Date: Fri, 27 Jan 1995 12:00:20 GMT Reply-To: MB Overton Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: MB Overton Subject: "Box of Tricks" Part 3 HIGHLANDER "Box of Tricks" by Mark Overton Part 3 "Can I help you, sir?" inquired the doorman politely. Duncan put on his best smile. "I'd like to see the ambassador, please." The doorman smiled back. "I'm sorry, sir. Ambassador Carling isn't receiving visitors at the moment. If you're something to do with the press, a conference is scheduled for this evening." "The press?" Duncan repeated. "Is there something going on, then?" "I couldn't say, sir." Duncan smiled again. "Oh, I'm sure a few quick comments here and there wouldn't go amiss. I'm not asking you to reveal any state secrets, you know." He crumpled the note in his hand meaningfully, then smoothed it out to reveal that it was for fifty dollars. The doorman's eyes fixed on it greedily. "Just between you and me, sir?" "Just between you and me," Duncan agreed. "Well...alright. There *was* something going on. The ambassador held a party two nights ago. Someone tried to blow up his study, and steal some secret files. That's all I know." "That's enough." Duncan passed him the note. "I don't suppose I could see a secretary or someone, could I? Just to make an appointment." "Fourth door on the left as you go in," the doorman said briefly, stepping past him. Duncan grinned and hurried through into the ambassador's residence. Inside, after a pause to appreciate the subtle but tasteful and expensive furnishings, he walked briskly down the corridor to the secretary's office. Then straight past it, and on round the corner until he found was obviously the ambassador's study. He could tell because the door was still hanging off its hinges. "What are you doing here?" Duncan spun round and saw a nineteen-year-old girl looking at him warily, and with some concern. He didn't move towards her, not wanting to scare her. "Alyson Carling, I presume. I'm Duncan Macleod. A friend of Richie's." "Richie?" Alyson's mouth quivered a little at the mention of the name. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It must be dreadful for you." "Dreadful?" Duncan suddenly remembered that Alyson believed Richie to be dead. "Yes, it's...terrible," he agreed. "Is this where he was killed?" "Yes. Just in there. The bomb brought the roof down on top of him," Alyson sniffed. "They took him away yesterday morning. Can you tell me when the funeral will be?" "Ummm..." Duncan thought quickly. "I don't think you can go, to be honest. They took the body back home to his relatives. Back eastwards." To his relief, Alyson seemed to accept the explanation, which was in itself a miracle. He guessed Richie had been reticent in sharing information with the girl. "Do you know why Richie was in the study when he..died?" he asked aloud. "He said something about looking for a friend," she shrugged, "that was when he left the ballroom. The next thing we all heard was that explosion." "I see" "Is there something wrong, Ally?" a deeper voice inquired. Duncan turned to see a white-haired man in his mid-sixties regarding them quizzically. "Hi, Dad," Alyson said quietly. "This is Duncan Macleod. A friend of Richie's." "The young man who died?" Carling shook hands. "A terrible thing, terrible. Please accept my sincerest condolences." "Thank you. Do you know anything more about how he died?" Carling shook his head. "Like Ally, I was in the ballroom the whole time, I'm afraid." Duncan looked back to Alyson. "This friend Richie said he was going to look for. Did you see her?" The girl shook her head. "He said she was married, and he pointed over to where her husband was talking to Dad. This was just before he left the ballroom." Duncan turned to Carling. "Not long after the party began, then. Who did you talk to, early on?" Carling laughed a little. "I'm sorry, Mr Macleod, but you must realise I'm the ambassador. I must have talked to every single person who came into the ballroom that night." "What about the name Sandra Fowler? Does that mean anything?" "Who, Anthony's wife?" Carling frowned. "Anthony?" Carling nodded. "Yes, Anthony. A friend of mine from when we were in school together at Oxford University. That's in England." "I know." "Sorry. Anyway, a few weeks ago, Anthony phoned me up. Said he was spending a couple of months here and would like to remember old times with me, while he was here. We'd been out of touch some time. Last night he brought his wife along. Her name was Sandra." Duncan looked thoughtful. "Can you give me their address?" "My secretary will have it. What's this all about?" Duncan was already moving past Alyson, back down the corridor. Carling gave his daughter a look filled with disquiet, before following. The bar was lit low, even though it was mid-afternoon when the door opened briefly. Set mainly on two levels, the bar itself was on the lower level, the rows of glasses contrasting neatly with the bottles, which provided all the conventional choices of drink and a few more besides. He descended the steps and crossed over, footsteps echoing on the chequered floor. A grey head appeared over the counter, and then its owner straightened up. "Hey, Richie." Dawson leaned on the bar and smiled at the youngster in welcome. "It's been some time. Have you been avoiding me or something?" "Just the way things go, Joe." Richie perched himself on a bar stool. "Listen, Mac and I need some information about an immortal woman who calls herself the Magician." Dawson stiffened, turned round from where he'd been pouring a drink or two. "The Magician? We thought she was dead." Richie's brow creased. "Why does everyone I meet keep saying that? Mac thought she was dead, one of his friends who turned up at the dojo thought that, and now you. Looks like she pulled some kind of massive disappearing trick." "Trick is the right word." Duncan put a small glass in front of Richie. "I guess you or Mac have encountered her, right?" "Right." Richie briefly informed Dawson about his meeting with the woman at the ambassador's party the previous night. "I read about that in the papers. That was you, huh?" Dawson added a second glass to the untouched first one. "Must have given you a killer headache." "You can say that again. What d'you know about her? Mac's got some sort of vendetta going with her, but he won't tell me zip. Keeps saying she's his target and I should keep out of it." "Might be a good idea. You know what Macleod's like when he says things like that." Dawson sighed and drank one of the glasses in front of Richie, seeing the other wasn't going to have it. "Okay. I'll tell you what I can think of offhand. It'll take me a bit longer to get the full stuff out of the files." "Fine by me." "Good." Dawson skirted the bar and sat on a stool next to Richie, picking up the second glass. "Okay. The Magician is around nine hundred years old, as far as we have been able to tell. Her first appearance was in the last few years of the eleventh century. No idea where she came from, how she became immortal, or anything like that." "Then how did you find her?" Dawson smiled ruefully. "At that time there was an immortal called Tragen wandering around. He was nearly eighteen hundred years old, knew every swordfighting tactic in the book. The Magician used a dazzling series of tricks to catch him, then took his head. Think about that, Richie. A woman less than a century old catching someone like Tragen." "I guess it made her a little hard to miss." "She went undercover straight after. We only caught glimpses every so often. Somehow she knew about us. Every time a Watcher reported contact, he turned up dead soon after." Dawson sipped from the glass. "It's been that way over all the centuries." "Alright, that's the background." Richie had been listening in close attention. "What about her tactics? Both you and Mac mentioned something about tricks." Dawson nodded. "That's right. She plans, lays her ambushes and traps well in advance. Uses everything you can think of. As we've developed more and more technology, so her armoury just grows bigger and bigger. Fifty years ago she popped up in Moscow, just after the Second World War ended. She took the head of a Russian immortal called Sergei Arushenko. He'd been around for seven centuries and she took forty minutes to kill him." Richie looked disappointed. "And that's the latest piece of information you've got?" Dawson shook his head. "No. The last time she was seen was in 1967. She ran into Macleod and an immortal called Malcolm Marsden." Richie snapped his fingers. "That's the guy who came to the dojo yesterday!" Dawson bit his lip absently. "Marsden's spent the best part of a century trying to kill the Magician. If he's convinced she's alive, it's a fair bet he's right." Richie nodded. "Okay then. Tell me more." Duncan stood to one side as the ruined body of Anthony Fowler was taken away by the ambulance crew. The stockbroker's flat looked like it had been hit by a tornado; all the furnishings had been smashed, every single book torn out of the bookcases, blood sprayed over the cushions of the seats and chairs. Ambassador Carling, who had followed him to the house, joined Duncan, mopping ineffectively at his forehead. "This is terrible. Anthony must have put up a hell of a fight." "No," Duncan said absently. "I beg your pardon?" "The battle didn't take place here." Duncan waved an arm around the furnishings. "This was staged." "How do you know that?" "Did you see the wound in his stomach?" "I was too busy trying not to be sick, as it happens." "Fair enough. Anyway, the edges were curled outwards. There was some kind of small bomb in his stomach. Probably detonated by remote control. That was what killed him. This mess was done deliberately to throw us off the scent." "Interesting deduction, Duncan Macleod," said a voice from behind them. Renee Delaney folded her arms and looked at the two men challengingly. The Magician stepped out of the shower and towelled herself dry vigorously. When she was finished, she wrapped the black silk dressing gown around her and left the bathroom, strolling languidly across the main room of the flat until she reached the computer. The airline ticket in her name, destination London, England, had been cancelled for the moment. She had decided to have a bit of fun first, which was why the Acorn had been connected up to the government mainframe. It had been child's play to hack past the codes protecting it; all that was left was for the mainframe to produce the information she wanted, which meant searching the entire database of recorded US citizens in the city. She had taken the time out to have a shower while she waited. The search had been completed, she noted, as she sat down in the chair in front of the computer. A few quick movements with the mouse produced a text window with the results neatly tabulated. She found what she was looking for quite quickly. There weren't many Richard Ryans in the city. =========================================================================