Frank was decently sure he hadn't been called into Temple Hall because he was in trouble.
Decently.
The backwoods outdoorsman turned occult secret agent rubbed a thumb across a slightly bent nose, looking around the conference room for fifteenth time. 'Conference room.' With its high backed chairs, immaculate vermillion carpeting, fireplace and a long table of well polished mahogany, the room looked like it should host meetings of parliamentarians.
That was the Templars for you. A conference room couldn't just be a conference room. At least the lighting was from handsome lampstands and not a fucking chandelier. In his battered blue jeans, red flannel shirt and work boots, Frank was most certainly out of place in the room. As always with the Order, he was one of those that stood out, and not in a way the old guard cared for.
Snorting lightly to himself at the thought, he reminded himself he was trying not to do that as much. He'd only been out of the stockade for a few weeks now, and was still in a bureaucratic limbo of sorts as the Hall tried to determine where he was to be reassigned in the wake of the ARTEMIS fiasco. With his rank reduced and some of his pay forfeited, Frank was doing his best to earn Pax while not antagonizing those within the command structure.
Frank drummed his fingers on the table as he waited. He'd taught some self defense courses for Hollow Earth Consulting, run some errands for friends, and guarded supply convoys to the Draculesti and Marya as part of a continuing initiative by Felicity Bane. It meant he could just manage to pay the rent and buy groceries, and that was about it. During a trip to the Crucible he'd run into several other ex-ARTEMIS agents, all in similar circumstances. They'd discussed the problems in finding work acceptable to the Hall while waiting for the chain of command to make up their damned minds. They'd promised to share leads. As before when they were with ARTEMIS, they were 'all in this together.'
And now, less than forty eight hours later, Frank had told to come to this room in Temple Hall and wait. Had he somehow overstepped his bounds? Was he not supposed to talk to other agents formerly with the shadowy Templar intelligence group?
His musings were interrupted as a tall man with closely cropped brown hair and a sharp, aquiline nose marched into the room, with an escort in Templar red-and-blacks.
“Wait here, sir,” murmured the dress uniformed fellow, who then left the room. Frank got up and out of his chair, grinning broadly.
“Well, shit, Frenchie. How th' hell are ya?”
The taller man broke the carefully neutral expression on his face with a smile as he saw Frank.
“Frank Calhoun. It was my understanding you were in jail for the rest of your immortal life.”
The two shook hands warmly, and remained standing as they conversed. The Frenchman, Julien “Glaive” Bouchard had served with Frank on one of the special mission teams put together by ARTEMIS on the eve of the Kaidan intervention. While the team had never formally been deployed to Japan, its members had served in other capacities. The hawkish Bouchard had been the team's close quarters specialist, his handle coming from the telescoping polearm anima focus he utilized in combat.
“I don' s'pose y'know what this is all about.”
“Non, my friend. I do not have the faintest idea. I was at the gym, and I received the summons. So, here I am. Perhaps we are finally to be reassigned?” Bouchard had affected a casual lean against the long table. Frank knew it to be a facade. “Glaive” could spring into violent action at a moment's notice. And while his tone was conversational, his eyes betrayed his eagerness to have an answer from the Hall. People like Frank and Bouchard did not deal with idleness well.
“You two? Ach, this isn't bloody suspicious at all.”
The feminine voice with a noticeable burr made both of them turn, and the sight of the speaker brought grins to both their faces as they crossed the room to greet the newcomer.
A stocky woman with short red hair had just been escorted in the same as Bouchard. Her arms were folded across her chest, and she shook her head at them, grinning back. Another round of handshakes, and this time quick hugs, followed.
“Margaret, it is good to see you. Frank and I were just wondering at why they had brought us in...”
The Scot—Margaret “Redcap” Stewart-- rolled her eyes, setting hands on her sturdy hips.
“Aye, and now here we are, three former members of an ARTEMIS covert action team. Either this has something to do with what our old employer did, or they've got a job for us. Jesus Christ, I hope they have a job for us. I'm going mad with all this hanging about.”
Frank chortled softly to himself, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“So, Mags, how much y'wanna bet Carl's th' next one in?” Carl had served along with them on the team.
“Frank, my lad, I believe that is known as a sucker bet...”
Sure enough, five minutes later the stringy magi from Chicago ambled in. Upon seeing the three of them standing there, Carl “Hotdog” Patton tried to turn around and walk back out, only to be gently, but firmly asked to stay by another uniformed Templar.
Walking back to his laughing ex-team mates, Patton gave them an expressive shrug, an expression of complete innocence on his dark face.
“Hey, I know trouble when I see it, okay? I'm living cleanly now, you know. Not like Frank here. You fucking crook.”
Yet more handshakes and pats on the back, and a slightly longer hug from Stewart. Frank smiled to himself. Patton and Stewart had been close when they were all still in, and it seemed that hadn't changed.
Once more, the agents shared where they'd been when they'd gotten the call. Patton had been calling his folks back in Chicago, Stewart had been caught in the shower. All agreed they'd been bewildered at first, but were becoming more sure with each new arrival. The old team was almost complete now.
Patton rubbed a clean shaven chin thoughtfully.
“You, uh, don't think this is about that time we killed Sonnac, do you?”
Making low sounds of merriment and mock disapprobation both, the others backed away from the magi.
“Oh, come on! It was a simulation. It's not like we really--”
Patton was cut off in mid sentence by the arrival of one more, escorted by three Templars in their pristine red-and-blacks. All recognized the grizzled, gray maned former member of the SAS. He recognized them as well, and barked out a quick laugh.
“You mob? Oh, Christ, just put me back in my cell already. It's safer there.”
With Connor “Mastiff” Davies, the team was complete once more.
Perhaps sensing answers would now be forthcoming, the five moved to sit down in the lushly upholstered chairs around the table even as they kept talking. Frank stayed close to Davies, who had been his 'accomplice' during the whirlwind adventure across the world that he, Davies and Tabitha Green had embarked on upon Tova Stolt's orders. Orders that had pitted them against a member of the Inquisition and had landed two of the three in a Templar cell. Frank now had his freedom. Davies was still serving his sentence.
“Hey, Davies. How y'been?”
Davies arched a dark gray eyebrow.
“I'm spending most of my time in a bloody cell, what do you think?”
Frank smirked a bit.
“What I mean is...are you still gettin'--”
Davies waved a hand, nodding his wolfish face.
“I know what you mean. They're still giving me the treatments. Don't worry, boy, they won't let me die while they still have a use for me. Besides. Tova would find a way to have their balls if they did.”
The two shared a knowing grin as a bespectacled young man in a Templar dress uniform came in. Two of the other Templars shut the doors to the conference room, standing outside. Frank recognized this man just as easily as he recognized the members of the ARTEMIS team.
William Abbot, Dame Julia's sometime adjutant. He'd acted as officer-in-charge for the Pathfinders that Frank had been briefly seconded to in Kaidan. The bookish young man cracked a little smile as the agents came to their feet, and waved them to sit back down. In Frank's mind, this cemented it. Abbot wasn't in charge of discipline or internal affairs type work. As one of the Dame's subordinates, he set up and gave support to special missions for the Hall. Like the Pathfinder mission.
“I imagine you've all figured out in your heads that we have an assignment for you,” he began. Across the table, Stewart nodded.
“That we have. All the fancy tradecraft we learned with ARTEMIS, don't you know.”
The others chuckled darkly while Abbot raised a hand, the smile slipping a bit.
“Well. They're not using that name any more. In any event, yes. We have an assignment. I imagine, though, that the chief question on your mind is 'why us?'”
“Y'all have kinda left us in th' lurch, Mister Abbot.” Frank didn't bother to hide the frustration from his voice, attempts to be on good behavior with the Hall or not. Around the room, the others nodded.
Abbot placed his palms on the table, sighing softly.
“We have. And the Hall doesn't apologize for that, Mister Calhoun. Your ability as agents is not in question with the higher ups. Your reliability is, I'm afraid.”
Abbot started a bit when Davies cut the air with a wet, predator growl.
“I've been serving the Order for well on thirty four years now, Mister Abbot. My body gets regular occult draughts and potions that fuck up my insides so I can stay in the field despite age and injury. You don't get to question my 'reliability.'”
Abbot blinked a bit, then answered in a placating voice.
“The Hall, Mister Davies, not I. The Hall.”
Davies mouth twisted in an unpleasant grin.
“Of course. The Hall.”
“If our reliability is in question,” interjected Patton, glancing over at the bristling Davies, “then, yeah, why us? If this is some kind of suicide mission, I'm afraid I'm not interested. What? I'm not a Bee like Mags or Frank or Julien here.”
Abbot shifted his gaze quickly to Patton, looking more comfortable now that he wasn't facing the ex SAS sergeant.
“It isn't a suicide mission, but the mission is of a nature where your current...misfortune...is an advantage.”
“A mission that is politically sensitive,” murmured Bouchard from his seat, fingers laced against his chest. “Something requiring plausible deniability. And a group of agents out of work, who are currently not in the Hall's good graces...” He trailed off, giving Abbot an expansive shrug.
“Indeed. Individuals who could conceivably be hired out as mercenaries to some third party. Individuals that might engage in activity that the Order would deny having any connection to. A fig leaf, but a solid enough one for how things work on the Council.”
“Funny. Sounds exactly like what ARTEMIS would do,” said Stewart, her mouth twisting in a wry grin.
“Unlike ARTEMIS, however,” replied Abbot, “the Hall isn't interested in shady deals with child traffickers, mobsters, or other vile individuals. There is a difference, Miss Steweart.”
“So what is the mission, then?” Davies had folded his arms, looking slightly less murderous than he had before. At the question, Abbot coughed lightly.
“I'm afraid...you'd have to agree to it before I divulge the intelligence attached to it. We don't want our intent to possibly reach the wrong ears.” At this the others began to object, loudly, and Abbot waved his hands imploringly.
“Please! I said before, this isn't a suicide mission. This is, however, a dangerous task of critical importance, but one that only became more than theoretical a short time ago. If successful, it's possible we will have another avenue of investigation as to what really happened in Kaidan, and why.”
The mention of Kaidan quieted them. Everyone knew the nature of the 'what' attached to the district of Tokyo. An occult bombing that tore reality itself, and infected the region with a hyper-reactive strain of Filth, killing most of its inhabitants and horribly changing the rest. An event that quite possibly kicked off the chain of events that led to the doom of Solomon Island, the return of the Atenists in Egypt, and the delving into the Breach in Translyvania.
That the Phoenicians and the Morninglight were involved in the Kaidan incident was known now. How they accomplished it and for what reasons, however, were still unknown. As the group absorbed the possibilities, Abbot continued.
“...additionally, while this wouldn't patch things up completely between you and the Hall, it would go...a long way. Naturally you'd be paid for your work. Well paid.”
The need to restore their standing within the Order, the equally important need for a paycheck, and the lure of the mysterious mission proved to be enough incentive, and one by one they agreed. Finally, only Davies had not yet opted in.
“Does this 'go a long way' affect my sentence?” He asked the question in a flat monotone, fixing Dame Julia's adjutant with his eyes.
“Let us say your sentence could be significantly reduced,” Abbot replied softly.
Davies just stared at him for a long moment then exhaled, a slow, weary sound.
“Fine. It isn't like I'm letting you lot go into this without me. They'd just have to find some muppet to lead you instead of me.”
With relief painted all over his face, Abbot got up and knocked twice on the closed doors of the conference room. They opened, and one of the guards outside passed him a simple black briefcase. He took it, opened it, and passed several folders around the table.
As he briefed them, it became very apparent why they had been chosen. Why this mission was 'politically sensitive.'
Three hours later, they were on a Malaysia Airlines Boeing 737-800 bound for Kuala Lumpur.
In his globe trotting escapades so far in the Secret World, Frank had never been to Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia in Southeast Asia. After two full days in the region, Frank could now safely say he still hadn't.
Less than thirty minutes after touching down in the capital aboard their commercial flight, they'd been whisked to a SUV, then driven three hours to the eastern coastal city of Cukai. From there a commuter plane flew them to a private airfield on the Riau Islands. It was at the private airfield, kept secure from the tourists and vacation goers typically found on the rest of the islands that they received their gear. Generic, sanitized tiger stripe fatigues. Carbines, pistols, and a semi automatic sniper rifle for Frank. A shotgun for Bouchard, who preferred more 'intimate' engagement distances.
Unlike London, the weather here was hot and humid. Frank and his comrades sweated in the dark in a small hanger the second evening, waiting for another plane. This one had an official flight plan to Brunei on the island of Borneo. Unofficially, they'd be parachuting out of it to land on a jungle LZ close to their target before the plan reached its destination.
The SUV, the planes, the equipment: all had been provided by Templar assets in the region. No doubt the weapons, if traced, would be found to have been somehow misplaced by a Malaysian army unit. The presence of European colonial powers in the region for centuries had meant the Templars as well had established ties. Despite the growing power of other occult factions in the region, the Hall still wielded influence even if it was no longer the 'top dog.'
They'd gone over the mission during their meeting with Abbot, then again while they flew to Riau. Another time in the hanger, looking over a map by flashlight as they waited for the second plane to be fueled up upon its arrival from the mainland.
At its heart, the mission was a snatch and grab: infiltrate the target area, neutralize their quarry's defenders, seize their objective, and withdraw. It sounded simple enough.
Naturally it was just a bit more complex than that.
The location they would find their man (for it was a man) was a pontoon village of sorts located along a large river that cut through the jungle on the Malaysian controlled part of Borneo. Renegades, mercenaries and pirates were known to frequent the place; to drink, make deals, and refuel their river craft. The Malaysian authorities never quite cracked down on the village, instead only making the occasional desultory sweep of the area. This was mainly due to the influence of the Dragon—one of their own was in charge of the village.
In the brief, she was referred to simply as The Ambassador. The Ambassador served as a liaison for Dragon operatives of a more maritime bent in the area, and negotiated with the local criminal element, bringing them under the sway of the Dragon. Exerting influence over the South China Sea, the Straights of Malacca and so on was of great strategic importance. Even if the Dragon wasn't interested in holding territory, it was interested in those who did. Why The Ambassador chose to do her business in a remote village populated by cutthroats and thieves was unknown to the Hall. It was likely she didn't stay there all year.
The Ambassador, however, wasn't their objective. The Ambassador had a lover, another person whose criminal livelihood came from the sea. Her paramour was apparently a Phoenician captain, and he came to visit her without fail once a month. The intelligence the Hall had received was quite specific about his itinerary, how much time he would stay on average, gifts he would bring, and so on. It was strange therefore that the brief only referred to him as The Captain.
It was The Captain that was their target. The Hall very much wanted to talk to this man, and weren't going to take 'no' for an answer. The fact the Dragon would be involved, not to mention possible interference by the authorities of at least three different countries warranted the use of a politically expendable asset—Frank and the others.
At the end of the third day, the airdrop having been successfully completed, the team set camp only a hour away from the village. Tomorrow, they would get into position.
“Christ, but its been a long time,” muttered Davies under his breath as the quintet set down their packs and unfurled their sleeping bags. Patton was sitting cross-legged, muttering an incantation. He'd told them the spell would keep the legions of insects and vermin present away from them during the night. Bad enough they were soaked from sweat after hiking through the jungle. Stewart turned her head towards the gray haired team leader, setting her carbine with attached grenade launcher next to her.
“You've been here before?” she queried before taking a long pull from her canteen, a piece of kit also no doubt 'borrowed' from the Malaysians.
“Not here, but Borneo. Jungle training. A while ago now.” The man known as 'Mastiff' had his lank gray hair tied back and wore a floppy boonie cap. Bouchard smiled over at him.
“My God, sergeant, just how old are you?”
Davies made a rude gesture back at him, grinning toothily.
“Bloody old,” he answered.
Just then Patton nodded to himself.
“Spells done, that ought to...”
He trailed off, face contorting in revulsion as the ground beneath their boots seemed to move, shifting and rippling like the sea.
It wasn't, of course.
There was simply a living carpet of insect life moving out of the radius of the ward.
Stewart made a gagging sound as Frank looked Patton's way.
“Uh. How long does that spell last?”
“I, ah...long...enough.”
Davies snorted as sunlight began to fade.
“Bunch of children, all of you. Wake me when its my watch.”
