NationStates Jolt Archive

On the side of the street in sleepy Montreal, a dishevelled man, his clothes stained and dirty, sat, quiet on the bench in the nigh empty park. The man's beard was discolored and greasy, but his weary eyes looked to the cloudy, autumn sky. He heard the sound of boots in the distance, distinct footsteps as a man sat next to him on the bench.

The other man was bald, with a well shaven beard. He wore a yellow overcoat with dirty spots over the simple clothes underneath. He didn't speak, and they both sat staring in front of them for minutes on end.

"Who will help the widow's son?" said the first man, his voice clear and strong.

"Dowd." said the bald man, his voice harsh and crisp.

"Filben."

"We do not have time. The Confrérie is making the decision. We need to eliminate an obstacle in our way. Using our influence in the Parliament may seem neccescary."

"Decisive Action"

"Precisely."

"Frances signed the Pact of Steel. This may be a problem."

"Voleur is not a problem."

"He knows nothing of the Confrérie."

"He will."

"Baton Rouge?"

"Yes. Do not leave until fifteen minutes pass. We must not be seen living together. Dowd."

"Filben."

With that, the bald man left. The dishevveled man sat. Soon it would begin.

Stanton Dowd. Politician. Businessman. Brother of the Confrérie.

Once dishevelled and dirty, Dowd walked through Baton Rouge calmly, as a pedestrian in the quiet streets. His black business suit was stripped with red, he looked more like a Mafioso than a pedestrian. It was night, reaching 10 o' Clock. He looked at his watch, gripping the heavy briefcase. He sighed and turned in the alley. He saw the figure in front of him, coming directly at him.

10 o' Clock. Baton Rouge.

They stopped in front of each other. The figure was indiscernable in the lighting, but htye exhanged gestures, shaking their hands in a rather strange way, with the pinky finger interlocked and the thumbs touching at the tips. With little other exchange, they passed each other, Dowd exiting the alley and walking dow nthe street.

So the plan is safe, for now.

tag

Morning. Baton Rouge.

Dowd sat down in the office. The rathe jovial, jolly skinned man smiled and beamed outside the window of the building, a burning cigar smoking lazily in the side ashtray. The red man closed the blinds and looked back friendily to Dowd, who was casually smoking a cigarette in the room, which was collecting smoke. The jolly look on the red mans face thinned as he sat down.

"Stanton, Bishop says we must allow Voleur into the organization. His indoctrination can only mean the solidification of our power."

"Morgan. You do realize this endangers our clandestinity?"

"Yes."

With the simple, nonchalant answer, Dowd is silenced. Hesistantly, the beared Stanton began to speak again.

"Why did you call me to Baton Rouge then?"

"Decisive Action."

Dowd realized what he meant immediately. After a long drag on the cigarello, he replied.

"Frances may resist the idea."

"We have accounted for the fact."

"How exactly can we convince him?"

"He is forged."

"What exactly do you mean by that, Everett?"

"He is forged. We have the documents."

After a moment of silence, Dowd realized what Everett meant.

"So our Frances isn't so dear to our people after all?"

"You should know yourself Dowd that there is only one last surviving member of his line."

They spoke of him with a rather stessed tone.

"I remember. So, we can use this against him?"

"Precisely."

"I will be at Cartier's haven. Everett."

"Dowd."

With a simple nod and exchange of gestures, Dowd left the office silently.

[OOC: Any comments are welcome.]

Dowd took a deep drag on his cigarette as he looked at the expansive pile of documents on the table. The cigarette burned further, ash scattering on the top of the documents. Dowd looked wearily at the papers and took the cigarette from his mouth, and pushed it upon the back of his hand, which already sported several burns and mars from the previous cigarettes. He let out the smoke he inhaled earlier, and took a deep breath from the humid Louisiana air.

He began to leaf through the documents. In his hands was the complete life of Frances Voleur, birth certificates, genealogy (forged or not), paper trail, purchases, checks, bank trusts, business ownership, it was all there. He smiled a bit as he looked it over, but a sudden ring and the sound of typing alerted him to the telegram machine into the corner of the room. Few people knew how to contact Cartier. The only explanation would be Bishop.

Ponderously, Dowd stepped over the machine and took the quickly typed message, which was rather brief about its message. He knew it would be ciphered, like all Brotherhood messages, but this cipher was rather different from others .However, he was well trained in cryptology, as a requirement of joining the Brotherhood for effective communication. He read the message in his mind, finding it rather strange.

WXVBLBOX TVMBHG - UBLAHI - VTKMBXK WHVNFXGML - LXGM – XOBWXGVX

As he sat once more on the chair in the small den in the Cartier estate, he put the letters through his mind. After several minutes of trial and error and using his cipher ring he kept with him, he pieced it together. After finished, he said it aloud to himself.

“DECISIVE ACTION - BISHOP - CARTIER DOCUMENTS - SENT – EVIDENCE”

He nodded. Brotherhood messages usually were formed like this, and were hard to piece together by outsiders. What it meant was Bishop had send Cartier the documents of evidence that would be required to condemn Decisive Action when needed. Dowd was rather surprised by this development. The Brotherhood has been trying for years to penetrate Decisive Action, but now, here it was. Bishop must have known that Dowd was at the Cartier estate, because Dowd was the one who needed to documents, not Cartier.

Dowd needed to find Cartier, wherever he may be in the expansive manor. He placed the letter casually on top of the Voleur documents as he stood up. He began quickly to walk across the estate, the mosquitoes buzzing in the air like a cloud.

Why Louisiana?