the table and sat down atop it, staying down at the far end, like he was afraid to come closer.
"Aye, but did ye know Icarius is 'osting a Baccahanalia? Or that just about every person with money or power is planning to attend?" She paused, but their obvious blank looks encouraged her to continue. "The fete is to be 'is apology for what 'is family 'as done over the years."
"Fate? What's she gotta do with this?" Hobbes asked the first question that popped into his mind as he tried to digest the information.
Darien snorted in amusement. "F. E. T. E.," spelling out the word as if this was an episode of Sesame Street and he was Big Bird. "It's like a party, Hobbes."
Hobbes glowered at Fawkes and snarked, "I know what it means, smartass," and turned back to O'Neill. "So, Aristid's gonna try to use this fete to his advantage."
"Aye."
"How? I mean, won't the guests be expecting daddy-dopoulos and not junior?" Fawkes asked, grasping the sole obvious flaw in the plan that Hobbes could see.
O'Neill shrugged. "Probably. Junior, as you call 'im, 'as been acting in 'is da's name for months now. Afore that 'e tried to convince 'im to use the party to rebuild their power." She ran her finger along the track pad and clicked the button, scrolling through information, most likely. "Aristid's playboy delusions were severely curtailed when people stopped fearing retribution by 'is da."
"Okay, gotta ask: why did Icarius want out of the Greek mob business, anyway?" Fawkes sounded confused, and Hobbes realized that the bonehead hadn't read the background info they'd received when they'd been given this assignment.
O'Neill seemed to find the question naïve, much like when they'd asked about Icarius on their first visit. "It was his wife, Lyris' dying request."
Understanding dawned on Fawkes' face and it was struggle for Hobbes to not laugh out loud at his partner's sudden discomfiture. It was his own frickin' fault. Yeah, the meetings could get tedious, but there was reason for 'em. Point proven right here.
"What's he planning to do, then?" Hobbes leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the table-top in anticipation of her answer. This was the important part, and would give them a better idea of who Aristid was trying to buy from. Narrow the field a bit. That's if O'Neill didn't already know.
"Not entirely sure," she said, dashing his hopes. "Either a slow acting poison or virus to which only 'e 'as the antidote."
Fawkes shook his head, looking down at the carpet between his white sneakers. "And to get the cure, they have to meet his demands. One hell of a scam."
"Aye, 'tis," she agreed. "And ye'd be one who knows, after all."
Fawkes went oddly still at that comment, which had been delivered in a sardonic tone that couldn't be missed. The vibes Hobbes was getting off the two of them were just plain weird. Damn it. Maybe his idiot partner had made another trade on the side? Like for the info she'd wanted their first go 'round? Hobbes could only hope Fawkes hadn't been so stupid as to give her his file just to make this case. No way. The Official would arrange a down and dirty harvesting party without a second thought, which would force Hobbes to do something drastic, which would then make Claire very unhappy... And here he thought Fawkes had been cured of his terminal case of stupidity after working with the Feds. Hobbes forced himself to stop and take a calm, relaxing breath, just like his shrink had taught him to do when he caught himself getting all worked up. Later. He'd chew Fawkes' ass off when they were alone and there were no witnesses.
Hobbes asked, "How's he gonna introduce it? Airborne's too risky, might not get the ones he wants."
"Best guess?" she asked, and Hobbes nodded. "Either the wine or the olive oil. Both are being supplied from the family stores."
"Which lets him control the situation. Damn." Hobbes stood up, rubbing his forehead, and began pacing the length of the room. "Any chance you have someone on the inside, on his island?"
"Not now," was her reply, which Hobbes found very interesting. It clearly suggested that she'd had someone inside at one point in time. Was that how she'd known Papadopoulos was dead? How she'd gotten the GPS info? He could only wonder who else she was watching up close and personal-like.
"We have to stop it at this end, before he makes the buy. Once he's back in Greece..." Hobbes began, then trailed off, pacing restlessly.
"It'll be too late," Fawkes finished his thought, frowning. "Where's he hiding out?"
O'Neill glanced down at the screen. "Hotel del Coronado. The Beach House."
Finally, something they could work with. "I'll arrange to have him picked up," Hobbes said, as he pulled out his cell phone from his inner coat pocket.
"On what charges," she asked casually. Too casually, and Hobbes snapped the phone shut before halfway through dialing.
"Illegal entry into the U.S.," Hobbes stated. "We know he didn't use his passport to get through Customs."
"Ye probably be right, but I can guarantee he'll 'ave 'is real one on 'and with all the proper documentation." O'Neill leaned back in her chair, looking smug.
Darien finally spoke up, "Okay, I'll bite; how?"
Hobbes silently thanked Fawkes for his willingness to take the hit on this one.
"Come on now, it don't cost all that much to buy a passport these days, or to get an extra one or two stamped by a Customs official." She gave them a dangerous grin. "I can get ye some price quotes if ye like."
Hobbes and Fawkes exchanged a look. 'Crap. Crap. And triple-crap.' "Ah, not now, but I'll keep it in mind." Hobbes sank back down into the chair. "Do you know if he's meeting anyone?"
"Aye."
"Do you know when and where?"
"Aye."
"Care to tell us?" Darien was watching her carefully.
"On one condition."
Hobbes groaned. "We paid you for this info."
"Nay, ye didn'," she countered. "In exchange for the file on Tormond Westgaard ye requested 'info on Aristid Papadopoulos. Where 'e is and what 'e's planning.'" she quoted from memory. "And that, Agent Hobbes, I 'ave given ye."
Darien laughed out loud. "You went and left a loophole, Hobbesy." He shoved himself upright and stalked towards her. "What do you want?"
She tipped her head up to gaze at him. "If, and I do mean if, Aristid is meeting this Tormond, I want in."
Hobbes closed his eyes for a long moment, not quite sure he'd heard her correctly, but the mental replay didn't change. "Why?"
She shook her head. "I 'ave me reasons. Do we 'ave a deal?"
"What if he's not meeting Tormond?" Darien questioned.
"Then ye get the meet info free and clear," she replied without hesitation, which told Hobbes... something, he just wasn't entirely sure what. He looked from one to the to the other, that weird vibe thing was happening again and he was liking it less and less. Plainly, his partner had indeed done more than sleep on his day off, and it had involved Miss O'Neill in some way. It was the only explanation that made any sense. How else would he get an inside track on her? It musta been something damn impressive for her to be willing to practically give away info she could make them pay for.
"Deal," Fawkes said.
"Fawkes," Hobbes squawked. "You can't..."
"I can, Hobbes." Darien met Hobbes' eyes without flinching. "I did."
"Crap. Then you're the one who's gotta convince the Chief, and he ain't gonna be happy." Hobbes was more than willing to let Fawkes hoist himself by his own petard. Maybe it'd teach him a lesson on cutting deals with the devil, no matter how bad he might want to get into her pants.
"Gentlemen, if ye give me 30 minutes to get cleaned up, I'll be ready to go."
"Go?" Darien repeated. "Go where?"
"To the Agency, a'course. The info is being compiled as we speak, I'll need to do this in real-time. Unless ye'd rather wait another day or two." And with that bombshell, she closed the laptop.