Date: Mon, 25 Apr 1994 17:10:53 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Obi-wan never saw this place 25-Apr-1994 1703 Subject: Sacrifice Gambit (2/4) 2 Macleod was in London by Saturday evening. He checked into the Savoy, ordered room service, and discovered with relief that Trevor Rhys-Jones had a listed phone number and an answering machine. Macleod left a message saying he was in England and would welcome the chance to get together. Then he called the boat. Richie was there, Maurice was not. Richie was also nervous, disappointed that it wasn't over, and feeling a touch of cabin fever. Macleod's suggestion that he take in Mass at Notre Dame or Sacre Coeur was not well received. The call from Rhys-Jones came while Macleod was having breakfast. They did a bit of 'what a long time since we met' -- it had been more than fifty years -- and agreed to meet for dinner at Wilton's that evening. Macleod spent the day being a tourist and reading, and presented himself at seven o'clock sharp. "Well, look what the ocean washed up!" Rhys-Jones stood up as Macleod approached and the two men shook hands warmly. "Good to see you, Duncan." Rhys-Jones was not quite as imposing as Richie described. He was about Macleod's height, but more heavily built. "And you too, Trevor." Macleod's feeling was genuine. Immortality could be a lonely state. They took seats. A waiter appeared almost as if conjured and inquired their pleasure, and both the men ordered drinks. Rhys-Jones a martini, Macleod scotch neat. "What brings you over?" Rhys-Jones asked when the waiter left. "The last word I had of you was from the U.S." "Auction at Sotheby's. Actually, I'm over from Paris. Who told you I was in the States?" "Amanda." Macleod rolled his eyes. "Well, that is where she last saw me. Does she get you into as much trouble as she gets me?" Rhys-Jones snorted. "The gentlemen from Airbus were not sympathetic." "Airbus?" "Amanda went in and lifted an optical disk with the plans for some new airline gadget, and was kind enough to leave the damn thing under a rock in my back garden for some ex-KGB weasel to pick up. Some of them have gone in for industrial espionage now, I guess." "She does know all sorts of interesting people." "Don't know what I would have told them if I didn't have an alibi for the night the thing was actually stolen. You know what Amanda is. Drops in on you about fifteen minutes ahead of whatever law is chasing her." "Every time I run into her I wonder how she can have lasted as long as she has, being the pest that she is." "Bad penny." The waiter came bearing their drinks and ready to take their order. Macleod ordered Beef Wellington, while the Welshman asked for broiled salmon. "She told me about Tessa. I'm sorry." Rhys-Jones raised his glass in tacit salute. "It happens," said Macleod, tapping his glass against the other. ""You go into it knowing it isn't forever, that they'll get old or get sick, and then..." His voice trailed off, and he drank. "Bloody hooligans. They get the bastard?" Macleod nodded. "It's everywhere. The Home Secretary was on television the other day going on about how steps had to be taken to keep England from having the same problems they're having over there. Typical politician: so far behind the times they'd have to catch up to be in last place. It's like the young people are going mad. Not that I blame them, particularly." This was starting to sound like a segue to Macleod. "You're right. It's happening everywhere, to every kind of people." There was a long pause. Something was happening behind those icy blue eyes. Finally Rhys-Jones said, "Amanda mentioned someone else she met with you. I have the feeling I've run into him recently." "Young man, curly blond." "That's him. Know something about it?" "From his side." "Collecting sides of the story?" The Welshman's voice hardened as he said, "You'll have a bit of trouble getting hers. Her father came to collect her and bundled her off home." "She was a student?" "What did he tell you, Macleod? He chatted up some bird in a pub and then she changed her mind?" "No." Macleod answered tightly. He launched into a retelling of Richie's account. He followed it with a brief foray into their history, to support his and Richie's contention that Richie was not responsible for the violence done to the girl. By the time he finished their meals had arrived. Rhys-Jones listened intently, never interrupting. They began eating before speaking further. "I want to believe you," Rhys-Jones said, after swallowing a bite of salmon. "But?" The meal was superb, but Macleod could feel his appetite dwindling. "This girl isn't just another student. She's the only child of Sir Peter Cleary. Heard of him?" "No." "Peter Cleary is England's answer to Donald Trump. At least in the money department. He's also a strict conservative, a devout Anglican, a pillar of the community. Has an enormous estate in Nottinghamshire and pays the taxes every year without breaking a sweat. A well-respected man." "Where'd he make his money?" "Cleary Holdings controls one of everything that makes money, under the law. His wife passed away about a half- dozen years ago and he withdrew a bit from the public eye." "The girl must be very important to him." "The world. He was never very happy with the idea of his angel mixing at Oxford. That flat they were in belonged to a friend of hers that was out of town. She was in the habit of borrowing it. She thinks her father has people watching her." *Richie was right. It wasn't her apartment.* "I was out visiting him yesterday," Rhys-Jones continued. "He heard I did my bit to help and wanted to thank me. He sent a helicopter for me." "How is she?" "She'll live. She'll even be pretty again. They've got a doctor and a nurse out at the estate. No waiting in line at National Health for these people." "You're saying she really was beat up, and she isn't the type to lie about who did it." "That is what I'm saying." "She could have been hysterical." "She might have at that. They were taking her away in an ambulance when I got done chasing him. Cleary told me the description she gave the police, such as it is, matches Ryan's." Rhys-Jones took a swallow of water, and watched the light dance in the crystal. "He didn't do it, Trevor." "How can you be sure of that?" "I know him." Macleod wished he had something more substantial to say than that. "You know what he was when he left you," Rhys-Jones pointed out, punctuating the statement with a jab of his knife. "You know as well as I do that people change." "Not that much." "He was drunk, by his own admission. He's hot-tempered and more likely to act than think, by your description. He's recently come into immortality, recently taken his first Quickening, and picked quite a jolt to start with." "He knew about Mako. He knew what was coming." "Don't talk rot, Duncan. *No one* ever knows what's coming. Our kind has been running around since before recorded history and in all that time no one really knows what the Quickening is, all the effects it can have." Macleod knew he would be more open to these ideas if they were discussing someone other than Richie. There was nothing so frustrating as a disagreement between two reasonable people. He knew Rhys-Jones felt it, too. They continued eating in silence. Rhys-Jones put down his fork and picked up his napkin. "Peter Cleary is not inclined to put his faith in the dedicated but overburdened institution of the public police." Macleod looked up from his plate. "You wouldn't." "No, I wouldn't. Not for mere money. I have all the money I can use and any beyond that is just something else to worry about." "So what are you trying to say?" "I might not be mercenary, but there are those who are. Good job this Ryan lad did Mako, or Mako would be looking for him by now. Even if it were just the police might be spurred to greater efforts than normal, and with Masstricht there's more cooperation across old borders. They might find him." "Those are his problems, and he knows he has to deal with them. It would be a lot harder if he had you coming after him, too." "I'm not making any promises, Macleod." "There's something else going on here." "I'm willing to accept that, but you have to be willing to accept this lad might not just be a punk with a heart of gold any more. Right now he has the benefit of the doubt, because where I don't know him I do know you and I owe you one." "Sverdlovsk." "It's back to Ekaterinburg now. No wonder they fell. Naming places after murderers is tempting the Furies." They remembered, and the decades slipped away... # Macleod stood in the shadows and wondered if he was going to get out of Russia. The incident with Drakov and the Countess two months before convinced him it was time to go, and he had been trying to get out ever since. He had come close, but seven days ago the word came out that the Czar and the Imperial Family had been executed, and it had thrown everything into further chaos. Bolsheviks, Czarists, red stars and white, they were all in a frenzy. It was plain bad luck that he should be so close to where the executions took place. It was time to go home, feel native soil beneath his feet. He did not want to have to walk across Siberia to get there. It was hard to come by information in the country, but he dared not linger in a city until he was more sure of the integrity of his papers. If he were caught his captors might decide to execute him for any one of a dozen reasons and it would only be more troublesome to explain why he refused to die when shot. There was another immortal approaching. His first thought was Drakov, but that only lasted until he reached the edge of the woods and saw the only traffic on the unpaved road. A wagon, and two men on horses that looked like Cossacks but did not ride like them. There was hay in the wagon, but it was late July, too early for new hay, even in the short Russian growing season. Either way, it was not the sort of transport Drakov would have used, and even Drakov would not make a move these days without his supporters, his entourage. Someone called a halt, and a man stood up in the back of the wagon. He was wearing a Russian military uniform bearing copious bloodstains. He had at least a week's worth of beard, his black hair matted and tangled. Macleod walked out of the woods and waved. The man in the back of the wagon waved and called, "Come here!" Then he jumped out of the wagon. Macleod could hear him speaking to the pseudo-Cossacks. "I thought you might be that bastard Drakov," Trevor Rhys-Jones said, in English. "I thought the same of you," Macleod replied in kind. "What are you doing here?" "Trying to get out. You?" Macleod nodded. "I expect there's not going to be a lot of tourism hereabouts for a while. Rhys-Jones laughed heartily. There was something ghoulish about it given the state of his clothes. Now that Macleod was close, he could see that the uniform was full of bullet holes. A smell of stale blood clung to him. Macleod cast a quick glance around. The men driving the wagon and the riders were paying no attention. "I've been a little out of touch. Do you think we could compare papers?" Rhys-Jones nodded. Each of them produced sheaves of identity documents and handed them to the other. As Macleod feared, his bore no resemblance to Rhys-Jones's. "These won't do," said Rhys-Jones. "Sverdlov is the new god of bureaucrats. He's set himself up by having the Imperial family murdered." "That won't last." "No, not once the factions have themselves sorted out, but right now anything that doesn't have his name on it is worthless." Rhys-Jones handed back Macleod's papers and pointed at a signature on his own. "That's him." "How did you get this?" "Copied it off the message he signed authorizing the execution." Rhys-Jones was grinning broadly; the smile of a man with a secret he wants to tell. "You can come along with us. The papers just say, 'and escort.'" "Escort for who?" "Take a look," Rhys-Jones said, tipping his head toward the wagon. Macleod looked. There were two people inside the wagon. One was an older woman, in the tatters of a nurse's uniform. She regarded him with apprehension. The other was swaddled in blankets despite the July heat. Strands of sweat-soaked hair clung to a young, feminine face as white as winter. Macleod stared at her for a full ten seconds before saying in a rising voice, "Grand Duchess Ana --" Then Rhys- Jones's hand clamped over his mouth and turned him away. When Rhys-Jones released him, Macleod whispered, "They said they were all dead." "The Bolsheviks were sloppy." "They threw the bodies into a pit and burned them." "All the ones they had. Does it surprise you to hear they can't count?" "How did you -- ?" "Badly. She still might not live. The firing squad blew them to pieces. I managed to get in front of her and over her long enough to take most of the bullets." "How did you explain that?" "The only one who saw it and is still alive is her. These people think it was a question of bad marksmanship and my stealing this uniform off a corpse." "I don't believe this. Six hundred and fifty years and you're still rescuing princesses." "I'd've got them all out if the hindsucking English hadn't backed out at the last second," Rhys-Jones hissed. "There's going to be a reckoning when I get back." That was typical of Rhys-Jones. He was thinking past the difficulties inherent in getting Anastasia Nikolevna out of Russia and contemplating the next wrong he would right. No doubt there was a plan -- no doubt there were several plans. "I think I'm safer with my bogus papers," Macleod said, nevertheless, backing away. The emptiness of Siberia suddenly seemed like a haven. "The first patrol that finds you will haul you back to Ekaterinburg. You could end up sharing an ash pit with the Romanovs." "I'll stay in the woods." "Where do you think you'll go?" "Up through Finland to Sweden?" "Do you realize how far you are from the Finnish border?" Before Macleod could answer one of the riders said something Macleod could not follow and pointed. There was dust rising on the horizon. Rhys-Jones produced a telescope from an inner pocket of the perforated coat and looked through it toward the dust cloud. "Pennant with a red star. Maybe the Bolsheviks found themselves a body counter after all." He communicated this to the others. The riders and the men driving the wagon unlimbered rifles. The old nurse began to whimper. "Going to have to divert them," said Rhys-Jones. He rummaged in the hay and pulled out two bundles of dynamite. "Let me. You have a plan and it probably needs you to work. Anybody can divert them. Give me a horse and God speed." One of the riders got off the horse and sat in the back of the wagon, still holding his rifle. Macleod took the dynamite and some matches and rode hard toward the rising cloud of dust.... # "I'm going out to the estate again tomorrow," said Rhys- Jones. "I'm going to talk to her when she's not hysterical. Then I'm going to decide." "All right." "He's on his own. You said it yourself." "I know." "Macleod, I think the world is better off with you in it. Don't interfere." "I think the same about you, Trevor. But I'm not making any promises." # When he got back to the hotel, there was a message from Richie. Duncan called the boat. The phone rang once, and half of a second time. "Hello?" "It's me, Richie." "I've been trying to get you, Mac. There is someone spooking around here." "It's not Rhys-Jones. I just left him." "No -- it's a mortal. A woman, sort of dark-skinned, short black hair." "What is she doing, exactly?" "She's walked by a few times." "It's a public thoroughfare, Richie." "I saw her get into a car once, too. Someone else was driving. And I think I've seen the car, too. I was thinking one of Dawson's people, maybe. Or one of Horton's. His faction is still out there, isn't it?" "Yes." *And maybe him, too?* "I talked to Rhys- Jones." "And?" Macleod went over the salient points of his conversation with Rhys-Jones. "It's better, in a way. Now he isn't sure it was you, either. He's going to talk to her again." A pause. "My impulse is to get while the getting is good. I mean, even without him, if her father is such a big deal and likely to hold a grudge..." "Running away and leaving things to sort themselves out would be a bad habit to get into." "I know, I know." Macleod heard the noise of an air horn over the phone. It died away, then Richie said, "If things are always like this, it's going to be a long, tense eternity." "You keep making enemies like Trevor Rhys-Jones, and it won't be." "Come on, Mac, it isn't like I asked for this!" *Oh, no?* Well, no matter. Things were as they were. "You stay put." "Okay." "I mean it, Richie. I want to be sure I can find you when I want you." "I will, I will. When do you expect to be back?" Macleod checked his airline ticket, and did some mental arithmetic. "I should be with you by eight at the latest." =========================================================================