Relics
Maya Aranya
UNDER THE SUN
-- Tales Of The Immortals: I
"I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor
the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to
men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance
happeneth to them all." -- The Bible, Ecclesiastes, King James version.
RELICS
Part one of UNDER THE SUN.
Disclaimer: Methos, Joe Dawson, Amy Thomas, Amy Zoll, Duncan MacLeod,
Amanda, Nick Wolfe, Liam Riley, Sydney Fox, Nigel Bailey and other
characters from Highlander/ Relic Hunter are not mine. They belong to
Panzer-Davis, Gaumont, and whatever other PTB that apply. This is fanfic, I
don't make any money from it, it's all in fun. Actual historical events,
locations, and people are used and (mis)interpreted to suit my convenience.
However, any resemblance to any real, live people you think you know is
purely coincidental. Really.
Send me feedback. Even if you think it's terrible. Please.
Email: maya_ar@hotmail.com
This is going out to multiple lists, so my apologies to those of you who are
receiving several copies.
Genre: Crossover - Highlander/Relic Hunter
Characters: M, J, Amy Thomas, Sydney Fox, Nigel Bailey, David Ferrars (OC),
Byron, Amanda, a few other OCs.
Rating: PG-13 for violence and mild profanity.
Comments: Flashbacks, oh yeah! And who says Joe can't have flashbacks too?
Also, if you're confused about the spellings, most characters speak British
English, except for the American characters, and I've tried to keep the
spelling consistent :-) All except for Methos' dialogue, because he refuses
to be consistent.
Continuity: This story is set a few months after the end of Highlander - The
Series, and begins a little while after my last story, Unforgiven.
Summary: First of "Under The Sun", a series featuring the continuing
adventures of Methos, Duncan MacLeod, Amanda, Joe Dawson, Amy Thomas, and
lots of the other usual suspects. In this episode, Adam Pierson is drawn
into Sydney Fox's attempt to retrieve a priceless Bronze Age cache -
artefacts that Methos does not want found. The trouble is, there are
entirely too many people chasing this treasure, including an Immortal
collector who will stop at nothing to get his hands on it first. And the
Watchers have caught up with Methos again. In other words, an average sort
of week for the world's Oldest Living Immortal.
Archiving: OK for Seventh Dimension and the COTH. Also OK for anyone else
who wants it, but mail me first, please?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
** "Tell me of the man, O Muse, that many a way
Wound with his wisdom to his wished stay;"
-- Translation of the opening lines of Homer's Odyssey. **
RELICS
Prologue
** "Facilis descensus Averno:
Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis
Sed revocare gravum superasque evadere ad auras,
Hoc opus, hic labor est." ::
"Easy is the way down to the Underworld:
By night and day Hades' dark door stands open;
But to retrace one's steps and regain the upper air,
That's work, there is the labour."
-- Virgil, The Aenid **
A dense fog rolled and crawled around him, obscuring everything. Voices were
screaming, a very long distance away. He had no attention to spare for those
faraway sufferings, for something was coming for him, drawing nearer with
every breath. Heart pounding uncontrollably, he pivoted warily, sword drawn.
His mouth was dry with fright, icy drops of sweat filming his already
chilled skin.
Footsteps sounded, slow and deliberate, stalking him through the mists,
circling just out of sight. It was a cruel game to prolong the painful
anticipation of the prey, played by a silent and deadly hunter, the epitome
of all his deepest, darkest fears: the one who was coming to get him.
So very close now. His muscles were cramping with sheer panic, his bone-deep
dread setting every nerve afire. He knew the one who pursued him. It was his
ancient nemesis, the source of an overmastering fear he had spent years
locking down; shutting it away, plastering it over with layer upon layer of
reason and logic.
But the restraints he had so carefully built up were unravelling, as his
persecutor loomed through the mists. The veil parted, confronting him with
the face of his own worst nightmare, and a primaeval scream tore from his
throat...
Methos sat bolt upright in bed, coming awake abruptly, body still rigid with
horror.
Would the dreams never stop? Sometimes, he was free of them for years,
decades even, but they always returned to plague him, relentless as the
Furies of legend, and as fierce.
His sheets were soaked through with perspiration, and he flung them aside in
disgust. He got up, walked to the kitchen and made himself some coffee.
Three cups of the strong, bitter brew served to clear his head sufficiently
to notice the first pale pink signs of dawn peeping through the tall window.
Instead of going back to bed, he sat down in front of the slim notebook
computer that was open on his desk. There were several messages waiting in
his Inbox, one from Joe Dawson: 'Where the hell are you, Adam?' That one he
opened right away.
Methos grinned.
"Joe, how did you get yourself mixed up in Amanda's business again? You just
can't stay away from Immortal trouble." He spoke aloud, a habit he had
acquired through long periods of solitude. The grin grew wider.
"Maybe I should call Le Blues Bar today, after all, just to say hello. On
the other hand, not having a Watcher on my tail is quite nice. Amy Zoll's
probably having a fit."
A soft beep signalled incoming mail.
"I thought Sandro was on a dig in Greece somewhere?" he wondered idly,
opening the message.
'Well Adam,
I think I may have stumbled upon the find of my career. Remember those
arguments we used to have about the political geography of the Mediterranean
world between 1100 and 1000 B.C? You may have won that bet, after all. So be
it: I'm in a generous mood, because this will probably revolutionise our
views of life in Late Bronze Age Greece completely! Heinrich Schliemann,
watch my dust! But I'm getting ahead of myself.'
'A month or so ago, surveyors for the new six-lane Athens-Thessaloniki
national highway accidentally uncovered some ancient settlement sites near
Aerino. That's a small town about 12 miles south of Volos. Anyway, among
other things, they came across a cave on a hillside that had some
interesting remains, of pottery and household utensils.'
'So I headed a small team to investigate the findings. At the Aerino site
itself, we found stone foundations of buildings that date back to the Early
Bronze age, 3000-2800 B.C, we estimate, as well as newer layers above that.
But that wasn't the most exciting thing. While poking around in the cave I
mentioned earlier, I accidentally uncovered a hidden underground chamber!'
'Adam, you'll never believe what I found in there -'
Methos stood up abruptly, not bothering to finish reading the message. He
picked up the phone and dialled.
"Hello? Yes, I'd like to book a ticket on the first available flight to
Athens, please."
Grim and tight-lipped, he glanced back at the words filling the computer
screen. Some nightmares would not remain confined to the sphere of sleep.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
* 24 May 1999, Greece *
The drive from Volos was dry and dusty, and it was late in the evening by
the time Methos reached Aerino. There wasn't much traffic on the pot-hole
ridden road.
"Some things don't change," he said to himself, smiling wrily and comparing
it to the dirt track he had ridden down, many centuries earlier.
The archaeologist's camp was easy enough to find, and buzzing with activity
as Methos arrived. He walked into an unexpected uproar. There were several
people clustered around in a knot, waving, gesturing, and yelling
imprecations at each other. All of the participants were covered in dust,
evidence that they were either excavators or field archaeologists. There was
no telling which was which, and the volume of the dispute indicated that
they were all extremely upset about something.
"A very Greek scene," Methos remarked, to no one in particular.
He picked out a bedraggled Sandro in the group, and hurried forward, losing
any trace of amusement abruptly when he noticed the blood-stained bandage
around his friend's head.
"Adam!" the archaeologist exclaimed, when he saw him. Switching to accented,
but fluent English, he hurried forward to wring his friend's hand. "I've
been robbed! Somebody hit me over the head while I was cataloguing our finds
- and when I woke up, the cache was gone!"
'Adam Pierson' made soothing and sympathetic noises, while his mind raced
ahead to other things. His thoughts were not pleasant.
"Are you sure it's all gone? What about the site itself?" he asked, trying
to calm the sputtering archaelogist down.
Ten minutes later, he was peering down into the underground chamber, to
verify that it was indeed, completely empty. He swore savagely, startling
his voluble companion into silence.
"Treasure hunters, I suspect", Adam said, more temperately. A brief
examination of the area around Sandro's tent led him to vehicle tracks
leading back to Volos. "Call the police," he advised, getting into the car
he had hired.
"Where are you going, Adam?" his puzzled friend enquired.
"I'm going to find out what I can about these looters of yours," was the
reply, as Methos drove away.
Chapter 1
** "The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof,
but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth."
-- The Bible, St John 3:8 **
* 25 May 1999, Paris, Le Blues Bar *
"Where the hell are you, Methos?" Joe asked aloud, picking out a random tune
on his guitar. The bar had closed for the night, and everyone had gone home.
Amy had just left, giving him an affectionate peck on the cheek, and an
admonishment about not staying up too late. Joe smiled: his recently
acknowledged fatherhood was a pleasant experience on the whole, but it was a
bit disconcerting to have an adult daughter bullying him.
He missed his friends, though. Mac had been gone for six months now, and
there was still no word from him. As for Methos - well, the last time he had
seen Methos had been...
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
* March 1999, Le Blues Bar *
The obnoxious businessman and his female companion had arrived only ten
minutes earlier, and already Joe was annoyed with the man. He was American,
obviously wealthy, from the looks of the Armani suit, and very condescending
to his attractive blond companion. Girlfriend? Wife? Subordinate? Joe
wondered, as she was also in a business suit. Her only contribution to the
conversation consisted of an occasional 'yes, Brad, you're right', or a nod
of the head to punctuate the non-stop verbiage from her companion.
'Brad' was, in fact, being quite rude to her, declaiming at length and at
top volume about how the 'deal of a lifetime' had been clinched, entirely
due to his unpapralleled intelligence and negotiation skills, while *she* of
course, had not the first idea about 'how things are done here in Paris'.
His litany was drowning out the band, and several other patrons had shifted
away from the bar with deeply annoyed expressions.
The man was obviously very drunk, and getting worse, though so far, he had
yet to do anything that would justify bouncing him. Joe contemplated calling
Mike over to do it anyway, but thought better of it. He smiled
sympathetically at the pretty blond woman, which she seemed to appreciate.
"Why do the nice women end up with jerks?" Joe asked Irene, sotto voce, one
of his waitresses, when she came to collect an order.
"Beats me, Joe," she replied, stealing a surreptitious look at the couple,
before returning to serve a customer at the tables.
The jerk under discussion was perched on a stool right next to Methos, who
was apparently absorbed in his beer. Joe wondered if the Immortal was really
as oblivious as he appeared. He had been unusually quiet all evening, and
the incessant flow of customers had kept Joe too busy to try and find out
what was bothering his friend.
Brad's female companion excused herself to visit the ladies room, and
brought a temporary lull in the monologue. Displeased with the loss of his
captive audience, the American turned to look for alternative sources of
amusement, leering suggestively at Irene, who was passing by. When she
ignored him, he turned to Methos and said, "Nice piece of ass, huh?"
The lanky Immortal's only response was a indeterminate "Mphf."
Not to be discouraged, Brad persisted. "I'm Brad Davies. CEO of Davies
Electronics? Maybe you've heard of me?"
Joe watched, fascinated, as Methos looked up, for it was as if someone had
flipped a switch inside the man. He was all boyish charm as he responded
with a friendly handshake, "The name seems familiar. Weren't you on some
magazine cover recently? I'm Adam Pierson."
"Yeah, my company went IPO last month, so there was quite bit of press
coverage. You know how these guys are, they never let you alone." He was
preening quite obviously.
"Must be hard, dealing with all the fame and fortune," Adam commented, all
sincerity.
"Yeah, what can I say? You want success, you gotta take the pain that goes
with it," Brad said, laughing at his own humour. "So, what do you do, Adam?"
"Oh, I'm an illusionist."
Joe's ears pricked up. Something interesting was in the wind.
"Really? Like on stage, and everything? The hand is quicker than the eye?"
"Something like that," Adam agreed. "I make things disappear, and so on."
"No kidding. Not much money in that, is there?" He looked over the thin
man's unprepossessing clothing, a baggy sweater and a pair of jeans that had
seen better days, with a barely concealed sneer.
"Not much," Adam admitted, appearing oblivious to the slur. "We can't all be
David Copperfield, I suppose."
"Guess not. So, what kind of tricks do you do?"
"Let me show you." He looked around, then grabbed a napkin off an adjoining
table. "May I borrow your watch?"
Brad obligingly took off the expensive gold Rolex he was wearing and handed
it to Adam, who whistled in appreciation.
"Very nice." He wrapped the watch carefully in the napkin, and placed it on
the bar. "I'm going to need a hammer - Joe, do you have a hammer?"
The fascinated Watcher produced one from under the bar; Methos had known
very well it was there, since he had used it only the previous day, helping
Joe hang up a picture.
"Thank you. Now then - you do trust me, don't you, Brad?"
"Sure I trust ya," was the semi-drunk endorsement. Brad grinned around,
inviting the growing audience to join in the fun. The band was taking a
break, and many of the curious patrons were watching this little side show.
Joe grinned back at Brad, for entirely different reasons.
Adam made a couple of dramatic passes over the folded napkin, and then
brought the hammer down, resulting in a very audible bang-smash-tinkle
sound. He raised the cloth with a flourish to reveal what definitely looked
like the remains of a very expensive watch.
Brad stared at this unexpected spectacle, and looked up, growing red with
anger. "You broke it!"
"Did I? Then what's that on your wrist?"
Everyone quickly looked, to find that the Rolex was back on his wrist,
intact. That was a round of oohs, laughter, and a scattering of applause.
Adam smiled and took a brief bow.
"That was great! How did you do that?"
Yeah, how *did* he do that, Joe wondered.
"Just a trick," Adam disclaimed, with a shrug. The band resumed playing, and
the people standing around dispersed back to their tables.
The blonde woman returned, and Brad turned to her, still grinning from ear
to ear. "Hey, Alice, you just missed this neat trick." He turned back to the
'illusionist'.
"Can you show me how to do that?"
"Certainly." Passing Davies the napkin, Adam proceeded to reel off
instructions. "Yes, you fold it under like that, and place it on the bar.
Now you wave your hands over it - yes, very good, exactly like that. Here's
the hammer," he said, offering it to the excited businessman.
Brad enthusiastically brought the heavy tool down on the folded bundle on
the bar. The smashing sound was identical to the earlier one. The would-be
illusionist removed the napkin with a flourish, revealing a mess of
springs, metal parts, and glass.
"How about that, huh?" he said, sounding very pleased with himself.
Alice merely looked puzzled. "You broke your watch!"
"That's what you think!" Brad laughed, winking at Joe. "Look," he said,
extending his hand. When her expression of puzzlement deepened, he looked
down himself to see that his wrist was bare. He stared, then looked at back
the pile of junk on the bar. Frantically, he pawed through the remnants, and
realization dawned. "That wasn't the way it happened last time!"
"How very odd," Adam put in, straight-faced. "It always works for me."
Alice burst out laughing, and Joe joined in, unable to help himself, as he
watched the disbelief on Davies' face.
"Hey!" Brad turned to Adam, a very ugly expression growing on his face. "You
broke my watch!"
"No, *you* did." The baritone voice was cool, even amused.
Then the drunk American made an even worse mistake. He threw a wild punch at
the man who had just made a fool of him. Adam simply ducked, and an
imperceptible nudge sent the other man, already off balance from the missed
swing, crashing off the stool and on to the ground. He didn't get up. The
combination of the drinks and the impact of the hard floor left him
unconscious.
Mike bent down to check and confirmed his status, "Out like a light." He was
grinning, and so were Joe, Irene, and a good many of the spectators.
In a few minutes, the matter was efficiently wrapped up, the blissfully
unaware Mr.Davies was 'helped' into a cab, and his companion had also left
with a broad smile and 'thank you' to Joe.
The Watcher came back to resume his place behind the bar, shaking his head.
"You are something else, you know that?" he commented, waving a mock
admonitory finger in his friend's face.
Adam smiled impishly at him, putting on what Joe privately thought of as his
"choirboy" look. A very unrepentant choirboy, at the moment. "Me?" he said,
sounding injured. "You've got customers waiting, Joe."
Dawson gave him a 'later for you' glare, and went back to work. Much later
in the evening, the last customers had filed out, and the band was packing
up, when Joe finally found the time to talk to Methos again.
"Hey Adam," he called cheerfully. "Got any more tricks up your sleeve? Like,
something that would help with these dirty glasses?"
"Sorry Joe, can't help."
"What, I thought you could make things disappear!" he said derisively.
"Yeah." The impish expression was back. "First, I'm going to make this drink
disappear," and he promptly did so, chugging it down in a single toss. "And
next," he continued, getting up and putting the empty glass down, "*I* am
going to disappear." He walked to the door. "Now you see me..." he stepped
out, and then ducked his head back in briefly through the entrance, "... now
you don't." And he was gone.
Like the Cheshire cat, Joe thought whimsically. The grin fades out last.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
On that characteristically abrupt note, Methos had vanished, apparently into
thin air. The Watchers had been stunned, having been lulled into a sense of
security by Adam Pierson/Methos' apparent acceptance of his permanent tail.
He had been in the habit of waving nonchalantly at the Watcher assigned to
him, Timothy Wyatt. He had even bought him a drink once, at Le Blues Bar. Or
rather, Joe corrected ruefully, he had added Tim's drink to his own already
astronomically high unpaid tab.
/Why do you do this to me, Methos? It seems that just as I get used to
having you around, you up and go AWOL./
The last time this had happened, Joe had been extremely upset. It was in
the aftermath of Richie's death. In those first terrible moments, Methos had
held him, let him cry helplessly into a wool-clad shoulder, as Dawson tried
to accept the enormity of what had just happened. MacLeod had walked out,
unable to deal with the horrible reality -- Richie dead, by Duncan's own
hand. Methos had helped Joe with the funeral arrangements, unnaturally calm
in the face of Joe's own nearly uncontrollable grief. And then, he too had
left, without a word. Joe had felt completely abandoned and alone.
The older Immortal had returned, months later, as if nothing were amiss. Joe
still recalled his conflicting emotions at the memory of that moment. His
first reaction had been relief that Methos was alive, and he was back. The
second was anger and a strong sense of irritation, because Methos was
apparently back merely to do an illicit search of the Watcher database.
Later, after harsh words spoken on both sides, Methos had saved Joe's life
and rescued his daughter Amy. Proving to Joe yet again that this enigmatic
man would go to great lengths to help his friends, belying all his cynical
assertions of unleavened self-interest.
And where are you now, Methos? What are you doing, and when are you going to
just pop back into my life?
Chapter 2
** "Credite posteri..."
"...Atque inter silvas Academi quaerere verum."
"Believe me, you who follow after me..."
"...And seek for truth in the groves of Academe." -- Horace, Odes, Book 2,
and Epistles, Book 2. **
* 26 May 1999, East Coast, United States *
The looters had been clever, but not quite clever enough to shake a very
determined five thousand year old man on their trail. He had tracked them
down to a small University town on the east coast of the United States,
where they had seemingly gone to ground. There was a thriving international
black market for stolen or illegally obtained antiquities, and this
apparently sedate city had become a very important hub for the smugglers in
the last few years.
Methos needed some local help, someone who knew the ins and outs of the
local underground trade. Sandro had suggested a contact at one of the
leading local Universities. So here he was, waiting in the office of the
Professor of History and Ancient Civilizations. The blonde assistant had
flirted with him before apparently deciding that he was neither rich enough
nor important enough to merit her attention, and had left him to look around
the room.
"Dr.Pierson, I presume?", a rich female voice asked, interrupting his absent
scrutiny of an early second century Ivory from China.
Methos looked up to see a very beautiful dark-haired woman enter the room,
followed by a thin young man. He assumed his Adam Pierson persona, blinking
owlishly at the entrants.
"Ah, that's correct. You must be Dr.Fox?" he said, extending a diffident
hand.
"Call me Sydney, please. I'm not big on formality. This is Nigel Bailey, my
TA."
Adam shook hands with the both of them, assessing them covertly as he did
so. Sydney Fox had a formidable reputation, one that he did not entirely
approve of. In principle, he disliked relic hunters and tomb raiders, most
of whom he regarded as mercenary adventurers with no true regard for
history. However, Professor Fox was also a respected academic, and was
reputedly more ethical than the vast majority of treasure seekers.
She was tall, athletic, and had an impressive mix of brawn and beauty to
match her brains. Quite unusual. Nigel Bailey on the other hand, was a
boyish, rather proper, upper middle class Brit - the very incarnation of
what Adam Pierson pretended to be. Despite the silly ass air, Bailey was no
fool, Adam thought - just a bit inexperienced.
"So, did Sandro mention why I was here?" he asked Sydney, hiding a smile
when he realised that he had been at the receiving end of an equally covert
appraisal from the Professor and her assistant. In his loose hand knit
sweater and tweed jacket, he knew he looked like a harmless academic.
"Yes, he did," she responded, pointing a thumb at the computer on her desk.
"He mentioned the contents of the cache that was stolen - priceless, by the
sounds of it."
"Or worth a fortune to a private collector", Nigel put in, stammering
slightly. "The coins alone must be worth several million! Not to mention the
armour, and the scrolls...!"
Adam nodded in agreement, trying not to wince at the recital. So Sandro had
been able to catalogue most of the items rather thoroughly.
"What interests me," Sydney said thoughtfully, "are the scrolls. And the
armor - apparently, it was a full set from the Late Bronze Age, complete
with a skull mask. And the inside of the breast plate was marked in
cuneiform script. The scrolls, on the other hand, were apparently written in
hieroglyphics."
"Yes, so Sandro said," Adam acknowledged. "He can't read cuneiform, and his
knowledge of ancient Egyptian is quite limited. That's why he asked for my
help," he explained.
"I know. You come highly recommended - I'm told you read several forms of
cuneiform as easily as I would read English."
"Akkadian, Elamite, Hittite, and old Persian," he assented. "Sandro's been
singing my praises, has he?"
"No, actually, Dr.Amy Zoll sent me a reference from Paris. She tells me I
couldn't find a more accomplished Bronze Age scholar anywhere in the world."
Adam couldn't hide his discomfort at that, but he managed to turn it into an
expression of embarrassed pleasure. Very bloody funny, Dr.Zoll, he thought.
Ha ha.
"This could be one of the most significant finds of the century," Sydney
said enthusiastically. "There could have been a lot more contact between the
Late Bronze Age Hittite, Egyptian and major Mediterrannean cultures than we
suspected. This could be the proof we're looking for!"
Adam looked suitably enthused, nodding vigorously in agreement.
"From Sandro's rudimentary scan of the scrolls, he says there is some
mention of an ancient pre-Semitic myth in them," Nigel commented. "You know,
the one that later popped up in the Book of Revelations? The Four Horsemen?"
Adam raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Myth and superstition. A local fairytale,"
he said dismissively.
Nigel frowned. "Well, maybe there was some historical basis to that myth,"
he said defensively. "I mean, Schliemann did find Troy on the strength of a
song. One that scholars had been claiming was a "fairytale" for centuries."
"I hardly think this falls into the same category," Adam retorted, looking
down his nose at the shorter man.
Nigel visibly bristled, and pushed his glasses up his nose, marshalling his
argument.
"Well, we won't know, one way or the other, till we find the scrolls,"
Sydney interupted, before the two men started bickering over the matter.
Conceding the point, Adam gave her a brief account of why he believed the
treasure cache had ended here. Sydney promised to tap her sources to find
out if any of the items from the cache were being put on the market, and
also to trace where they might have ended up. Adam agreed to meet them both
the next morning at Sydney's office.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It was a beautiful evening, with just a hint of chill in the air, pale pink
clouds scudding across the sky. Adam strolled down the sidewalk toward a
restaurant that he remembered from the last time he had been here. How long
had it been? About thirty years, he recalled, though the Ivy League
university and its surroundings had changed very little in that time.
The restaurant he chose was a cheerful open air café that would see most of
its action just a little later in the evening. He slipped into place at a
quiet table in the corner, and smiled at the waitress who signalled that she
would be with him in a moment. The last time he had been to this town, there
had been a small restaurant here - great food, but a single cramped and
dingy room, and only the owner's surly son to wait on the patrons. Now this
was much better. He relaxed and glanced around idly. His gaze was arrested
suddenly at the sight of a familiar face.
She was young, of medium height, slim, with short dark hair cut into an
elegant cap. Seated a few tables away, she was reading a book, as though her
being there were perfectly normal and ordinary. Methos' mouth quirked up as
she continued to ignore his presence. On impulse, he got up and sauntered
across to stand over her until she glanced up. Yes, the familiar blue gray
eyes set in a face that was not exactly pretty, but was certainly
attractive. Amy Thomas.
"Well, well. So that's how Zoll knew where to send that reference," he said.
"Hello... Adam," the young Watcher acknowledged coolly.
The pause before she spoke his name was quite marked.
Methos wasn't surprised. He habitually hacked into the Watcher's databases
once or twice a week, and he was aware that Amy was currently assigned to
the team headed by Dr.Zoll - the team that was in charge of the Methos
Chronicles. He also knew that the team was supervised by his old friend Joe
Dawson, Amy's father. When he had first found out about Amy's assignment, he
had laughed out loud. Keeping it in the family, eh, Joe?
He didn't wait for an invitation, but folded himself into a chair opposite
her, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth up.
It seemed that she had deliberately let him spot her, a fact that opened up
all sorts of interesting possibilities.
"How did you track me down, anyway?"
She stared at him for a moment, then apparently decided he wasn't going to
budge.
"You booked your tickets in the name of Adam Pierson," she pointed out.
So they had been keeping an eye on the airline databases? Methos gave
himself a mental shake. Getting careless, old man. Though he hadn't been
trying too hard to hide his tracks, it would teach him not to underestimate
the Watchers.
He covered up his thoughts with a charming smile.
"So, how's Joe?" he enquired.
"Joe's fine. About as well as you might expect. He is a little upset that he
hasn't heard from Duncan MacLeod or you for a while, and he misses his
friends, but he's fine."
Methos nearly winced.
"MacLeod? I thought he was off wandering the world somewhere," he said
carelessly, avoiding the mention of his own long absence.
But she wasn't about to let him off that easily. "Yes, and with both of his
wandering boys gone, without a word from either of them, Joe has been kind
of - unsettled."
"What did you expect me to do, send postcards?" he asked, shifting slightly
in his chair.
"It wouldn't have killed you to call once in a while," Amy said, quietly.
"He worries."
"It's not really me he worries about, you know," he said. "It's the Highland
Boy Scout."
"That's not true," Amy contradicted him. "He misses MacLeod. He also misses
you." She shook her head. "Last week, I caught him looking over that long
list of outstandings on your account at Le Blues Bar. I'll swear he was
feeling nostalgic about it, though he'll kill me if he hears I said so."
Methos had to smile at the thought of Joe getting sentimental over his bar
tab, but he was touched.
"So that's why you're down here breaking the Watcher-Immortal
non-fraternization rule?" he asked, with a sly gleam.
Amy's eyes danced. "A wise man I know told me that sometimes you have to do
more than just watch. Besides, I'm not the one who broke the rule - *you*
did. I was just sitting here, observing and recording."
Methos laughed again, genuinely amused. She had known that his curiosity
would drive him to talk to her, once he had spotted her. Devious, Methos
acknowledged.
"And Zoll sent you out after me?"
"Right."
"Listen, do you think you could do me a favor? I need to look something up
in the Watcher database," he said, smiling winningly. It was the smile that
made most women at the receiving end sit up and return it warmly.
>From Amy, he got a raised eyebrow and a distinctly ironic grin. "Why on
earth would you need me to help you? I know perfectly well that you hack
into the Paris server at least twice a week."
It was Methos' turn to raise an eyebrow. So she'd found out about that? It
wasn't going to be easy to stay one step ahead of this one. But then, he'd
always loved a challenge.
"Buy you dinner?" he offered, with uncharacteristic generosity.
"Why not?"
Chapter 2, Part 2
They were walking back toward the University, where both of them had left
their cars, arguing over the relative merits of Byron and Keats. It was dark
now, and the empty tree-lined avenue was silent under the clear, starlit
sky.
A flash of movement ahead of them was all the warning Methos had, but he
swept Amy behind him, just before the eerie splat told him that a bullet had
cut the air very close to them. Silenced, a medium caliber automatic, he
checked off automatically in his mind, shoving Amy toward the relative
shelter afforded by the trees on the opposite side of the street. She needed
no further prompting, taking off at a dead run.
Methos followed, trying to keep his body between her and the unknown
shooter. His keen eyes distinguished one, and then another shape lurking in
the shadows, as bullets struck sparks off the road just behind them.
Amy heard Methos stumble and swear fervently, and then they were both
leaning against the comforting bulk of a very broad tree. She glanced at
him, startled to see tendrils of blue electricity crawling over his
shoulder. He had been shot, she realised, oddly perturbed. It was one thing
to read about the healing abilities of Immortals, quite another to see it in
action.
Methos peeped cautiously around the tree, ducking low, and swore again as he
heard the sound of running footsteps. He waited, to make sure that it wasn't
a trick to draw them into the open, and then stepped out from behind the
tree.
"Gone," he confirmed, after a quick scan. Amy joined him, staring in the
direction of their retreating attackers.
"What was that all about?"
"Damned if I know," the Immortal said, giving her a quick visual once over.
She seemed unharmed, and quite composed, under the circumstances. One would
think being shot at was not an unusual phenomenon for her. Peculiar for a
'desk' Watcher.
"What now?"
"Now, we head for my place, I think." He forestalled her objection with a
raised hand. "We don't know why someone was taking pot shots in our
direction, and besides, I really need to get out of this shirt."
Amy looked at the conspicuous blood stains, and nodded a curt agreement.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The apartment was neat, and sparsely furnished. Amy looked around at the few
signs of inhabitation, notably the computer that was open on the desk, and
the battered hiking boots standing next to the door. The kitchen was,
thankfully, well equipped, and she made herself a pot of tea while Methos
disappeared into the bedroom.
He emerged a few minutes later, barefoot, dressed in a loose T-shirt and
sweat pants. She suppressed a smile when she read the legend on the shirt,
"Age and treachery will overcome youth and skill every time."
He joined her at the kitchen table, and poured himself a cup of tea, looking
abstracted. Amy found herself thinking that it was oddly domestic to be
drinking tea with the Immortal she had been assigned to watch. Tim had told
her how Adam Pierson had bought him a drink, and chatted casually about
blues music.
Of course, he had then given them all the slip and disappeared, surfacing
finally in Athens, of all places. It would never do to let the easy-going
demeanour fool her into relaxing her vigilance. He was probably thinking
about how he could ditch her at the earliest convenient opportunity.
The phone rang, and he excused himself to go and answer it. She followed him
out into the living room, keeping a discreet distance away, but still close
enough to hear his side of the conversation.
"Hello."
"Hello, Doctor. It has been a long time, but I believe you're still using
that title?"
"Who is this?" Methos asked, voice neutral.
"Just an old friend, Dr.Pierson. A very old friend. How is the shoulder? Not
that I need to worry, I suppose."
"No?"
"Of course not. Not even a scratch left by now, I imagine. The pretty lady,
on the other hand... Who is she, Doctor? Your girlfriend? She really
shouldn't walk around alone at night, you know. After all, she's not quite
as... durable as we are."
"Does this conversation have a point, or are we just passing the time of day
here?" Methos enquired politely.
"Oh it has a point, Pierson. Stay away from Dr.Sydney Fox, and stay away
from that little cache her friend found in Aerino. I don't want you helping
her track it down. Understood?"
"And if I don't comply with this charming request?"
"Your lady friend may live to regret it. And - we wouldn't want you to lose
your head over such trifling matters, eh?" A click signalled that the man on
the other end had hung up.
Methos put the phone down slowly, and turned to face Amy. "I don't think
it's a very good idea for you to go back to your hotel tonight," he said.
"Who was that?" Amy asked, alarmed at the look on his face.
"Probably the man who ordered that shooting tonight," he said. "And whoever
he is, he's having this place watched as well. What's more, he knows I'm an
Immortal."
Amy glanced at the window reflexively, and Methos noted approvingly that she
moved quickly to lower the blinds, careful to stay to one side.
"So why the guns? He had to know he couldn't hurt you - not permanently
anyway," she asked.
"I think that was by way of a warning," he explained. "Made pointed comments
about how you shouldn't walk alone at night. About as subtle as a
sledgehammer, this guy," he said drily.
"Oh." Her mouth tightened ominously. "I don't like being a target -
especially a target by proxy." She remembered Morgan Walker all too well.
So did Methos. And while he had believed her kidnap that last time to be her
own fault (a sloppy Watcher is a dead Watcher, he'd said to Joe), this time,
she wasn't the one who had slipped up.
"Sorry," Methos said, with a hint of contrition. "If you hadn't been seen
with me..."
"Yes, well, that's water under the bridge now, Methos. We'll just have to
deal with the situation." She sighed. "For this I requested a re-assignment
to the field?"
Chapter 3
** "Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muss man schweigen." ::
"Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent." -- Ludwig
Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
* 27 May 1999, Dr.Sydney Fox's office *
"You can't be serious!" Sydney said incredulously. "You came all the way
from Athens chasing these guys, and now you're just giving up?"
"Do I look like Indiana Jones to you?" Adam Pierson asked. "Look, I'm just a
researcher, and all this cloak and dagger business is not exactly my line.
Besides, I'm sure you'll manage just as well without me."
"But I've found out that the cache is here in town! It's hidden somewhere in
the warehouse section near the docks: we just need to find out which
warehouse."
"I rest my case. You didn't need me to find that out."
He watched the Relic Hunter's ill-concealed disgust, and her assistant's
more restrained reaction with interest. Nigel Bailey was looking thoughtful
rather than angry, as though he couldn't understand the other man's
behaviour.
Methos stiffened as the buzz hit him. Casually, he manouvered around to face
the door, as a tall red-haired man walked into the office.
"Hello Sydney, Nigel. I hope I'm not interrupting anything?" the newcomer
asked, with a polite smile for each of the room's inhabitants. He was tall,
quite handsome, appeared to be in his late thirties, and wore an elegant, if
conservative, dark blue suit.
"Hello David," Sydney said, forcing a welcoming smile. "I wasn't expecting
you for an hour." Responding to his enquiring look, she introduced Adam.
"Dr.Adam Pierson, meet David Ferrars. David is one of the University's
largest patrons. The history department is having a fund-raiser tonight, and
David is here to pick up some schedules. Dr.Pierson is an Antiquities expert
from the Sorbonne."
Ferrars nodded at the other man, who hitched a lean hip onto the edge of
Sydney's desk. "Nice to meet you, Dr.Pierson. What brings you to our fair
city?"
"I'd hoped to find some interesting material to study, actually. But I've
had a change of plans, and I'm leaving tomorrow." He picked up a pen and
started doodling idly on the notepad that lay next to him.
"Oh. That's too bad," Ferrars said, with apparent regret. "I hope this short
visit hasn't been a complete waste of time."
"I have plenty of time to waste. But duty calls," Adam rejoined, apparently
losing interest in the conversation.
"Thank you, Sidney," Ferrars said, accepting the sheaf of papers she held
out to him. "I look forward to seeing you later this evening. Will you be
joining us, Dr.Pierson?"
"I don't think so," the slim immortal responded, "Packing, and all that. I
have an early flight tomorrow. In fact, I should be going now. Goodbye,
Sydney, Nigel. It was nice meeting you, Mr.Ferrars." He strode out of the
office.
Ferrars caught up with him outside. "Remember me now, Doctor?"
"I rarely forget a face, but in your case I'd have been glad to make an
exception."
"Come now, that's a bit ungracious, isn't it? Don't you want to renew our
old acquaintance?"
"Pass."
"Wise decision, Dr.Pierson. I was sure you'd see it my way."
"Were you?" the taller man asked, sardonically. "How astute."
"It doesn't take astuteness to predict your reactions, Doctor. You've never
been in the habit of standing and fighting, after all. Especially not over
something as paltry as a set of ancient relics. I learned that the last time
we met."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
* 1809, Athens, the Parthenon *
"Ham-handed poltroons!" Byron exclaimed in accents weighted with disgust.
"All this sweaty toil in the service of an acquisitive Philistine who
vandalises their heritage!"
He was referring to the Greek laborers who were carrying the sections of the
famous frieze of the Parthenon away in sections, under the supervision of
Lord Elgin. Byron's tall, hawk-faced companion stared down impassively at
the scene, from their vantage point at the top of the Acropolis.
Both men turned at the sensation of another Immortal approaching. It was
Lord Elgin's friend and fellow 'classicist', David Campbell. The elder
(adopted) son of a wealthy Viscount, he had already built a reputation as a
collector of antiquities. Beside him was his mentor, Lord Elgin himself.
The two men joined Lord Byron and his friend on their stone platform.
"You don't approve of our efforts here, my Lord," Lord Elgin commented, with
a grin at his companion.
"I do not, sir," The poet assented haughtily. "No sensible man could, who
witnessed the looting of this last poor plunder from a bleeding land."
"Plunder, my Lord? I seek only to preserve the relics of a glorious past,
and have them displayed to suitable advantage in the proper setting."
Byron's tall companion spoke. "Does it not seem to you, my Lord, that the
proper setting for such works of art is the very sanctuary where they have
stood for over two millenia?"
"The Greece of Pericles is long gone, Doctor, and its glories have no true
place here, amidst these degenerate descendants of great men. Look at those
illiterate barbarians! Are the splendid works of Ictinus and Phidias to be
left to the likes of these?"
He turned to Byron, arguing earnestly. "I tell you, sir, their true home is
in London, where they may be appreciated by men of worth and wisdom. Surely,
as a good Briton, my Lord, you would agree that Athena, the Goddess of
Wisdom, is nowhere more truly valued today than in our own land?"
Byron barked a disdainful laugh. Then shooting a malicious glance at Elgin
and Campbell, he declaimed dramatically, turning to face the shrine, and
flinging his arms out in supplication,
"Daughter of Jove! In Britain's injur'd name,
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim,
Frown not on England -- England owns him not;
Athena! No -- the plunderer was a Scot."
Elgin turned red with annoyance at the derogatory reference to his origin.
He was not best pleased at this reminder, and nor was his comrade, who went
rather pale.
"Barbarians, indeed," the poet continued, his fiery eyes blazing scorn at
his targets, "The only barbarians I see before me come from a land of
meanness, sophistry and mist!"
He continued to pour his contempt out in scathing verse:
"But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,
To rive what Goth, and Turk and Time hath spared;
Cold as the crags upon his native coast,
His mind as barren and his heart as hard,
Is he conceived, whose hand prepared,
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains;
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,
And never knew till then the weight of Despot's chains."
Campbell was perfectly white with rage, and stepped forward to confront the
poet.
"I brook no such insult from any man! You will meet me for that, my Lord,
honour demands it!"
"Honour, in a Scot. A pleasant idea," Byron sneered.
The Doctor stepped in hastily to separate the two snarling men. "Enough,
gentlemen, the jest has gone too far, I think." He clamped a warning hand on
Byron's arm. "Come George, we must be about our business."
Byron glared at him, but gave in, sullenly following him as he retreated.
"Your principles, Doctor, are therefore not so deep as you led us to
believe," Campbell called after them.
"My principle, sir, is that sensible men do not risk their lives over a few
pieces of lifeless marble," was the only reply.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"And it seems that your sentiments haven't changed," commented the man who
now called himself David Ferrars.
"Neither have yours, Campbell. Once a looter, always a looter, I see. Do you
still claim to be preserving history?"
"You misjudge me, Doctor. My motivation is pure profit. There were nearly a
hundred pounds of gold and silver coins in that cache - worth a fortune! And
I know of many private collectors who would pay many times the value of the
coins for the scrolls."
"Ah, good old-fashioned greed. That makes me feel so much better," Adam said
sarcastically.
"Does it really matter, Pierson? I know you agree that it's not worth
risking your head over relics of a bygone age, unlike our idealistic Sydney.
I have no quarrel with you. As long as you leave town, you have my word that
I will leave you and your girlfriend alone."
"What about Sydney Fox? She strikes me as a persistent sort of lady."
"True. However, she won't be a problem for much longer. In any case, you
would do far better worrying about yourself and your lady friend. Do we
understand each other?"
"Oh, I understand, all right. Subtlety is a gift you've not managed to
acquire." He turned and sauntered off, hands in pockets, leaving Ferrars to
stare after him.
Chapter 3, Part 2
"I cannot believe that man!" Sydney said angrily to Nigel. "After all that
work, tracing those looters here, he just walks away! What kind of man does
that?"
Nigel was looking down at the notepad that Pierson had been scribbling on.
"What kind of man doodles in Hittite, Demotic, and Sanskrit?" His attention
was caught by a symbol he recognised. "Sydney, come and look at this!"
She walked over, her curiosity piqued at the sharp note in her assistant's
voice. She frowned at the notepad, exasperation dawning as she deciphered
the symbols. Her name, followed by several lines she didn't readily
understand.
"A note. He left us a note. Is your Sanskrit any good?"
"Not very. I'll get a dictionary."
Minutes later, when they had figured out the message, they exchanged grim
looks.
"You know, for a mild-mannered researcher, this guy is a bundle of
surprises. How do suppose he found that out?"
Nigel shrugged. "Lord knows. I'm a bit puzzled about how he managed to trace
those smugglers so quickly. It doesn't quite fit. If it weren't for his
impeccable references, I'd be tempted to believe he was a relic hunter
himself."
"Maybe. But we're not learning anything more about it waiting here. Let's
go," Sydney said, hurrying out of her office with a reluctant Nigel trailing
after her.
She had just reached the car park, when her cell phone rang.
"Sydney, this is Adam. I assume you've managed to decipher my note?"
"Yes," she said curtly. "I thought you didn't do the cloak and dagger stuff?
And do you have any proof of David Ferrars' involvement in this smuggling
business?"
"Just a tip off from a reliable source. I can tell you more when we meet. By
the way, I'd recommend extreme caution, because it's entirely possible David
Ferrars has an unfortunate accident planned for you."
"Yeah? For instance?"
"For instance, you should probably check your car for tampering. My
informant just told me that quite a few of his business associates have had
automobile accidents - car bombs, brake failures, and so on."
The 'informant' was the Watcher database, and the sketchy details contained
therein about the dubious business practices of the Immortal known as David
Ferrars. From the absence of regular updates, Methos deduced that the
Watcher assigned to Ferrars was a bit sloppy.
Sydeney handed the cell phone to Nigel and looked the car over carefully. It
didn't seem as though anyone had broken in. Playing a hunch, she went down
flat on the ground and peered under the car. Nigel watched, wide-eyed, as
she slid partly under the vehicle. Some interesting noises ensued, and then
she emerged, holding a bundle of - something - Nigel concluded, unable to
identify it. There were a number of wires dangling from the package,
whatever it was. The young TA noticed that Sidney now had grease smeared
across her nose and cheek. He stared, bemused, reminded of war paint, as she
grabbed the phone back from him.
"Bingo," Sydney informed the man waiting at the other end of the line.
"Someone planted enough plastique under the car to blow me sky high the
first time I went over a bump in the road. Thanks Adam, I owe you one."
"You're welcome. Now, if the two of you can manage to meet me at the
rendezvous point in two hours, I should have a location for us to start our
search."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Methos let out an exasperated breath. "Look Amy, I can just as easily do
this myself, you know. Why don't you make my life easier? It will save us
some valuable time if you do the checking. All I need to know is if David
Ferrars owns any property near the docks."
They were sitting in the hall of an anonymous little house that Amy Thomas
had found through her local Watcher contacts.
The young Watcher frowned at him. "You know the rules as well as I do,
Methos. I'm not going to call on the Watcher network to help you hunt down
another Immortal, let alone some Bronze Age relics you're after."
"You don't want to break the rules? How convenient. May I remind you that
you're already breaking the rules, and this guy has threatened you, too?"
"Yes I know, and I know that your normal reaction would be to leave town
immediately, with me in tow, if necessary. What's so different this time,
Methos? And don't tell me this is about breaking up some illicit smuggling
ring."
"Are you always this annoying?" he asked. "Or is it something you reserve
just for me."
She didn't bother to dignify that with a response. He finally threw up his
hands and sighed.
"All right! It's the scrolls. I can't afford to have those scrolls become
public knowledge. And neither can the Watchers, not if you want the
existence of Immortals kept a secret."
She waited for him to go on.
"They were a part of my journal. Left them behind with some of my other
stuff when I parted company with the Horsemen," he said, voice tight and
uncomfortable.
"Well, why didn't you just say so in the first place," she said irritably,
after an awkward silence.
A half hour later, she hung up the phone and turned to Methos, who was
pacing restlessly around the room.
"I have a confirmation on that address. It belongs to Ferrars, all right, he
owns a chemical factory, and that's where he supposedly stores the stuff for
shipping. His Watcher says that Ferrars visits the warehouse frequently,
usually at night."
"Thank you." He pulled his duster on and turned to leave.
"Where are you going?" she asked, getting up to follow.
"To meet Sydney Fox and her assistant. May I suggest that you stay out of
sight? There's no reason for them to find out about you or the Watchers. And
we don't need one of Ferrars' men picking up our trail either."
"Yadda, yadda, yadda. I know how to do my job, Methos."
"Could have fooled me," he muttered under his breath, stalking out of the
house.
Chapter 4
** "One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night." -- Kahlil
Gibran**
It was quiet outside the warehouse by the time Sydney and Adam carefully
approached the rear. They had left Nigel parked half a block away, with
strict instructions to stay put, and keep an eye out for any surprise
visitors. The plan was simple: sneak into the warehouse, take a quick look
around for the smuggled items from the Aerino cache, and leave, to alert the
police. At least, that was the plan Sydney had come up with. Adam had an
agenda of his own.
Sydney realised, with some surprise, that the lean man beside her was very
good at moving silently. He was dressed in black, as was she, though she had
a professional looking jumpsuit on, compared to his jeans and sweater.
The window was rigged with an alarm. It took Sydney a couple of minutes to
disarm it. She got the window open as quietly as she could, and was through
it in a moment. Adam followed her, moving as quickly and as quietly as a cat
burglar, handing her the bulky knapsack she had brought along. They landed
in a darkened room, filled with massive shipping containers.
Adam tapped her shoulder and motioned at the surveillance camera mounted on
a wall. Sydney nodded; it was a temperature sensitive device, a make she was
familiar with. Pretty hitech for a run-of-the-mill warehouse, she reflected,
pulling a black box out of the knapsack. She flipped a switch and put it
down on the floor. It was a powerful radiator. In moments, the ambient
temperature of the room would be sevral degrees higher than the range of
human body heat. Effectively, the device would be rendered blind.
Sydney risked turning on a small flashlight, playing it over their
surroundings. Chemicals from Ferrars' factory, she concluded.
That had been unexpected, discovering that David Ferrars was a part of the
Antiquities black market. He had always seemed so respectable, so clean and
above board. But his close links to the University, and to the history
department had probably helped him keep a foot in both worlds. And the
bastard was at the fund raiser right now, playing the generous benefactor.
Time enough for recriminations later, focus on the job at hand, she reminded
herself. She cautiously headed into the next room, which was dimly lit by a
single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Another black box from her bag
of tricks took care of the camera. But the area beyond the door on the far
side was brightly illuminated, and from the sound of voices, it was
occupied. She sidled up to the door, which was ajar, and peeped around -
three disreputable looking men were sitting around the loading area of the
warehouse, talking. One was telling a fishing story, if his gestures were
any indication.
Sydney glanced around for her partner in crime, and realised he wasn't
there. She cursed silently, and was about to go looking for him, when he
emerged from the first room, looking cautiously around. She beckoned him
over, making a shushing motion as she did so. He ended beside her, flat
against the wall, and trying to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond the door.
She explained, in a low voice.
Further reconnaissance told them that there were several interesting crates
lying in the lighted area, one in the back of a pickup truck parked just
inside the entrance. The three men, one dressed in denim, and the other two
in leather jackets, were easily recognisable as hired muscle. Their presence
meant that Sydney and Adam would have to be be very careful, and quiet.
The room they were hiding in also contained similarly marked crates stacked
neatly in a corner. Sydney eased the door closed, and turned her attention
to the latter. Adam was before her, carefully prying the lid of the nearest
one loose. Sydney barely restrained her whoop of triumph.
It contained a set of armour that matched Sandro's description. She picked
up the breast plate and turned it to see what was inscribed inside. The
markings were in a cleanly incised cuneiform script - early Akkadian, Sydney
recognised. She squinted at the writing in the dim light, struggling to
recall her knowledge of the script: Mi-tu-tu? What did that mean? She laid
it aside for the moment, and looked at her companion, who was staring, like
a man turned to stone, at something else within the box.
It was a visor, or a face mask, elaborately fashioned to look like a skull.
Sydney nudged her companion, bringing him abruptly back to the present. He
nodded as she gestured to the other boxes. They quickly had them all open,
discovering an assortment of precious items, though not from the Aerino
cache - statuary, ivories, and some old jewelry that resembled the findings
at Troy. //What a diligent bunch of grave robbers,// Sydney thought. Some of
this stuff had come from as far afield as China. She was just about to
suggest that they get the hell out of there and call the police, when fate
took a hand.
There was a crash in the corner of the room. Startled, both she and Adam
turned to look: it was a cat, who had just pushed a small ceramic statue off
the top of a crate and on to the floor. Sydney exchanged a horrified glance
with her companion. This was sure to bring the men from the front of the
warehouse in here to investigate. She noticed that Adam closed his eyes for
a long moment, and the oddest expression flitted over his face.
//Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'cat burglar'. Did I break some
feline taboo somewhere? What is it with cats when I'm trying to break into
places?// he mused, before turning his mind to the more immediate problem.
Those goons would be in here in a minute, and there was no way their
intrusion would go undetected, not with the crates lying open in plain
sight. He ran through and discarded several options as they occurred to him:
it looked like they would have to do this the old fashioned way.
Sydney signalled to him, silently; you go left, I'll go right, she mouthed.
He nodded, and silently glided to the opposite side of the door. The man who
walked through the door had just enough time to say, "Hey, umph," since
Sydney's kick caught him squarely in the temple and knocked him cold.
"Joey?" a voice queried seconds later. When there was no response, the two
remaining men glanced each other and then rose, drawing their guns. They
moved as a well coordinated team, standing on either side of the door, with
their backs to the wall. The larger of the two swung rapidly to face the
door and kicked it open. The door bounced off the wall on the other side,
but brought no further reaction.
The denim clad goon stepped cautiously into the room, his gun extended in
front of him. He turned around cautiously, and screamed as a bundle of
hissing, spitting, clawing fur landed on his face. He dropped the gun to
fight off this disconcerting menace, and was promptly clubbed senseless from
the back by Adam's flashlight wielding hand.
The other thug charged through the door and had the gun kicked out of his
hand by a fierce looking woman. He put his hands up in a defensive position,
but to no avail, as she punched him, kicked him in the stomach, and then put
a knee in his face as he doubled over in pain.
"Nice kitty," Adam said, kneeling to run a caressing hand over the back of
the small tortoiseshell cat who had been the cause of their discovery. She
purred and rubbed against his knee, apparently forgiving him for picking her
up and throwing her so unceremoniously at the nasty man's face.
"If you're quite finished," Sydney prompted acidly. He raised a hand in
surrender, and went to look for something to secure their prisoners with. He
came up with a roll of duct tape, which he then used to bind their ankles,
wrists, and mouths very tightly indeed.
Sydney returned from the front room to signal that the coast was clear, and
they walked out into the loading area. The crate in the pickup truck proved
to contain a good portion of the coins from Sandro's find. One of the other
crates on the warehouse floor revealed what Sydney was most interested in -
a rolled set of scrolls, inscribed on scraped leather, and carefully
protected from the outside air by a layer of clear plastic film. At least
Ferrars was taking every precaution, Sydney thought sourly.
Fascinated, she failed to notice the cold, fixed expression on Adam's face.
She pulled a cell phone from her pocket to talk to Nigel. "We've got it. The
stuff's here." She paused to listen. "No, no trouble. We'll be out in a few
minutes."
She saw Adam stiffen, and was about to ask him why when the main loading
door rolled open unexpectedly. There were four men on the other side, four
large, dangerous looking men with guns tucked conspicuously into belts and
shoulder holsters. The two parties froze for an instant, staring at each
other. Adam and Sydney moved first, diving in opposite directions for cover.
Then a hail of gunfire erupted, tapering off to a halt as the one of the men
shouted, "Stop! You'll damage the merchandise!"
Sydney heaved a sigh of relief. Except that this now left the two of them to
handle four, hand to hand. And she had no idea how well Adam would do in
that sort of confrontation, despite the surprising inventiveness he had
shown earlier. Oh well, no use worrying: she had faced worse odds. The
reckless joy that she always felt during a fight welled up, and she grinned
a dangerous grin.
"Let's do it!" she told Adam fiercely, and leapt out to meet the first of
their opponents. She was quickly engaged in a fast moving fight with two of
the men, rolling, kicking, blocking and striking.
Instead of immediately following her example, Adam remained where he was.
Unseen by anyone, his face was for a moment, quite unrecognisable. He drew a
small gadget from under the baggy sweater, and pressed a button. There was a
tremendous explosion from the back of the warehouse, followed by the roar of
a rapidly spreading fire.
The chemicals in the storage tanks had ignited, and the flames were
spreading quickly. Everyone was caught by surprise, and Adam seized the
opportunity afforded by the sudden calm to scramble into the driver's seat
of the pickup truck. The key was still in the ignition, and the engine
roared to life. "Come on!" he yelled at Sydney.
The sound of sirens approaching had the four men running for the exit after
a brief confused hesitation. Sydney looked torn. "We can't leave this
stuff!" she cried out.
"We can't be caught here! The firemen will be here any minute, let's go!"
"At least let me get the scrolls!" she insisted, running for the crates.
"No wait, I'll get them - you have to cut those guys in the back room loose!
They'll be trapped!" Adam countered.
Sydney hesitated, then looked at the rapidly gaining fire and ran for the
back door. She emerged soon after, urging two of the men forward with the
aid of a captured gun. The third man, still unconscious, was half-carried,
half-dragged by his companions.
Released, the hired guns ran out with great alacrity, taking their
insensible comrade with them. By this time, the roof was blazing, and in
imminent danger of collapse. "Come on!" Adam yelled again, and Sydney
noticed with horror that several of the crates in the front room were on
fire. Probably sparks from the ceiling, she realized.
She threw herself into the passenger seat, and they drove out with a screech
of tires. They exited the building just in time, as the roof fell in.
Adam didn't stop until they were confronted by a frantic-looking Nigel. He
had a distinctly manic expression until he saw that both Sydney and Adam had
made it safely out of the raging inferno which was all that was left of the
warehouse.
"Did you manage to save the scrolls?" Sydney asked urgently.
"I did manage to get a couple of crates loaded, but there was no time to
check which ones," Adam explained regretfully. "There were pieces of fiery
debris dropping from the roof, and a lot of the crates were on fire!"
Sydney and Nigel scrambled into the back of the pickup to check the contents
of the boxes. One contained coins, and there were two more, containing
priceless statuary and jewels. But no scrolls.
"Damn it!" Sydney slammed a fist into the side of the truck. "We were so
close! And now they're gone forever."
"I'm sorry," Adam said gently.
"It wasn't your fault," Sydney admitted grudgingly. "How the hell did that
fire get started anyway?"
"Probably an electrical spark or something. Those chemicals were highly
flammable," Adam suggested.
"Yeah. First the cat, then the fire; there was a jinx on the whole affair.
And here we are, with no scrolls, no armour... Damn!"
"It's not like we're completely empty handed," Nigel reminded her. "The
coins and the statues are quite a respectable haul. Should provide material
for lots of interesting research."
"It's not the same, and you know it. That armour, for instance - that was a
piece of history!"
"Maybe some history is meant to stay buried," Adam said, in a faraway voice.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Boss, the cops are all over the place now!" the leather-clad leader of men
from the warehouse said urgently into the phone.
David Ferrars scowled and turned his back on the sounds of the fund raiser
in the ballroom behind him. "Describe the two people you caught at the
warehouse before the fire," he asked.
"It was that Sydney Fox woman from the University. And the other guywas the
skinny character you had us take a shot at last night. Funny thing though,
his shoulder didn't seem to bother him at all. I know I got him, boss."
"It doesn't matter. Get out of town and lay low for a while. I'll contact
you in Chicago."
"What about you, boss?"
"I'll pick up a couple of things from my place, and move on. We may have to
relocate operations - time enough for that later. Just get moving quickly."
Chapter 4, Part 2
"What happened?" Amy Thomas asked Methos as he climbed into the car she had
waiting.
"There was a fire," he said briefly.
"Yes, I realize that - the news is all over the emergency channels," she
said drily, gesturing at the police band radio in the front of the car.
"What about the scrolls?"
"Gone." He was still curt and uncommunicative.
She studied his blank expression for a few silent moments and then started
the car. "Did you have to burn them? You could have brought them with you -
at least then the knowledge of those missing years wouldn't be lost
completely."
"It's not lost. It's still up here," he said coldly, tapping his head. "I'm
not sure the rest of the world is ready to hear about it just yet."
"Ferrars drove off from the fund raiser in a big hurry," she said, when he
appeared disinclined to say more. "Like a bat out of hell, his Watcher
said."
He looked at her, and his face softened. "Thank you," he said softly. "I
appreciate your help, Amy."
"It's nothing," she said uncomfortably. "What now?"
"Now, I go and keep an overdue appointment with my relic smuggling friend,"
he told her. "This is where I get off, I think."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'd just have to drive behind you all the way. Your
coat's still in the back of the car."
He stared at her for a long moment, amusement growing, till she turned to
snap at him, "What?!"
"Just thinking: like father, like daughter. Do you know your eyes look just
like Joe's when you're angry?"
"Oh, shut up!" she snarled, resolutely keeping her eyes on the road.
"You even sound like him," he said irrepressibly, determined to have the
last word.
They drove silently the rest of the way to David Ferrar's luxurious estate.
He lived alone, except for a housekeeper who came in first thing in the
morning. His Watcher noted that he preferred a secluded lifestyle, with even
the help leaving in the evenings. Convenient, for an Immortal who engaged in
illegal activities outside the scope of his day job.
Amy parked the car just outside the open wrought iron gate. They both got
out, looking at the empty path that led to the colonial style mansion. The
grounds were brilliantly flood lit, but the house itself was in darkness.
Methos drew his Ivanhoe and moved forward, his movements assuming an
unconscious deadly grace.
"Where's his Watcher?"
"Around somewhere, I suppose. She did say he had left the party, but they
may not be here yet. We were driving pretty fast."
Methos smiled grimly. "He's here, all right."
Oh. Of course, he would know, Amy realized. She followed him across the
ornamental lawn toward the front door. It was standing open, though all the
lights were out. All was still and quiet, unnaturally so.
Methos approached the door with that odd, relaxed readiness that somehow
suggested danger. She had seen him this way once before, when he had
confronted Morgan Walker.
"Aren't you supposed to announce yourself or something?" she blurted
nervously.
"You've been listening to Joe talk about the Highlander," Methos said,
smiling crookedly. "He's the one who goes around declaring, 'I am Duncan
MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.' Somehow, I don't think that 'Adam Pierson of
nowhere in particular' has the same ring, do you?"
Amy had to smile at that. "Be careful," she said as he inched past her.
"Always," he said softly, his eyes focussed ahead. "Stay back here," he told
her, before vanishing into the stygian blackness on silent feet.
She rolled her eyes. Oh yes, as though I would go scurrying around behind
him in the dark. She settled down to wait.
Methos walked, poised for trouble, into the narrow hallway of the mansion,
feeling Ferrars' presence nearby. He emerged into what seemed to be a large
open room, and heard the door slide closed behind him. Remote controlled, he
surmised. There was not a glimmer of light anywhere.
Coming in from the dazzling brightness of the grounds, his eyes would take
some time to accustom themselves to the gloom. So, the man wanted to play
games in the dark, did he? Well, Methos knew all the games, had invented
many of them, and to tell the truth, loved to play. As long as he made the
rules.
Catching a whisper of sound, he felt Campbell - no, it was Ferrars now,
wasn't it - glide down the room to his right. No doubt the younger Immortal
thought he was completely undetected. But the ancient man he was trying to
stalk had been night-fighting for nearly as long as his eidetic mind could
recall.
Ferrars had used this trick before. He had just been about to leave when he
felt the other man arrive. Drawing his weapon, he had waited in the dark,
knowing that it would take a few critical minutes before the other man's
eyes adapted to see in the utter blackness that surrounded them. Moreover,
this was Ferrars' own territory: he knew every inch of the space around
him, giving him all the advantage over his blind adversary.
But there were other senses than just sight at Methos' disposal. There was
hearing. A dozen little scrapings and rustlings, almost indistinguishable
from the faint sounds that houses always made: a board creaking and
settling, warped by age, the stir of a curtain in the breeze, the subdued
gurgling of water in the pipes that ran through the walls.
Then there was smell; the traces of expensive after-shave still lingering
around Ferrars. The distinctive prickle of fine brandy: Armagnac, Methos
identified almost absently, every nerve preternaturally alive and turned to
the task of sensing his opponent. The odor of perspiration mixed with the
unmistakable scent of excitement - and fear. Methos almost grinned in
anticipation. Fear was an old friend.
And last but not least, there was feel. There were a million stories to
learn if a man were paying attention. The slight displacement of air against
Methos' bare forearms, that meant his opponent was moving. The minute shift
in the direction from which the telltale buzz emanated. The tiny vibration
in the floor when the other man walked.
When Ferrars swung at his target's neck, the blow was perfectly parried. And
returned with frightening accuracy. Suddenly, the aggressor found that he
was being pursued and forced to retreat from a series of perfectly
controlled, relentless strokes that were aimed with uncanny skill.
The man must have eyes like a cat! Ferrars thought, and hastily decided to
change tactics. He turned and ran for the wall and flipped the hidden switch
that waited there.
"Fiat lux," Methos commented sardonically, as the enormous room was suddenly
awash with the brilliance of half a dozen chandeliers. He hesitated not a
whit, chasing the other man down, crowding him against the barrier of the
walls, till Ferrars made a desperate rush for the ornate staircase that
wound its stately way down the middle of the hall.
The younger man was panting slightly, not so much from the exertion as from
the force of his shock. He turned to parry the ruthless attack from the
whipcord thin Immortal, who had never given any indication of this level of
skill before. His reluctance to fight had made Ferrars discount him as a
threat.
The tactics with the dark room were merely an attempt to put his opponent
off balance; for David Ferrars was a careful man. He had learned early to
gain every advantage he could, and saw no reason to waver from his usual
pattern. His combination of caution and cunning had always brought him
success before. And yet, this lean, impudent *Doctor*, seeming more a
scholar than a knave, had brushed his preparations aside like so much chaff.
Now the red-haired Immortal was fighting for his life, backing slowly up the
stairs as the pale, dark-haired man he faced pressed home his advantage,
wielding the 40-inch broadsword like an extension of his arm. To Ferrars'
eyes, the end seemed to come in slow motion. He watched, unable to bring his
sword up in time as the smooth reverse strike caught him across the ribs,
hard enough to shatter bone. When he stumbled forward, he knew the sword
would catch the back of his neck as he fell.
The quickening was relatively short, but sufficiently spectacular, at least
to the bedazzled eyes of the Watcher who witnessed its effects from a safe
distance outside the mansion. A sudden terrible misgiving shook her, as she
wondered which man would emerge from the aftermath of the pyrotechnic
display. Until this moment, she had not doubted that Methos would win.
Ferrars was not reckoned to be an extraordinary swordsman, and from
everything Joe had said, the mild-mannered 'Adam Pierson' was extremely
skilled.
But there was always chance. Wars had been lost on the uncertain whims of
fortune, and Amy found that she was holding her breath when a lone figure
emerged from the backdrop of the now lighted hallway. She let it out slowly
in a sigh, at the sight of the unmistakable silhouette. Contrary to her
instincts, it had been a short fight, less than five minutes in duration,
she realized, glancing at her watch, even counting the dramatic beginning in
utter darkness. The Quickening had lasted for about the same length of time.
//Do all Watchers feel this way?// she wondered. //Or will time start
flowing normally when I grow more accustomed to witnessing Immortal
combat?//
Methos approached, sword negligently held point up against his shoulder. He
cocked a half-friendly, half-mocking grin at her and she found herself
returning it.
"I'm glad to see that you do take good advice on occasion," he said, tucking
the sword neatly away into his coat with a quick motion.
"Just going by the book," she retorted. "'Stay a safe distance away from the
fight, especially if there is the likelihood of a Quickening inside an
enclosed space. Unexpected side effects like electrical fires or exploding
windows can injure careless bystanders who get too close.'"
It was a quote from the Watchers manual, and one of the first lessons
drilled into a rookie's head. Of course, it was also frequently ignored by
Watchers who could not resist the temptation to witness the excitement of
the fight itself.
They walked away from the house, and were well past the gate when a loud
explosion rocked the night. The shock of displaced air flung both of them
forward onto their knees in the grass. Amy spun around to see the pillars
framing the doorway of the mansion collapse. With a dull roar, the entire
building seemed to slowly implode, falling inward on itself. Flames licked
their way up the walls that still remained standing.
"What was that?" Amy gasped, eyes wide.
"One of those unexpected side effects you were just talking about," Methos
explained blandly.
She glared at him, "Do you like blowing things up and setting places on
fire? First the warehouse, and now this. Why on earth would you want to set
a bomb here?"
He made a deprecating gesture. "The police will be here any time, you know."
He levelled a speaking glance at her. "Did you want them discovering a
decapitated corpse? This way, hopefully, it will look like one of his bad
business decisions caught up with him. Smuggling antiquities is a dangerous
trade."
"Right, and the fact that you couldn't be sure he hadn't kept a scroll or
two for himself had nothing to do with it," Amy stated drily.
"Nothing to do with it," he echoed. "All the scrolls were in the crate back
at the warehouse. I checked."
The sound of sirens in the distance warned them. "I think that's our cue,"
Methos said, pulling the car door open for Amy.
Epilogue
** 28 May 1999 **
** "An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered." --
G.K.Chesterton**
The unveiling of the new antiquities exhibit by the Department of Ancient
History was well attended, and was turning into quite a revel. The
excitement following the previous night's fund-raiser had brought the
curious flocking in.
Adam Pierson, for once immaculate in a well-cut dark suit, picked up a glass
from a passing tray and toasted his companions with a charming smile.
"To relic hunting."
Nigel Bailey returned the gesture hesitantly, while Sydney Fox continued to
regard him as she would a vase of dubious provenance.
"A strange toast from a man who just spent the whole evening arguing against
the practice."
"Ah, but without the respectable ones like you, where would the study of
Antiquities be? At least your finds end up in a museum," the wiry man
pointed out.
"I don't get you, Adam," Sydney said frankly. "You are the most unlikely
researcher I've ever seen."
A sudden thought occurred to her. "You know, I looked up the inscription
from the breast plate we saw. 'Mi-tu-tu' - that's the old Akkadian symbol
for 'Death'. What do you think that signifies? Was it a set of burial
armor?"
Instead of responding, Adam looked abstracted and manouvered around till he
was facing the door. Nigel followed his suddenly intent gaze to see a very
beautiful dark haired woman make a grand entrance. She was poured into an
elegant black dress, and attracted a good deal of attention when she paced
stylishly in. After a cursory look around the room, her eyes lit up, and she
made a beeline for Adam.
Nigel tore his attention away from the vision of pulchritude to throw an
envious look at Adam Pierson. He saw the taller man's sharp features settle
into ... resignation?
"Why, hello, M...Adam, darling! What a delightful surprise," the beautiful
newcomer crooned, planting an extravagant kiss on the researcher's lips.
"Amanda," he acknowledged, with a slight smile.
"Madam?" Sydney repeated, quizzically.
"An old joke," Methos explained smoothly. You know, 'Madam, I'm Adam'?"
"Well, aren't you going to introduce me?" Amanda said brightly.
"Dr.Sydney Fox, Nigel Bailey, meet Amanda..."
"Montrose," Amanda finished smoothly. "I deal in antiquities. Adam and I are
old friends, though it has been a while since we last met."
"Not nearly long enough," Nigel heard Pierson mutter into his glass as he
drained it.
"Adam has been highly recommended to us as an expert on artefacts of the
Bronze Age", Sydney said.
"Really? I'm quite well acquainted with a five thousand year old relic or
two myself," Amanda said with a sly look at 'Adam Pierson', slipping a
possessive hand into the crook of his arm.
Methos carefully and deliberately replaced his empty glass on the tray
carried by a passing waiter. Then he smiled sweetly down at Amanda.
"Lovely to see you again, dear Amanda. We must get together and catch up.
Perhaps later?"
"Oh, but Adam, I really do need to speak to you on a matter of the greatest
urgency." She batted her eyelashes flirtatiously at him, prompting another
wave of envy from an admiring Nigel.
"Then why don't we leave, and discuss it in privacy?" he suggested, putting
his hand over hers, where it lay on his sleeve. "Will you excuse us, Sydney,
Nigel?"
They agreed politely, though Nigel made a stammering attempt get them to
stay on for a while.
"Some other time, Nigel. Coming, darling?" Adam asked, his firm grip giving
Amanda no choice but to accompany him out of the ballroom. Once out of the
building he let her go, and walked straight toward his car, leaving Amanda
to chase after his long-legged stride.
"Methos!" she called after his retreating back.
"Whatever it is, I'm not doing it, Amanda."
"Methos, will you just listen to me for a minute?"
"Save your breath. I'm not getting involved in one of your schemes again.
How the hell did you know where to find me, anyway?"
"I told her," Amy said, getting up from her comfortable position sitting on
the hood of his car.
Methos glared at his Watcher, and then at the raven-haired Immortal thief
beside him. Then he flung his head back to look at the sky.
"Why me?" he asked plaintively, of the unresponsive heavens.
THE END - for now.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Footnotes:
Byron's rants are excerpted from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, where he did,
indeed, vent his outrage at the transfer of "Lord Elgin's Marbles" to
Britain.