NationStates Jolt Archive

Paris

It was a bitterly cold and wet February night in the Bois de Boulogne, that shady outskirt of Paris where prostitutes mingled with drug dealers under the daytime park/nighttime inequity. The Restoration was in the main concerned with political crime; these perverts and addicts were quietly allowed to go about their business away from the King’s eye. It was an ideal place to discuss criminal ventures.

Driving along a street wet with heavy dew now was a ramshackle old delivery truck, with several rickety wooden crates in the back bed. As the truck grinded along the boxes hopped about as the worn out shocks lost their ability to cope. Before long the truck rattled to a halt, its headlights shining on the figure of an equally ramshackle elderly man. This man, Francois Man, was about 60 years old, a little less than average height, quite obese, and the clandestine organizer of a burgeoning underground trade union syndicate in Paris. Needless to say, trade unions were explicitly illegal.

He waddled to the door of the truck and climbed in, whereupon the truck began its sad drive through the ill starred park once again.

A gruff man drove the delivery truck, with chest hair that seemed to grow into his thick and unkempt beard. He managed with some force to slam the truck into third gear, and then turned to Man.

“We are nearly ready. Have you brought the names of our brothers in the Paris Central cell?”

The fat syndicalist rooted around in his heaving jacket with some effort for a few minutes, he shouldn’t have had that fifth plate of pasta for dinner. Eventually he produced a thick envelope, and handed it to the truck driver.

“The war-time production schedule has made Louis’ goons rather busy, they have been too busy to stop our efforts. We can start work strikes by next week, demand will begin the week after that, and then we shall have our unions and our fair shares within the month!” He mopped a fat head that despite the cold was damp with sweat.

The truck driver nodded and tucked the envelope away. He turned the wheel and sent the truck merging onto another similarly dew damp asphalt road.

“With these names, comrade syndic, we will form the greatest underground network in France. Why, victory shall be ours, our wages shall be our own.” He frowned for a minute, and then turned on the windshield wipers to try and off set the mist. “But what if our strikes cause another rebellion, a revolution even?”

The fat man smiled “So much the better then.” He waved dismissively an arm wiggling with gristle under his coat. “The money and product belongs with the workers, not with those dainty aristos and conniving priests.”

The driver nodded with conviction, and turned onto a long stretch of black road that would lead back to the main thoroughfare. Only a few lamps lit the early morning dark. Once more the truck rattled to a halt, and the passenger door again opened. Francois Man plopped out, and nodded back inside.

“Victory shall be ours, brother.” Then the syndic shut the door to the drivers nod, and began a walk in the opposite direction from the truck which had begun to crawl forward then.

The dim glow of the street lights reflected white on the damp road and the fat man slowly waddled back towards to the cover of the trees. Then, huge red lights illuminated everything. Not a dozen yards up the road the truck had hit its breaks, the break lights came on, and this was the glow the syndic was caught in as he stood dead center in the very, now he noticed, wide road.

With speed and grace that belied its decrepit façade, the delivery truck smoothly and quickly slid into reverse. Man had only time to throw those obese arms up and yelp out ‘aiiieeee!’ before he was efficiently smashed down by the reverse-careening vehicle…those rickety wooden crates came smashing down on the prone figure, rusty nails and all.

He was a big man, after all, so the truck went again into drive, and passed over the bloody syndicalist like a grotesque speed-bump. Moving alongside the near corpse the truck driver rolled down his window and in a fluid motion threw a mask, previously his face, to land quietly on the spasm ridden accident victim. He now spoke with his true voice, tinged with a light and merry English accent.

“Sorry about that, old man! Trucks that pass in the night and all that! Bon soir!”

Francois Man lifted his head weakly for a few second, blood and gore freely flowing down his face, and gazed at the now handsome visage of his former communist underground contact. His last thought as his ruined body sprawled dead on the ground was that he died a victim of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

The truck moved forward again, leaving the mess of dead rebel and broken box lying messily in the secluded route. The dawn was just coming up, and the morning cannon fired from the Bastille.

Le Chateau de St. Tropez, on the French Riviera

Sir Perceval Blakeney, a.k.a the Scarlet Pimpernel, the Kingdom of France’s most ruthless and efficient secret agent, reclined on a horizontal lawn chair on a bright green lawn that overlooked the unparalleled beauty of the French south, that overlooked a blue and sunny sea far from the cold north. In a word, this was his home. He spent time abroad of course, but majesty had given him this home on the Riviera, and he came to it whenever possible.

The real Scarlet Pimpernel (http://imagesource.allposters.com/images/MMPH/262503.jpg)

One of his many mistresses sun bathed naked on the beach. He lit a cigarette, and drank an ice cold bottle of the Tulgarian master-beer Stella Artois. The gleaming white chateau behind him, the sea before him, gardens all around him. Life was good.

The handsome Englishmen was the ultimate secret agent for Versailles. Having come of his own accord, his was also Louis-Auguste’s court favorite, wheeling influence as great as Rasputin of yore had over the Romanov’s. Of course, no one else much knew who the Scarlet Pimpernel was, and only His Most Christian Majesty knew the man behind the image. A rabidly loyal monarchist, keen analyst, superb field operative, off-hours roué, and overall suave genius he was equal in every way to the renowned Roycelandian agent, some called his equal: Bond, James Bond. Maybe not though, he was more elegant. (As for Jack Bauer, well, he couldn’t hold a candle to either dashing spy)

As he took his liberties with life, soaking up la vie bonne, the ever present cell phone at his side rang away.

“Odds fish!” He spat out, interrupted once again, and he answered the call.

“Yes, yes, I understand sire. Africa? Well, I go whither thou willist me.” He listened for a few seconds, soon unconsciously nodding along. “No, no, I think that is very possible. Very good, it shall be as you command sire. I will phone you as soon as I have something to report, Your Majesty.” He folded up the phone and placed it down on the whicker table once again.

He called to his mistress “Oh darling, darling!” He saw her perk up and listen. “Ma cher, have to go soon, yas, rally. Wot say we squeeze a few hours of love into my departure?”

They were soon moving arms quickly over one another, kissing and embracing, rolling on the rich lawn. As they panted along, Sir Perceval Blakeney got a text message on his phone. Between desperate and furious kisses he looked over to read it.

My love, I am coming to St. Tropez. Louis just told me you were departing, and I cannot live without embracing you! Wait for me, my love! I cannot live without you! I love you.

It was from le Duc d’Aquitaine, the King’s youngest brother. Another layer of intrigue that Blakeney wove and that only he and an affair known of by only the two.

“Odds fish!,” Perceval swore as he returned to groping his succulent Italian mistress “the rigors of my duties!”

That night, after two trysts, one with an Italian starlette and the other with a Prince du Sang, the Scarlet Pimpernel was off to Africa.

Louisville (formerly Ouagadougou), Upper Cote d’Ivoire

“…Your Majesty, it has begun.”

OOC: very nice. Although i must take umbridge at that image, everyone knows the pimpernel is actually Richard E. Grant (or rather everyone who watch the BBC mini series a while back) ;)

Wadi Halfa, The Sudan, Roycelandian East Africa

The Imperial Airways Sunderland Flying Boat airliner had not long shut off its quad turboprop engines at the Wadi Halfa Aerodock, on the glimmering banks of the River Nile, when the crew were opening the main door and bidding each passenger to enjoy their stay in Wadi Halfa, gateway to Egypt or the Roycelandian Empire (depending which direction you were coming from).

The flight, which had originated in Cairo, contained the usual complement of businesspeople, tourists, and locals in colourful arab or native garb. Indeed, where else but Roycelandian Africa could one see Europeans disembarking from a Flying Boat with a Bedouin Tribesman and a Xhosa villagewoman? It was the very stuff of postcards, Imperial Geographic features, and colour supplements in the travel sections of major Sunday papers.

One of the passengers- a tall man, in his mid 30s, and wearing a white suit with matching Fedora hat- was less interested in the general hustle and bustle of the Aerodock than he was in clearing Customs and getting to a taxi outside.

The name on his passport was James Sparkbrook, and he would smile and tell any interested Customs officials that he represented the firm of Universal Exports and had been in Cairo to close a "rather lucrative business deal" relating to something incredibly tedious.

Of course, his real name was James Bond, and he was an agent of the Imperial Intelligence Service. The shared name with the famous fictional spy was both coincidental and incredibly useful, acting as a very effective smokescreen to mask the IIS' activities- particularly the ones which involved blowing things up, financing or arming guerilla uprisings, or "Direct Action", as it was known.

Bond bypassed the baggage collection area- the only luggage he was carrying was a briefcase (which contained a laptop computer and some papers), his wallet, carkeys, a cellular phone, and a 9mm calibre Mauser C96 "Broomhandle" pistol. He was also wearing a false moustache and a wig, but these were unrecognisable as such to the casual observer.

"Taxi!" called Bond as he stepped outside the aerodock's front gate and up to the taxi rank. A somewhat past its prime right-hand drive Citroen 2CV taxi pulled up in front of him, the Native driver grinning a large smile. "Where can I be taking you?" he asked.

"The Aswan Restaurant, off Dhow St." replied Bond, settling into the front passenger's seat.

"Of course" replied the Taxi Driver, who filled the rest of the relatively short journey with a great deal of chatter about everything from sports to the weather to an amusing anecdote about the Emperor and the Madam of the local house of ill-repute.

Arriving outside the restaurant, Bond tipped the Taxi Driver and made his way inside.

"I'm here to see Mr. Getafix" he said to the waitress, in flawless Gaelic. "I have word from our Brothers at home."

He was quickly shown in to see Mr. Getafix.

"I have news from our brothers" said Bond.

"Not so quickly. The weather at this time of year is very hot."

"Which is why I remembered my hat" replied Bond, using the prearranged code.

"Very well, then. What news?"

"Your plan has met with approval."

"Very well. When do we move?"

"Once I know where the merchandise is."

"It is in the Akhbar Trading Company Warehouse on D'unla'a St."

"Excellent. I will report back to you from there with further instructions."

Bond left the restaurant, walked down the road, and made a phone call. He then hailed a taxi, and asked to be taken to the railway station.

"One for the Spirit of Africa to Port Imperial" he said to the ticket agent. A few minutes later he was boarding the Diesel Steam train, and a few hours later he was enjoying the company of one of the waitresses from the dining car. The next morning, as she hurriedly dressed ("I'll be late for my shift!"), Bond was reading the news on his laptop when he saw the headline SOVIET SABOTAGE PLAN THWARTED IN SUDAN.

"Jolly Good" he said to no one out loud. "I wonder if it's too early for Champagne?"

With the ongoing crises across much of the Middle East consuming the attention of the General's conventional forces, a new emphasis had been given to the Republican Intelligence Board, the renamed FIB.
Through swift action and their holding of FIB headquarters, Mesopotamia had been able to take over the loyalties, and operations, of most of the General Intelligence Directorate; and though this was less well known, the entirety of the al-Zruf al-Khasa (popular legend had named it the Special Apparatus).

On orders from the General, ZaK's finest operative had been re-tasked. There was trouble already afoot in Africa, courtesy of the Holy League, but the GID was picking up whispers of more to come. Asim Bahir's time had come to shine.
The ZaK had not been permitted to execute any of it's boldest plans lately, and Asim had been working mostly for the GID.
A man of only moderate height, with strikingly handsome Persian features (his family had fled the Combine), he had, logically, hit Africa via Mesopotamian Airways to Egypt.
And now, to consider. His orders were, traditionally, vague: cause confusion to the Holy League. He would, of course, try to do so in as spectacular a fashion as possible. This time he'd been specifically ordered to avoid damaging NATO operatives and assets...well, we'd see. A lot could happen in the confusion of the moment.
He sucked pensively on a Shihad cigarette, Elias' best known brand. He'd make contact with the RIB here soon, pick up a bit of help for the travels ahead; there would be operatives he could contact elsewhere, but...less openly and with more risk. He hailed a cab for the Mesopotamian Embassy, which cynics remembered was the FIB headquarters for Egypt, not all that long ago...

OOC-I wonder if I could find time to get a Quinntonian agent involved here? But I hate the idea of/have never watched 24, and the A-Team was already done. Hmm, Night-Rider? Macgyver? Magnum P.I? Miami Vice? Or maybe just fall back on the religious fanatics that are the Men of Meggido?

We'll see.

WWJD
Amen.

Well you could go down the Tom Clancy route and have a boring intel analyst who just happens to be a crack psitol shot and just happens to always be in the right (or wrong) place at the right time, of course then he needs to become a director in the CIA while still getting mixed up in feild ops and then by sheer fluke becoem leader of your nation.
I would suggest using a John Clarke type character but the more i look at Morgan the more he comes out as a cross between John Clarke, Druss the legend and Jon Shannow (yes i like David Gemmel's books) and the John Clarke thign gets worse as Ivan starts to look like Domingo Chavez...


Actually the more i think on it the more a jack Ryan type figure might be quite useful to fill out the RP's facets, as we have so far 3 super spys, A pair of hard bitten mercenaries and a not quite entirely sane Irish bomb maker (yes i will get Mcghinty involved) so the contrast would be good esspecially if the A-team make an appearance (and speaking of AC's efforts an Ilona appearance would be fantastic).

Hmmm, I do like the Jack Ryan idea. but I must confess that I have't read much Tom Clancy, just a fan of the movies that no doubt don't do his books justice. But what about Chuck Norris? I can't believe that I didn't think about it right off the bat!

WWJD
Amen.

Could get a Roman in there? A type of pirate type of guy?

Hail Caesar!

OOC: Hah! I'm in. D'you mind if I expand on the 'Italian Starlette' character a bit?

London, Several Days Previous

MI6 was not, perhaps, as glorious as popular culture had made it out to be. It was drab, dreary and suffering from marked underfunding. On the other hand, it had a superb stable of agents with very little to do, and several of these were currently cooling their heels in a nearby bar known as the 'Sword-Cane and Spyglass', something of an industry haunt for spooks whose glory days had passed with the fall of the USSR.

The interior was dark and smoky, the copper bar top covered with stains and scratches from innumerable buffings and a few blood spatters. Massive tankards of beer sat in front of the patrons, sometimes accompanied by other, more unique looking glasses. The bartender, one Harris, was a thin, sallow faced man who knew far, far too much about Britain's national security. He received a monthly 'bonus' courtesy of the British government that kept him loyal and quiet--if the payments didn't come, the enemy du jour learned something new and awkward for the Crown.

At the end of the bar, a young man slouched over his scotch dejectedly. He had a full days' growth of beard and rings under his eyes that suggested massive drunkenness, days without sleep, or both. His square foot of bar was covered with empties of all families--beer steins, shot glasses, highball glasses, martini glasses. The young man had thin, aristocratic features and black hair, not unlike the Prince of the Blood whose illicit affairs were the topic of British and French gossip rags alike. A few stubbed out cigarettes littered the bartop, most of which had missed the ashtray by a fair margin. The lack of focus in his eyes suggested that he was indeed drunk beyond belief; there was no cutoff point at the Sword-Cane and Spyglass.

"Another, Harris." The bartender raised an eyebrow.

"All right, Samuel, give." The young man, Samuel, raised his unsteady gaze. He blinked.

"What?" Harris gave him a level stare as he poured the scotch.

"You don't drink like this, boy, not often. What's got you all torn up?" The man's thick South-London accent muddled his words to Samuel's liquor fogged ears. He shook his head, and regretted it immediately as the world did something untoward with regards to its axial rotation.

"T'were Elise," he mumbled, reaching for the scotch. "Sh'lef' me. Bloo'y girl lef' me." Harris shook his head. Sir Samuel Greene was a spy known for charm, daring and complete, total lack of skill with women. As a professional he was equal to anyone, as a James Bond he was an abject failure. The spy reached for his pack of cigarettes, missed, and landed on the floor instead.

"Y'all right down there, boy?" Harris shook his head again and wandered off to attend to a dapper Roycelandian with girls on his arms and a cigar in each hand. "And what can I do for you, Mr...?"

"The name is Bond..."

Le Chateau du St. Tropez, Simultaneously

Asia Anna Maria Argento grimaced to herself as she watched the Prince du Sang's limousine arrive. Oh, she knew that she wasn't the Pimpernel's only lover. Didn't mean that she didn't hate him for it. Him, and the Prince. The bloody aristocratic bastards! Sure, they were living la dolce vita here in St. Tropez, but her native Rome had been a haven for drug users, criminals, prostitutes and pimps. Its ancient streets were hardly the domain of kings or emperors, unless you counted the Mafia and the cartels as monarchs.

Asia tried not to cry. She hated Blakeney, but she also loved him. He was a kind man at heart, with a clever mind and a sharp wit that kept her laughing. And his smile-- it made him easy to forgive. But she also knew that he kept a veritable stable of women at all of his frequent haunts, and she wasn't as quick to dismiss the rumours surrounding the Pimpernel and the Queen of France as Louis-Auguste was.

He didn't love her, she knew that. Didn't mean that it didn't hurt when he rubbed it in her face. He knew, of course he did! And he brazenly screwed the Prince while she was on her way out of St. Tropez's back door. She flounced over to her Mercedes, keyed the lock and threw her billion lira purse into the rear seat. Damn him, she though as she floored the pedal in reverse. Gravel flew from the carpark, rattling off the fine stonework of St. Tropez's East Wing. Damn him to hell. Asia slammed the car into drive without really bothering to break, and ignored the squeal of protest that her car gave in response. Flooring the pedal again, she was off down the winding road to the Chateau's gate.

She'd been driving for an hour at least, going south. Asia hadn't been bothered to note her direction or her speed, and for all she knew, that body of water could be the English Channel. Or it could be the Mediterranean, but she didn't really think that even her car could manage that drive, not in one night. Oh, well. Wherever she was, it didn't matter. She just needed to be away from St. Tropez, and away from the electronic signals detection monitors that she knew covered the Chateau's grounds. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she reached for a satellite phone in her purse, given to her by the small man in Paris who had sold her the bread. He was her contact, and she felt once again the thrill of an amateur spy. She dialed the number that he had baked into the bottom of the loaf.

"Agincourt-Six-Six-Five," a voice said. Its lilting English accent was music to Asia's ears as she prepared to execute her revenge. "Crecy-two-aught-nine," she replied.

"Go ahead, Crecy."

"Target Red-One is about to depart for Africa, I cannot say when. I don't know any more than that, Agincourt."

"Thank you, Crecy. I'll let our man in Ouagadougou know. Agincourt out."

London, The Docklands, Present Day

"Christ!" Sir Samuel Greene, KCVO, awoke to the buzzing of his mobile. It felt like a million chainsaws chewing their way through his prefrontal cortex, and he flailed for it madly. Tangled in his sheets as he was, it took him several agonizing seconds to press the phone to his ear.

"Greene," he said softly. "Trafalgar-Delta-Two." His work phone. It wasn't as though he disliked his job, but long experience taught him that sitting through one of the endless, droning lectures by This Minister for That Most Important Thing about This International Crisis with a hangover was a poor idea indeed. He yawned hugely.

"Ah, Sir Samuel." Elise. And she was back to calling him 'Sir Samuel'. Mmm... Note to self, never date secretary. "Please come into the office at your earliest convenience. We have received word that the Scarlet Pimpernel is leaving St. Tropez, and your number is up for tailing duty." She sounded uncomfortable.

"Ah, yes, thank you. Er... Elise?" There was a sigh of exasperation.

"Sir Samuel, I would be obliged if you referred to me as Ms. Ebner." He winced inwardly.

"Of course, El--erm, Ms. Ebner. Please inform, ah, whomever, that I shall be in shortly." Damn, he thought. Damn and damn again. There were headache pills around here somewhere, weren't there? He looked around blearily, noting the spare interior of his rooms. Elise had packed up the day before... Bloody hell. She'd taken the goddamned television. The television that they'd bought together. Damn.

Sam made his way to the water closet, face impassive. If she'd ripped out the new sink, he was going to get litigious.

Accra, Ghana

Ooof. That had hurt. Brigadier Sir Edwin Morrell raised his head tentatively, and shook it from side to side. He wiggled his toes. Seemed to be working. The room itself, on the other hand...

Christianbourg castle had been a fairly solid structure. Even so, the city's defenders had decided to tunnel down below, install a kilometre of wiring and lighting strips, and generally turn the thing into a bunker. The fact that there was damage down here suggested either a small nuclear attack, a direct hit with a very large conventional weapon or Fuel Air Explosives. The command post was dark. Somebody was moving around.

"Smithers? D'Alembord? Colonel Kora?"

"Here, sir." Kora's Ghanaian-accented voice cut through the gloom. "What the hell-?"

"I don't know, Colonel. And by your tone and the darkness in here, I'm assuming that our readouts are out as well?" More shuffling, sounded like Kora was digging himself out from under a pile of paper.

"Bloody printer fell on me, sir. I'm fine, but I suddenly understand the urge to convert to the paperless office." Morrell chuckled dryly.

"Well, I suppose we'll just have to poke our noses out, now won't we?" There was a loud crunching noise.

"I suppose so, sir. By the by, I think I just found Smithers. He's not going to be much help, though. I think a beam found him." Morrell winced inwardly. Smithers had been a good aide, if a touch on the effete side.

"Any sign of d'Alembord?" Jane d'Alembord was his infiltration expert, and if the French were really coming--as one might expect after that attack-- he'd need her.

"Nope," Kora said. "Found a flashlight, though." He waved the beam around a bit, spotlighting the rather messy bits of Smithers and the offending printer. The radio was sitting in its place on the desk, but the wires that connected it to the long antenna were much the worse for wear. "Scratch one long-range radio."

Just then, there was a rather alarming clanking noise, and Captain Jane d'Alembord appeared with three flak jackets, field packs and a wide assortment of guns. Morrell laughed at the sight-- d'Alembord was a small, wiry woman with shoulder-length red hair and a sharp, striking face. To see her drag roughly 120 pounds of equipment from the nearby storage locker was amusing, at best.

"Hallo, Brig. Care to go for a walk?"

"Italian Starlette?"......Uh oh. I was planning on making a guy up, had a history and everything for him in my head. Is that bad?

Gurg, this is going to be confusing, seeing as the Roycelandian Agent's name is also Bond...

I didn't read your post when I was writing (I let my window sit open for a couple of hours), but that's a passing reference. Perhaps the good Mr. Bond was in London for a few hours, and decided to have a drink?

Veckie: I was rather under the impression that the Italian Starlet was female, and thus found a real Italian Starlet (The Asia Argento described here) on Wiki. To be clear, I was referring to the one that NG talked about his Scarlet Pimpernel romancing at St. Tropez, not a new character altogether.

It's quite probable Bond was in London- he seems to get around fairly quickly! ;)

To be honest, I didn't even know that the Italian Starlet even existed. But does that mean that I can't do the guy I had planned?

OOC: Looks interesting and maybe I'll throw my dice in there sometime.

Veckie: Asia Argento (the Italian Starlet that NG wrote about) doesn't have anything to do with your character, whomever he might be. My writing about her was my way of satisfying my urge to have strong female characters in all of my RPs (what? No editorial comments, please), nothing more. Feel free to go ahead and do whatever you were going to do.

BTW, do you mind if I call you Veckie? I simply can't refer to anyone by their actual nation name (Note: Beej, Royce, Quinn, Fleur, 'Mandy, Hoggy, Prae, LRR, and I call myself Gurg). It's a habit, I guess.

Veckie: Asia Argento (the Italian Starlet that NG wrote about) doesn't have anything to do with your character, whomever he might be. My writing about her was my way of satisfying my urge to have strong female characters in all of my RPs (what? No editorial comments, please), nothing more. Feel free to go ahead and do whatever you were going to do.

BTW, do you mind if I call you Veckie? I simply can't refer to anyone by their actual nation name (Note: Beej, Royce, Quinn, Fleur, 'Mandy, Hoggy, Prae, LRR, and I call myself Gurg). It's a habit, I guess.

OOC: Veckie? /me falls over starts laughing.

For everyone's information: OOC thread, so this one doesn't get TOTALLY overwhelmed:p

Spy vs Spy OOC (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=12343709#post12343709)

The cell in the high security Roman prison was dark, wet and cold. The prisoner’s jumpsuit was coated with a layer of water, grime and sweat. The only thing that kept him sane was the weekly strip searches at which time the guards would engage in conversation. At first it was rather awkward, but eventually he got used to it. There was no time here, only the weekly inspections gave him any sense of time. His judgement of time depended on when he sparingly was fed and when he fell asleep and woke up. To keep himself fit, he would follow a strict regiment of push-ups and sit-ups, doing about 100 of each once he awoke, after that he would run on the spot for short stints so he wouldn’t get dehydrated and his muscles wouldn’t atrophy. The rest of the time, he would sit in a corner and recite some of his favorite poems or Bible passages.

Suddenly the door creaked and groaned as the bolt was slid aside, he looked at the door, thinking it was too soon for an inspection. The light revealed him to be a rather young man, no older than 40 years old and still very fit despite his time in this small cell. His hair was long and disheveled and he had grown a beard any Hebrew would be proud of. He squinted at the light that poured in as the door opened, he could see the silhouettes of three guards, two holding automatic rifles trained right on him and a third carrying a set of shackles and a jumpsuit. The guard threw the jumpsuit at him, “Get changed prisoner,” he commanded.

The prisoner stripped down and slipped into the dry, warm jumpsuit, it smelled like Downey fabric softener, “Usually you give me the new clothes after I get searched,” he stated, doing up the zipper. He then held out his hands to accept the shackles, it would do no good to resist right now just to get shot before he could get anywhere.

“You aren’t going for inspection,” the guard replied, tightening the shackles on his wrist then moved to his ankles, “you have a visitor.”

“A visitor? I never get visitors.”

“Your lucky day then,” the guard replied as he finished, “alright, lets go.” The group of four walked down the hall, the sounds of the chains clattering on the floor echoed the wide hallway. He was led to an interrogation room with the one guard opening the door and closed it behind the prisoner while the other two followed him in and stood by the door. He sat down on the metal chair at the metal table, a single light hung above him and bathed the area directly around the table with light while casting a deep shadow in the deep corners of the room.

He squinted through the light, his eyes still hurting from spending so much time in the dark. He waited for someone to come in, but his hearing told him that there was another man in the room that was yet unseen. The sound of footfalls on the hard concrete floor sounded through the room as a man stepped into the light. He instantly recognized his face and got a huge smile on his face. The man was in a snapping business suit, and wore a vine that encircled the back of his head, “Captain Jack.”

“Well look at you,” Jack Sparrow mused, crossing his arms, “all snazzy and professional. And Caesar too! Aren’t we climbing up the ladder of success? Come to see the hell hole you put me in?”

“You will speak respect to the Caesar,” one of the guards shouted.

Romulus held up a hand to ward off the guard, “Actually, no, I’ve come to get you out?” For once, Jack was speechless, “There’s a situation in Africa—“

“And what makes you think I’m going to help you? I don’t know if you’ve checked, but I’m not Roman. I see no reason why I should help you.”

“You haven’t heard all the details yet,” Romulus answered, slapping a brown folder on the table. Jack opened the folder and read down the papers inside, finding a very large number with “denarius” following it. Jack looked at Romulus, once again speechless, “You’ll be in my employ, a privateer of the Roman navy, for this job, we’ll give you 1.2 million denarius up-front, so you can buy yourself a ship, and another 2.7 million once its done.”

“So what’s brought on this sudden bout of charity?”

“Well, I thought that after 14 years you had enough of this prison, but if you would rather stay here for the rest of your life, you’re definitely welcome.” Romulus reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fountain pen and slid it across the table, “Or you can feel the salt sea air spray against your face once again.”

Jack stared at the contract, then at Romulus, the mischievous grin still plastered on his face, “I want a shower, a hair cut and a shave in the best five star resort you have to offer and all my personal effects back.”

“We have a car waiting for you outside,” Romulus informed, “and all your clothes, a new gun and a short sword.”

Jack would have preferred his old weapons, but since he had lost both, he didn’t have much of a choice. He wasn’t sure what was worse, working for this asshole, or staying in that cell for the rest of his life. At least as a privateer, he would be relatively free. Jack signed the contract and was immediately led outside to a convoy of black SUVs. It wouldn’t be long now, his enemies beware, Captain Jack Sparrow was coming.

Hail Caesar!

((OOC---I am tickled white! This is superb, in a few pages some of the best RP I've yet seen in AMW. I am glad we decided to do this my friends. I will 'take us to the next level' by Wednesday. I must say once again this is superb: we can harness all our literary talents and compete against each other wit for wit. Oh happy day! people. ::Slants eyes and sinks into the shadows::))

The hustle and bustle of Port von Ludwig, formerly know as Port Louis under the previous administration, surrounded Hank Stevenson as he continued his search for some good tapioca pudding and roses. The first was for himself, the second for his latest center of attention, who still remained a great mystery to him.

He easily blended into the crowd, especially with the words 'tourist' all but sprayed across his chest. Because recently, Mauritius had become a prime spot for the higher-middle and lower-high classes of America and Europe to spend their hard earned cash on their annul vacations. Positioned a little out of the way, which only added to the mystic the brochures declared, with great beaches and a democratic government literally transported from the west, it made a great spot for those who wanted to get away.

Stopping to admire one good collection of carnations, he spied a good set of sunglasses. Asking if he could try them on, the little black market vendor eagerly nodded yes, Hank could see exactly what the little man was thinking, "yes, try them on, and when you ask how much, I'll make sure to get every scrap of money I can get for those fakes." Looking at a mirror, he nodded to himself, but still set them back down.

He continued on, tried on another set of sunglasses that were fakes, of course, and did manage to buy himself two jars of tapioca pudding and a dozen roses. The hum and buzz of the outdoor market had quieted down considerably, all the tourists were now preparing for whatever dinner parties they needed to attend. He walked quickly through the city and got to the center of his universe's house. Placing the roses at the door step he walked down the adjacent alleyway, which was now filled with shadows.

No sooner did he go down the alleyway then appeared from behind a doorway a slim, athletic, and obviously not too intelligent individual. For who would ever think of following Karl Bolkow von Alfred-Schmidt's best and most trusted operative? The man, still thinking his position hadn't been compromised ever since Hank tried on those sunglasses, cautiously advanced down the alley way.

A short pop, and another Iron Fist agent was no more. Hank reappeared from the shadows, "I wish I had something inspirational to say, but I'm all out." Was all he could put together for a victory speech. "Tsk, tsk, Austria just doesn't train them like they used to." He pulled out the man's gun, and admired it for a second for throwing it behind his back. He then pulled out the man's wallet, plucked the ripe, crisp, and wonderful Silvarian Marks from it. He checked for some sort of identification but he really did not need any, not that he thought himself intelligent, he just could see what was right in front of his face. Who else would use that gun and have crisp SM, especially since Austria stopped issuing some time before, and now couldn't produce anymore even if she wanted to? Those marks were straight from Drekcsler's vault, rumored to be somewhere in the Alps.

After making sure that he disposed of the body in the proper fashion, via-boat anchor, and made sure the blood wasn’t to noticeable, he walked back to his house. Grinning, he stepped through the door, in anticipation of getting ready to sink onto his bed and listening to his iPod as he congratulated himself on another good day. What meet him in the living room didn’t share his agenda, nor did Alfred-Schmidt ever get the memo about private property. Hank reminded him about that, private property that is, and reminded him that doing so was very bad manners. The effect was the same as the last time Hank went through his tirade, nothing. After exhausting himself, Hank gave in, “spill, I know you didn’t come here to admire the interior decorating.”

The man in charge of Maxen’s intelligence department never smiled, but at the last quip, you almost saw something approaching the smallest hint of humor in his eyes. For Stevenson’s house was definitely not the epitome of fashion, style, or even cleanliness.

“I must fling you to Africa, for another fun filled adventure. The little technicalities are here,” he threw a portable USB stick Hank’s way, “basically you’re going to see what several people, who shouldn’t be there, are doing all together.”

“Well that sure sounds like fun, what kind of fun personalities can I expect?”

Alfred-Schmidt, not one for small talk, stood up, “as I said, the technicalities are on the USB stick. Yet, there is definite information that a certain Scarlet Pimpernel will be there.”

Hank smiled, but it was merely a baring of teeth. “Well, thank you for this wonderful news! Why not test my wits against him? Is not he merely a fanatical, cunning, violent, and intelligent operative of His Not So Christian Majesty?”

“You got it right the first time,” Alfred-Schmidt replied, and left.

Asim Bahir strolled into the FIB headquarters in Egypt. Sorry, Mesopotamian embassy.
Discreetly giving a pseudonym to one of the staff on the ground floor (a meaningless name, Yasser Arafat), he was ushered downstairs almost at once.

"Asim, we have a little further information for you."
"Indeed?"
"West Africa. Word is that operatives from France, Roycelandia, Britain, and others are all...congregating...in the warzone, aka hell-hole, that is West Africa at the moment. The Scarlet Pimpernel was mentioned, as was James Bond."
"I see. How do we know this?"
"Some things, Bahir, even you are not cleared to know."
"My apologies. Well, I will require...hmmm...one pistol, a moderate quantity of ammunition, a sat-phone, encrypted obviously, and hard currency - dollars, dinars. That will suffice."
Leaving a couple of minutes later, his briefcase now filled with these basic implements of his trade, he booked himself on the first flight in the right direction.

OOC: Due to a lack of knowledge on the situation in West Africa, I need some help here. How will Bahir be able to reach, say, Ghana? As in, how close can he fly before he needs something more ad-hoc and surreptitious like a cheap car or boat? And how long should we expect that to take?

**OOC** Sorry about the lag, it got brutal at work last week. I am working on a delightful post though (strongly influenced by A Clockwork Orange which should be up by Wednesday of this week...I hope. Sorry guys, you know how it goes huh. Ciao.

((I got a bit carried away I fear, but I don’t think I spoke for anyone. This is excellent fun, sorry for the long-time-for response guys. Hey, also, Gurgey-pie, do you think we could get a response on the Conference in London…waiting on you…much obliged. Voila!))

Paris

The evening market was winding down. A positive benefit of the Restoration, though in the eyes of me there were no negative aspects, the grand markets in Paris with their fresh produce and vibrant atmosphere had replaced the awful sign of mousey capitalism, the supermarket. Still, many people, that slim specialized section of France that dwelt in the City of Lights, were only just getting off work from the Royal Arsenal perhaps, or the Royal Municipality, perhaps even from Renault Ltd., Dassault Ltd., or one of the many commercial centers in Paris.

Consequently even as the sun made its descent the open air market was yet a bustle, thousands of individuals scouring through plump tomatoes, freshly baked bread, chickens and potatoes crackling in their fat, wines of all calibers being hawked by shrewd vendors, crisp green vegetables, and meats fresh off the bone. The overhead swoop of a pair of Rafales of course alerted the good subjects that there was still a war going on, yet other than that Paris functioned much as it had for the past centuries. From the Bastille came the boom of the seven o’clock gun: Crack!

Among this throng was an elderly woman, a spinster Vicomtesse with connections to the Conde family, the Condes being one of the farthest relations of the Royal Family…still, they dwelled in Versailles. They also were privy to many ‘rumors’, which the old woman often chatted behind closed doors about. This old spinster was unremarkable, except for her liberal views she expressed before the July Troubles. An octogenarian, her hand shook a bit as she put a bag of apples into the satchel.

“Could you please have someone send these along to my apartment?” asked the sweet old lady, with an equally sweet smile. Her accent was very Southern, she was very slow spoken, lacking the fast idiosyncrasies that Parisians took pride in.

The gruff kiosk merchant nodded with warmth “Right along, madame. I’ll send one of my boys straight away.”

“Oh, thank you, dear,” with that she hobbled along, cane propelling her, until she came to her abode.

Still spry enough to climb the stairs, she entered her living room to the sound of a dull crackle. Verily gaining years of youth she darted over to a small radio tucked away in a linen closet off the coffee table. Her shaking hand flipped a switch, and the radio, on closer inspection a very dashing model, began to blink with a green light. She cleared her throat.

“Agincourt-Six-Six-Five,” her voice was no longer slow French, but lilting English.

The response came “Crecy-two-aught-nine.”

“Go ahead, Crecy” the sweet old lady responded.

“Target Red-One is about to depart for Africa, I cannot say when. I don't know any more than that, Agincourt."

The spinster grinned and pressed the transmit button “Thank you, Crecy. I'll let our man in Ouagadougou know. Agincourt out.”

As she began to type in the code that would get her in touch with Mi5, there came a heavy rap on her door. Your groceries, madame a heavy bass voice called out. Silent she slipped the power switch off, and glided the wooden doors of the closet shut. Once again hobbling with her cane she drew back the door chain, once cleared she eased the door open.

Holding her heavy sacks of grocery material was a three hundred pound Sikh, with distorted features that only grew more hideous when he spoke.

“Where you want me put these ma lade? I have two more bags downstairs.” his voice was friendly but like gravel. This is one of the grocer’s boys? thought the old lady.

“Oh, over there is fine,” she pointed to the large linoleum kitchen table “,thanks dear.” Wobbling into the small apartment he waddled into the kitchen. Still, all his weight was muscle, that was for sure. Once in the kitchen dropped a jar of pasta sauce, a red sauce, which went all over the tile floor.

“Am soo sorry madame, let me claan up,” he made a unsteady move to get a towel but she waved him off.

“No no dear, I’ll do it, just go get the rest of the groceries,” she waved him off with her shaky hands, as she unsteadily got to her knees and brought a cloth towel and cleaner down on the mess.

He inclined his head in slow understanding and turned around to walk back out into the living room. Yet as he reached the door he did not walk out; he quietly closed the door, again bringing the chain into place. He turned around, an unpleasant look in his eyes. His movements were no longer awkward as he strode again into the kitchen, first turning on the radio to full volume. It was a mellow hit song, a Restoration ditty: Oooh, Aicha, Aicha, ecoutez moi…oooh, Aicha, Aicha, regardez moi…

He walked into the kitchen, past the elderly Vicomtesse who rose a bit from her scrubbing to observe him. Her eyes were cool. Moving past her he took a large pot from the cupboards, which was easily a thirty gallon heavy iron affair. He filled it with water from the sink before he placed it on the stove. With a few sparking noises from the electric starters he ignited the gas. He took olive oil and salt and prepared the necessary mixture needed for pasta. Then slowly he turned around to face the spinster.

“What are you doing?” she couldn’t help but ask. Still on her knees, a towel wet with sauce in one hand and an all purpose cleaner bottle in the other, her eyes remained calm.

“Getting my dinner,” he responded, his voice was still gravelly with its French but it had now taken on a jocund quality. There was a fell light in his eyes.

In a lightning flash his heavy leg leapt out, and the boot which was now revealed to be steel shod on its foot connected with the old woman’s hip. There was a sickening crack as she spun around in agony, accoutrements flying from her hands, to land sprawled out on the floor. Her hip had been broken to pieces.

Even as he sauntered up to her wrecked form her eyes remained calm, even when he hefted her up like a rag doll with one hand, that sickening jocund and sinisterly simply look on his face. He was in fact Tweedle-Dee, one of the King’s Executioners and Torturers, who plied his trade with his equivalent brother Tweedle-Dum in the Bastille; to their joy. Those who encountered them were through the looking glass indeed. He put people on the rack before breakfast, then progressively intensified his occupation throughout the day.

“I won’t tell you anything,” she said, with strength but the agony inflicted on her quite audible “I don’t care quite frankly what you shall do, I will not speak.”

“What makes you think I want to talk?” he said in a disgusting voice, in one move ripping half her blouse off with his other hand. Her eyes were no longer calm, there was a sick dread in them. Desperately, she drew a dagger from a pocket in her pants, and implanted it in the monstrosities arm.

He only grinned more brightly, then threw her headlong into the wall with not so much as a flinch. She hit with a smash against a still life, then sort of slid down along the wall to the floor, twitching from the extreme damage to her body. He left her there, a destroyed quivering wreck, perhaps crying now and then, as he walked out again into the salon. He ripped the wooden screen off the wall with one hand and jerked the sophisticated radio device out with the other. He placed the radio on the sofa, still in a fine jocund mood, and returned to the kitchen.

Hoisting her up again, he queried “Sure you don’t want to have a little fun?”

She was sobbing and shaking, so he assumed “Guess not”. With a comically easy movement he guided her head long into the now boiling, well, cauldron for all intents and purposes. Her legs kicked a few times and she was still.

Tweedle-Dee left her sprawled out like that, her head boiling in the water and body lying on the kitchen counter at an awkward angle. It would be in quite a state of disrepair by the time anyone found out about it.

Grabbing the radio device he left the apartment, music still blaring, and shut the locked door behind him.

St. Tropez

As ‘Maria” sped away along the Riviera, away from her betrayed lovers abode, perhaps forty minutes into her journey she would notice, if she was not in a frazzled state, a black sports utility vehicle trailing her at a distance.

She would certainly pay attention when it closed in behind her, and from an on-ramp a vehicle of exact similarity swooped down in front of her trendy car.

Louisville, Upper Cote d’Ivoire

“The Ludovico Project, Your Majesty, it has begun.” The Scarlet Pimpernel closed the cell phone.

He sped down the cramped streets of Louisville in a commandeered high capacity and fashionable durable ‘bush’ jeep. Louisville, now capital of Cote d’Ivoire and formerly Ouagadougou, capital of the former state of Burkina Faso, was a city teeming with French activity. Really the only liberated West African city to not be damaged in the occupationary process, it was a major point of His Most Christian majesty’s military activity. Column’s of French logistical trucks formed lines in the lane opposite the Scarlet Pimpernel drove along, currently in the guise of a French Colonel from the General Staff, possessed of a high clearance pass which allowed him to get wherever he needed to go. Overhead transport planes constantly rumbled into the airport.

Yet he was not going to any great French mustering point, rather his jeep sped toward a out of the way location on the cities outskirts. He made for the former state of Burkina Faso’s national football stadium, which was now covered by obscurative and meticulously organized canvas sheets. Electrically charged razor wire fences surrounded the soccer field, really compound, and raised on its perimeter were intimidating guard towers. Guarding this compound were not Gardes Francaises, nor were they members of a Royal Army detachment. Nor were they RVL shock troops. They were La Marechaussee Special Security Service troopers, with faces like guerillas in their black uniforms, their standard not the fleur-de-lys but the death’s head with skull and crossbones. Obviously this was to be a covert project.

Presenting his high level pass The Scarlet Pimpernel was admitted into the forbidden site of the Ludovico Project. However the interior of the project was not ghastly, although it was a bit sinister. The interior presented the sight of numerous white-coated medical doctors, and numbers of West African rebels, on further research the intrepid agent discovered they were in the main upper ranked rebel cell leaders, in hospital style gowns. Groups went to and fro shepherded by La Marechaussee medical orderlies from what was residential housing to what appeared to be large cinematic structures. The Scarlet Pimpernel brought his jeep to a halt, and was greeted by a gray faced doctor, with a dashing velvet suit underneath his sparkling white lab coat. The men greeted each other.

“Ahh, hello, we have been expecting you. This high level tour! My name is Dr. Brodsky, and I run the Ludovico Project.” His mannerisms verged on ebullient.

“Pleasure is all mine, sir.” The disguised Scarlet Pimpernel bowed. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I am pressed for time, and as you know Versailles always likes its reports on time. I trust the facility is properly secured?”

“Of course, this way please,” the good doctor guided the agent towards a large cinematic tent “, and yes, this Project is totally secured, we have the finest jamming devices and camouflage overall possible. La Marechaussee has seen to it, my dear fellow. Ah, please, in there.”

A thousand sights of awe had graced The Scarlet Pimpernel in his long career of covert service, but none equaled what he now beheld. It was a large movie theatre, huge really. The audience was made up of ECOWAS rebels, West African town and village leaders, and tribal strongmen. They were strapped into their chairs, wearing straight-jackets. Their heads were in clamps, the same all encompassing head clamps that had a particular tool to keep their eyes wired open. Eye drops constantly dripped into their constantly opened eyes from tubules in the head vice. The movie they watched showed line after line of Igovian Celts marching toward them with terrifying gazes and cruel butcher knives coming at them. It showed corrupt and grotesque native ECOWAS statesmen taking bribes and rolling in filth and body parts adorned with gold jewelry, over which images of morbidly starving West Africans were superimposed. It showed Islamic clerics in league with Marxist rebels as they massacred whole villages, raping and pillaging with graphic detail. It showed ECOWAS as a rotten whore, as a bloated water buffalo, being suckled by the demonic Sub-Continent vampires. All along the seats medical orderlies in white coats passed amongst the audience, administering intravenous shots to the patients and making medical notes on their condition. It was a continuous affair.

The viewers writhed in their seats. They screamed and begged to be let out, but they could not move. The howled for help of any kind, none was forthcoming. Nothing could obstruct or hinder their view in the least from the intense brain washing material in front of them. More than a few threw up, but this was quickly and efficiently cleaned up. But most were frightened and revolted to the point of sickness, to tired and intimidated to even move, the spectacle reflected in their solidly locked eyes.

Dr. Brodsky began “Of course we all know this war will not be won through military maneuver alone, my dear fellow. We must constantly shape and mold the very minds of our enemies until they are won over to our cause. We kill the instinct of criminality and resistance to our programs. Ahh, but this is only half the project. If you will please follow me into this next room here, yes.”

The Scarlet Pimpernel went along, impressed with what he was seeing.

The next room, or hall, was still a cinema. People were still strapped into their chairs with the head-vices. But the cinema was showing different film here, and getting much different reactions. On this movie screen were vignettes of His Most Christian Majesty blessing healthy looking African children. Organ and violin music played. Lily flowers rained down on a righteous and Holy Catholic Mass at Notre Dame, with doves being released into the air. West Africans danced with joy, sharing plenty amongst each other. Some sections of film flashed with the inscriptions: “Salvation through France”, “Healing and Peace through His Most Christian Majesty Louis-Auguste”, “A thousand years of peace and Bourbon glory!”, “Food and Joy Eternal through the Holy Catholic Church and Lieutenants of God”. Here too were the medical orderlies, injecting the audience with various drugs, presumably a different mixture of the substances than those given to the first group.

The movie goers here were not screaming. They were crying with joy. Some openly sang along with the musical score, and shouted “God Bless Louis-Auguste”, “I am saved!”, “God’s Lieutenants will triumph!”. Tears ran down their cheeks as their faces broke into rapt smiles at the sight of Versailles and their newly beloved monarch.

Then there was a flash of the first film, the punishment film, and they howled with fright again, straining to get out of their seats. They squirmed and yelled “No, no! I Believe in France, I believe in my God, I believe in the Sun King!”

When the howling a begging for salvation reached its crescendo, once again the images of Louis-Auguste smiling benevolently on appeared. Joyous tears, calm, and huzzahs resulted and descended like a blanket on the spectators.

“These are our more advanced patients,” Dr. Brodsky described as he waved a hand over the audience “and once they have been negatively attuned with their nativist mentalities shattered beyond repair we allow them positive progress in the direction we wish.”

“How many are we able to process each week?” Sir Perceval Blakeney asked.

“A thousand patients every ten days, a good score. We call it the Catch and Release program. Once they are ours we let them loose in their original environment again. Not only do they now inform us, they spread discontent and hatred at ECOWAS. And as beloved members of the community,” he paused to point out several mothers, children, and grandmothers in the audience, picked with statistical precision “, they are back home to stay. And with us to stay.”

“His Majesty will be most pleased at your progress, my good doctor. Do not worry about a thing…” The Scarlet Pimpernel got a message on his satellite phone. “Excuse me, please, Dr. Brodsky.”

“Of course,” the doctor said, speaking in the interim to another doctor about the progress of this particular batch of patients.

The message The Scarlet Pimpernel received was disquieting in the extreme, from La Marechaussee headquarters at the Palais-Royale in Paris:

Possible infiltration of African theatre by Anglo spies. Forthcoming information on discoveries of Anglo subversive activity in Paris. Go to deep cover and alert modus operandi.

He cursed, and turned to light a cigarette. He lit it, and took a heavy drag, but not before he got a second message.

Make contact with Roman operative, imperative and to be done immediately. Roman operative will be invited to Louisville for your contact. Possible information of Roycelandian insertion, under all costs the Ludovico Project is to remain in action and secured, is to remain without compromise secret..

And so it look like the real work was beginning. He ran and spoke with Dr. Brodsky, receiving several firm nods, and then sped off in his jeep.

Registan Square, Samarkand

"...spreading lies."

"To the end of damaging Caliphal relations with anti-communist forces."

One on-looker corrected another in answer to the question, "What did he do?"

Actually, Azim Kuliev, editor of one of the Caliphate's remaining small-time private newspapers, had lost his head because his weekly publication broke the wrong story, or at least did so at the wrong time. Versailles may not have been taking it very seriously, but the Caliphate and the Holy League were trying to ignore the bulk of their differences for the sake of subduing common capitalists and communists that threatened both.

And so running a story containing reports of French colonial attempts to identify the community of Islam with the cult of the anarchist was an act very poorly judged by a fellow resident in Chingiz Khagan Depkazi's Caliphate.

Still, even as Azim's bloodflow trickled and dripped away to nothing, crews, liasons, and labourers boarding at the primary Caspian port were quietly changed before the start of their long journey through Russian rivers and canals -and several more seas- to Africa.

"I still want my alliance, Vizier, and they still want my crops and manufactures, but may the sword of the prophet strike me down if I sit by and do not send them Mujahideen as well."

And so agents of the Caliphate made their way to African ports along with the drugs desired by Abassamara and the French. For now their support and custom remained important to his plans, but if the French were guilty of the abominable slanders reported by Caliphate-aligned Mullahs and Islamic institutions in West Africa then Chingiz would have to stick his knife in Christendom's back...

...sooner than he had planned.

Banjul, Gambia

"And what is the purpose of your visit to Gambia, Mr. Lundquist?" asked the Customs Official- who, like most people in Gambia was of African extraction- as he perused the passport presented to him.

The bearer of the passport was, according to the details recorded therein, one Pieter Lundquist, a Danish national. The photo showed a kindly man, with Clark Kent glasses and greying hair, and the individual presenting the passport matched the photograph perfectly, and spoke English with a noticeable Scandinavian accent. He was wearing a priest's collar and carrying a large-print copy of The Bible, which was very well-thumbed.

The traveller had arrived on an African Airways flight from Lisbon via the Cape Verde Islands- the Fokker F-27 aircraft the flight was made on did not have the range of a 767 or even a Sunderland Flying Boat.

"I am here as part of a cultural exchange with a mission church near Georgetown. Vicar Nwabudike will be in for a shock when he discovers it is snowing in Denmark at this time of year." The priest laughed genially.

"My cousin's son in law lives in Copenhagen. He has spoken of it often, and says it is a lovely place."

"Alas, I am from Jutland, and have only been to Copenhagen once or twice. It is indeed a most lovely city."

The customs official smiled. "Welcome to The Gambia, Mr. Lundquist. Enjoy your stay."

Outside the airport, the priest hailed a taxi from near the end of the rank. The taxi had a ding in the front right of the bumper, and the front left headlight was cracked slightly.

"I'm afraid I have no local currency, so I shall have to pay by credit card" Lundquist said as he climbed into the taxi.

"That is alright, you can pay me when we get there"

"But only if the ride is not too bumpy."

"Mr. Bond, I presume?" asked the Taxi Driver.

"And you must be Mr. Parker" replied James Bond, dropping the Danish accent and speaking in his extremely well spoken Roycelandian one.

"M sends her regards" Parker said as he turned the taxi into the oncoming traffic. "She trusted that your flight would be uneventful."

"Clever idea, having me pose as a Danish priest."

"It was, rather. Q branch thought it nicely ironic".

Bond opened up the Bible, which was exactly as it appeared- a large print edition of the Holy Scriptures.

"What, no Q branch gadget in there?" asked Parker as he swerved to avoid a goat on the road.

"That would be sacrilegious in the extreme" replied Bond, closing the book. "Besides, the Q branch goodies are in the Taxi here." He reached under the passenger seat and felt for a button, pressing it. A tray popped out, revealing a Mauser C96 "Broomhandle" 9mm pistol and several magazine clips for it.

"I've never understood why you use that thing" commented Parker. "It's a bit bulky, isn't it? Why not a Walther PPK or a Webley Mk IV?"

"The Walther's a bit cliche, you know" explained Bond, sliding a clip into the Mauser and working the action. "And the Webley has the stopping power, but the ammunition is too distinctive. I mean, if I have to despatch an opposition agent, it's pretty obvious which Empire is behind it if the doctors pull half a dozen .455 Webley slugs of the chap now, isn't it?"

"Quite true. So, where to?"

"The Hotel de Ville, if you don't mind."

"Hotel de Ville as in "Town Hall", or the actual Hotel de Ville?"

"The hotel, not the town hall."

"Very good."

By the time Bond stepped from the taxi at the Hotel de Ville, he was no longer Pieter Lundquist, the Danish Priest. He had transformed into an Australian Mining Company geologist, heading upriver to investigate the viability of a proposed mine near the Gambian/Senegalese border.

His real mission, of course, was something completely different.

tag..

OOC: Damn, Royce. I was trying for originality with the Webley. Anyway, isn't it British as much as it is Roycelandian?

MI6 Headquarters, London

Other secret agents traveled in style, no doubt. Bond had his Beemers, the Scarlet Pimpernel had a ruddy boat all his own. And a plane. Rumour had it that the Roycelandian space program had a rocket set aside for him, but that was probably just hyperbole. That CIA man... what was his name? Anyway, he bummed rides on Los Angeles class submarines, and even that Hank fellow from Austria got business class tickets to places.

Not so for the star operative of His Majesty's Secret Service. Sam Greene rode the tube. As mass transit systems went, London's was nothing to sneeze at, but it certainly didn't fit the 'sexy spy' look. Minding the gap was all well and good, but it didn't really do to take your girl home on the Bakerloo line.

Sam pushed his way between executives, government officials and urchins. The platform itself was dingy and filled with people, and Sam shuddered at the number of prospective illnesses that the crowd represented. He shoved a hand into his jacket pocket and retrieved a cigarette, which he crammed into his mouth. Another fishing expedition yielded a zippo decorated with the Union flag decal. Sam flicked it open deftly, and lit his cig in a single smooth motion. He surveyed the crowd again. It showed no signs of thinning.

Ah, well. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. He dove into the surging mass of germ-filled humanity and clawed for the escalator. A few teenagers made uncouth gestures behind his back as he interrupted their awkward attempts at courtship, but Sam paid them no mind except to flash the bowman's fingers back.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, made in high bad humour that was not improved by the ineptitude of London drivers and a crowd of loud Quinntonian tourists. He passed some Australasians, and thought he recognized a striking woman with pink hair and an easy smile. Where had he seen that face? Sam turned the corner and cut diagonally across the street to the MI6 building. He climbed the stairs with a resigned air and shoved his way through the large double doors.

Vauhall Cross, MI6 Headquarters (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/c/cc/MI6BuildingVauxhall.jpg)

"Welcome to MI6, Sir Samuel," the lobby attendant said with a smile. "Please step towards the ID scanner and provide the verbal passcode." Sam chewed his inner lip for a moment as he retrieved his ID card. He swiped it through the scanner.

"Trafalgar Delta-Two, Dick." Richard Stratchan nodded.

"Thanks, Sir Samuel. Traf Delta-Two confirmed. Mr. Lattimore is upstairs, he wants to speak with you about a situation in Africa." Sam nodded curtly and made his way to one of the elevators, a bland 1960s affair painted government grey. No, MI6 Wasn't nearly as glamourous as the public was meant to believe. He hit the up button and waited as the elevator groaned and clanked its way groundwards.

Accra, Ghana

"Jesus," Kora said as he surveyed the ruins of Accra. The city was still giving off excess heat, and the fire-blackened hulks of buildings stood as mute testimony to French barbarism. Brigadier Morrell stared as well, and coughed awkwardly into his fist. He cast about for something to say, chewed the inside of his lip a bit, and looked askance at Jane d'Alembord for assistance. She raised her eyebrows at him before taking Kora's hand.

"I'm sorry," she said genuinely. Morrell breathed a sigh of relief, poorly disguised as one of pain. Awkward social situations weren't really his forte. Killing Frenchmen, possibly. Comforting colonels, most certainly not. He coughed into his fist again and tried not to think about the other men and women he had lost. Bobby Nash, his old sergeant major from the Indochine business. Fred Graves, a quiet young man who had served as his attache and aide-de-camp. Hanna Ayres, a tank gunner with more patriotism and body art than actual kills.

Jane released Kora's hand before turning away and motioning them down a ruined flight of stairs. "We don't have a lot of time," she paused for a moment. "Sirs." Morrell waved his hand dismissively before hoisting his pack. This was her show, the hiding in the gutters and such. He was more at home in a tank, anyway.

Heathrow Int'l Airport

"One ticket to Kinshasa, please." The ticket agent viewed Sam Greene with a bit of skepticism. Africa wasn't high on anyone's list of destinations these days, especially not after half the navies of the planet started shooting it up just off the coast of Lusaka.

"How many passengers with your party?" Sam raised a single finger as he fished for his faked up Hudecian passport. If there was one thing Sam could imitate, it was a Hudeck accent. The agent, a rather severe Hindustani woman, punched her keyboard savagely. "Anything to declare?" He shook his head, and the woman responded with another spate of typographic abuse. Never mind the collapsible rifle, set of throwing knives and small cubes of C4. Customs had already been briefed. Indeed, Sam carried his trademark Webley Mk IV .455 revolver in a shoulder holster inside of his suit. Any pickpocket would get a nasty shock going for his wallet, that was to be sure.

"Thank you, Mr. Habcock, please enjoy your flight with British Airways." From her tone, it was clear that the ticket lady wished him anything but enjoyment. Sam smiled genially, and wended his way towards gate A-34.

Something strange was afoot in Africa. That much, MI6 had been able to divine. The operatives that monitored expenditures in the Kingdom of France had found themselves completely unable to locate several billion D'ors just over a year ago, while other analysts noted a sudden upsurge in medical and scientific hirings for 'extended duty in Africa'. Coupled with a few exotic requisitions on the part of the Marechusse destined for Africa, the same analysts rather believed that the Kingdom was doing some kind of advanced medical or psychological research. The Marechusse's involvement, while not at all clear from the vague reports, suggested that the project involved the security of the Kingdom.

And then, the Scarlet Pimpernel had been deployed to Africa as well. Shortly thereafter, there was a possible Bond sighting on a flight destined somewhere on the same continent. Spies were gathering like flies to honey, and it seemed that Sam would shortly be buzzing thereto himself.

France, outside of Cherbourg

Asia's built-in GPS unit showed her to be just outside of Cherbourg, for which she was rather glad indeed. The SUVs that had started following her almost an hour ago seemed glued to her tail, and there was no mistaking the clear intent and hostility of a pair of black cars. She'd neatly avoided the first pass that they had made, utilizing the defensive driving training that she had recieved with the original intent of eluding paparazzi. Now she redlined the engine, pushing her expensive sports car to its limits. The speed governor had been illegally removed, a fact for which she was grateful as she pushed 200 kph on her way to the town.

Ms Argento, in a somewhat graceless moment (http://www.fleshrot.com/images/1/ASIA%20ARGENTO%20stars%20as%20Slack,%20shown%20fighting%20for%20her%20survival%20against%20a%20pair% 20of%20zombies..jpg)

The original contact wasn't responding. Agincourt Six-Six-Five's line rang for over five minutes, no machine, before Asia finally killed the call and dialled the backup number. She'd been warned when first approached by MI6 that this agent was in deep cover, and was only to be contacted in an emergency. Looking through her rear window, the raven haired Italian rather thought that this constituted such.

"Waterloo Seven Seven Two," a French-accented voice said softly. "This had better be good, agent." Asia breathed a sigh of relief. Salvation, at last!

"Waterloo, this is Crecy Two-Aught-Nine. I am being pursued by two black SUVs which I strongly believe to be Marechusse. I am inbound to what I'm told is the contact point in Cherbourg--"

"What you're told is the contact point?" The voice was incredulous. "You didn't come in through there?" Asia checked her mirrors nervously, and fingered the small pistol that rested in her lap.

"No. I was recruited within France. I need to get out. Where can you meet me?"

"Shut up, you. This is a scrambled line, but it can be intercepted and eventually decoded, although even the CIA would probably take a few days to do so. Give nothing away. Go to Extraction Point Four, repeat; Extraction Point Four. Do you know where that is?" Asia's mind raced as she pushed her car past 250 kph.

"Yes, I do."

"Good. Be ready."

((OOC---May I just say superb? I will have something, looking forward to doing it, up by the weekend. I have to do a response to the end of the world thing tonight, but I think it will leave me some wiggle room. Au revoir.))

OOC: Nicely written, Gurg- Most impressive! As for the Webley thing... Roycelandia tends to favour the .455 calibre Webley Mk VI (with a 6" barrel) over the 4" barrelled Mk IV. It is indeed as much a British pistol as it is a Roycelandian one, though, and your taste in handguns is to be applauded. ;)

And in case anyone's interested in the differences between the various marks of Webley Self-Extracting Revolvers: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Webley_Revolver

The sky above Louisville was sublimely peaceful, an unblemished, deep blue with not a cloud in the sky. The city itself was a bustle of activity, yet from almost 1000 feet above; it seemed just as peaceful as the sky that surrounded it. Making its way over the city, at what may have looked like a slow crawl, was a single Roman C-130 Hercules. Once it was over the city, the ventral door opened and an oblong, wooden, crate dropped out of the airplane with a parachute attached atop it that deployed the moment it left the aircraft. The crate made its graceful descent down onto the city, eventually landing on the rooftop of one of the hotels in the city with a much less graceful jolt and thud. The parachute floated to the rooftop, pulled to the side by the wind. From inside the crate, someone could be heard rustling around, looking for an implement to pry the door open. Suddenly, the rustling stopped, only to be followed by the thunderclap of several gunshots. Bullets ripped through the wood in the crate in several places before Captain Jack Sparrow was able to break his way through the plywood.

Free of the wooden crate, Jack dusted off bits of wood that had gotten onto his black jacket and shook other bits out of his dreadlock hair and wiped them off of his bandana.

Captain Jack Sparrow (http://www.freewebs.com/lurv2dance/Jack%20Sparrow.jpg)

He returned his Beretta 92G Elite II to his shoulder holster, then turned around and reached back into the crate to retrieve his brown, three-corner hat and brand new cutlass that he had bought before he left Italy. He slid the new sword into its scabbard, and then turned to survey his landing site. On one side of the rooftop, one of the maintenance crew for the hotel stood staring at the scene, scarred out of his wits by this man who had shot and broke his way out of a crate and now pulled out a rather large sword. Jack on the other hand smiled and waved at the person, “Hallo, there mate,” he shouted with a slight British accent. He ran up to the man, who was now shaking nervously, reaching into his pockets and grabbing all his loose change and his wallet and held it out for Jack to take. Jack gave him a quizzical look, yet took the change and his wallet anyway and stuffed them into his pockets. The unnamed man immediately snapped his hands up with a look of mortal fear smeared on his face. Jack continued to give him the same quizzical look before pulling a piece of paper from his pants pocket, unfolding it and showed it to the man. “Can you show me where I can find this restaurant?” The man simply pointed down, Jack looked down at the floor and back at the man, “You’re going to have to do better than that mate.”

“F-f-first f-f-floor,” the man stammered.

Jack smiled, reaching back into his pocket and pulling out one of the bills that this man had just given him, “Oh, good, for your troubles then.” Once it became clear that this custodian wasn’t going to move, Jack stuffed the bill into his front jacket pocket, turned around and went down the stairs to the top floor, found the nearest elevator and rode it down to the ground floor. He quickly found the rather swanky restaurant where he was supposed to meet this Frenchie and approached the host.

“Excuse me sir, but we have a strict dress code,” he said in a very French accent.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Jack replied, “if I see anyone improperly dressed, I’ll let you know. Now, I have reservation, name’s Smith.”

“What? No, sir, you can’t—“

Jack reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two crisp hundred D’or bills and slapped them on the host’s podium, “What d’ya say now, hm?”

The host picked up the bills, then smiled back at Jack, “Let me show you to your table, Mr. Smith.”

Hail Caesar

Is this RP dead?

OOC: Hope not. I just don't know quite what to do with Asim right now, was hoping the next coupla IC posts could give me a clue.

OOC:
*beats NG with a stick*
Post!