SIX DEGREES

A Gunslinger Girl fanfiction, based on works by Yu Aida.

Fausto Martinello and Carlos Gallo belong to Officer_Charon, Elio Alboreto belongs to Professor Voodoo.

Chapter 06|Zero-Day

Embraced deeply by one of Chief Lorenzo's leathery armchairs, Hilshire resisted the urge to fidget. Not that the SWA's commander furnished his office uncomfortably, far from it, but...

No, his discomfiture was not physically derived in the slightest.

In the seat opposite, Jean waited while the ever attendant Tea refreshed his coffee, before sipping at it to run eyes across the room's assembled personages. Starting at Ferro, one place closer the door, his cold gaze swept over the detective, before finishing at their collective boss, positioned behind his desk, afternoon light streaming in through windows on either side of tall bookshelves behind.

A sigh.

"I guess we should have seen this one coming. Hilshire's been spearheading our Anasetti investigation since the Rome attacks; with that sort of visibility it was only a matter of time until the Padania put two and two together."

Despite himself, Hilshire felt a little tension drain away at those words.

Lorenzo's eyebrows raised, looking over the top of steepled fingers. "I thought we sent Florentino to help mitigate that risk."

"We did, also to get Odile more public exposure before they deployed properly..." the field commander's eyes flicked away for a second, and Hilshire thought he saw them quickly catch Ferro's, "...among other things."

"Point is they've proven disturbingly ineffective," put in that latter, "on both fronts, seemingly."

"To be fair, we were in the process of leaving when the attack came. I do not think I would have caught the warning signs myself." Draining gritty dregs from his own coffee cup, the handler placed it down on his chair's broad arm with a slight rattle, gaze turning back toward the SWA's leader. "Had Florentino not been readying us to move, the Padans' attack may well have succeeded."

"And had Vitale been more on the ball, or his cyborg shown more initiative, the attack may not have gone through at all. We can forgive a certain lack of... cold warrior… level paranoia from those out of a law enforcement or military background but..."

"How is Florentino anyway?" Lorenzo's words cut calmly across Jean's.

It was however the support manager who answered, glancing at her notepad. "Not in a good way, though, by Doctor Donato's report, he's not suffering anything particularly life threatening. That said, he will be laid up for at least a month, probably more."

"And the cyborg?"

"Bianchi's keeping a close eye on her." The woman grimaced. "I suspect both will remain struck from the active roster for some time."

"I may have to hold Vitale locally for the foreseeable future anyway." Hilshire felt the lead handler's gaze land on him. "Your report said some of the Padania escaped?"

"Yes, Triela saw at least three make it to a getaway vehicle."

"Which means we're going to have to assume, at least until proven otherwise, that Florentino and Odile are known to the Separatists, so we can add them to the list of potentially compromised fratelli."

His words were hard, and the detective was sure a hint of frustration could be heard edging the normally emotionless tone. That was fair enough too, the field commander was probably enjoying this guessing game of who was or was not safe less than anyone.

Silence hung for a second, before being broken by a sigh as Jean continued. "If there's one upside, we at least now have a chance of getting a handle regarding who on our side the Padania have identified, and structuring our deployments to suit. Hilshire?"

Taking his cue, the German looked down to inspect his own notes.

"The Primavera dei Servizi Finanziari building is still secured. Giorgio has loaned us Fausto and Carlos to help there, but we are needing to lean fairly heavily on Section One. They have also supplied a hacking team since we cannot do it ourselves, and are working at the company's network now. Fortunately it seems the fight turned so fast those left in the office did not have a chance to wipe the system, though actually getting in is slow..."

"I would have thought direct access to the computers would make it easier."

Lorenzo's words hung in the air, and Hilshire shrugged. "That is all I know, sorry, it is not my area of expertise. Phones and other personal effects confiscated from the dead Padans have been brought back here for our own people to work on. Once those are opened up, we are hopeful it will identify who the Padania have their people on the lookout for."

"And we did not give Section One the phones because?"

The detective paused at that, figuring out how to set his next words in order, and it was Jean who instead used the gap to answer.

"We're not sure what role Primavera had with the Padania, but the phones are more likely to contain operational information, or information more directly pertaining to our fratelli. I'm sure we can agree it would be better that is vetted before letting Section One get their hands on it. We're also more likely to crack the phones first..." his glance landed on Hilshire again, who nodded, "...so if they contain anything relating to this Vito Genovese, we should get a head start there as well."

"We can pull itineraries and calendars off the phones and try to match them up against Vito's visits. That may give us an actual name, or at least a more solid alias, rather than the disposable ones seen so far," continued the German. He looked toward Lorenzo again. "That said, there is a high probability Primavera's data will add something else to the puzzle."

"Which means it is not ideal that Section One have first go at that either," finished Lorenzo.

"I would be happier generally if someone were riding herd on Section One in Trieste." Eyes swung back toward the field commander. "We've been very careful to keep them out of the loop regards Blacker's operations since he arrived, having a warm body to filter information or head off awkward questions about how we got there in the first place would be advisable."

Hilshire nodded, heaving an internal sigh as he did at what was coming next. "We have been trying to hide involvement by the Blackers. I doubt any information we recover this time will connect them, even indirectly, but it would be better to be able to check."

Now his superior's gaze settled on him again. "How is Triela?"

So much for getting a breather.

"Out of hospital this morning."

"Good. I want you to head back up north and keep an eye on the hackers. You will need Section One's information eventually anyway, so we may as well kill two birds with one stone."

There it was. Unfortunately, compromised or no, there was really only one person with the required case knowledge to go.

And, if he were to be really cold about it, it made more sense to send someone already in the Padania's sights, rather than a fratello yet to be exposed. Still...

"If it is okay with you, Jean, I would like to leave Triela in Rome. There's not a lot she can do in Trieste, and the lack of a cyborg may throw any Padan observers."

"No." There wasn't even a pause for thought. "The Padania already have your photo, you're far better off with her for protection. Besides, if we lose you up there she becomes useless anyway."

That drew and internal grimace: not an unexpected response either.

Now the handler glanced back down at his notes, tapping a finger in thought. The Padania had managed to put together enough firepower to pressure a two fratello team already, so if he couldn't keep Triela out of danger, then...

"The locals have already proven they can put up a decent fight against two fratelli. I would be happier taking another pair with us again."

That did get a pause as it was considered, but Jean's head shook once more. "No, not yet at least, I don't want to risk potentially uncovering someone who is still in the clear. That said..." His attention moved for a second. "...Ferro? Talk to Giorgio and see if we can't borrow his two a bit longer."

The support manager nodded, before turning her attention to Hilshire, seemingly pre-empting his next question. "I'll approve you to draw a pool vehicle for now. The SWA paperwork to cover your car's replacement will, unfortunately, take some time to process, and I doubt insurance will pay out."

The handler stifled a sigh. "Let me know what Giorgio says, and if Martinello or Gallo need anything brought along." Now, his attention returned to Jean. "How soon do you want me in place?"

"As soon as possible, tomorrow night at the latest, and I suggest drawing some heavier weaponry anyway, whatever Giorgio's response."

That received a stiff nod as Hilshire rose from his seat. "Then if you will excuse me... Ferro, I will need to put in a requisition to replace some of the equipment lost in the Mercedes."

"Email me and I'll rush it through after this."

Watching as the man made his exit, Jean waited for the door to clack shut before looking back toward his commander. "I don't like leaving fratelli so exposed. As soon as we know who the Padania have spotted and who they have not, I want to send Victor some form of support, probably another of the compromised pairs."

There was a pause as Tea again moved quietly through the group, refilling drinks, before collecting the departed Hilshire's cup, Lorenzo's pen tapping against the desk as he thought. Finally, the chief spoke up.

"Do you think that's the best course of action? Seeing two suspect pairs together is likely to confirm in the Padans' minds that they have a viable target, and you would be putting double the number of people in harm's way."

"I doubt the Separatist leadership would be handing out 'most wanted' card decks if they were not fairly convinced of identities. They have to play the political game as much as we, maybe even more, if they want to keep any public opinion on their side, and killing a man and child in broad daylight will be bad enough. Killing the wrong man and child would be catastrophic, and they have to be as aware of that as we are."

That got a wry chuckle. "You've been talking to Priscilla's people haven't you?"

"I have. Be that as it may, we can't keep holding fratelli back: it's hobbling our operations and strangling us politically. I think our best course of action is to isolate and compartmentalise those fratelli still suspected to be under the radar, and reinforce those who are compromised to give them a fighting chance: minimum two fratelli per mission for the compromised pairs, and no crossover to those still in the clear."

"This of course all assumes the Padans' phones actually yield up the expected data," Ferro chipped in.

"It does, but at the moment it's the best chance we have to get back on track."

"And if they don't?"

"Then we're back to square one." Jean gave a wry snort. "We can at least put Hilshire and Vitale on the 'found' list… so we're two up on where we were before."

Behind his desk, Lorenzo took a sip of coffee. "You're assuming Florentino and Odile are compromised then?"

"I think we have to, for their safety and everyone else's." Pausing to mimic his boss's motion, the lead handler looked between his two companions. "To be honest, I'm not entirely unhappy at the excuse to hold Vitale back, lot of good our new master spy turned out to be."

"Well maybe if we had not been in such a rush to get one on board, and actually done a proper candidate screening, we wouldn't be having this problem."

Ferro's words were terse, and the chief waved a calming hand. "I know, we pushed him through to keep the politicos happy, but had we not there may never have been a chance to find another."

"I'm not entirely convinced we're in a 'some is better than none' situation."

"In this case, we might just be."

Eyes returned to Jean under questioning eyebrows, and he took another mouthful of coffee, using it to cover as he arranged his thoughts: something Blacker had said during the hunt for Anasetti… Taking heed had paid off then, and it looked like it might just give them a way forward now as well.

The man could be a great asset here, if he and his cyborg were not such incredible disruptions.

"We can't deploy Vitale internationally anymore, we can't risk having a compromised fratello get into trouble that far from home." Another sip. "Moreover, and Blacker pointed this out during the sniper hunt also, the greatest protection any fratello operating internationally has is that no-one really expects to see cyborgs outside Italy's borders yet. We're under pressure domestically certainly, but the farther from the epicentre you move the less prevalent cyborg rumours become. Having a fratello recognised in, say, Paris would shatter that perception."

"Yet the Blackers have gone to France?"

Ferro again.

"We still need someone out there and, loath as I am to admit it, no-one is better than the Blackers at not looking like a fratello, a façade they took pains to maintain chasing Anasetti."

"And when they need backup? Or someone has to make a shorter hop outside?"

"Then we take a calculated risk… which precludes Vitale from going and, all considered, I'm not so convinced we should be continuing to try and bolster our international operations further at this stage anyway."

Another pause, and this time it was Lorenzo who filled it. "And you still think you can find use for him domestically?"

"I do."

"He won't like that."

"The more his problem. He has had the better part of four months now to turn his cyborg into a spy, and by all reports she is still far from. Monique deployed in one and, according to Priscilla's reading…" his words faltered a second, "…she believes Odile to be a liability."

"In fairness," the SWA's support manager quirked a rare smile, "Monty considers everyone to be a liability."

"Yes, but in this context her cynicism may actually be worth taking on board. Florentino was not the only reason I backed his fratello being frozen out of the Blackers' cases."

Silence fell again as that thought was digested. A fratello was an expensive asset and, with the SWA's financial honeymoon period very much over, that one may now be failing in its duties was a potentially fatal problem. Particularly after a much touted hire.

Eventually Lorenzo's chair creaked, rocking back on ancient hinges, and the chief regarded his two subordinates over steepled fingers.

"By the sound of that, Odile is half the issue. How do you think Florentino would go if we replaced his cyborg… with a properly screened candidate of our choice this time, rather than one selected on potential bust size?"

Another pause, then Jean shook his head. "As much as we need his experience, I don't believe he would be worth sinking the extra capital into, nor would I be willing to bet on a different outcome should we try."

"It would also be more than purely the expense of an additional cyborg unit." Added Ferro. "Jean can correct me if I'm wrong, but reconditioning Odile would create a major hit to morale. We can't just wipe the other girls like after Raballo either: there're too many of them, and I doubt the four remaining first generations may even survive the required conditioning dose."

The field commander nodded. "It's a good point, and right now I can't afford to risk putting Hilshire out of action any longer than necessary either." Glancing down at his now empty coffee cup left an empty beat, which he used to get back on course. "That aside, the way things are developing, Vitale's basic skill set is going to be just as useful distributed domestically as deployed where we originally intended to put him."

"He hasn't exactly covered himself in glory regards passing that knowledge on..." the chief's words were dry, "...to other fratelli or his cyborg."

"No he has not. Despite his best efforts though, or lack thereof, by all accounts Odile is perfectly competent at meeting the more traditional cyborg requirements. According to Giorgio she passed her VdCO well, which also makes me less enthusiastic regards the prospect of re-writing her."

"He wasn't just going soft was he?"

Jean pulled a wry expression at that. "Not Giorgio, we get him to head the VdCO assessments for a reason."

"Which brings us back to the question of how to manage Odile and her handler, then spin that decision to the purse string holders. Jean, ultimately how we proceed here is your call."

A pause.

"Honestly, whatever his previous record, Vitale's management of his fratello so far makes me uneasy at the thought of putting him into a Blacker style position. I didn't think to get Jethro's view on the matter, but Priscilla's read on Monique's opinion I believe backs that." He paused to let the words sink in, before continuing. "That said, Vitale can still be of use domestically… and I think that probably also gives us an opening in how to phrase explaining the decision."

He tailed off, and Lorenzo's chair creaked again as he let it swing back upright. "I would want to check what correspondence was sent out so we don't accidentally contradict ourselves, but I could probably spin it that we were really looking for a Blacker-ish skill set, rather than another fratello to necessarily step into their shoes."

"Considering how tough the domestic environment is getting, that may well be justification enough to hold Vitale as an internal operator on its own. Reference Trieste if we have to," added Ferro.

"I'd prefer to not throw a spotlight on Trieste if at all possible, but you have a point." Drawing a notebook open, the chief uncapped his pen to scrawl quickly in it. "Play this right and we may even be able to turn it to our advantage… which just leaves how to manage Vitale."

That drew a grunt from Jean. "Much as I would like to make my thoughts clear to him in no uncertain terms, I think the answer is 'gently'. If he goes crying back to AISE it's going to cause all manner of trouble, so the kid gloves unfortunately need to stay on. For now I will phrase things such that, after Trieste, we can't safely deploy him outside Italy. It's too risky to him and everyone else, so he is to make himself useful on the domestic front."

"He's still going to need to get his act together regards Odile for that to be worth it."

"He is." The field commander glanced down at his notes again, before turning eyes back toward Lorenzo. "The handlers are usually pretty good at self-policing, but we might pull Alboreto and some of their more senior number aside to start putting some pressure on him from that angle. If that doesn't pan out, it will at least prep him for being given the official word."

"He'll probably push back on much of that."

"I'm sure he will, which is why I particularly wanted Alboreto, he's at least more difficult to push back against." Glancing toward the door again, a wry thought crossed Jean's mind. "It's a pity Hilshire only gets confrontational where his cyborg is concerned, otherwise we could have started already."

Closing the heavy, soundproof, office door, Hilshire halted momentarily to mentally organise how he was going to fit his new, albeit not unexpected, task into existing plans, before stepping over to where Triela waited patiently by the wall.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

There was a pause, filled with slightly awkward silence. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"Come along then, we have work to do."

Walking away down the corridor, the handler heard his charge fall in beside. "Mr. Lorenzo has given us somewhere to go?"

"Yes, back to Trieste. I'll pick you up from the dorm at seven tomorrow morning."

"How long for?"

"Not certain, until Section One finish breaking into Primavera's computers, so I would say at least a week…" a sigh, "…I would have preferred a little more time for you to recuperate."

"I said I'm fine," her words firm, "the doctors gave me a clean bill of health this morning."

Firm, yes, but he had heard that 'leave me alone' tone before as well.

"They also said for you to avoid any strenuous activity for the next few days."

"Then don't get shot at again."

The handler bit his tongue. He found it difficult to understand how returning to the scene of their last fire fight would mitigate strenuous activity however, like it or not, no-one else could take his place, so back to Trieste they went… and there was nothing further he could think of to say to Triela which would not put her out of sorts.

So best keep his mouth shut.

Descending the last flight of stairs, Hilshire lead out into the car park, shadow cast across its still mostly occupied courtyard by the low sun. Crunching over worn asphalt the detective led to a small, open topped, vehicle, parked amongst its larger brethren. Settling into one of the hard, steel, seats, he reached forward, twisting the ignition to start it with a clatter as his cyborg stepped into the passenger position, yelling across the carburetted engine's racket.

"Where are we going now!?"

Shoving the spindly gear lever into first and leaning down to release the handbrake, the former detective edged out of his space.

"Same as we intended to before: collect Odile from the hospital, see her handler, then take her back to the dorm!"

He gave up after that, instead concentrating on grinding the yellow Moke through aged gears as it careened along the SWA's lanes. A loaner from the carpool, the pseudo 4x4 made up one of the hodgepodge of vehicles used to ferry personnel and equipment around campus…

…obviously around campus, no-one would be fool enough to take it on the open road.

Needless to say, it had not precisely been his first choice.

Mercifully the jarring, bouncy journey came to an end relatively quickly and, pulling into the hospital car park next to Bianchi's beaten Alfa estate, Hilshire hauled himself from the Mini's seatbelt-less steel tub once more, traipsing toward the medical wing door.

Entering into its shabby, 70s-esque foyer, his identification was scanned at the small security station, before being ushered through to lead Triela into cramped halls beyond.

"We'll pick up Odile first, but let's make sure to keep things brief."

In stark contrast to the building's worn ground floor, the basement levels barely showed a sign of use since the Agency's inception, scuffed lift doors out of place as they opened onto a brightly lit hall, fluorescent lamps reflecting off clean, modern, lines.

Turning down the corridor, padding along black, non-slip vinyl, Hilshire passed through another heavy security door, walls beyond lined with pairs of entries. Selecting the second of one set, he turned back to his charge.

"Wait out here."

"Yes, sir."

Inside was dark, twin forms of Doctors Bianchi and Donato backlit by a pane of single direction glass down the longest side, the latter clasping a folder in one hand.

"Is she ready to go?"

Donato nodded, glancing into the brightly lit bedroom beyond. "She is though, like Triela, she will need to avoid any strenuous activity for another week. That at least shouldn't be a problem with her handler out of action. I believe Triela will be keeping an eye on her in the dorm?"

The German grimaced. "Someone will be. We have been ordered back to Trieste, but I will ask Triela to organise the other girls to watch her."

That drew an unimpressed expression from the surgeon, but it was Bianchi who replied. "Do so, if you could: Odile is still tender over her handler's condition, and her perceived failure to protect him. If she starts getting any worse, I would like to know."

"I will."

Donato nodded, apparently having nothing more to say regards Jean's dismissal of doctor's orders, and instead held out the folder. "Well, in that case, you're free to sign her out."

Taking the proffered packet, Hilshire added his signature in lieu of Florentino's to the cover sheet and, tearing that off, the doctor left the remainder in his grasp.

"That's Odile's medical report. If you could give it to Florentino I think you're free to go."

Getting a nod from Bianchi, the handler made his exit, collecting his cyborg on the way through before brushing his ID against a reader set beside the door of the adjoining room. From inside came the thunk of heavy bolts retracting, and he swung the thick panel open, leaning against its solidly reinforced weight.

Definitely more than would be required to retain any human.

Inside, Odile sat on her bed, already dressed in black, wet look, leggings, and a short top, which someone had apparently brought down from the dorm for her.

Her head spun round as he stepped into the room, automatic smile faltering slightly as she caught sight of her visitors, and the handler forced his own good natured expression into place. "Good afternoon, Odile."

"Hello, Mr. Hilshire… Triela."

An awkward pause.

"Florentino is still in hospital, so we will be taking you back to the dorm..." The smile faded further at those words, and he held up the folder. "…but first I need to give him this."

That took a moment to register, but then the blonde's face brightened again, and she slid off the bed, collecting a couple of magazines which had been laying on crisply starched sheets. Teenager titles, by the looks of things.

"Yes, Mr. Hilshire!"

Making a point of keeping his eyes high, the handler ushered his temporary charge out into the corridor, leading once more back toward the lifts. Letting the two cyborgs precede him into its car, he this time selected one of the upper floors, before turning to find Odile's curvaceous form stood close behind. Arms crossed uncertainly under her bust, compressing and lifting, she looked up to meet his eyes.

"Umm, how is Florentino?"

Wishing he had some space left to retreat, Hilshire resisted the urge to glance away, instead meeting that nervous gaze. "He will be fine. His injuries were quite severe, but he will recover. You might be off the active roster for a few months though."

"Oh."

Her eyes dropped at that, white teeth biting a plump lower lip as lift doors opened again, and he found himself automatically looking for some words of comfort as both girls were ushered out into another corridor, this one bearing the scars of yet a different past renovation.

Pausing on industrial carpet, the German spoke once more. "That does not mean those months need to be lost. We will still be running classes, and I am sure other handlers will be able to help maintain your training..."

He tailed off… too late: he was having enough trouble right now, just what sort of havoc would Odile being sent off with other handlers wreak in the cyborg dorm?

"Then, could you…"

"No." The word had come out harder than expected, and he consciously softened his tone. "Sorry Odile, we're being sent back to Trieste tomorrow."

"Oh."

Now his own charge piped up, voice remaining similarly even. "I'm sure you can work in with us when we get back, and I will ask around the dorm to see if anyone can help out before then."

The first gen's eyes turned back to him now, flashing slightly. He knew that expression, she wasn't happy about something.

The handler nodded. "I'll send an email as well, and see if Ferro or Priscilla can help organise a few volunteers."

"Umm, thank you."

"And now, we are heading back to Trieste tomorrow morning, so I am afraid we must keep moving."

Turning at that, he led away down the corridor, cutting across the building's rear to knock at a door, its wooden face holding a metal card with '4' stamped into it.

"Enter."

The voice from behind was muffled, but still legible, needing only to penetrate light veneer and, pushing once more into the room beyond, Hilshire let the two girls trickle in behind.

By contrast to the stark cyborg facility, this space was much warmer: vinyl flooring only appearing outside a wet-area entrance, easily replaced carpet tiles substituting everywhere else. A bed butted onto one wall, large window beside allowing warm twilight to stream over honey coloured wood furniture and the figure rested beneath white sheets, mattress propped up to let it sit comfortably.

Or at least as comfortably as one in such a position could.

Looking over from his repose, Florentino gave a small gesture of greeting, careful not to disturb the intravenous lines hooked into one arm, other shoulder set in a spidery plastic brace, part obscuring surgical scars. His smashed hip and pelvis were presumably similarly immobilised, though currently only a lumpy form could be seen beneath light blankets.

"Florentino!"

Odile's cry beat Hilshire's own greeting as she rushed past.

"Stop!" The former AISE man's shout however brought her to a screeching halt, before he continued. "If you jar me wrong I'll be in here even longer."

Now his attention turned to the other handler. "Did you have to bring the cyborgs with you, Victor?"

Beside him, the blonde girl's face dropped but, if he noticed his charge's changed expression, it wasn't evident, and Hilshire instead held up the file. "I had to pick her up to give you this, and I cannot very well leave them wandering around the medical wing unattended."

That got a sigh. "Alright, how is she?"

"Donato said she is fine, though it would be best if she avoided any strenuous activity for a week or so."

"No fear there, I'm not taking her anywhere soon."

"I was going to ask some of the other handlers if they would make sure her training continued."

A pause, then the bed-ridden agent nodded. "That would be good, but just the basics, first generation stuff... I don't want anyone else trying to teach her how to spy."

The German bit back a retort at that slight, and instead nodded. "I will make sure I pass that on."

"Good, it will knock a month and a half or so out of her actual education, minimum, but beats going backward."

"A month and a half!? Are you going to be okay?" Odile's blurted sentence cut off suddenly, the girl turning pale as if she had spoken out of turn, and her next words were more cautious. "Umm... sir?"

"I'll be fine, but they can't just swap parts out of me like they can you." The returning tone was stony, and now Florentino's eyes swept across the remaining assembled bodies. "Of course, if anyone had been paying more attention I may not have wound up in this position to begin with."

It was a small jab in itself, but it was one of many, and Hilshire felt his own mood sour, pausing before he responded.

"Triela, go wait outside. Take Odile with you."

Picking the message, his charge nodded, ushering her less experienced sibling from the room and closing the door. Cyborgs could be touchy about their handlers, so it was never a good idea to argue in front of them and, while he was fairly comfortable Triela could protect him against a second gen, letting that altercation occur in the first place did no-one any good.

Not to mention criticising an authority figure in front of a subordinate was just something not done.

Now his attention turned back to the bed ridden man.

"From what I remember, keeping a spy's eye out for potential threats was why you joined us, Florentino."

"That was part of the reason, but I'm only one man, and that doesn't give everyone else in the area permission to slack off."

"No, it does not. However, you were being relied upon to cover a known experience gap, to pick up on things those not from an espionage background may miss, like someone spending too much time in a window, for example."

"And people are also supposed to learn from me doing so, I would hope some may at least have started to make use of my teaching, we've been paired up long enough."

"Well I suspect you're going to get plenty more opportunity to teach." Hilshire suppressed the slight hint of enjoyment at his opposite's suddenly unsure expression, that tingle quickly replaced by an immediate sense of guilt for his lapse into schadenfreude.

"Meaning?"

"Some of the Padania got away, which means you are considered compromised. I doubt Jean will risk sending you over the border now."

"You've got to fucking kidding me."

"No."

"So what the fuck am I supposed to do once I get out of here?"

"As you suggested: perhaps teach… presuming you feel inclined to actually start attempting to do so, rather than simply rubbing people's noses in your own perceived superiority. Some will need it too: one upside of the whole mess is that we are probably going to find out who the Padania have identified so far..."

"Except that information was acquired prior to me being seen."

"Indeed."

No response.

"I am sure someone will be down to brief you once they have an idea of how they wish to proceed." Still nothing and, giving an internal shrug, Hilshire began to turn toward the door. "Now, if you will excuse me, Triela and I are headed back to Trieste. I have quite a lot of organising to do prior to tomorrow morning."

Letting himself out the door and closing it behind once more, Hilshire looked around for his two charges, letting himself cool down in the process. That, frankly, had not been one of his more glorious moments.

Quickly he found them, seated a little distance away on spartan corridor chairs, Triela bright enough to have taken Odile well beyond earshot. That was good, and he moved quickly to them.

"Come on, let us get you two back to the dorm."

Standing, the elder girl looked up at him once more. "Do we not get to go back in and see Florentino?"

"I think he has other things on his mind."

"Oh."

It was a short journey back to the lifts, and he heard Odile behind, already perkier as they drew away from her handler's presence. "Still, a month and a half, that's not too bad... I guess. At least Florentino wasn't too badly injured."

"By the sound of things no..." Triela's voice, "...but I think this will be one of the longer stays a handler has needed to make in hospital."

That was the truth...

There was a bing as the lift arrived and the girls ushered inside, Hilshire following behind to select the ground floor.

...hopefully they would be able to glean at least some good from the whole debacle.

A shaft of sunlight, pushing through sullen clouds above, caused Monty to squint as their taxi emerged from the cross-harbour tunnel, and she stole a surreptitious glance in the rear-view mirror, using that sudden brightness to find the beaten Toyota van which had trailed them from Wan Chai. Not quite what she had wanted to see mind, but loosing the tail on dead straight highway was an unlikely daydream.

Seemingly Zhang still had at least a few warm bodies to spare.

Quickly nosing off the motorway, their driver swung around a wide roundabout, away from the city proper and back toward the more industrialised Yau Tong district, cited where Victoria Harbour narrowed to the south eastern end of Kowloon Bay. On the closer shore, decrepit factory shells were being cleared into waste ground, ready for new construction, and the taxi skirted along its mud-smeared edge, snaking between rusting trucks.

Leaning over, Jethro pointed to where tall columns rose up on the road's opposite flank, forming a barrier between them and towering apartments on wooded slopes beyond. "That's the Metro Station there, if this rain clears we might take the cheaper option home."

Ahead, tarmac ducked again between concrete walls, and their driver followed it in, cutting down a narrower side street, route twisting through the artificial maze before emerging onto a more major thoroughfare. To take the roundabout path had not required much convincing: promise of a few extra Hong Kong dollars and a larger fare to boot doing most of the talking.

On either side, wide roller doors were thrown open to display busy loading bays, the occasional more human sized entry wedged in beside, giving access to an office or upper level and, drawing nearer one, Monty nudged her handler. Out the window, a newer sign had been tacked to crumbling render, black writing on an orange and white background underpinned by Chinese characters: the local Hermes depot, signage the only thing to differentiate it from its brethren.

Rolling by, the young agent took the opportunity to glance in past its opened door: another loading floor, stout columns supporting the highrise above, enough space between to manoeuvre a truck with relative ease. It wasn't large though, certainly no-one would be storing shipping containers in there, plenty of pallets, but not containers.

Then they were gone, allowing her a brief glimpse through plate windows to the reception: a desk on one side, coffee table and waiting chairs, stairs leading up into the building proper.

So they could not store a container, not for an extended period, and were just about at the opposite end of Victoria Harbour from the port, which of course begged the question: why? Why would Anagnos Shipping's forwarding subsidiary choose this particular location?

Seemingly she was not alone in those thoughts and, leaning down again, Jethro gestured out the window as similar shop fronts slid past, the road descending back toward water as he did. "Well, they're certainly not Robinson Crusoe in being here."

Turning off the street end, the taxi skirted a sheltered harbour, concrete walls enclosing an odd collection of power cruisers and rusting live-aboards, tiny sampan fishing craft scattered amongst them, lights in some suggesting they may serve as both income and bedroom. Buildings on the confined waters' far shore were just as humble, and their taxi pulled in amongst curiously rustic single storey shop fronts, customers bustling between and flowing around the car.

Leaning over his seat, the driver looked at his passengers. "Lei Yue Mun Seafood Market."

Leaving Jethro to pay, Monty let herself out, stepping under a dripping awning to watch as the van halted up the street, disgorging one of their known tails. Backing a little farther into the shop, the cyborg leaned over a bubbling tank, seemingly to inspect its wriggling contents, keeping one eye on their follower as the petite woman brushed back her fringe of dark hair, nailing it in place with a bobby pin, and straightened her loose t-shirt.

Still getting dressed, so presumably the van also carried a change of clothes inside... smart.

Shifting focus, the girl studied the vehicle in question, memorising its patina of dents and scrapes, before finally also noting the number plate as her partner's door closed with a thud. Still bent over, a hand shortly slid around her side, resting on the curve of her belly, and she felt lips against her ear.

"Noodle today is it?"

"Mmmhmm."

"So, what else are you looking at?"

Head twisting slightly to bring her handler's features into peripheral vision, she jerked it down toward the tank where long, segmented, crustaceans scrambled over one another.

"Lunch, I suspect."

"Those I might try..." now a grin passed across his face as he gestured to the display beside where fat, pink, tubes pulsated slowly in contrast to their more energetic neighbours, "...but I don't think I'm decrepit enough to need the help of the fat innkeeper yet."

That earned a cocked eyebrow, covering an evaluating stare, and he stood up properly. "Come on, let's have a look around before we decide what to eat, and whom to have cook it."

Feeling a palm nestle itself in the small of her back, Monty allowed herself to be guided into narrow alleys, leading deeper into the seafood district, keeping close under shop fronts to make best use of their awnings against persistently drizzling rain. These were not the alleys of Wan Chai or Mong Kok, neon twilight traded for bright lamps over the bustling activity, people haggling across open tanks, occupants making lazy turns, unaware of the bargains being struck for their lives above.

Joining that throng, the fratello meandered store to store along slick pavements, pausing at one or another to inspect its wares, forcing their follower to show similar interest in what was displayed before her.

She would have to go before they went back to Hermes.

Only so much could be done to manufacture an appropriate opportunity however, but there was plenty else to discuss in the meantime until it presented.

"What I would like to know is what Hermes is doing all the way down here."

There was a minute pause from above then, pulling in to face another living menu, her partner leaned down, as if to inspect where large, speckled fish nudged up against each other, waiting to be taken to one of the innumerable restaurants scattered amongst seafood stores. "Not sure, maybe the rent is cheaper? Or it is easier for regular folk to drop their goods here, rather than attempt to bring them through port security?"

"Then why not set up shop right near the port itself? Surely the transport costs alone would quickly mitigate any difference in rent."

"Maybe, maybe not. If they can pull a barge against the foreshore it might be cheaper to take loads up in bulk, might, and it would skip any chance of getting intercepted on the road to boot."

Now it was Monty's turn to pause, before shifting her head slightly once more to bring lips closer his ear. "Which may in itself explain the farther location: could be there is less scrutiny on the shop front down this end of town."

"Possibly. Whatever the reason though, they're not the only ones pursuing it. I think I counted at least three other forwarders on the road in."

"Four."

"Four then... maybe something to have a chat about: we'll want to drop past the others anyway, so might as well spread the questioning around."

Allowing herself to be shuffled along to the next stall, forming a corner between this alley and one of its smaller tributaries, Monty used an aquarium reflection to inspect behind. Noodle had remained where she was, apparently comfortable they were still close enough to keep an eye on and, while the cyborg watched, that store's hovering owner decided this particular customer had been in place long enough without attention. His Cantonese was incomprehensible across the market's background noise, muffled further as the rain picked up again, but whatever was said drew her gaze away.

It wasn't much, but it would do.

Letting a thicker patch of crowd drift into the interceding gap, the young agent touched her partner's arm lightly, and they disappeared into the side alley, walking quickly out of sight.

The walls were closer here, pressing the throng at their backs tighter, and Jethro took the lead, elbows working to nudge open a path as surprised shouts started to emanate from behind. Seemingly Noodle had noticed their absence, and was being none too cautious in her pursuit.

Another corner gave the pair a little leeway, enough to slip by the first alley they passed, taking the junction after, pace settling some as they swung around another turn, cutting back through Lei Yue Mun Market's dripping maze, sounds of the Autumn Orchid agent's progress fading. Slowing again, Monty felt herself once more guided into a shop doorway, this one extending back slightly to give some cover from the street and still intense downpour, dark clouds creating a dull twilight. Keeping one eye on those traipsing through running rivulets outside, the cyborg let the other wander over now ubiquitous tanks and back to the shelves she now stood in front of, stacked with dried ingredients to go with their still swimming counterparts.

"Wait for five." Jethro's voice came from beside her ear. "If there's no sign of Zhang's crowd, we'll start looping back around to head for Hermes."

"I don't remember his people being that overt trying to catch up before."

"Well, it was only a matter of time before they figured out we were aware who the tails were, assuming they didn't expect it from the off. Maybe we've started being difficult enough for them to give up the charade."

That drew a non-committal sound, and the girl instead picked up a sheaf of plastic-wrapped seaweed, attention never leaving the street. The swarm out there was rapidly thinning, seeking shelter like themselves. Fortunately this particular shop's proprietor seemed well aware they were little more than weather driven refugees, leaving the pair alone, which made for a somewhat more bearable wait.

Finally, looking at his watch, her handler nodded, and Monty felt the hand this time settle on the nape of her neck, urging her into motion. However, barely had she stepped off the shop interior's raised slab than the slap of running feet, approaching across wet tarmac from Jethro's off side, registered. Fighting down the urge to interdict herself between them, the girl instead let her gaze swing around as a small, slightly aged, Chinese man jogged up, shirt and shorts drenched, flat sandal soles generating the distinctive noise.

Dashing up, he held up a white paper bag. "Sir! Sir! You forget this."

Sharing a glance with her partner, she watched as he accepted the package and, as he did, their new arrival straightened up to bring their faces closer, cyborg ears discerning his words in lieu of similar proximity. "Mr. Tiger sends his compliments."

Unrolling the bag's top, the former SIS man inspected its contents, before cocking an eyebrow and passing it down to her. "Thank Mr. Tiger for his kindness."

Nodding, the little man was gone again and, unravelling the package herself, Monty reached in to extract a small box, printed front decorated by a leaping striped cat.

"Tiger Balm... funny." If there was humour in the words, it was desert dry and, opening the container, the girl lifted out a little, hexagonal, bottle, weighing it in her hand. "Doesn't feel full, if I were to hazard a guess, I would say there is probably a thumb drive in here. Rather nice of Tiger to finally come through."

Beside her however, Jethro appeared to be thinking, and she replaced bottle and box whence they had come, rolling the bag up again as he began to speak.

"Well now, this changes things a little."

"Physically, mentally, or in a more theological sense?"

A dry look.

"Mentally, I suspect, because if that is Tiger getting back to us, then we may do better avoiding Hermes all together for now." That earned him a cocked eyebrow, and he continued. "If Tiger has managed to locate our container, we'll probably want to save any brownie points left for slipping away after it."

The eyebrow stayed up, standing in for any reminder that they had already left Zhang's operative behind, and therefore whatever leeway they had been going to lose today was likely already blown.

"And so, in that case, what about Mary? Do we check on her the same time we check on wherever Tiger has pinpointed?"

"I think so. The further up the line we can start, the fewer people we need to question to find out how far she has progressed."

Monty took a moment to digest the words, before nodding: that made sense, and Mary was presumably bright enough to have moved her investigation along decently.

"So then, now what?"

By way of explanation, Jethro flagged down the shop keeper, gesturing to a tank containing some variety of lobster analogue, flattened and spiny. "Néih hóu ma... uhh... Nīgo... géidō... chín a?"

The man stared for a moment, before nodding and, perhaps taking pity, produced a paper pad, on which he proceeded to scrawl down the price, before holding it out for inspection.

"Ḿhgòi." The handler held up two fingers, expression remaining one of question. Seemingly their server got the message as, turning away, he found a bag and began to extract two of the segmented crustaceans.

"If nothing else, finding us simply dining after breaking contact should set a cat amongst the pigeons."

The shop keeper was back now, handing over the beginnings of lunch but, before her handler could say anything else, Monty pointed to another tank of pink, pulsating, fat innkeeper spoon worms. "Ḿhgòi."

That brought another pause, their server's eyes flicking between Jethro's slightly weathered, six foot, former SIS agent frame, and the petite teenager stood at his side. Eventually though he shrugged, turning to find a net and another bag and, as he did, the girl felt her partner's wry gaze.

"You trying to tell me something?"

Her response was quick. "Call Noodle's competence into question we might, but let's ensure at least a few people out here remember us looking to be fed as well."

"You see me not haggling?"

Trieste had seemingly remained in stasis since their last visit, perhaps born of summer's balmy stupor, still beating down on idyllic architecture and glinting off the harbour's blue waves.

Were it not for the change of vehicle, part of him might have suspected they were about to relive the same day over.

Dropping another gear, Hilshire turned down the narrow street which fronted Primavera's offices, letting the big BMW 535i he had selected idle along as he searched for a suitably sized car space. The vehicle itself was not new, early 1990's, originally acquired from Massimiliano Anasetti himself: the sniper's transport for shooting up Rome. Since then the technology department had been over it with a fine tooth comb, conducted a full service, changed number plates, touched up paint, and declared the saloon fit for use by SWA personnel.

All of which would likely need to be changed again after he had finished with it.

That thought brought a wry smile: if nothing else, he was starting to get an appreciation for the sort of paranoia some other fratelli lived under off-compound, though the situation's irony was not lost on him either.

Ahead, the finance office was coming in to view. Someone had erected anti-gawking screens to prevent onlookers on from peering in at the bullet damaged façade since he had last seen it, a Carabinieri guard watching the sole entrance, hands folded atop a PM12 submachine gun… something else the detective was grateful for.

Glancing sideways now, he found Triela in the passenger seat, upright and alert, constantly scanning the world outside. She had every right to be jumpy too and, if he were honest, he also was not entirely thrilled by their situation. Consequently, both fratello members had added an MP7 to their arsenal, stowed under respective places for easy access. Light body armour also now skulked under dress shirts, making the old vehicle's struggling air conditioning seem even less effective than it may otherwise have been.

Passing the barricaded entrance, Hilshire pulled up ahead of a gap in the street's seemingly solid wall of parked cars, before rolling the black BMW into place, shuffling back and forward briefly in the tight space to line up parallel to the kerb.

Turning the car off, he scanned the area. "How does it look out there?"

Triela's reply was quick coming. "I can't see anyone."

"Good. Leave the machine pistol here, but keep an eye out."

"Yes sir."

Letting his charge exit first, the former Europol man moved quickly around to the boot, reaching in awkwardly to unlock it from the flank rather than try and squeeze into the tiny gap between his bumper and that of the car behind. From inside was extracted Triela's shotgun bag, handed off to her, along with a similarly packaged laptop. Those were followed by two heavy pelican cases, which were placed on the footpath.

Closing the boot again, the handler looked once more at his charge. "Is the street still clear?"

"Yes."

"Let's go then."

Picking up the cases he set off back toward Primavera's offices, keeping vehicles between himself and the rest of the street for as long as possible, before skirting shade cloth barriers to pull up in front of the watching carabiniere. Dropping half his load momentarily, he extracted a wallet, holding it out to show credentials.

"Victor Hilshire, Ministry of the Interior."

Taking the proffered ID, the man studied it quickly, glancing back at the German's face before his eyes moved to rest pointedly on Triela. Not getting a response however, he closed the wallet up, handing it back and stepping aside.

"Welcome Agent Hilshire, if there is anything I can do to help, let me know."

"Thank you."

Wallet pocketed once more, he picked up the stray case, stepping around the guard to quickly climb chipped stone stairs into the building lobby, Triela following behind.

Inside, the office still showed fresh scars of battle, shattered windows crudely protected by plastic sheeting, though the mauled chandelier had been lowered to prevent it falling on a passerby. In its place, someone had set up powerful flood lamps on the landing above, spreading a cold light, at odds with the room's rich furnishings. Save one figure those were deserted and, waving a greeting, the fratello moved to where Fausto Martinello lounged in a comfortable armchair by the wall, presumably carried down from the offices upstairs.

It was the cyborg who spoke first. "Hello Fausto."

Rising from his seat, the burly SRT commando looked down at his small addressor, tone becoming strangely reverent from its usual curse-laden vocabulary. "Good afternoon, Miss. Triela…" his eyes moved to the handler, "…Hilshire."

Placing his burden down, the handler fished in a pocket for his car keys. "Good afternoon. Giorgio sends his regards and a gift. Where is Carlos?"

Kneeling, the other man quickly had one of the cases open, lifting a Beretta assault rifle from its depths. "Upstairs, keeping an eye on the geeks."

"Alright." He held out the keys. "There's extra ammunition in the car boot, black 5-series, just down the street. If you want to get that, Triela can keep an eye on things here." Now, he turned to the girl, taking the laptop bag from her hands. "Once he's back, join me upstairs."

"Yes sir."

Placing the rifle away again, Fausto stood, accepting the keys. "Don't worry Ms. Triela, I'll be faster than a speeding bullet."

"And try not to be too obvious either, it's the nylon duffle."

Leaving commando and cyborg behind, Hilshire began his hike upward, shielding eyes from the powerful lamps, unconsciously stepping around the space where one of Triela's victims had lain on his previous visit.

Higher up the damage receded, an effect only spoiled as he came to the top floor, passing the chewed out balustrade and doorway where his charge had put her final assailant down.

Letting fingers run briefly over shattered timber, he stepped into the top floor office.

Inside, Carlos was sat by the sole intact window, half watching the street, attention wavering across the large board table to the room's desk, placed at its far end. Pausing in his contemplation of the world outside, the SRT man gave a brief welcoming wave, which Hilshire returned, before making his way over to where a t-shirted figure sat, out of place in opulent surrounds. However, before the handler could speak, that other held up a finger.

"Hold on, one second."

Finishing what he was typing into a bulky laptop, the man hit 'enter', movement giving a sense of finality, then pulled a face.

"Damn." Swinging the large leather desk chair around, he looked toward his visitor. "Yes, can I help you?"

Stepping forward, the detective held out a hand. "Victor Hilshire, from Section Two."

Grasping the proffered paw, his opposite shook it, standing as he did, and realisation dawned that the seemingly boyish face belonged to someone a good ten or so centimetres taller than himself.

"Ah, yes, we talked on the phone. Raffele Bollai, part of Section One's cyber..." a slightly disgusted expression, "...warfare team. I presume you're here to look over my shoulder?"

"I am here to look over what data you have retrieved so far."

"That's okay, we all have a job to do." Now, Raffele glanced around the room, mobile features becoming those of contemplation. "Umm... I'm pretty much using up the boss's desk at the moment, but you can probably set up on the table."

Nodding agreement, the handler started to unpack, one eye remaining on the hacker: not quite what he had been expecting.

"So how has breaking into their system been progressing?"

"Slowly. Whoever put together their network and databases knew what they were about. They're using an SQL setup, so I was toying there, but have not got far: someone has done a very good job cleaning out any vulnerabilities. That those users left alive have not exactly come scuttling back to work is also hindering things."

"We did not have much choice in our approach."

"I wasn't saying you did, but I am saying shooting the place up has made my life difficult: you can't exactly social engineer a corpse, and the media coverage sort of torpedoes ringing their helpdesk."

Tapping a finger on the table, Hilshire thought quickly. He didn't really have the time to take on more workload but...

"I could put a call out and see if we can track down any of the escapees."

"That might help." Raffele paused. "On the upside, this crowd were running an un-patched NAS as backup for their company-wide files, so that has made things a bit easier."

Setting his laptop booting, Hilshire looked across at his new counterpart. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that was much easier to break into."

Another silence.

"I thought you said whoever set up the network knew what they were doing?"

That got a wry grin. "I did, but that doesn't mean whoever was administrating it after could tell their arse from their elbow. Sadly though there was nothing to help us along elsewhere on it."

At that moment, Triela walked through the door, shotgun case slung over one shoulder, and the hacker's eyes swung toward her.

"Raffele, this is Triela." Turning to his charge, the handler gestured toward the new introduction. "Triela, this is Raffele Bollai. He's helping to pull data out of the system here."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bollai."

"And you."

There was only the minutest hesitation, barely a flicker as he reached for the girl's proffered hand, but the detective had seen enough interactions with cyborgs to pick it. Looking for a way to keep things moving, Hilshire spoke again. "Where are the rest of your team? I thought Section One sent three."

"We do have three, but Pepe is out finding lunch, and Theresa is working down in one of the second floor offices."

"You're not in here to combine notes?"

"People are all different, Mr. Hilshire and, as I said, all the users are now corpses or vanished. However, working in someone's office helps a bit, traces they've left behind can substitute somewhat for an actual conversation. It lets us get inside their mind, and have some idea of how they might be generating passwords, for example. Right now we're working through mapping the network to help with accessing personal accounts. Of course, we don't know what other security measures are in place yet, or if there are any backups stored offsite, so until then we're going slow to minimise chances of accidentally bricking the whole system."

"It is not exactly like in movies is it?"

That drew another wry expression. "Strangely most things aren't." Picking up a hard drive from the desk, Raffele held it out. "I've put what we found up to last night on this if you want to start going through."

"And what you have found today?"

"If we get anything, you'll be the first to know."

Laptop now booted, Hilshire logged on, a guest user account given to him by the technology department, and plugged in the proffered drive. Opening it, he ran an eye over what was there, and sighed: the Section One people may not think they had found much, but sifting through even this was going to take more time than anticipated. Opening up an Access database of accounts, he sat back to wait for that to load.

From the desk, typing again ceased. "So what are you actually chasing here?"

Catching the hacker's words, Hilshire paused. "What makes you think I am after particular information?"

"Normally when we're pulling networks apart post-mortem it's just clean-up work: people sift through the data dump to see if there are any leftovers worth keeping, which makes me wonder what is so urgent this time? If we knew we could probably start targeting the appropriate accounts."

A momentary silence. Seemingly that was something else the movies had lied about: the hacker caught up in code and data, divorced from the world outside.

"Sorry, but I cannot answer that."

"You realise that we're technically on the same team right? And, at this particular moment, I work for Section Two."

Now that was an interesting thing to say, and the handler grimaced. "I know, but I cannot answer, orders from on high."

Well, not technically, but the result of a general consensus.

The reply was a shrug. "Whatever. We'll find what you're looking for eventually, we just may not find it first."

Turning back to his own computer, the detective scanned through what had appeared: not his area or expertise really but, working slowly, he started setting the window up to display a general overview of account activity.

What he was looking for... even he was not entirely certain what he was looking for, only that he would know when he saw it. More to the point, he was here to make sure Section One did not get that data first without his knowledge.

Database now arranged, he began scrolling through, carefully suppressing a growing smile. Whoever administered this may have not been completely up to date with their security, but they were incredibly organised: deposits, investments, withdrawals... communications by clients. It was all here. Once Section One made it into individual accounts, or the technology department had deciphered phones enough to retrieve personal records and appointments, matching those up with Vito's movements was going to paint an interesting picture indeed.

That was a phone call he still needed to wait on but, in the meantime...

Opening up a separate spreadsheet, he loaded the dates of the man's visits to both Trieste and France. Perhaps, just perhaps, there would be some correlation there as well, and he could start narrowing down the field.