((The 'Bonds' storyline is another that was resolved a while ago, but it just wasn't posted. So, here we return!))
Ealdwic Park
London
NOW
Frank Calhoun reclined against the backrest of the wooden park bench, tilting his head so that he was gazing up at the emerald canopy above his head. It was April, and Spring had come to Ealdwic, the neutral 'capitol' of the Secret World. Birdsong echoed from the branches of acacia and oaks, from the rooftops of the handsome old brownstones that helped make up Ealdwic. And of course from the upper reaches of the Tree of Ealdwic Park, whose roots sank deep into the old tube station to form Ealdwic's Agartha portal.
An early morning train clattered by on one of the elevated tracks that ran close by to this 'secret' part of London. As the rising sun peeked through the leaves above him, Frank turned his head ever so slightly to observe the goings on of the train. It was trains like that that shook and jostled his little Darkside apartment, jostled all of Darkside, really. He supposed in some ways that was like living in certain parts of New York City, where he had returned from only a day ago.
From his errand for Tova Stolt. The errand that would make him 'square' with the now director of 'Department F.'
Upon his arrival back in Ealdwic, he'd called the number he'd been provided and stated he was ready to meet with the indomitable Swede. Frank had received instructions as he had during the last meeting; where to meet, when, and so on. The instructions on both occasions had been orders, really.
Frank had shown up early this time. He noted how there were a few other early morning visitors to the park who watched him closely while trying to look like they weren't. The security detail, no doubt unhappy at his breaking the protocol that had been set.
A crooked grin split his face as he listened to the chirps and whistles of the parks feathered denizens. The detail would just have to learn some coping strategies. He didn't work for them, he didn't work for Department F, he didn't work for Tova Stolt. And today, he wanted to remind them of that.
Connor Davies soon joined him on the bench. The grizzled old SAS man arched a gray eyebrow at Frank. Frank's grin didn't slip a millimeter as he shrugged at the operative known as 'Mastiff.'
“Before y'say it, nah, I ain't got th' piece with me. Left it at home.” Davies grunted in reply.
“You're early.”
“I am! Reckon I'd get here an' enjoy th' quiet before y'all came paradin' in.”
“Thought you were done with your nose tweaking days, boy.”
“Aw, I am. Mostly. Pretty sure y'already had th' detail mage check me out for anima reactive stuff. Y'know I don' have any on me.”
'Mastiff' glared at him for several moments, then smirked, nodding.
“You still should have observed protocol.”
“Probably, yeah. But th' gangs all here now.”
“Wait here.” Davies got up, walking in an unhurried fashion out of the park. Frank almost thought he saw the man grin, just a little, and shake his head slightly. The two had never been friends, but they had been allies at one point. And Davies was a well known enough rogue to make Frank think he'd understand his position somewhat. Frank was tired of constantly being drawn back into the orbit of first ARTEMIS, and now Department F. He'd already made the mistake of misplaced loyalty to a suborganization of the Templars and not Temple Hall itself once before. This was the last time he'd deal with the spies.
Then again, rogue or not, Davies had history with Stolt, and part of Frank had expected a much more...vociferous reaction to anything concerning the director's safety. Thankfully the glare was all Frank had received from Davies.
Spotting the fifty-something year old Stolt enter the park, eyes the color of hard iron staring straight ahead as she walked, Frank's grin finally started to fade. He was going to likely get more than a glare from Stolt.
Especially when he told her how things had gone.
She pointedly didn't look over at him as she sat down on the bench, folding her hands in her lap. For several moments, neither spoke. When she finally started to talk, it was still without looking at him.
“I would have preferred you find some other way of asserting your independence besides winding up my security detail, agent Calhoun. Bad enough I have to have them as it is without the small tantrum you provoked among them.”
Frank arched his eyebrows inquisitively.
“Even Davies?”
His former boss sniffed archly.
“Of course not. He only seemed mildly annoyed. Or perhaps amused. Where you're concerned, it is hard to tell with him.”
Chuckling softly to himself, Frank nodded. Finally, Stolt glanced in his direction.
“I note the distinct absence of the director's child.”
“Yup.”
“And a lack of any notification of her being dropped off safely at Temple Hall...where is she?”
Frank rested an arm across the back of the bench and gave Stolt one of his best Calhoun family mouth full of shit grins.
“New York.”
“I bet your pardon?”
“Well, y'see, that's where she's gonna live now, seems.”
For a full twenty five seconds, Stolt just stared at him.
“Agent Calhoun,” she said in an almost hoarse voice, “I rather think you had better explain.”
THEN
The thumbdrive had some interesting data on it. Apparently the former director's daughter, Olivia, had shown up on London's CCTV system entering a tube station with a man recently revealed as an Illuminati agent about two days ago. A young man, maybe twenty-three known as Seeker. She'd been carrying a bookbag. A still image showed Seeker with a hand in the small of her back. In the opinion of the Officer of the Watch, she was being guided or pushed along. The Templars on duty in the Hall's watch station had noted it, then dispatched an operative to check out her flat.
Even though the director had fallen from grace, it seemed the Hall was still keeping a cursory eye on him, his daughter, and his estranged wife. Olivia didn't usually travel very far, ever only staying to her little section of Central London. Thus the (rather muted) interest from the Hall in her sudden vacation, given who she was and who she had been seen with. There was no sign of a struggle in her flat, and the investigating operative didn't see anything out of place in her quick inspection.
The report included on the drive listed magical coercion, or possibly drugs, as possible reasons she would go so willingly with a known Blue team operator (even if their status as an Illuminati agent had only been found out a month ago). So far Olivia hadn't turned up anywhere else in England, and the investigation was marked as 'Open,' though a note at the bottom from a V.L. Montecourt mentioned it was unlikely anything major would be done soon. Olivia was marked as not having had any serious security clearances, and it was thought to be highly unlikely she was carrying any Templar artifacts or items; she'd never been anywhere where she could get her hands on them. Furthermore, as the family member of man the Hall would just as soon forget about, Olivia simply wasn't that important.
Frank rubbed a finger across his nose as he ejected the drive from his Hall 'borrowed' laptop. As in the park, something about this stank. That was without even wondering about how the hell Stolt had gotten a hold of all this information.
Clearly the organization had been 'restructured,' but some ARTEMIS habits apparently died hard. Namely spying on ones own parent organization.
Magical coercion, eh? Frank wasn't some kind of occult CSI guy, but the use of magic generally left a trace of some kind, a mark on the local etheric landscape. Frank wasn't anywhere near skilled enough to detect something like that, but fortunately he knew someone who was.
And he kept that someone on speed dial.
Solomon Lancaster was taking a rare motorcycle foray into the greater London area when Frank called him. According to the mage some had nicknamed the Gray Fox, he was pursuing a 'rather curious tome' that had turned up in a London bookstore (in Shoreditch, of all places). Yes, he had the time to render some brief assistance to Frank—but Frank had better have some coffee when he arrived in roughly fifteen minutes, when London clocks struck 1.00PM.
Lancaster was parking on the Stepney road along which Olivia's flat could be found when Frank ambled up, two paper cups of coffee in hand. A wry grin creased his face as the mage dismounted, turning to face him.
Even before one considered Lancasters more esoteric physical traits, the owner of Papyrus Books cut quite an interesting figure. With the black jeans, motorcycle helmet vaguely resembling a metal pot helmet from World War I, and a dark leather jacket festooned with pins and buttons with various slogans emblazoned on them Lancaster looked like he might have ridden right out of a portal leading to the past.
If one got past the outlandish riding gear, one might note the face too gaunt for a man in his middle age, and the eyes that shone red like the embers of a dying fire. Fortunately the latter was covered up by a pair of sunglasses. The arcane sigils and runes on his arms were likewise hidden by the jacket.
A few passerby gave the man a second (or third) look. Even just out for a ride, Solomon Lancaster tended to stand out.
“Sons of Anarchy...British edition?” Frank handed Lancaster one of the coffees. The gray haired wizard accepted the cup with a nod, and chuckled dryly.
“Not likely, Frank Calhoun.” Sipping his own coffee, Frank gestured vaguely to the city around him.
“Y'don't think so? Didn't th' Limeys invent punk and all that? Rebelliousness under all th' stodgey?”
Snorting, Lancaster pointed to one of the pins on his jacket.
“They like to think they did. I maintain punk was created by the Stooges, and thus an American creation.”
The two shared a brief laugh, then Lancaster removed his helmet, nodding up the street at the stacks of low rent flats.
“Her place is up that way?”
“Yeah. Didn't want t'meetcha right at it. Even if th' Hall seems pretty uninterested, I figure they might have someone watchin' th' place t' see if she comes back. An' they might know us, too.”
“Hmm. Trying to keep this quiet, eh?”
“'Fraid so. Th' more things change th' more they stay th' same, huh?”
“Indeed.” Lancaster narrowed his eyes as he looked down the street, then nodded to himself before looking back at Frank.
“I think I can help with that as well, Frank.”
The Templar surveillance technician looked down on the front door of the tower block that he had been instructed to watch. Situated across the street in a different stack of flats, the tech had a small corkboard next to him with pictures tacked to it. Each image was of the daughter of the former director of the 'New Templar' spy organization (now defunct) and the Illuminati agent she had supposedly left London with. The images were from Templar records and from CCTV footage, from different angles and lighting, so that he could recognize the two subjects regardless of situation.
Adjusting the magnification on his professional grade camera, he watched a pair of men approach the tower block, but soon dismissed them. A pair of dark skinned, dark haired men—nothing like what he was looking for. Likely Bangladeshi; roughly thirty two percent of Tower Hamlets was British Bangladeshi.
Hmm. Bangladeshi cuisine sounded good right then. Maybe Kolapata for dinner once his relief arrived. The technician returned to observing men and women on the street.
Those two Bangladeshi men made their way to the tenth floor of the tower block, getting a few casual nods of greeting from people in the building, responding in kind but never speaking. When they reached a particular room on the tenth floor, they looked up and down the hallway. Seeing that they were alone, the taller of the two men gestured to the door. With a faint 'click,' it unlocked, and the two slipped in to the flat, closing the door softly behind them.
Safely ensconced in the room, Frank let out a sigh of relief.
“Glad we didn't actually haveta talk. I reckon there aren't many Bangladeshi folk in London that sound like they're from th' hollers...”
Lancaster had dropped the glamour he had weaved around each of them and nodded in agreement.
“I expect that might have warranted comment. Right then. With the illusion spell dismissed, I can start examining the local weave. Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not going to be available for conversation for the next few minutes.”
“Totally understand. Well. Actually I don't, but I get y'gotta concentrate. Gonna poke aroun' on m' own,” Frank replied, slipping on a pair of gloves.
Frank walked slowly through the small flat as Lancaster settled in on a small couch in the sparsely furnished living room. Noting the Spartan nature of the place, Frank quirked an eyebrow. Given Olivia was the daughter of the director of what had been a powerful cabal, he'd expected...more. A place not in Tower Hamlets, for a start. It was possible the Hall had seized the director's assets, but still.
Couch and TV in the living room near the door, cramped galley kitchen. Bedroom that looked like it might be a tight fit for a blajini. Bathroom that was more like a closet. Hmm.
There were a few pictures in frames; some on the wall, one on a bedside table. All were either of Olivia with other young people, or with an older woman that bore just enough resemblance to her that Frank figured she was her mother. Tall and slim, with strawberry blonde hair the mirror of her daughters, though long where Olivia's was pixie cut.
No pictures with her father, the director.
Upon further inspection, the bathroom had a small tumbler on the sink that could hold a toothbrush, but there was none to be found there. No toothpaste anywhere either. The fridge in the kitchen didn't have much food in it; mainly condiments and some plastic bins full of what could have been anything at this point. There were some take out containers, though. Olivia didn't do much cooking, it seemed.
Moving back to the bedroom again, Frank opened up her closet. Clothing of various kinds hung on hangers, and, as he looked closer, he realized they were set in a pattern. Jacket or blazer, a top piece, and a bottom piece, over and over. Roughly in the middle of the pattern were three empty hangers. Looking in her chest of drawers, Frank found similar order—socks and underwear and the like, just so. Again, there seemed to be a set missing. Even if she didn't have pictures of him up anywhere, Olivia had inherited her father's sense of structure.
Moving back from the chest, Frank reached an arm towards the empty closet. If one was standing in the middle of the room, just at the foot of the bed, the empty hangers were where one's arm would reach to. Did she grab the first set of clothes she could get, then the same with other garments?
No toothbrush or toothpaste, missing set of clothes, but as far as he could tell only one. She'd only been carrying a bookbag in the CCTV still. Traveling light.
If she had been magically coerced, abducted, why bother bringing anything at all? Her supposed kidnapper was polite?
On a hunch, Frank got down on his hands and knees and looked under her bed. Sure enough, as he had known others to do, a small and cheaply made strongbox was under there. Pulling the shoebox sized metal box out, he quickly noted it was unlocked. And empty. He pushed it back under the bed.
It could have just been empty because she'd never put anything it in. Or it was empty because she'd hastily emptied it before leaving.
What kind of kidnapper would allow that before leaving? Robbery? Seeker was Illuminati. Money wasn't really a big problem for them, generally speaking.
Grunting softly, Frank ambled back out to the living room where Lancaster was just now opening his eyes again.
“If this Illuminati agent was using mind controlling magic, it was definitely a subtle kind,” the magus began without preamble. “There's no etheric trace, no tugging on the strands of the local weave. It's as if nothing magical happened here at all.”
Frank rested hands on his hips, thinking.
“But if he was usin' magic all subtle an' sneaky like? Not brute forcin' it?”
“Then perhaps the traces would be light...but I'm fairly certain I'd still see what was left of it, especially if this only happened a day or two ago.”
Turning, Frank regarded the pictures on the wall again.
“Th' Hall agent that made up th' report on this really thought Olivia had been compelled somehow.”
“The discernment of the middling agent they might have sent is somewhat in question, in my opinion.” A wry look stretched the skin of Lancaster's gaunt face.
“Mmmf. Yeah. I'm wonderin' if this is more them tackin' on an explanation because they can't believe there'd be any other reason for her t' go with a Blue boy.”
Lancaster cocked his head to the side.
“And you believe there might be another reason.”
Looking at the photographs of Olivia and her mother, Frank nodded.
“Yeah. I'm thinkin' I should go talk t' someone who maybe gets Olivia better than th' Hall's watchers.”
