"I remember one Agency mission when I requisitioned cold-weather gear for trudging through the Andes...the home office sent me mosquito netting and bug repellant..."
He then glances over to see Carla and Ayumi fussing over their clothes.
"You're supposed to be university students, not fashion models from Milan...so dress the part. Feel free to outfit yourselves with some of your field expense funds. Just be sure to buy Tommy Hilfiger or Ralph Lauren, not Armani or Gucci...ok? You cover won't be too convincing if you are wearing a pair of £200 heels."
Ian's phone rings as the ladies roll their eyes at his fashion commentary.
"Right. Understood. I'll send him there to pick it up."
(closes phone and turns to Artis)
"Agent Goose. Your requisitioned vehicle is being outfitted in Glasgow. The techies want you look it over before the final components are installed."
(throws Artis a set of keys)
"Take my Jag. Glasgow's about 100 kilometers from here, the onboard GPS should get you there...and be easy on the clutch! I just had that bloody thing fixed."
Artis looks down at the keys, feigning incredulity. "This is the first time in a long string of missions where I won't have to hotwire what I'm driving. I can't tell you what this means to me, Ian..." He pretends to wipe a tear from his eye, then regains his normal composure. "Don't worry, I'll drive it like it was my own... muahahahaha!" And with that, Artis zips out the door leaving Ian to worry about his Jag's fate.
Ian bites his lip as Goose slams the safehouse door shut.
"Why do I have the feeling I will not be seeing that car again? I like that car....and I just had it washed. That is going to be a lot of paperwork if it does not come back in one piece. (shakes his head) At any rate, about the operation this evening. I suggest Agent Osprey take point and wait for our quarry to arrive. He will then signal for the ladies to come in and work the floor."
The night crowd is just beginning to arrive as Brian and Charlie have their second pint of the Black Stuff. A casual glance around the bar yields your standard mix of regulars smoking cigarettes, downing shots of whiskey with beer chasers. Nothing is too out of the ordinary as the waitress brings the agent his shepard's pie.
Another 30 minutes pass with Brian polishing off a damn fine meal. And as the waitress asks them if they'd like another pint (to which Charlie emphatically replies in the affirmative), the ruddy-faced local spots two men walking in. The waitress takes away Brian's empty as Charlie nudges him with his elbow.
"There's the men I was tellin' yer about."
The men head straight for the bar as Brian sizes them up, relaying their stats to the rest of Team waiting outside.
Osprey to Falconet/Ibis. Principles have been acquired. First man, approximately 2 meters in height. Blond hair/goatee, wearing jeans and black leather jacket. Second man, approximately 1.6 meters in height. Red hair, scraggly beard, wearing cargo pants and red knit jacket. Current location, end of bar...near dartboard.
It seems that the Riff and Raff are at the pub tonight. As Carla begins knocking out her numbers, the locals seems to take equal parts pleasure and grief at the young Asian upstart.
17, Double 20, 18
A few minutes into the game, as Carla stands at the throwing line for her turn, a rather surly looking man in his late fourties comes into her view. He positions himself right in front of the dartboard.
"See 'ere...lass. I dunno think ya wants to that. Ya see. you're showing up ma boy in front of 'is friends. I can-not 'ave that."
Jess enters the bar looking like she just walked off the set of "Tomb Raider 3 - Lara's Evil Sister". She's wearing stylized BDU trousers showing some sort of artistic interpretation of Woodland camouflage, a matching tanktop, and a heavy grey coat on top of it all. Her hair, now dyed black, is all but bound in a small ponytail, but there are a few strands dangling around her face. The impression could only be enhanced if there were pistols dangling off her hips, but she appears to be unarmed - though it's really quite hard to tell with the flowing coat.
She sweeps the bar with an icy look, walks toward the counter - bumping into Carla and not looking back for good measure -, then snarls at the barman.
The barman, an older fellow probably in his late 30's immediately notices Jess and nods to her request.
"Two fair maidens showing up to me pub in one night. What are the chances of that, eh...Hamish?"
A rather scraggly old man puffs on a pipe, looking at the barkeep then at Jess.
"Aye. But before ya ask her to marry ya...can ya get me my damn pint?"
The barkeep quickly pulls a pint on the Guinness tap (subsequently giving the Hamish a glass full of froth), slides it over to him...Hamish seemingly not caring about the unusually heavy head on his stout.
All eyes are focused on Jess as the barkeep does a small flourish with the bottle of vodka, filling a shot and hands the clear beverage to to her.
"Eh...I hope ya don't mind me sayin' so, but we don't get many looking the likes of you in these parts. What brings ya to me pub? I doubt it's for the people watching...else no one would ever show up!"
The regulars surrounding the mahogany-topped bar laugh, taking note of rather comely figure of Jess as they nurse their drinks.
Meanwhile, somewhere between Edinburgh and Glasgow on the M8 Motorway.
Goose had been rolling along at his usual pace (about 110 MPH) when out of nowhere a police cruiser closes in behind him. For some reason, he hadn't noticed the cop but apparently the police had been hot on his tail for the last 10 kms or so. Maybe it was the three shots of whiskey he had at the safehouse before leaving, or maybe it was the blaring tunes of NOFX playing on the high-end stereo. What ever it was, this was probably only the beginning to what could be described as the most staunch display of reckless abandon the M8 has ever seen.
Few people understand the psychology of dealing with a highway traffic cop. Your normal speeder will panic and immediately pull over to the side. This is wrong. It arouses contempt in the cop-heart. Make the bastard chase you. He will follow.
Goose floors the Jag, sending the tachometer well past the redline.
6000, 7000, 8000...what a fine damn fine piece of British engineering
Somewhere around 8500, the engine starts making a horrible noise with the steering wheel trembling at a sickening gait.
"That one's on the house. I don't think you'll have to search to hard for friends in this place, love. I'd watch yerself though, some of the boys in here are a bit more friendly than you're probably used to..."
At this point, the surrounding lot of men eye Jess' body like she was porterhouse steak just thrown to a pack of hungry wolves.
It is at this point that Jess reaches under her coat and suddenly has a quite big, quite shiny knife in her left hand. The creepy part is that she's still grinning.
"If I didn't know how to handle a bit of friendliness, I'd be a nun by now."
The knife disappears under the coat again, together with the grin.
"So either I forgot my habit, or I'm not looking for THAT kind of friends. You decide what's more likely."
The clientele looking for a cheap thrill turn their intentions to protecting the family jewels and other vital organs. Most go back to drinking their beverages of choice, the others hastily paying tabs then leaving the premises.
Unsurprisingly, a stool opens up at bar with one of the aforementioned oglers wiping it off and gesturing for Jess to sit.
The bartender grabs the bottle of Smirnoff and leaves it in front of the open stool.
"I believe the lady deserves at least that much. My names Connor McBride and I'd be very happy to get yer whatever you require this evening....if you'd be so inclined."
Hamish nudges one of his drinking buddies, saying overtly but not too loud,
"If I were half his age..."
The older man next to Hamish finishes his sentence.
"...you'd still be too ugly to get that lady, Hamish!"
Connor smiles, offering a rather strong yet not overdone handshake.
"Pleased to meet yer, Samantha. So, do tell, what is a class-act like you really doing in a dive like this? Are you a student at the University? If so, I think yer friend is over there (nodding to the dart boards) wiping the floor with Tommy and Sully."
"Pleased to meet you. Say, Mr. McBride, I'm actually looking for one of your customers...a certain Byron McLaren. I hear he's the life of the party in this region."
The proverbial shit hits the fan as Jess mentions his McLaren's name to Connor.
Brian watchfully eyes the two men Charlie had pointed out earlier. Their overall benign presence turns into panic as they puff away at their cigarettes, hastily doling out funds to cover they bar tab.
Looks like someone's heading home early.
Connor's jovial demeanor switches to that of immediate concern.
"Um...lass, (scratching the back of his head, as if thinking of the right words to say) I dunno think Mr. McLaren is the one yer be wantin' to party with in this fair city of ours. He's...how should I put it?...not exactly the type of man a lady of your character would like to know...if yer know what I mean."
The patrons surrounding the conversation get quiet during Connor's advisement, Jess sensing that the barkeep is being sincere and speaking with benevolent intent.
"Ordinarily, I'd be inclined to believe that, but the fact that his name seems to cause quite the stir tells me he's just the guy I want to meet. Trust me, I know what I'm in for. Perhaps a bit too well."
One lone bead on sweat comes down Connor's temple.
"Lady, while I'd really REALLY like to help yer...there's the small problem of walking. Yer see, I'm quite fond of being able to stand on me own two feet without the need fer a cane or crutches. So, with that in mind...I think yer gonna have to find Mr. McLaren on yer own."
As the conversation continues, Brian sees that the two men are getting up from their table and making for the front door of the pub.
Alright, that should have gotten enough attention...Time to let him off the hook.
Jess nods.
"I understand."
She slaps some bills on the counter, then gets up from the stool.
"Have a nice day."
Short check. He knows McLaren, and he knows that McLaren knows him. Too many people heard our conversation, probably one of his men, so he'll have to tell McLaren that I asked for him if he wants to save his rear. Not quite optimal, but it should work.
Dieter
