“Is this an order, sir?” Seva asked, face impassive. “Are you putting us on mandatory leave?”
“Yes, it is, and I am.” Mr. Fitzroy looked down at his desk, tapping his pen for a moment. It was an unusually hesitant gesture and, combined with the question that followed, served to gain both agents’ total attention. “Have either of you gentlemen ever fancied a visit to Romania?”
Keller blinked. “What do you have in mind, sir?”
“First I must make it clear that what I’m about to tell you is in no way official. This is a personal conversation, and therefore the proposed trip would count as part your personal vacation time.”
Keller and Seva exchanged a glance. In the five years they’d been taking orders from Mr. Fitzroy, not once had he unbent beyond the occasional dry witticism. This should be interesting, Keller conveyed with a quirk of an eyebrow.
“Decades ago, when I was in the field, I had a partner called Gwillym Cynwrig. He was a Welsh fellow and tough as nails. Six foot two, with fiery red hair. He wasn’t particularly adept at blending in, but if you were in a tight spot and needed to get out, by God, he would make a door for you.”
“Sounds like a hell of a guy. Where is he now, sir?” Seva asked.
“He finally found something stronger than he was. Her name was Brândusa, and she was an agent for Interpol. Gwillym was smitten when he saw her subdue two Bratva enforcers with her bare hands. They married, and when she became pregnant, they retired to Romania, where she was from.” Mr. Fitzroy paused. “The baby was sickly, and one night they were so worried that they decided to drive to the hospital. It was winter and snowing, and as they came down the mountain road, they ran into a truck without its lights on. Brândusa and the child were killed instantly, but Gwillym survived. He was in hospital for ages, and then he spent ages more in physical therapy before he could lift a spoon or take a single step. When he was strong enough to get about on his own, he walked away from everything. I hadn’t heard from him for a few years until he sent me a package a couple of weeks ago.”
Mr. Fitzroy pointed to a delicate watercolor painting of two wading birds that hung on the wall behind him. “This was in it. If you look closely, you can still see crease marks where he folded it. In his letter he told me he had gone home to the house he’d shared with his wife and child. He spent most of his time camping along the Prahova River, studying the white cranes that nest there.” Mr. Fitzroy sighed. “It’s not the first painting he’s sent me, although it had been many years since the last one. The others are displayed in my home.”
“That wouldn’t look out of place in a museum,” Keller said politely.
“It’s quite good,” Seva agreed.
“This time, instead of a letter filled with humorous anecdotes about birds, it was a snarl of ravings, mad nonsense. I sent a return letter expressing my concern but received no answer until a phone call yesterday morning. Gwillym was found dead by a wildlife warden. Apparently she visited once a year to check on him. Among Gwillym’s effects was his will, with instructions to call me handwritten on the back. Of course I contacted the local police, but the answers I received were far from satisfactory.
“Gwillym was found out in the open, and the cause of death was listed as cardiac arrest. The medical examiner determined that he had been dead almost a week when he was found. That means he died shortly after sending this package to me.” Mr. Fitzroy stared at the watercolor for a long moment.
“So you want me to get more answers for you, sir?” Keller offered. His tone was solicitous but expression smug as he glanced at the other agent.
“I’d like both of you to look into it,” Mr. Fitzroy corrected.
“I like working alone,” Keller said, his smug look wiped away and seemingly transferred to Seva.
“But you work better with a partner. When you work alone, you tend to make spontaneous decisions that result in property damage and loss of life,” Mr. Fitzroy pointed out.
Keller nodded at Seva. “And he’s Mr. Safety?”
“At least I’ve never killed anyone… by accident,” Seva retorted.
“Gentlemen.” Mr. Fitzroy cleared his throat, brow creasing as he scolded the two grown men in front of him squabbling like children. “I’m asking for a personal favor. Please go to Dragascar and find out what happened to my friend.”
“Of course,” Keller said, and Seva nodded.
Mr. Fitzroy reached into his desk and took out a large sheet of paper. “This is a copy of the last letter Gwillym sent me. The original has already undergone scrutiny.”
Keller glanced at it. “Tell us which lab it’s in and we’ll get started.”
“Actually Mr. Fairmount will brief you when our meeting is finished. He’s quite the linguist, and I asked him to do the translation so as to keep our cards close to the vest.”
“It’s not written in English?” Keller said.
“Welsh?” Seva guessed.
“No, it’s a language that’s no longer spoken in Romania or anywhere else apparently.”
Seva blinked. “Interesting.”
“Yes, considering Gwillym could barely speak modern Romanian. There’s something very curious about all of this.” Mr. Fitzroy folded his hands on top of the paper. “The information I’ve been able to gather, which as you know is considerably more than the average fellow, raises more questions than it answers. I’m convinced local law enforcement is covering something up.”
“We’ll get answers for you, sir,” Keller promised with his trademark cocky grin.
Mr. Fitzroy sighed. “Mr. Key, I hope you don’t envision riding into town with your six-guns blazing and intimidating people into giving you information.”
“It’s worked well for me in the past.”
“Bloody cheek.” Mr. Fitzroy touched a sensor on his desk and called his secretary. “Mr. Fairmount, Agents Song and Key will be out in a moment.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Fitzroy turned off the microphone. “This is a covert op, and unofficial, but my instincts tell me it’s not inappropriate to use GLEN’s resources for this mission. Something is going on in Dragascar, and while it may have come to my attention through personal channels, the results could well be within the agency’s purview.” Mr. Fitzroy looked the agents squarely in the eyes, waiting until he got a nod from each. “That’s it, then, gentlemen. Mr. Fairmount and the agency will provide you with all you need.”
“Alex certainly looks as though he could,” Keller said, smirking. “Once you got him out of that crappy suit and washed the goop out of his hair.”
“Mr. Keller!” Mr. Fitzroy scowled. “I had hoped a proper British secretary might be proof against your deplorably lecherous leanings.”
“No one is safe from me,” Keller said, eyes twinkling. “Except maybe Sevastyan, but I think he’s an android.”
“Rubbish,” Mr. Fitzroy said. “It isn’t the sixties any longer, Mr. Key. We no longer condone that ‘boys will be boys’ mentality. To put it in words you will understand, if you continue to play Captain Kirk, you will eventually find yourself brought up on sexual harassment charges.”
Seva nodded, his eyes dancing with delight. “And you’d deserve it.”
“Quiet, Mr. Song. You’re a rogue as well,” Mr. Fitzroy returned, glancing at the other man.
“I am resenting being humped together with this… playtoy,” Sevastyan said haughtily as he rose from the seat.
“I beg your pardon?”
Keller spoke before Seva could answer. “I think he means he resents being lumped together with a playboy.”
“I say what I mean.” Seva feigned indignation as he walked from the room. Keller watched him go with a puzzled frown. Seva was often brusque, but Keller had never seen him be less than professional in front of a superior.
“Mr. Key,” Mr. Fitzroy said, and Keller turned to face him. “That was a good show at the tracking station. I’m pleased you came home in one piece. Well done.”
Kelle
r nodded, feeling a warm flush of pride at the rare praise. “Thank you, sir. I try not to disappoint.”
“Now stay away from my secretary. I’ve only had him for a week, and he makes an excellent cuppa.”
“No worries, sir.” Keller grinned as the doors slid open, and he went to join Seva in the outer office.
Chapter Two
Same day, at the reception desk in Mr. Fitzroy’s foyer
“GENTLEMEN,” Alexander said as Keller and Seva joined him. “Please sit.”
The two agents sat on office chairs to either side of Alexander while he opened a file on his computer.
“So you’re a linguist,” Keller said, grinning at the hint of double entendre.
“I have a degree in ancient languages,” Alexander answered, not favoring him with a glance. “To get to the point, the letter from Mr. Cynwrig is written in Dacian, a language that died out in 600 AD. It survives mainly in carvings and a couple of documents about medicinal plants that were translated into Greek.”
“Isn’t it strange that Mr. Cynwrig would know this Balkan Indo-European language well enough to write a letter?” Seva asked.
Keller gave Seva a glance of impressed surprise. He knew Seva’s reputation for being sharp as a samurai blade, but this was unexpected.
“Extremely,” Alexander said, obviously pleased. “Only a handful of people in the entire world know even a few words of Dacian. To be honest I could only translate about a third of the letter. I had to infer the rest, but I think the gist is clear. As you can see on the screen, Mr. Cynwrig used a conventional alphabet. This word—balaur—was the first to catch my attention. It’s the first Dacian word I learned, and it means ‘dragon.’”
“Curious,” Seva said.
“Most curious,” Alexander said. “Near it is the word balan, which means ‘white-haired.’”
“So he was writing about a white-haired dragon?” Keller asked.
“Perhaps it’s a metaphor,” Seva said.
“Most likely.” Alexander pointed to another word. “Baidas means ‘frightening’ or ‘monstrous,’ which makes sense if we’re talking about a Carpathian dragon story. The second section has the words buta, degis, and kaga. I’ve translated this as a threat or a warning about a church being destroyed, though kaga or ‘sacred’ can have a rather broad meaning. In this line, tauta, ‘the people,’ are cursed and weep with sorrow at the death of so many cal, or ‘horses.’ Horses were revered by these people, so—”
“That’s definitely a threat,” Keller said.
“To summarize, it appears Mr. Cynwrig tried to warn Mr. Fitzroy about a white dragon that will destroy a church or some other hallowed building.” Alexander shrugged, avoiding eye contact as he neatened his desk.
“The old man must have had way too much booze,” Keller said, giving Seva a knowing look. “But we’re going to Romania, and we’ll find out what it means.”
Alexander opened a broad, shallow drawer and took out two large envelopes. “Your tickets, credit cards, and local currencies, as well as dossiers on your assumed identities.”
“Oh good. We get to play dress-up,” Seva said dourly.
“Cheer up,” Keller said, elbowing him in the side. “I’ll let you be the smart one this time.”
“Finally,” Seva retorted. He turned to Alexander. “Keller always insists on being a know-it-all.”
“Ignore him. He thinks he’s amusing.” Keller scowled.
“He is amusing,” Alexander disagreed. He gave Seva a small smile.
Seva savored the comical look of disbelief on Keller’s face as he tucked his envelope under his jacket. “It’s a pleasure to meet someone who appreciates real humor.”
“I appreciate all sorts of things,” Alexander responded coyly.
Seva let out one of his rare chuckles. “All right,” he said to Keller. “Come away before your massive ego takes a fatal blow.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“I have no doubt that you don’t. Now let’s go. We have to pick up our wardrobe and get to the airport.” Seva nodded goodbye to Alexander as they headed for the elevators.
“Please don’t let it be LaGuardia,” Keller prayed. He took the airline ticket from his envelope as he walked. “Fuck. Of course it’s LaGuardia.”
“You have a problem with LaGuardia?”
“I don’t like taking off over water.” Keller walked onto the elevator behind Seva.
“Why not? It’s safer to crash into water.”
“I keep imagining the jet taxiing, building speed, and then getting to the end of the runway and rolling right off, into the water.”
“I still don’t see why that’s scary.”
“I didn’t say it was scary.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t.” Seva slanted a glance at Keller. “Not out loud anyway.”
“Are you claiming you can read my mind?” Keller stepped out of the car as soon as the doors opened.
“Of course I can. It isn’t even particularly difficult.”
“Bullshit.”
“This way.” Seva turned down a hall when Keller would have continued forward. “Wardrobe is down here.”
“But armaments is down here.”
“We are not being issued weapons. Read the first page of the dossier. We can’t take guns into Romania. If we were caught with them, it would make a big slink.”
“You mean ‘a big stink’?”
“Yes, very embarrassing for GLEN.”
“All right. We rely on the guns a little too much. I like getting up close and personal.” Keller flexed his hands as he followed Seva down the hall.
“That is the first truly intelligent thing I’ve heard you say.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m still waiting for you,” Keller said with a mean smile.
Seva returned the smile as he used his badge to open the door to the Operations Support department. It took up a vast section of the belowground levels of GLEN headquarters and could provide everything from a cuff link to a gunship. The director, Barbara Noone, met the two men as they entered.
“Good afternoon, Agents. Everything has been prepared for you. I understand this mission is special and I’m not to pester you with questions.” Ms. Noone tugged at the hem of her tweed jacket. “We can go straight through to the dressing room.”
In a well-lit space lined with mirrors, two suits were laid out on a long table. Keller and Seva would wear these clothes on the plane. The rest of their wardrobe was in two suitcases on a hand trolley, with carry-on bags nestled at their flanks.
“Hi, Oliver,” Keller said, grinning at her assistant, the young man behind the table.
“Hello, gentlemen.” Oliver tossed his floppy bangs back with a small jerk of his head.
Ms. Noone continued. “As you’ll be playing the parts of amateur historians of early medieval European history, we’ve chosen a conservative wardrobe. The clothing is worn but not shabby, except some of the hiking gear. You’re not wealthy men. You have normal jobs and you spend your holidays poking around old churches, libraries, and ruins. As you both look a bit young for it, the wardrobe has to give you some semblance of experience.”
“That’s fascinating,” Keller said, rolling his eyes as he reached for one of the jackets.
“That’s Sevastyan’s,” Oliver interrupted, giving Keller’s hand a smack.
“What difference does it make?”
“You’re not the same size.” Ms. Noone’s tone was dry as the Sahara.
“Nowhere near,” Oliver agreed. “You have twenty pounds on Agent Song, not to mention a few inches.”
“You got the inches part right,” Keller said, wiggling his eyebrows and as he winked at Oliver.
“On that note, I will leave you to change.” Ms. Noone suppressed the impulse to roll her eyes at them and left for her office.
Without further discussion, Seva got undressed. From a few feet away, Keller watched as Seva peeled down his boxers with a complete lack of self-consciousness.
Keller could appreciate male bodies as well as female ones—his sexual interests were all-inclusive. Seva might be three inches shorter, but his body was every bit as sculpted as Keller’s. However, where Keller had the frame and musculature of an Olympic swimmer, Seva had the more compact physique of a gymnast. Keller turned his gaze from Seva’s ice-dancer-quality butt, and any thoughts it might have inspired, and got undressed too.
Seva put on the black slacks, white button-down shirt, and gray sports jacket laid ready for him. As he looked with approval at his reflection, he ran his hands through his short dark hair and brushed it forward. “Do I get glasses?” he asked.
“We thought glasses would be overkill,” Oliver said.
“No glasses?” Keller shook his head. “How on earth are we going to project an air of dorkishness if you don’t give us glasses?”
“You’ve done fine without them so far,” Seva quipped, sitting down to put on a pair of black socks and sturdy lace-up boots.
“That wasn’t very nice.” Keller pretended to pout as he got dressed in a pair of khaki trousers with a pale yellow polo shirt and a baby blue cardigan. His shoes were suede loafers with shiny, worn patches. He was also given a maroon wool sports jacket and a striped muffler.
“It’s going to be chilly when you get off the plane in Bucharest.” Oliver handed Seva a charcoal gray overcoat. “It may be summer, but temperatures will be much cooler in the mountains.”
Ms. Noone rejoined them. “You’ll rent a car at the airport, so there’s no need to dress more warmly until you reach higher elevations. Your serious cold-weather gear is in the luggage along with your props.”
“Thanks,” Keller said. “I know they’ll be perfect as usual. What are our secret identities?”
“What?”
“Don’t we get fake passports with new identities?”
“Why?” Ms. Noone lifted her eyebrows in puzzlement. “It’s not as though anyone in Romania will know who you are.”
Seva smiled at Keller’s affronted expression. “James Bond never needs an alias,” he remarked. He assumed a look of innocence in response to Keller’s glare.
Song and Key Page 2
