Methos dragged his exhausted body down to the baggage claim area. The flight from Paris to Chicago had been tedious to say the least. Then his connecting flight to Tucson had been delayed, canceled and delayed again to finally arrive eight hours late. He was tired, wrinkled and feeling particularly grimy after wearing the same clothes for the better part of two days. If it hadn't been for that truly interesting photocopy they'd shown him of one of the tablets he would be working on, he'd have called it quits and gone home.
Still, he'd never seen writing quite like that before. Something similar to Sumerian proto-cuneiform, but not. Interesting indeed. It was definitely a puzzle. And he liked intellectual puzzles. It had, he reminded himself as he pulled his luggage from the carousel, given him the first jolt of excitement he'd felt in years. Working on his own chronicle and reading what early Watchers had thought of him had been mildly amusing, but it was certainly not entertaining enough to hold his attention for long. He wasn't that much of an ego maniac! And besides, he'd already skewed his chronicle enough to make finding him nearly impossible. Especially now that they were looking for a short, hairy, dark skinned man who loved to surf and spent his days sailing the seven seas in search of the perfect wave.
Then, out of the blue he'd gotten this call. Recommended by Dr. Daniel Jackson, who was apparently held in high esteem by his new employers. Interesting in and of itself. Daniel, for all his brilliance, was considered a flake and for years had hung about on the fringes of the academia. Not by choice, as Methos had done, but because his ideas were just too extreme. The pyramids 10,000 years old and of unknown origin? Even he'd had difficulty wrapping his brain around that one. The fact that he didn't remember them being built and that they'd always just sort of been there, had gone a long way toward convincing him to treat Daniel with a certain amount of respect. And there was, of course, the boy's marvelous ability with dead languages. Something no one in the community would ever dispute, though they would have very much liked to from what he recalled.
With an internal shrug at the vagaries and politics of academic life, Methos went to find the exit. According to the travel plans he'd been given, a car was supposed to be waiting for him. Of course, that was eight hours ago and he didn't exactly have an address even if poor Adam Pierson could afford to splurge on a taxi. Just a phone number with a contact name in case he had any problems. He'd called and left a message right before leaving Chicago, but who knew with universities. They tended to be terribly disorganized when it came to such things from what he recalled.
The glass double doors slid open as he stepped within range of the sensors and the warm dry air of the Arizona desert enveloped him. He set his bags on the pavement and looked around, surprised when he spotted a large black sedan with tinted windows in which the name Pierson on a white placard had been placed in the front passenger window. He started to reach for his bags and the window rolled down a few inches.
"Dr. Pierson?" a deep male voice called from the shadowy interior.
"Yes, I'm Adam Pierson," he acknowledged, relieved he wouldn't have to loiter on the street while waiting for transport.
"Leave those, I'll take care of them."
A soft click came from the right rear passenger door as it unlocked and Methos reached for the handle with a sigh. Just a little while longer, he thought, and he could have a nice hot shower, crawl between a clean set of sheets and rest for a few hours. Nirvana.
He climbed inside, laying his sword case on the floor, a bit startled when he saw the tinted security partition between him and the driver, but then this car service might cater mainly to corporate accounts where privacy was paramount. At least he wouldn't have to make idle chit chat with the driver, he thought putting the matter aside. If the university wanted to spend its money on fancy taxis rather than send a grad student in a beat-up Volvo to meet him, who was he to complain? There was a gentle jounce when the driver tossed his bags into the trunk, and another when it thudded shut behind him as Methos settled himself.
The moment they pulled out into the late afternoon traffic he rested his head against the comfortably cushioned seat and stared out the window. How long had it been since he'd been in the area? he mused as he watched the scenery pass by. Sixty, seventy years? No longer, he thought. It was after Butch and Sundance. Right around the time the authorities were hunting down the last of the outlaws. He'd been a ranch hand at one of the big spreads, blending into the crowd. Not that he'd been wanted for anything, he reminded himself sardonically. He'd actually been sent West by his New York publisher to capture the essence of the outlaw lifestyle for a series of penny dreadfuls the man had in mind. Later, he'd drifted south across the border and down into Latin America for a time to visit the rubber plantation he'd once owned in Brazil. After he left here, he thought yawning widely, maybe he'd do the same.
He drifted to sleep with pleasant thoughts of dusky beauties in thin shifts on balmy tropical nights, certain that the driver would wake him when they reached their destination. A while later, how long he couldn't really tell, Methos woke feeling relaxed and refreshed by his nap. Odd, he thought as he peered out the window. The city was no where in sight and they were traveling through the desert as the last of the sunlight was disappearing.
Startled, he sat up straight and considered what to do. No one had actually specified the University in their talks. He'd merely assumed that was who he'd be working for. Then again, no one had bothered to correct that assumption. And that, he chided himself, had been a thoughtless mistake. No doubt he'd been so taken with the prospect of working on "the project" as they called it he hadn't really stopped to think about just who was funding it.
With a frown he knocked determinedly on the partition. "Excuse me, driver, but where are we going?" There was no response and he asked again, but the driver didn't seem to notice. Anxiously, he looked around the dark interior of the car searching for the door handle. Running his hand over the door he was horrified to find that there were no handles or indentations. The other door, of course, was identical and he sat back with a sense of numb dismay.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Methos cursed himself. He should have been more observant when he'd gotten in, but then he probably should have checked more deeply into the nature of the project and who was handling the funding. That he'd been bored with his life and later tired from the flight was no excuse for over confidence and laziness. Damn! He'd been living too easy for too long to have made such an asinine mistake. Maybe MacLeod was right. A little more danger in his life would go a long way toward honing those vaunted survival instincts he was always crowing about.
So, Methos thought, finally leaning back again. What have you gotten yourself into this time? Black marketeers? That seemed most likely, he thought ruefully. Someone wanting a personal find translated, or maybe an authentication before an illegal sale. The skullduggery might be a little overdone in his opinion, but he'd been very cleverly manipulated. Something which hadn't happened in quite some time. He tended to think of academic circles as fairly tame, though some of the fringe elements with which one had to deal were often quite similar to organized crime in their machinations. What the hell had Daniel dragged him into?! he wondered angrily. Still, he hadn't actually spoken to Jackson, so the young man might not even be involved. On the other hand, Jackson had simply up and vanished from academia. But then, that was also fairly common when dealing with fringe theorists. When the grant money ran out they tended to take obscure positions at second rate schools where they could pursue their ideas without the pressure of tenure related publishing. He himself had been offered any number of those kinds of jobs.
All right, he decided calmly, no need to panic. There was nothing he could do about the situation, so there was no point in worrying - at least for the moment. And it wasn't as if he hadn't worked for black marketeers in the past - just not in this century. These days the booming underground trade in ancient artifacts probably led to all sorts of criminal activity. That didn't necessarily mean he was in any danger. Likely, they were just extremely cautious about revealing their operation to a stranger. And from what he'd heard in recent years these modern fellows were mostly non-violent types who tended to be armchair historians with a respect for the professionals. Rumor also had it that they tended to pay excessively well, which generally insured that the professionals they lured into their schemes remained silent. Yes, he could see the naive and oh-so-trusting Daniel accidentally getting involved in this kind of mess, especially if he'd needed the money. And he'd likely thought Adam Pierson, who never published and was always in search of ever more obscure PhDs probably needed the money as well. It would be, on Jackson's part, an act of generosity, albeit utterly misplaced.
At that Methos had to laugh. That would be just typical of Daniel, who never thought beyond the parameters of his own obsession. He doubted the young man had changed much in the ensuing years. No doubt he meant well by proffering Adam's name and credentials to his employers, but he was definitely going to have a few choice words for his so-called friend when he caught up with the little bastard again.
They drove on for perhaps another twenty minutes as dusk turned to darkness until, in the distance, Methos could see the bright glow of a nearby city. At the next exit the driver pulled off the highway and headed for the light. Much relieved, Methos nodded to himself. At least he'd be near civilization. If necessary, he could play along for a bit, maybe even do the translations, then get the hell out.
After another few minutes the car slowed down and Methos peered out the window, mildly confused as to why they were stopping. A moment later he felt his jaw dropping as they pulled into a military guard station and the driver handed over what must have been his orders.
"Bloody hell!" Methos gasped as they were waved through. The American military was funding this?! What the hell could they possibly want with a cache of proto-cuneiform tablets?! If that's even what they are, Methos nodded slowly to himself. Could be they were in need of a little code breaking. That would certainly explain the linguistic oddities he'd seen.
Well, he thought, if that's what they wanted he'd be happy to oblige. It wasn't like he hadn't done that kind of work either. Though he didn't like to brag about it, he'd done his bit for the war effort in the forties working as a cryptographer for British Intelligence. Those had been heady days indeed, when cracking German codes meant ending the war and saving thousands of lives, not to mention the fascinating intellectual aspect of it. This would also explain the duplicitous methods they'd used to get him here. There'd be fairly tight security, but it was highly unlikely anyone would take him out and chop him into tiny little pieces when they were finished with him.
What really surprised him as they headed toward what was obviously a very large installation was the notion that Daniel Jackson might be working here. He'd never seemed the patriotic type. But then, who knew what the military might have offered him. They pulled up in front of a small white washed guest cottage where a young officer with captain's bars stood waiting.
"Welcome to Fort Hwachuka, Dr. Pierson," the captain greeted him as he opened the door and Methos stepped out.
"Bless you," Methos grinned. "Nasty cold you've got, Captain."
The young man gave him a slight smile as if he'd heard the joke a thousand times before. "Thank you, sir, but I was telling you the name of the fort."
"Sorry," he grinned even more broadly, not the least bit apologetic after what they'd put him through. The captain nodded stoically. "I'm Ed Shelby. I'll be your liaison while you're here. How was your trip, sir?"
"Tedious," Methos responded tersely as the driver, who was not in uniform, carried his bags to the cottage and laid them inside the door. There was no point in saying anything about how he'd been lured here under false pretenses. The captain wasn't likely to have been either responsible or knowledgeable about anything related to his hiring. He was just doing his job as he'd been ordered.
"If you'll follow me, I'll show you your quarters," Shelby suggested.
Methos nodded curtly and followed him up the flower lined walk to the door where he was handed a set of keys. "As I said, I'll be your liaison while you're with us," Shelby informed him. "If you need anything just pick up the phone and ask the base operator to page me." Methos opened the door and they stepped inside. "There's a packet over there on the desk," he pointed toward the neat living room as he switched on the hall light. "It contains all the information you need on base security, meal times if choose to go to the mess hall, building locations you're free to visit and the restricted areas you are not. If you need anything in one of the restricted areas you should contact me first. You'll also find an identification badge that you must have on your person at all times outside of your quarters."
Again, Methos nodded. He'd heard this or similar speeches before.
"Are you hungry?" the young man inquired politely. "The kitchen is fully stocked, but if you prefer, I can have sent something sent over."
"You guys have surf & turf?" Methos asked, recalling just how well fed the Americans had been during the war. He'd often eaten at their mess hall whenever he'd been invited, just to avoid the half rations and corn flake extended pseudo-meat to which most of Britain had been reduced.
The captain nodded. "Oh, yeah. Best lobster you'll find in the state, flown in once a week straight from Maine. How do you want your steak?"
"Medium rare."
"Baked potato?"
Methos grinned. "All the trimmings. Beer, too, if you've got it."
"Sir, might I suggest a soft drink, juice or coffee," Shelby said as he gently tried to dissuade him. "You do have a physical in the morning."
Methos raised an eyebrow at that. Any alcohol he might have consumed would have long since been metabolized by his Immortal system. Still, when in Rome... "Coffee's fine," he murmured.
"I'll have it sent over immediately," the captain told him as he headed for the door. "In the morning if you're up to it after your physical, I'll give you the grand tour and then you can join the rest of the project team for breakfast at the mess hall. There'll be a guard stationed outside if you need anything."
Methos thanked the young man, sighing in disgust as he closed the door behind him, recalling the annoyance of getting up every morning at 4 am to get to work. Not that he'd have to here, but they'd be blowing that damned horn for reveille and he'd never been able to sleep through that nonsense in any army. Well, at least he wasn't a prisoner, that was some consolation at any rate. And in the morning he'd get to speak to whoever was in charge and find out why they had approached him in such a clandestine fashion. For now though, he thought, kicking off his shoes as he searched for the shower, he'd be content with this charmingly pleasant cottage, the usual oversized American meal and a decent night's sleep. He'd worry about the little things in the morning.
Go to next part.