Guardians of Albion

End of the Beginning

Authors' note: This story is set in or around the year 2000, albeit in an alternative history. One in which the Royal Family went onto exile in the United States for the duration of the Norsefire regime, but were invited back by Prime Minster Hammonds' government. Therefore, at the time of this tale, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II still has a good 20 years of reigning to look forward to!

Once upon a time, money had been discs of precious metal carried in leather bags and kept in iron chests. People like the Lady Morgian had despised it at worst, or seen it as an occasional, irritating necessity at best. Serf-worked lands provided food, wood, metal ore and stone. What your own lands could not produce was provided in tribute by the estates of your liegemen. Even your craftsmen were bound to you by villeinage. Your men-at-arms came from your estates, your knights were bound by blood or oath. Money was used to obtain special crafted items from the towns or cities, where the guildsmen were not bound to the land and its lords, or to buy exotic Outland goods from merchants, Also, yes, it was used sometimes to hire swords; the Free Companies who offered their services to Kings and Dukes who had little land but much gold; the Gallowglasses ready to paint any colours onto their blank shields for the sake of coin; the assassins who, for enough gold, would slip poison into a cup, or a slender blade into a mans' back. But if a man had a purse of gold, nobody cared where it came from or how, and if one used an intermediary, nobody could trace it if they wanted to. The people of these times used paper, or transferred money through their calculating machines, but still, if one used an intermediary, none need know whence it came.

Or, at least, so the Lady Morgian thought. The land in Scotland which had once been part of her familys' estates had passed down from one fading noble family to another until the last owners had fallen victim to the St Marys' virus. After that it had remained in quarantine until the fall of Norsefire. The new government had examined it and found it free of pathogens but equally free of owners, and thus it had passed bona vacantia to the restored Crown. In Scotland, this meant that it had become the responsibility of the Queens' and Lord Treasurers' Remembrancer. That office then completed an assessment that found the land to be part excellent grouse moor while the rest supported a substantial herd of red deer ripe for stalking and a small river which, with a little encouragement, might be expected to provide more than a few salmon at the right season. Seeing a good price to be had, the QLTR claimed the land and advertised it for sale. Shortly thereafter, the new government decisively outlawed game shooting, stalking and angling along with a slew of other 'cruel, brutal and barbaric' sports including horse-racing, show-jumping, greyhound racing, boxing, MMA, wrestling and full-contact Rugby. The QLTR, resigned to selling the land to some wildlife charity for a rock-bottom price, were therefore more than happy to sell it to a company who proposed setting up a "Wilderness Training Centre" and offered a very generous payment.

There, Morgian thought, it ended, and she proceeded to set up her training camp. What she had failed to realise was that, in the modern world, hardly a penny can be spent that cannot be traced all the way back to its origins. The eagle eyes of Her Majestys' Revenue and Customs were everywhere, to begin with. It was also the case that she had, over the last few years, drawn the attention of some serious people. People whose methods, techniques and abilities she had no way of understanding or measuring.

Which is why, when she saw the silhouette of a bird of prey circling far above the camp on the day she came to greet the first training cadre, she thought nothing of it.

Morgian had mourned her brother sincerely, for she had loved him, but he had to be replaced now. She needed a captain to lead her armies, which is why she was assessing the leader of the first group to arrive.

Sir Caranthir had once been of the Summer Court, one of the seven sons of Craftmaster Feanor. But he had attempted to carry off Luthien, then the Maiden of Winter, against her will and had been challenged and slain by her mortal champion and lover, Sir Beren. Luthien and Beren had later wed, and their son was the mighty War-King Arthur. Learning of this during the Time of Recollection, Sir Caranthir had forsaken his allegiance to Summer and joined the Outcasts, the Tuatha Deohn, sworn enemies of Fae and mortal alike.

Caranthir was tall, even for a Fae. Pale of skin, but black of hair and eyes. He looked upon Morgian with contempt.

"Understand me, Daughter of Winter," he was saying, "I owe you no love, nor any loyalty beyond the command of King Gadflow. I am here because you have promised my King to arm us with the fell weapons of the Children of Dust, and teach us their use, so that we may spread the dominion of Tirnoch the Merciful across all the worlds."

"This I understand, Sir Caranthir." Morgian answered. "Nevertheless, your heritage, though abjured, and your prowess best fit you to be High Captain of the Host for this war. My own Knight Champion has fallen to the Red Knight, and though I may find another in due course, I have need of a Captain now!"

"The Red Knight is abroad?" Caranthir asked. "That means the Grey Pilgrim and the White Lady are also here. I will send to King Gadflow for Sorcerors, so we shall not be taken at disadvantage."

"It is for such forethought that I commend you to the Captaincy." Morgian told him.

"Then I accept." Caranthir answered.

High above, the eagle-shaped drone saw, heard and recorded everything.

XXXXX

"I am so glad," Nikki admitted, "that these reports won't go to the usual places! The average CID or Special Branch lot would think we were winding them up!"

"Well, this lot don't!" Ron advised her. "Just give me the bare bones and I'll take the full reports with me."

"OK, well, the things we found in the brains of the, for want of a better word, Vampires, are in actual fact some kind of parasitic organism." Nikki said. "It seems to take over the nervous system, rewrite some of the DNA, and use the body for its' own needs. Whether the process is inherently fatal, or whether the organism needs its' host to be dead before it can do its' thing, we're not sure. We think that forcing the host to commit suicide at some point is actually all part of the process."

"Is that possible?" Ron asked.

"Perhaps." James said. "Ophiocordyceps unilateralis, sometimes called the 'zombie ant fungus', causes its' host – usually a carpenter ant – to go onto the forest floor, choose a suitable plant, climb up it and lock its' mandibles to a leaf vein. There the poor ant remains until the fungus has eaten all its soft tissues, whereupon the fungal fruiting body grows out of the ants' head to release the spores.

"This organism is not a fungus, it's mostly nerve tissue and as such far more complex. We have no way of assessing, without a live specimen, what its' capabilities and life-cycle are."

"Hmm." Ron replied. "We got some exhumation orders. From what we could see, the graves were undisturbed and the coffins intact. But they were empty. So either the bodies were never in them, or somebody dug them up and then put things back exactly as they found them!

"So that's a dead end!"

Everybody groaned, Ron grinned and carried on.

"What's next?"

"Well, the ones that they tell us are called Trolls." Nikki said. "Basically humanoid, but on a large scale. Massive muscle development, and the nails are actually claws, with the bones extending beyond the fingertips and covered with a thick inner horny layer and a hard outer one.

"The oddest thing is the structure of the spine and spinal cord. Both of these bifurcate around the level of the upper chest. One branch grows forward horizontally and supports the head. The other continues up to link with the shoulder structures. The trachea and oesophagus follow the horizontal branch to the head. As to the head itself, the foramen – where the skull articulates with the spine – is positioned at the back of the skull, rather than the bottom as it is in humans. The lower jaw extends well beyond the upper, but has no incisors, only those large lower canines. The brain is large and well-developed, indicating potentially high intelligence, although the structure of the mouth and jaws would make speaking any human language next to impossible.

"All of the specimens we have are male. Their internal structures, apart from the skeleton, are pretty much the same as humans. Same organs in roughly the same places. One of them had eaten recently, and the stomach contents…well, if Moira hadn't been here, we'd have had a bit of a puzzle!"

"Haggis." Moria said. "It was haggis. But it wasnae made from sheep, but human. The rest, ye'll note, the oats, suet and spices, were the same. But the pluck, stomach and stock were human. No neeps nor tatties, either!"

"Well that explains the disembowelled bodies we found!" Ron said. "Yuck!

"Anything else?"

"Well, those really odd ones…'demons', somebody called them. They're the strangest of all." Nikki allowed. "Not remotely human, but not exactly animals, either. Three hearts each, two stomachs, one of which is blind and we think is used to carry food back to wherever they live, where they can regurgitate it for others to eat. No eyes, and the brain has no visual cortex, though the olfactory and auditory cortices are highly-developed. Diet seems to be raw meat, torn off in chunks with the teeth and swallowed. No apparent sexual organs, just a cloaca."

"Basically," James said, "the set-up for a high-level predator. Brain complexity matches that of the big cats, indicating some learning ability rather than purely instinctive behaviours. The fact that they appeared in two groups of thirteen indicates some kind of pack structure, but Moira disagrees."

"It's all in the DNA." Moira stated. "Now these beasties don't have DNA that looks like anythin' I've ever seen, but it is DNA. But in every living form I've seen until now, the DNA has been unique to the individual, ye ken? But the first group of thirteen all had identical DNA – absolutely identical. That doesnae happen even with identical twins, but these things are clones of each other! What makes it more confusin' is that the second lot also all had identical DNA, but not the same as the first! At first I thought they did, but when I looked closer, I realised that the resemblance came from common parentage! The first group were the second groups' brothers. Genetically male, but sterile."

"All of which makes me think," James said, "that their system is based more on that of social insects. A Queen -a fertile female – who produces large numbers of sterile offspring to forage or hunt, but only one or two fertile ones to either replace her or found new colonies. The presence of a cloaca indicates an egg-laying species, so possibly the Queen produces clutches of thirteen sterile males at a time?"

"Poor girl!" Nikki said. "Apart from that, Ron, there's just the black gunge, and there's nothing in there. It's basically a lot of hydrocarbons, some water and a scatter of trace elements. No idea what it is or was, or where it might have come from!"

"Right!" Ron said. "Well, I hope this all makes sense to somebody! Because it makes none to me! Thanks, guys, I'll let you know as and when we have something else for you!"

XXXXX

Mr Palfrey was angry, though only the gleam in his eyes and the slight coldness of his tone betrayed it.

"The woman has the gall to set up a training camp, on our soil, to bring in mercenaries and train them in our weapons and tactics!" He snapped. "This is beyond the limit, and for once, Stewart agrees with me! She and her people will deal with the mercenaries, but has left us to deal with Ms Lottesville.

"I presume, Major, that we have a full map of her security systems."

"We do, sir." Major Behan replied. "We can get someone into her penthouse easily. But it can only be one person, or two at the most. Shall I contact Mr Callan and ask for some of his people?"

"Not this time, Major." Palfrey said. "I think it is time to ask Mr Cream to return the favour we have done him. The fact that in doing so, he will get himself out of danger will certainly make the task more congenial."

"Very good, sir." Behan said. "I shall make the arrangements as soon as possible."

Mr Palfrey nodded, then tapped a code into his computer which shut down all the video and audio recording systems in the office. Only he had the authority to do this.

"I wanted a private word, Major. You are aware, are you not, that the Greek Astinides is currently dying in a hospital in Athens? That the Mongolian Kuo has let it be known that his current contract will be his last, and that Hideoki the Japanese has recently retired?"

"I am, sir."

"You will also therefore know that at this time, there is nobody left operating in the private sector at such a level except for Mr Cream?"

"Weapon X, sir?"

"Weapon X is in a category all his own, Major. Neither of us is foolish enough, I think, to pull the tail of that particular tiger!

"But to return to Mr Cream, do you have any hopes that he might be persuaded to work exclusively for us?"

Behan shook his head. "Mr Cream is a man with very specific ideas. Despite his work for Party Leader Creedy in America – which was also a quid pro quo – he stays away from what he regards as political entanglements, and will not work directly for governments. He regards the private sector as the more stable. He pointed out to me that a change of government could find this department downsized and starved of funds, while a change in another direction would have us all arrested and our 'sins' trumpeted to the world. On the other hand, if Wilton Fiske is replaced by another gangster in Gotham City, that person is unlikely to make Fiskes' misdeeds public, or to reduce the size of the organisation."

"Sound reasoning, as far as it goes." Palfrey allowed. "But from our viewpoint, Major, if Cream will not work for us, it is better that we make a clean sweep of the freelances. You said that two people would be able to penetrate Lottesvilles' defences. I wish you to follow Mr Cream, and once he has completed the job, dispose of him discreetly.

"Once that is done, I have more important work for you. It seems that the information Brigadier Stewart passed to me, when precisely correlated to the facts, in so far as they can be determined and demonstrated, gives rise to epistemological problems of sufficient magnitude as to lay upon the logical and semantic resources of the English language a heavier burden than they can reasonably be expected to bear."

"She lied to you, sir?" Behan asked.

"Through her teeth." Palfrey stated. "Which is, of course, standard practice on most occasions. But when it is done for the express purpose of causing me to waste time and assets on a wild-goose chase, then it becomes a more serious matter.

"Brigadier Stewart gave me to understand that the ideas and techniques of Dr Emil Gargunza were the fruits of his own genius, when in actual fact most of them came from investigation of a crashed alien spacecraft. She said she did not know whether Gargunza was alive or dead, but I have it on impeccable authority that Gargunza was killed by Weapon X in Hidalgo three years ago, something she must also have known. She claims that Gargunzas' data is lost, but my source indicates that the Blackhawks sold it to Stark-Wayne, a company whose systems we have never been able to penetrate."

"Why would she wish to mislead you, sir?" Behan asked.

"Because, unfortunately, she has become delusional." Palfrey told him. "I have discovered that the entire Department for Special Logistics is concentrating all its efforts on the investigation of magic! Magic, Major, not conjuring tricks with cards and glasses, but werewolves, the walking dead, witches, wizards, staffs and wands, fires and circles and potions! The entire panoply of Dark Ages superstition!

"Beyond that, there is the matter of the Excalibur group. The DSL finances and supports them, but apparently they permit the team to do largely as they please. A team, mark you, that includes three known metahumans and a sophisticated, powerful mechanoid! This is dangerous – the team has already undertaken several missions where their direct action has compromised years of work by the Security Service. They seem not to understand the value of criminal groups in intelligence gathering. God forbid they become involved in politics! I cannot have such a group operating outside my…outside Government control. You understand, Major?"

"Very well, sir." Behans' face did not flicker. Palfrey approved.

"Major, I am going to give you my personal authority to plumb the depths of the DSL. Find out everything so that I can report it to the Ministers responsible. Excalibur must be brought to heel, and the DSL placed under more suitable command. No more scientists! A proper soldier!

"Might you consider a promotion, Major? Not to Brigadier, quite yet, but to Colonel?"

"It's something to consider, sir." Behan said quietly.

"Excellent!" Palfrey said. "No need to say anymore now. Proceed in the matter of Mr Cream, and we can go from there!"

XXXXX

"How many?" Herne asked.

"Thirty at the most, right now." Union Jack said. "Who or what are they?"

"The Tuatha Deohn, also called the Outcasts." Herne told them. "Fae who have abjured their allegiance to the Courts of Summer and Winter, or who have been exiled from Court and Clan for their crimes. They give their allegiance to King Gadflow, once a Knight of the Winter Court, who attempted to outrage the virtue of Queen Melian when she refused to take him as a lover. King Thingol gave him the choice to either duel Sir Morgul – then Champion of Winter – or be exiled. Gadflow chose exile, and left Ohn, the capital of Winter. In his wanderings, he came to the Crystal Mines of Amethyn. Long ago, the Naugrim had mined the hills for truesilver, but had found only the red crystal prismere. Prismere has many uses in alchemy and craft, but poisons the mind, turning it to madness and lust for blood and power. The Naugrim had greater strength to resist such things than Fae or Men, so they were able to abandon the mines before the effects overcame them.

"Gadflow was already a sorceror of note, and he experimented with the Prismere, laying himself open to the influence of Tirnoch, the False Dragon. Tirnoch is the dark sister of Gaia, who tried to betray her sister with Ouranos. But Kukulkan saw through her scheming and warned his father, who banished Tirnoch beyond the Veil, where she screams ever in rage and madness.

"Gadflow became her acolyte, and gathered to him other exiled or forsworn Fae, arming them with Prismere. His hope is that one day, he will sweep the Courts of Summer and Winter from the Faelands and in doing so, gain power to breach the Veil and allow Tirnoch back into the world.

"Maddened by Prismere, the Tuatha Deohn are ruthless in combat, the most fell-handed of the Fae peoples, and only their small numbers allow the other Fae to keep them in check."

"But if Morgian is going to have them trained in modern human weapons and tactics, that'll change!" Jack declared. "Herne, can the other Fae be warned?"

"I cannot reach them." Herne admitted. "There are others who can, but the Fae cannot reach here unless summoned, and we have no one we can reach easily who has the power to do so."

"What about your friend in the grey cloak?" The Cat wanted to know.

"The Stranger cannot be summoned." Herne told him. "His path is laid out, and if it leads him to us, he will come. If it does not, he cannot, not can the other Guardians. Need, not desire, compels them."

"So, in other words, whoever is in charge thinks we can hack this ourselves!" The Commando said.

"Thirty of them, and none trained in the new weapons yet -unless they're really fast learners!" Jack mused. "We can take 'em, as it stands, but how do we stop more coming through?"

"We must guard the Portal." Herne said. "The stone archway in the midst of the camp. If we prevent anyone approaching it, no more can be summoned. But to close it completely requires the death of the one who opened it, the Lady Morgian."

"That, I'm told, is in hand." Jack said. "Better not to ask about who or how, but it will happen before the morning.

"Right, I've got an aircraft lined up. If we move now, we can hit the camp around sunset, surround the Portal, and hold until it closes, backup arrives, or both!

"Let's get this show on the road!"

XXXXX

Evelyn, old horse, this is all a little too convenient! Mr Cream thought. Mr Palfrey is not the kind of man who would allow me to pay off a debt in a way that is more to my advantage than to his!

Mr Cream had few illusions about the world he had chosen to make his living in. His parents, so proud of their boy in the Army, had died before their time when the Provisional IRA had decided to bomb a local shopping centre. From then on, Mr Cream had eschewed politics. The Army had taught him to kill, and he was good at it, good enough to make an excellent living as an assassin. But he had always been careful to avoid involvement with politics, governments or revenge. His contracts had always been commercial, and for commercial interests – if one classed organised crime as commerce. At least until the Norsefire takeover. His arrangement with Mr Creedy had kept him out of the camps, and while it had involved work which was undoubtedly political, it had not interfered with his undertaking of numerous profitable contracts offered by the Kingpin and Luthor.

However, he had resigned himself to the fact that, in seeking protection from Palfrey, he had placed himself in a compromising position. An entanglement from which escape might prove impossible. His best hope had been to negotiate a peaceful retirement after a few small tasks. But being assigned to the task of disposing of the person who represented the greatest threat to himself was the last thing he had expected! It reeked of a set-up! The plan had come with an exfiltration route, but Mr Cream suspected he would have to improvise, to avoid a trap.

Certainly, access had been easy. A mere matter of picking a lock and using a mapped route where Palfreys' experts had been able to shut down the security systems. However, it did require that he ascend the twenty floors of the building by means of maintenance stairs. These were empty now that working hours were over – the cleaners used the lifts – and Mr Cream, despite his love of fine dining, was in first-class physical condition. The climb was therefore easy but tedious, and he did not hurry.

XXXXX

Morgian was taking a massive risk, but a worthwhile one. The Entity she was about to invoke would take time – a year, perhaps- to wake, and since the stars were still against it, it could not remain active for long. But it was supremely powerful and dangerous, and once roused, beyond control.

It would not come to her, which was good, and it was far away from the Island of the Mighty, in what once had been Lemuria, Realm of Titans. But if she could raise it, even for a short while, its' rampage would draw the eyes of the world away from here for just long enough to accomplish her aim. Britain would be hers!

She had set the image upon a pedestal surrounded by torches. She had raised all the power she could, which had taken time, but now she crackled with it. She pointed to the image and began to chant.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. Y'ai 'ng'ngah, Yog-Sothoth h'ee-l'geb Cthulhu f'ai throdog. Ia Cthulhu! K'yarnak phlegethor l'ebumna syha'h n'ghft. Ya hai kadishtu ep r'luh-eeh Nyogtha eeh. Y'ai 'ng'ngah Tsathoggua! Cthugha f'ai throdog! Ia Cthulhu! Cthulhu n'al fhtagn! Uaaah!"

At the last cry, the power was pulled out of her into the image, which glowed for a moment, then went dark again. Morgian sagged, her clothes drenched in sweat, her heart pounding, gasping for breath. In that moment, a quiet, familiar voice spoke.

"How remarkable! Anyone else would have choked on pronouncing all that!"

Morgian spun round, almost falling. The man facing her was Black, compact, smartly dressed and aiming a mortal hand-weapon at her. His eyes were invisible, unreadable behind mirrored glasses, but his mouth smiled, the sapphire teeth glittering in the torchlight.

"Thank you." Mr Cream said. "I do so hate shooting in the back. It makes it so impersonal, don't you think?"

Morgian reached for power, but there was none to be had, she had drained all she could reach for now. Cream fired twice, the sound of the suppressed weapon swallowed by the darkness beyond the torches.

The Lady Morgian stood before the throne of Namo. Nearby her brother Mordred waited.

"Greetings, Lady." Namo said. "Be welcome in Mandos! Here shall you be read your Sorrows, and stay until you can reconcile yourself to them!"

XXXXX

Mr Cream checked the body. Life was quite extinct. It was strange, though, how she had changed. He had recognised her, of course, but her face had been, still was, different. Longer, thinner, the eyes more slanted, the ears pointed.

This job takes its toll on a man. He thought. Are you finally losing it, Mr Cream?

"You are losing nothing, Mr Cream, except your ignorance!"

The voice was deep, authoritative and perhaps a little testy, and it came from behind him. Cream rose and turned slowly, keeping his hands visible. If he were already covered, he had no chance, but clearly someone wanted to talk first.

The man he was now facing was tall, very tall, cloaked in grey with a slouch hat pulled low so that it shadowed the upper part of his face. Poseur! Cream thought. Like you, Evelyn, with your mirror shades!

"Morgian was never more than half-human." The man told him. "Her mother was a Winter Fae, a former Lady of Winter before she rebelled. To appear wholly human, she cast a Glamour, but it takes power to maintain such, and she had drained herself. Thus you saw her as she truly is."

"Truly was." Cream corrected.

The man shook his head. "The Fae, even half-bloods, do not die permanently." He said. "Morgian will return, some day. But she will not be the same as she was. Better or worse is her choice, of course."

Cream sighed. "All this is quite fascinating, whoever you are, but if Palfrey sent you to kill me, you had best get on with it! Every moment you spend talking makes it likelier I will find an opening to kill you instead!"

The answer was a bark of laughter. "Well, you're no coward, at any event!" The grey man observed. "But then I already knew that. Men call me the Phantom Stranger, and if your Mr Palfrey knew of me, he would not believe I exist!

"No, Mr Cream, the man sent to kill you -and who, by the way, never had any intention of doing so – is watching us talk. He seems to know or understand far more than his commander does. I am here, Mr Cream, to offer you a career change! One that will put you beyond Palfreys' reach. Dangerous work, but well within your capabilities, and which, I believe, will be more comfortable to you than your present vocation."

"You have my interest." Cream replied.

"Then we must speak, but not here." The Stranger said. "Follow me!"

XXXXX

Major Behan watched as a white-bearded figure carried Morgians' body through a hole in the air. Then he slipped into the room and picked up the figure which had been the centre of her last incantation. He tucked it into the 'go-bag' he'd had ready for Cream, then left the building.

Behan was a well-read man, but his reading had not included anything of the arcane. His family, however, had Irish roots and his mother and both his grandmothers had told him tales. Tales of the Old People, the folk of the forests and the hollow hills, the aes sídhe. While not a religious man, Behan was not a complete sceptic, and was open to the notion that other beings beside humans might well exist. The scenario he had just seen unfold was unlike anything he had ever seen in waking life, but he had glimpsed similar things in half-recalled dreams. Anyway, he had seen it with his own eyes, organs he had always found trustworthy. The implications he would consider later.

For now, what should he tell Palfrey? That he had waited, as instructed, for Cream, but that when the man did not turn up after a reasonable time, he had gone to look for him. That upon entering the penthouse he had found only blood on the floor and shell-casings, most likely from Creams' weapon, nearby. That was all any investigators might find, and Morgian had not permitted cameras or listening devices in her private chambers. Let Palfrey make what he would of that.

"You are a disappointment, Major!" Palfreys' voice. He had suddenly appeared in Behans' path, dressed in his old-fashioned overcoat and bowler hat, carrying a furled umbrella. "If you were the loyal agent you have pretended to be, you would have dealt with Cream and brought his overdressed friend in for interrogation!

"Oh, yes, I was watching! I watch everyone. I thought I might be able to trust you, but it seems I can't!"

Palfrey pointed his umbrella and Behan instinctively dove off to the side. Something pinged on the pavement where he had been standing as he rolled and came up on one knee, drawing his gun. But at the same moment, the percussive sound of a suppressed pistol sounded. One shot, and Palfrey was down, his hat rolling away to reveal a red hole in his forehead. Behan scanned up and down the street. A figure stepped from the shadow of a parked van. Tall, rangy, wearing a black overcoat; a hard, rugged face under thick silver hair, cold eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses. Behan rose to his feet.

"Mr Callan?" He asked.

Callan nodded. "Sorry to keep you in the dark, Major, but it was need to know." He said. "Palfrey was getting more and more paranoid. He wanted everything under his control, and that's not how it works."

"Quite so, sir." Behan agreed. "Will you be taking over?"

"Not me." Callan said. "Bit too long in the tooth! I only came out myself for this one because it was Palfrey and I owed him that much respect." He reached into his pocket and handed Behan a manila envelope. "Your new badge, and the codes and passwords you'll need, Colonel. Enjoy your new job!"

"I'll need a new Head Plumber." Behan noted. "Don't want to use anyone I've got. It causes problems when you break up teams, I need someone who can go solitaire."

"I can give you Quiller." Callan said.

"With all due respect, Quiller is as mad as a box of frogs!" Behan remarked.

"That he is." Callan agreed. "But he's completely reliable, can think outside the box and always gets the job done. Anything else?"

"Yes." Behan said. "Why me?"

Callan looked at him. "We stand vigilant in the shadows." He said.

"We carry the duty that cannot be forsworn." Behan responded. "That explains a great deal." He took the idol out of his bag. "Could you pass this along to the Brigadier, sir? Lady Morgian was conducting some kind of ritual with it before she died. The Brigadier and her people will be able to find out what it is more easily than I could.

"Goodnight, Mr Callan."

Behan walked off. Callan sent a text, and a few moments later a black taxicab parked nearby. The driver, a small, skinny man with a hangdog face, asked.

"What do you want me for, Mr Callan?"

"Got a passenger needs taking somewhere." Callan indicated the body of Palfrey. "He's a bit out of sorts, you'll have to help me with him."

"'E doesn't look well, Mr Callan. What 'appened?" The driver wanted to know.

"Sudden case of lead poisoning." Callan said. "You know better than to ask too many questions, Lonely!"