Days pass, and for a while, you get genuinely absorbed into your work. Enough that you almost - almost - forget about corruption.
Almost.
There's a knock on your door one early summer day. It's Colleen.
"Russell, you have an invitation for a lunch. Seems to be a bunch of big shots there.”
Russell doesn't look up right away. He's suppressing the sudden spike of surprise and tension. He'd almost forgotten... normally, his time estimates aren't nearly that far off.
He lets off a rueful inward chuckle. For a moment, he'd forgotten he wasn't dealing with self-important city councilmen. Whatever else Powell is, he's a politician. He knows how to play the game.
Russell, however, knows a few steps in this dance himself. Time to dust off his fancy footwork.
"Mr. Powell has arranged it for a few folk." Colleen says, either completely oblivious to your inner tension or very good at pretending like she is. "Simon Horvat, Alexia Kovacs, couple of other Council members. Semi-formal. I hope you like Italian."
"I never say no to a good osso bucco," Russell tells her amiably. He takes a quick look around his desk, makes sure all his restricted files have been locked away, and powers down his desktop. "Well, I'll be off then. Hold the fort for me?"
"Yes, sir!" Colleen mockingly salutes.
The restaurant is a squat grey brick building - the sort of place that is utterly, totally unremarkable - which suggests the food inside is great. Outside is a cluster of Venetian big wigs. Your dining party.
Russell pauses for a moment, just out of sight, to double-check his composure and appearance. A glance in the boutique window yields a satisfying picture. His choice of suits today, a semi-random one, resulted in him choosing a suit/shirt/tie combination in muted shades of the Venetian colors, affirming his allegiance without applying the point with a hammer. A customary City of Toronto tie tack is barely visible, a quiet little deviation from perfect dress attire that sells his persona of the man they hired.
He checks his easy smile one last time and moves into their eyeshot, to all appearances a middle/upper-middle executive joining the big shots for lunch with slightly nervous pleasure.
Powell is the first to greet you with a firm handshake. "Russell, Russell, I'm glad you can make it out. I know you've been wrestling with one hell of a workload lately. This is Alexia, Simon, and John."
They all greet you in turn.
Your perceptive eyes notice something - two somethings, to be specific, on Powell's neck. Needle bruises.
"Thank you, Darius. Good to see you." Russell carefully keeps the hesitation from his voice. That's not what Powell seems to be welcoming. He greets the others, exchanging handshakes and amiable hellos, and his mind starts crunching this down.
Semi-casual introductions, first-name basis, fostering at least surface camaraderie... okay, this could be just a friendly lunch.
And Kirsten Geary "could be" a normal corporate middle-manager.
No, this feels like a recruitment. Or at least the feeling-out that precedes one. Russell has a brief flash of memory to the Golden Triangle, the stink of poppies and sweat in the air, the uncomfortably familiar sensation of an AK's muzzle digging into his spine, as his bona fides were examined. A small, perverse part of him wishes he was back there right now.
His eyes flick over the needle marks on Powell's neck, taking note of the size and shape of the marks, his mind flipping through the types of syringes that would generate those kind of marks. He carefully keeps his notice from showing in his expression.
You recognize the penetration marks, after a moment of thought. You've seen them before, in your work as a Paladin. Illuminati tranqs.
Interesting.
Powell is introducing you in more detail to the rest of the group. Kovacs and Horvat, you already know, from your investigations. But "John Smith" is interesting. The way he moves under that suit, and the fact that he's introduced without a job title...
Ah, he's the hired muscle.
Powell leads the group inside, and a hostess ducks her head and immediately leads you all to a quiet, circular booth.
"So, how are you enjoying the job, Mr. Kobayashi?" Alexia asks, wrinkling her nose and leaning forward with keen interest.
Russell resolutely ignores the chill rippling down his spine. Those tranq marks raise many questions, few of them with reassuring answers. But time for those, later.
He lets his gaze flick idly over the others as they sit, lingering on "John Smith" -- that's so cliche, it might actually be his real name -- just an instant longer than the others. His subconscious starts sifting through Smith's mannerisms, matching them against what he knows of existing military or intelligence services.
He looks over at Alexia and gives her a friendly smile. "Please, Russell is fine. And so far, I'm finding it to be satisfying. Challenging, but satisfying."
Smith has Templar training, you can tell from the way he moves. Specifically, he was a Soldier. He smiles at you, the sort of smile that says "I'm fulfilling the bare minimum of social niceties."
"It took me a while to get into the swing of things!" Alexia laughs. "Mr. Powell was very helpful with that, very helpful."
"There's certainly a way we try to do business in Venice." Powell chuckles. "The way you spoke to Havelock, well, I think you're willing to step up to the plate and make those hard decisions."
Russell nods at Smith. Not dismissing him as unimportant, but for the moment he seems content to play "dumb muscle." He makes a mental note to look up Smith's CV with his friends in the Ordinem Palatini.
To Alexia, he gives a sympathetic half-smile, before shifting his gaze back to Powell. "I see your point," he replies. There is lingering regret in his voice, but no hesitation. "I'm no stranger to making the hard call. Whatever benefits the Council benefits everyone, as far as I'm concerned." He flicks a brief glance towards Horvat, whom thus far has stayed silent beyond greetings.
It's hard to get a read on Horvat - he's either really bored and really into the wine menu, or really good at pretending that he is.
Shit. Powell's in the middle of a joke. "So I say, if you keep having migraines, I'll just have to buy the real thing!"
The table explodes into laughter. This is Powell's idea of an icebreaker, you guess.
Russell chuckles along with the others and shakes his head slightly at Powell. He plays it as if pleasantly surprised to find him exhibiting a sense of humor.
He takes his eyes off Horvat, refocusing his attention on the others. He spares the rest of the room a quick glance, seeing who's listening -- or trying not to look like they're listening.
"You have a wife, don't you, Mr. Kobayashi?" Powell asks, as the laughter at his joke clears.
"I do," Russell answers, mentally weighing what he can say without compromising Ari. Well, it's not like he doesn't already know this, he mentally shrugs. "Min-suh Park. She's affiliated with the Dragon."
He takes a sip of his beverage, unsurprised to have been served his favorite poison. "And you, Darius?"
"I do." Powell says heartily. "Her name is Margaery, light of my life. You know what they say, behind every great man is a great woman. She's given me four children, and we have a beautiful granddaughter to spoil. Couldn't be happier. Well," pause. "If some of the global threats we dealt with were eliminated..."
Everyone laughs again.
"Ha! I know that feeling," Russell replies with a genuine grin. "As to the latter, well, I couldn't agree more..." In truth, the idea has a certain appeal, though he's certain his ideas on implementation differ greatly from Powell's.
He takes another sip of Bacardi and Coke, and joins in the laughter that ripples around the table (though he limits it to a soft chuckle, no need to look like he's trying too hard to ingratiate himself).
"You've been working on the Dawnbreak a lot lately, haven't you?" Alexia asks, eyes keen with interest.
"I have, indeed." Russell leans forward, appearing to sober slightly. He suppresses the urge to expound on how they still constitute a threat. "The organization as a whole seems to be seriously wounded, but some of the surviving, isolated cells are making nuisances of themselves. Particularly in Southeast Asia." He looks at Kovacs, eyes grimly glinting with the talk of a morbid interest. "I can forward you some of the reports."
"About that, actually." Powell butts in. "We were hoping to transition you to... other interests."
Russell cocks his head. "I'm willing to put something else on the front burner. You sound like you have something in mind."
"How's your golf game?"
Boy, these guys laugh easily. I bet if I took them to a show at the Second City, I'd have them eating outta my hand, Russell thinks wryly.
Aloud, he gives a sheepish chuckle. "Fair, but I'm a little rusty."
"Good, good. Well, we have you booked for a game this Wednesday. With Knight-Commander Liam Truss." Powell says.
"Man's interesting." Horvat finally speaks up. "And we need him to play ball in the future."
"Well, if you're sure he won't try to use a five-iron on me for 'jumping ship..." Russell says this lightly, in a clearly joking tone. "I'll get some practice time on the links beforehand, then." Russell takes a sip of his drink before continuing. He carefully conceals his reaction to the idea that Truss might be part of Powell's little network of "clients."
Your agreement seems to relieve the entire table, and the rest of the night continues as you'd expect from a dinner with coworkers - a little too much wine, terrible jokes, complaining about the gentleman who sells kebabs out on the streets of Venice, and other small talk.
As you make your excuses to leave, Powell hands you a card with the details and smile.
The air outside in Venice is cool on your face. Your phone buzzes. A text from Mrs. Havelock.
Survive?
Russell does not answer right off the bat, waiting until he's in Agartha. (Although, to allay suspicions of those who know him to normally be glued to his phone, he exchanges several, ahem, affectionate texts with his wife as he passes through the Sunken Library.)
His email response, when it's composed and sent, is coded in a cipher that, technically, he's not supposed to know. To casual observers, it would read as a rant about modern music. To Cass, it reads: More or less. Seem to be sold on me being amenable to their brand of "reason." Want me to have a golf date with LT and have him "play ball." Dunno if he does already or not. Look into that for me?
The first text is the most dreaded one you can receive.
...
That's right: the triple dot.
The second text is a bit more enlightening.
Truss "plays the game" in that... he's very good at playing the game. But he's my boss, and I trust him.
Russ replies
That may be all they mean. The "B-word" was never mentioned, not even obliquely. They may just want him supporting them out of principle.
Privately, Russell isn't so certain of his trustworthiness. He recalls how eager Truss was to ignore pretty much everything that was potentially inconvenient. But Cass knows him better, at present.
Will keep you posted about the golf date, Cass. Not sure just yet if this is for in general or if our friend has something specific in the works. I do know he specifically asked me to focus on something other than the Dawnbreak.
The response from Cass comes quickly.
I hope you're not planning on following that order, because they just kidnapped Faith the other night. Long story. I'm real heated.
Russ replies with the same speed.
They WHAT?! Fuckers. Well, I just told Powell I'd put what he wanted "on the front burner," not that I'd drop it entirely. Hardly my fault if he chose to interpret it as the latter. Do you need anything from me?
There’s a longer wait this time, as Cass mulls this over.
Nah. Blake and I got her back. She thought she could storm a church single handed and make it out with intel. Idiot.
A pause.
I'm fucking proud of that kid. She almost did it.
Russell doesn't bother to hide a soft snort of laughter. He reads Cass's latest reply as he steps through the Agartha portal into Nice, and takes a deep breath of coastal air before he types out his answer.
Heh, I think you owe Blake drinks for life now. But glad you got her back. Not sure if it's good she's adapting to the secret world so easily, but what can you do? If you're looking askance at her going Blue... well, we can talk after all this crap is sorted out.
Cass seems relieved in her response.
Would appreciate that. Thanks. Good luck with Truss.
Almost.
There's a knock on your door one early summer day. It's Colleen.
"Russell, you have an invitation for a lunch. Seems to be a bunch of big shots there.”
Russell doesn't look up right away. He's suppressing the sudden spike of surprise and tension. He'd almost forgotten... normally, his time estimates aren't nearly that far off.
He lets off a rueful inward chuckle. For a moment, he'd forgotten he wasn't dealing with self-important city councilmen. Whatever else Powell is, he's a politician. He knows how to play the game.
Russell, however, knows a few steps in this dance himself. Time to dust off his fancy footwork.
"Mr. Powell has arranged it for a few folk." Colleen says, either completely oblivious to your inner tension or very good at pretending like she is. "Simon Horvat, Alexia Kovacs, couple of other Council members. Semi-formal. I hope you like Italian."
"I never say no to a good osso bucco," Russell tells her amiably. He takes a quick look around his desk, makes sure all his restricted files have been locked away, and powers down his desktop. "Well, I'll be off then. Hold the fort for me?"
"Yes, sir!" Colleen mockingly salutes.
The restaurant is a squat grey brick building - the sort of place that is utterly, totally unremarkable - which suggests the food inside is great. Outside is a cluster of Venetian big wigs. Your dining party.
Russell pauses for a moment, just out of sight, to double-check his composure and appearance. A glance in the boutique window yields a satisfying picture. His choice of suits today, a semi-random one, resulted in him choosing a suit/shirt/tie combination in muted shades of the Venetian colors, affirming his allegiance without applying the point with a hammer. A customary City of Toronto tie tack is barely visible, a quiet little deviation from perfect dress attire that sells his persona of the man they hired.
He checks his easy smile one last time and moves into their eyeshot, to all appearances a middle/upper-middle executive joining the big shots for lunch with slightly nervous pleasure.
Powell is the first to greet you with a firm handshake. "Russell, Russell, I'm glad you can make it out. I know you've been wrestling with one hell of a workload lately. This is Alexia, Simon, and John."
They all greet you in turn.
Your perceptive eyes notice something - two somethings, to be specific, on Powell's neck. Needle bruises.
"Thank you, Darius. Good to see you." Russell carefully keeps the hesitation from his voice. That's not what Powell seems to be welcoming. He greets the others, exchanging handshakes and amiable hellos, and his mind starts crunching this down.
Semi-casual introductions, first-name basis, fostering at least surface camaraderie... okay, this could be just a friendly lunch.
And Kirsten Geary "could be" a normal corporate middle-manager.
No, this feels like a recruitment. Or at least the feeling-out that precedes one. Russell has a brief flash of memory to the Golden Triangle, the stink of poppies and sweat in the air, the uncomfortably familiar sensation of an AK's muzzle digging into his spine, as his bona fides were examined. A small, perverse part of him wishes he was back there right now.
His eyes flick over the needle marks on Powell's neck, taking note of the size and shape of the marks, his mind flipping through the types of syringes that would generate those kind of marks. He carefully keeps his notice from showing in his expression.
You recognize the penetration marks, after a moment of thought. You've seen them before, in your work as a Paladin. Illuminati tranqs.
Interesting.
Powell is introducing you in more detail to the rest of the group. Kovacs and Horvat, you already know, from your investigations. But "John Smith" is interesting. The way he moves under that suit, and the fact that he's introduced without a job title...
Ah, he's the hired muscle.
Powell leads the group inside, and a hostess ducks her head and immediately leads you all to a quiet, circular booth.
"So, how are you enjoying the job, Mr. Kobayashi?" Alexia asks, wrinkling her nose and leaning forward with keen interest.
Russell resolutely ignores the chill rippling down his spine. Those tranq marks raise many questions, few of them with reassuring answers. But time for those, later.
He lets his gaze flick idly over the others as they sit, lingering on "John Smith" -- that's so cliche, it might actually be his real name -- just an instant longer than the others. His subconscious starts sifting through Smith's mannerisms, matching them against what he knows of existing military or intelligence services.
He looks over at Alexia and gives her a friendly smile. "Please, Russell is fine. And so far, I'm finding it to be satisfying. Challenging, but satisfying."
Smith has Templar training, you can tell from the way he moves. Specifically, he was a Soldier. He smiles at you, the sort of smile that says "I'm fulfilling the bare minimum of social niceties."
"It took me a while to get into the swing of things!" Alexia laughs. "Mr. Powell was very helpful with that, very helpful."
"There's certainly a way we try to do business in Venice." Powell chuckles. "The way you spoke to Havelock, well, I think you're willing to step up to the plate and make those hard decisions."
Russell nods at Smith. Not dismissing him as unimportant, but for the moment he seems content to play "dumb muscle." He makes a mental note to look up Smith's CV with his friends in the Ordinem Palatini.
To Alexia, he gives a sympathetic half-smile, before shifting his gaze back to Powell. "I see your point," he replies. There is lingering regret in his voice, but no hesitation. "I'm no stranger to making the hard call. Whatever benefits the Council benefits everyone, as far as I'm concerned." He flicks a brief glance towards Horvat, whom thus far has stayed silent beyond greetings.
It's hard to get a read on Horvat - he's either really bored and really into the wine menu, or really good at pretending that he is.
Shit. Powell's in the middle of a joke. "So I say, if you keep having migraines, I'll just have to buy the real thing!"
The table explodes into laughter. This is Powell's idea of an icebreaker, you guess.
Russell chuckles along with the others and shakes his head slightly at Powell. He plays it as if pleasantly surprised to find him exhibiting a sense of humor.
He takes his eyes off Horvat, refocusing his attention on the others. He spares the rest of the room a quick glance, seeing who's listening -- or trying not to look like they're listening.
"You have a wife, don't you, Mr. Kobayashi?" Powell asks, as the laughter at his joke clears.
"I do," Russell answers, mentally weighing what he can say without compromising Ari. Well, it's not like he doesn't already know this, he mentally shrugs. "Min-suh Park. She's affiliated with the Dragon."
He takes a sip of his beverage, unsurprised to have been served his favorite poison. "And you, Darius?"
"I do." Powell says heartily. "Her name is Margaery, light of my life. You know what they say, behind every great man is a great woman. She's given me four children, and we have a beautiful granddaughter to spoil. Couldn't be happier. Well," pause. "If some of the global threats we dealt with were eliminated..."
Everyone laughs again.
"Ha! I know that feeling," Russell replies with a genuine grin. "As to the latter, well, I couldn't agree more..." In truth, the idea has a certain appeal, though he's certain his ideas on implementation differ greatly from Powell's.
He takes another sip of Bacardi and Coke, and joins in the laughter that ripples around the table (though he limits it to a soft chuckle, no need to look like he's trying too hard to ingratiate himself).
"You've been working on the Dawnbreak a lot lately, haven't you?" Alexia asks, eyes keen with interest.
"I have, indeed." Russell leans forward, appearing to sober slightly. He suppresses the urge to expound on how they still constitute a threat. "The organization as a whole seems to be seriously wounded, but some of the surviving, isolated cells are making nuisances of themselves. Particularly in Southeast Asia." He looks at Kovacs, eyes grimly glinting with the talk of a morbid interest. "I can forward you some of the reports."
"About that, actually." Powell butts in. "We were hoping to transition you to... other interests."
Russell cocks his head. "I'm willing to put something else on the front burner. You sound like you have something in mind."
"How's your golf game?"
Boy, these guys laugh easily. I bet if I took them to a show at the Second City, I'd have them eating outta my hand, Russell thinks wryly.
Aloud, he gives a sheepish chuckle. "Fair, but I'm a little rusty."
"Good, good. Well, we have you booked for a game this Wednesday. With Knight-Commander Liam Truss." Powell says.
"Man's interesting." Horvat finally speaks up. "And we need him to play ball in the future."
"Well, if you're sure he won't try to use a five-iron on me for 'jumping ship..." Russell says this lightly, in a clearly joking tone. "I'll get some practice time on the links beforehand, then." Russell takes a sip of his drink before continuing. He carefully conceals his reaction to the idea that Truss might be part of Powell's little network of "clients."
Your agreement seems to relieve the entire table, and the rest of the night continues as you'd expect from a dinner with coworkers - a little too much wine, terrible jokes, complaining about the gentleman who sells kebabs out on the streets of Venice, and other small talk.
As you make your excuses to leave, Powell hands you a card with the details and smile.
The air outside in Venice is cool on your face. Your phone buzzes. A text from Mrs. Havelock.
Survive?
Russell does not answer right off the bat, waiting until he's in Agartha. (Although, to allay suspicions of those who know him to normally be glued to his phone, he exchanges several, ahem, affectionate texts with his wife as he passes through the Sunken Library.)
His email response, when it's composed and sent, is coded in a cipher that, technically, he's not supposed to know. To casual observers, it would read as a rant about modern music. To Cass, it reads: More or less. Seem to be sold on me being amenable to their brand of "reason." Want me to have a golf date with LT and have him "play ball." Dunno if he does already or not. Look into that for me?
The first text is the most dreaded one you can receive.
...
That's right: the triple dot.
The second text is a bit more enlightening.
Truss "plays the game" in that... he's very good at playing the game. But he's my boss, and I trust him.
Russ replies
That may be all they mean. The "B-word" was never mentioned, not even obliquely. They may just want him supporting them out of principle.
Privately, Russell isn't so certain of his trustworthiness. He recalls how eager Truss was to ignore pretty much everything that was potentially inconvenient. But Cass knows him better, at present.
Will keep you posted about the golf date, Cass. Not sure just yet if this is for in general or if our friend has something specific in the works. I do know he specifically asked me to focus on something other than the Dawnbreak.
The response from Cass comes quickly.
I hope you're not planning on following that order, because they just kidnapped Faith the other night. Long story. I'm real heated.
Russ replies with the same speed.
They WHAT?! Fuckers. Well, I just told Powell I'd put what he wanted "on the front burner," not that I'd drop it entirely. Hardly my fault if he chose to interpret it as the latter. Do you need anything from me?
There’s a longer wait this time, as Cass mulls this over.
Nah. Blake and I got her back. She thought she could storm a church single handed and make it out with intel. Idiot.
A pause.
I'm fucking proud of that kid. She almost did it.
Russell doesn't bother to hide a soft snort of laughter. He reads Cass's latest reply as he steps through the Agartha portal into Nice, and takes a deep breath of coastal air before he types out his answer.
Heh, I think you owe Blake drinks for life now. But glad you got her back. Not sure if it's good she's adapting to the secret world so easily, but what can you do? If you're looking askance at her going Blue... well, we can talk after all this crap is sorted out.
Cass seems relieved in her response.
Would appreciate that. Thanks. Good luck with Truss.