In a city known as the Big Apple, a woman sobs alone.
The ragged, choking sounds of her grief rebound from the walls of her apartment. Off the chest of drawers that house clothes from Barneys New York that her special 'job' allows her to afford. Her lamentations ricochet like bullets from the digital picture frame full of images of her coworkers, often at one party or another. They all work at the pleasure of a very old firm.
An old firm that utilizes the iconography of an eye and pyramid.
Her tears fall on a more traditional frame that holds a photograph of her brother.
Officially he works for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Or did. People with government jobs are very useful to secret societies.
Like her, Illuminati. Like her, a field agent. Unlike her, a mundane. While she learned to harness her Beestung powers, he performed tasks for the society both hazardous and covert.
He had been in Afghanistan. Very official and legitimate looking paperwork and files stated he was there as part of the FBI's mentoring program. Training local police to not take bribes. To not steal from the people they were supposed to protect. To not abuse their power.
She and her brother had appreciated the irony.
Her brother had really been there to investigate a cult that the Eye believed could become dangerous.
Afghanistan was already a very dangerous place. It had been dangerous for a very long time. Her brother had been killed when his vehicle convoy was hit by a suicide bomber on a moped. One of the myriad of organizations that made up Afghanistan's bloody quilt of militant groups had already claimed responsibility.
She had just gotten off the phone with her supervisor, who had called to break the bad news to her. She would be permitted a time for grieving...but not a chance at vengeance. Her brother's death was unfortunate, but the Illuminati didn't have the time or energy to go after every single 'freedom fighter' in Central Asia. The 'firm' would not divert resources to track down and eliminate those who had sent that teenager on a moped to his destiny.
The woman knew of other groups that could be the vector for her revenge. She would contact them. She knew how.
For the moment, though, she needed comfort. Turning down the fully stocked liquor cabinet, she traveled the Agartha ways.
In a place the Romans once called Londinium, a Dutchman receives his lover.
They both know they work for groups that operate at cross purposes. That have deep seeded rivalries, even enmity. His lover has never cared; while he does serve the crimson and white lion, he does so as a mere archivist. The two have often reassured each other that the work one does doesn't affect the other. She believed him when he told her he catalogs tomes and slates and scrolls during one of their many meetings at the Horned God. She believed him when he told her he was terrified of blood, didn't have the constitution for combat during candle-lit dinners. She believed him when he said he was thankful their lives were so different, that their lives allowed them to have a relationship after another frenetic and wild session of love making, sessions they would have whenever a location offered just enough privacy and time.
She believed him because she was still young. And because he was a skilled liar. In his way, though, he loves her. He comforts her as she clings to him, strokes her hair. He says no words, because there are no words sufficient. They fall asleep on his couch, surrounded by bookshelves that have Livy and Horace and Cicero. Old and handsome paintings on the walls. A well worn coat rack.
The following morning she tells him of her plans to contract a group of Phoenicians. Both find the pirates distasteful at the least, repulsive at worst, but both agree they are the best way to do what she believes needs to be done. The Dutchman counsels her to be discrete, to be cautious. He doesn't want her to get into further trouble in her grief.
She insists she knows what she is doing, but graciously listens to his advice. She tells him she will be careful. She will not, however, be dissuaded from this course. The terrorist cell responsible for this, all of them, will die on Phoenician blades.
When she has left to return to New York, he opens a hidden panel in his apartment and retrieves an encrypted satellite phone whose level of advancement is out of place in his home, with its antiques and ancient writings. He breaks protocol and seeks out his controller.
The Dutchman knew exactly what his lover was talking about; it wasn't a surprise. He knew the district of the Afghan city the bombing took place in. He knew the casualty count. He knew the name of the group that had told the world that they had done it, all before it was on QBL.
He knew because he had set the attack in motion.
The agent confesses an attack of conscience to his controller. Was their intelligence correct? The target, one he only knew as a code-name, was supposed to be an Illuminati agent known for torturing and executing three Templar operatives on two continents. Such a man had been deemed worthy of the effort...and collateral damage. Did they have the right man?
What he didn't ask was 'Did I kill my lovers only brother?'
The Dutchman is chided, gently. Yes, they got the right man. The intelligence was impeccable. The older woman on the other end of the line, Swedish accent faint, tells him he has done great things for the Order of the Templars. He hangs up as the conversation finishes.
Great things.
In the one time capital of the Joseon Dynasty, an artist paints in his studio.
A brush whispers along a canvass.
He appreciates the older styles, older techniques. Strange given who he works for, perhaps. Tonight he works on a traditional landscaping painting, similar to that done by Seo Munbo hundreds of years before. Mountains and trees, waterfalls and streams.
The artist halts his labors for the moment, brush in hand, considering.
His employer is an ancient, great green serpent. Figuratively, of course.
Probably.
The artist received word from them only thirty minutes ago. The operation he orchestrated in Afghanistan was a complete success. The target was eliminated, and no one suspected it was them.
The target was not the American FBI agent. Nor his three fellow agents.
The ten Afghan National Policeman who died were not the true aim, either.
No, the operation had been conducted because of a woman named Bina.
Bina was a very bright young woman. She was a promising student in the field of biochemical engineering. It was rare in the impoverished and war torn country for anyone at all to be so skilled in that field, yet alone a woman.
The models predicted Bina would some day be of great use to the Dragon.
But elsewhere. Not Afghanistan.
The artist returned to the work in front of him, dabbing paint onto brush, working on a stretch of flowing water.
Bina knew the Taliban was likely going to retake the country, and possibly execute women like her. She stayed, however. She stayed because she believed in fighting for a better country, a better country her eight year old daughter Hosti could inherit.
The models predicted Bina would leave her home and truly throw herself into her studies and later her career if nothing tied her to Afghanistan. The percentages were very, very high.
The artist had ensured Hosti's school bus was one of the vehicles hit by the suicide bomber. She had died, along with six of her classmates.
His superiors let him know the particular model dealing with Bina would likely grow more strongly in the direction they desired.
He had done such things before. Sometimes more subtle, sometimes gross.
For the Dragon to return balance to the world, he would kill more children. If necessary.
A frown contorted his face as he realized something.
He hadn't truly captured the essence of the mountain in his painting. He would have to correct this.
A brush whispers along a canvass.
