Date: Wed, 25 Jan 1995 13:59:26 +0000 Reply-To: MB Overton Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: MB Overton Subject: Box of Tricks Part 1 A new story for y'all. Hope you enjoy it. [ Historian's note : "Box of Tricks" is set between the two third season episodes "Line of Fire" and "The Revolutionary". It forms a partial sequel to my other HL story, "End of the Road". ] HIGHLANDER "Box of Tricks" by Mark Overton Part 1 The last of the limousines pulled up outside the embassy. The doorman, who was blessed with the unfortunate name of Fred, thought it was probably one of the most expensive seen tonight, in an evening of expensive black cars. The chauffeur stepped out, followed in seconds by a bodyguard in a poorly-tailored suit that didn't hide the bulge of a gun in a shoulder holster. The rear door of the car was opened and a man in evening dress stepped out, hands groping briefly at his tie before he turned to stretch out his hand for his wife. Fred enjoyed a bit of ogling now and then, and so he ogled. The woman had dark brown hair that cascaded gently down to her bare shoulders, the strapless evening gown she wore a deep red doing nothing to conceal the curves of her figure. Her face was not quite conventionally attractive, but had a kind of liveliness in it that Fred found hard to ignore. "Good evening," he said politely as they turned towards him, stepping away from the limousine to the embassy entrance. "Mr and Mrs Fowler," the man said. Ah, the stockbroker and his wife; Fred recalled the name from the guest list he had been shown before the party began. He nodded respectfully, bowed briefly to Mrs Fowler, and held the entrance door open for them. The bodyguard started to follow, but Fred closed the door swiftly. The man glowered at him. "Guests only," Fred said firmly. "You aren't a guest." The bodyguard muttered something scalding but acquiesced, backing away to where several other similarly-built men lounged against a wall; the bodyguards of the various other luminaries who had gathered at the ambassador's house. The Fowlers' limousine pulled away from the entrance, to where the other cars had been parked. The party was in full swing as the Fowlers entered, announced by the white-haired elderly butler. The gathering had been going on for nearly forty-five minutes before the Fowlers arrived, and by now at least two of the guests were beginning to show the brightness of eye and unsteadiness of hand that signified excess alcohol. "Is this what you wanted?" Anthony Fowler murmured as he picked two glasses off the tray and gave one to the woman calling herself his wife. She gave him an incandescent smile but replied in the same low voice. "Exactly what I wanted. Good work." "I endeavour to satisfy." His arm encircled her waist. "In every aspect of life." Her voice chilled. "Don't flatter yourself." "You're my wife here," Anthony chuckled. "I wouldn't resist too much if I were you. Could cause problems with your cover." "True. But think what could happen to you after this party." For a moment, he thought she was joking. After all, her expression was polite and contained just the right amount of wifely devotion for this party. Then he saw the murderous look in her eyes. His arm fell away as if by its own volition. "Good boy, Anthony." She patted his cheek; a perfectly innocent gesture for a wife to make to her husband. "Just play the part that's scripted." He huffed a little but she could tell she'd made her point. This time his touch was light and on the back of her shoulder, guiding her through the socialising crowd towards the English ambassador himself, Maurice Carling, a man in his mid-sixties with a weathered look about him that suggested he'd been through much. The woman using the purely temporary alias of Sandra Fowler put on her best smile as they approached the little circle around Carling. "Hello again, ambassador," her 'husband' said as they reached him. "Lovely party." "Anthony!" Carling said enthusiastically. "And finally I get to meet your wife as well. Great! You picked her well, if I can say so." "You can," she said with an impenetrable smile. "I'm afraid I picked him, though." Carling roared with laughter. "So you tamed him, did you! I must say I never thought it'd happen. When we were at Oxford together you used to say Satan'd be skating to work before you'd get married. What happened to that line, eh?" "I gave it to a couple of writers for a TV show," Anthony said flippantly. "Sarah captured my heart." "And I can understand why." Carling turned round briefly to pick up a plate of food. "Don't overdo it," she murmured under her breath. "I can handle him," Anthony responded. Carling turned back with the plate. "Would you like something to eat?" She was about to pick a small cake off the plate when she felt the buzz shiver through her. A mental curse flashed briefly in her mind; that was someone else's Quickening interacting with her own. Another immortal was at the party. That was something she hadn't bargained on. It wasn't a major problem, but it was an inconvenience. Sandra Fowler, after all, was a perfectly respectable identity. This other immortal should have no reason to suspect her true nature. "Thank you," she said politely, picking up the cake. Neither Carling nor Anthony Fowler had noticed anything amiss; she had learned to conceal the immortal-immortal reaction within her a long time ago, to prevent mortals seeing anything unusual. She ate the cake. The other immortal was in the room now. He or she had undoubtedly sensed her as well, but there was nothing particular she was able to pick up about him/her. "Would you excuse me?" she requested politely. Her right hand, holding a handbag, had the ring and little fingers curled; the thumb, middle and index fingers were straight. Anthony gave a barely perceptible nod; nine minutes, each finger standing for three. She turned and moved away, through the crowd. She saw him. He was standing beside a young red-haired woman, looking slightly out of place somehow. His blond hair was almost uncontrolled, but it was combed back enough to be respectable. The woman she knew - Alyson Carling, the ambassador's daughter. The young man was the other immortal in the room. He saw her at the same moment as she saw him, and a wary look entered his eyes. She jerked her head briefly towards the door and then left the room. A moment later he also emerged, cautiously. "Hi there." "Hello," she said. "Shouldn't we introduce ourselves?" "Yeah, I guess. I'm Richie; Richie Ryan. You?" "Sandra Fowler. Are you planning to fight me, Richie Ryan?" Richie hesitated, then shook his head. "Not unless you want me to do so. It's a party, right? Let's just enjoy ourselves. I'm out with Alyson, you're...well, whatever you're doing, it's your own business, right?" Sandra Fowler nodded. "That seems a reasonable attitude." "Right. OK then." Satisfied that they apparently understood each other, Richie turned and walked back into the main room. A corner of Sandra Fowler's lips turned upwards in a smile. This immortal was a youngster, probably barely older than his appearance suggested. She would have no problems with him. Ever. She turned on her heel and walked down the corridor until she reached the cordoned-off part, where all the real business was done by Carling and his legion of secretaries. Ducking under the red rope blocking the area off, she strolled through a narrow wood-panelled corridor until she reached a door which had a gold plaque bearing the ambassador's name on it. "Excuse me, miss." The voice stopped her just as she was about to reach for the door handle. She turned to see a man in a dark blue uniform walk towards her, a black rifle slung over his shoulder. He had a polite but firm expression on his face. "You can't go in there, I'm afraid. Did you get lost?" She put on her best little-lamb-lost expression. "I'm afraid I must have done, sir. Tell me...is this the ladies' room?" The guard smiled. The last vestiges of suspicion left his face. "No, madam, it isn't. Let me show you where to find it." "Thank you," she said gratefully, opening her handbag. "Let me give you something for your trouble." "It's no trouble." "But I - " A puff of blue smoke spat out from the handbag. The effect on the guard was immediate; he choked, coughed, and slid to the ground. " - insist," she finished, smiling. The smile failed when she tried the door handle and found it locked. With a sigh, she pulled from her handbag a small metal object which looked a little like a hairclip, and slipped it in the lock. A few moments fiddling it about and the door lock clicked open. Sandra Fowler dragged the guard inside and closed the study door. Richie was getting suspicious. Since he'd left Sandra Fowler in the corridor, she hadn't re-entered the main room. He could feel she was still close by, and therefore inside the house, but there was no reason for her to be outside the party that he could think of. So what was she doing? Alyson nudged him. "Richie!" "Huh?" Richie glanced round. "Oh..sorry, Ally. I was drifting." "Spaceing, more like," she giggled. "What, don't you like the party?" "No, it's great, really," Richie assured her. "It's just that there's a friend of mine here. Now she's disappeared." "Probably gone home." "No, her husband's over there." Richie pointed to where the man he'd seen standing with Sandra Fowler was still talking with Maurice, Alyson's father. "I'm going to look for her." Alyson's face twisted in disappointment. "Richie!" "I won't be long," Richie said, heading for the door. Alyson sighed and turned back to the plate of food he'd snaffled from the buffet table for her. She was a pleasant girl of nineteen with the enviable advantage of not having to bother about putting on weight no matter how much she ate. Riche left the ballroom and turned down the corridor in the direction he'd last seen Sandra Fowler. He ducked under the red rope cordoning off the embassy and carried on, choosing corridors at random until he eventually came to Alyson's father's study. The door was closed, but he could hear faint tapping sounds of a computer keyboard being operated. Richie opened the door. "Hello again," he said. The woman called Sandra Fowler looked up. She seemed neither surprised nor bothered to see him. "Hello, Richie." "What are you doing?" "Breaking into Ambassador Carling's files. What else?" She removed a three-and-a-half inch floppy disc from the PC's drive and lifted her skirt up one side, tucking the disc into a garter round her thigh. As she smoothed her gown down again, she smiled at him. She stood. "Nice meeting you, Richie." "You're not going anywhere," Richie said. Sandra Fowler frowned at him. "I thought you didn't want any trouble, hmm?" "Yeah, but not like this. You can't steal stuff. Give me that disc." "Take it," she laughed scornfully, walking towards the door. Richie closed it. "I will if I have to." Her cold blue eyes fixed on him. Richie suddenly realised that this woman was several centuries older than him. "Excuse me," she said politely. "No." Richie suddenly whirled aside and picked up a ceremonial sword from where it was mounted on the wall. He pointed it at the woman, who hadn't moved. "I'll use this if I have to." He caught a glimpse of the huddled guard and his face tightened with anger. "Is he dead?" "Merely sleeping," she informed him. "Dead bodies bring more energetic police hunts. Less bother this way." "Give me the disc," Richie repeated. "Try to take it." Richie edged forwards. "Maybe I'll just lop off an arm. And then a leg. Yeah, that's it. How 'bout I take off that leg with the disc and you just hop off somewhere, huh?" Sandra Fowler smiled. "You're overconfident. A fatal mistake." "Oh yeah?" Richie moved forward again. "Yes." Her hand flashed to a bracelet round her left wrist. Richie started forwards, but he was too late. The funnel bomb she had stuck to the ceiling directly above him detonated and brought a shower of wood and plaster down on him, the heat of the shaped blast setting his hair on fire and putting it out instantly as the ceiling caved in on him. Dust rose gently into the air. "Goodbye," said Sandra Fowler with a smile. She stepped daintily across the pile of rubble and left the study. =========================================================================