Gondolin
Arcane
Fuck Coutts. We need one of the big banks. And we also need to find out who audits the books of Giovanni banks. :D
-
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Let's Play VtM: Night Empire
- Thread starter grotsnik
- Start date
Fuck Coutts. We need one of the big banks. And we also need to find out who audits the books of Giovanni banks. :D
grotsnik
Arcane
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2010
- Messages
- 1,671
I sat behind her at the cricket once, funnily enough. Very small lady.
Hellraiser
Arcane
I'm voting for A) and (P)hone Costello for gossip on the Turcov-Pellmell Queen relationship as well.
What, no love OR hate for my ideas for Team Wistman? 
laclongquan
Arcane
Even if you want to throw it away, you havent found any opportunity yet. It's like worrying about how to sell a bearskin when you dont even have one bear's track in sight, let alone hunt it.
ironyuri
Guest
Coutts was bought out by Royal Bank of Scotland in reality, not sure about grotsnik's chronology/real world crossover. But I imagine the Giovanni in London are predominantly Dunsirn heritage, which could mean that Coutts is owned by a Giovanni run bank (depending on what Scottish banks the Dunsirns are in control of). So I was thinking more of an interesting plot where we'd be working from within a subsidiary bank which is prestigious. It's grotsnik's decision to come up with the institution though not mine :p
Coutts is also cool because, as a private bank which only allows accounts for patrons with over 1,000,000 pounds in liquid assets, it's a bank that is much safer from the swings and roundabouts of hedge funds/modern banking. A much more suitable style of banking for an older Ventrue. Tony is not Gordon Gekko, after all.
Also, Coutts is the bank of Dr. Jekyll of Jekyll & Hyde fame. Definite kindred shit brahahhhh.
Edit- In general, since I was just throwing Coutts out as an idea; many of the more prestigious London banks are now subsidiaries of multinationals.
Royal Bank of Scotland and Halifax Bank of Scotland own a number of British banks (post-2008 financial crisis), I'd imagine if the Dunsirns are our chief Giovanni rivals (not to speak of the number of Italians that have called London home in the past, though Scottish banking is more ubiquitous in Britain) then in one way or another, there are few to no *British* banks we could join the board of that won't have some business connection to a Giovanni interest. RBoS and HBoS are the two biggest players, HBoS merged with Halifax Building Society and was acquired by Lloyds of London, RBoS remains a huge international player, then you've got Clydesdale Bank, for which I can't really speak, but which is a third-tier player in Scots banking.
If we were really getting into it, HSBC (Hangseng Bank of China) would become a rival and it would, in VtM lore probably have kuei-jin ties in one way or another at its upper echelons.
Then there comes all of the interesting plots that we could hunt down the private accounts of trade unions (as corporate entities), or of their leaders (as individual creditors/debtors/investors), and use that to leverage their support for Biggs in future.
The other beauties of Tony being on the board of a prestigious, old, *English* banking house, is that it suits his character.
The three most interesting, old banks, that Tony would probably be interested in would I think be Coutts, Child & Co. and C. Hoare & Co. (the oldest private banking house in England). We have to remember as well that just because these banks are not "famous" in terms of modern multinational banking, their assets are vast and their pockets are deep. These are the banks used by royalty, aristocrats, prime ministers, old money-that is to say, these are the banks for people with *real* power and wealth.
laclongquan
Arcane
I feel better about A already. Not that I would change from my course, but A is not too bad in term of story.
Gondolin
Arcane
Tony is no Gordon Gekko, but he isn't a baker either. What he wants is money, preferably lots of it, in a short time. The mithraeum rebuilding and/or fortification isn't going to come cheap.
ironyuri
Guest
I should dig up some books on campus, but just from wikipedia, C. Hoare & co. is still owned by its original founders and has an illustrious clientele, as well as some illustrious owners:
"
During the 18th century the bank prospered. Richard Hoare was knighted by Queen Anne in 1702 and became Lord Mayor of London in 1712.[6] After Richard's death, two of his sons (Henry, known as "Henry The Good", and Benjamin)[7] continued the business but it was Richard's grandson, Henry Hoare, who dominated the family through his wealth and personal charisma.[8] Henry was a partner for nearly 60 years: his nickname, "Henry The Magnificent", derived in part from his influence as a great patron of the Arts, but more particularly because he laid out the gardens at Stourhead in Wiltshire, an estate bought by his father.[9] The gardens were admired as a showplace[10] and, although there was no record of him carrying out work there, Capability Brown, the renowned landscape gardener, was familiar with the garden.[4] Messrs. Hoare gradually introduced all aspects of banking and, in particular, printed cheques were issued.[11]
Famous customers of the 18th century:
Lord North (Prime Minister)[12]
David Garrick (actor)[13]
Eton College[4]"
Edit-Sorry if I'm getting ahead of myself, bros. This banking stuff is getting me all excited for some reason.
Nah, the stuff's great. I'd like to get my hands on Coutt's, personally.
ironyuri
Guest
I'm worried grotsnik may already have had something in mind and I don't want to spoil it, by being precocious.
Gondolin
Arcane
Hellraiser
Arcane
Bro HSBC is short for "Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation", also it's a British bank founded by a Scotsman in the mid 19th century. It moved its HQ from Honkkong to London shortly before the commies got Hongkong back. So it doesn't make much sense for it to be a Kuei-jin bank.
Hellraiser
Arcane
Bro, Storyfag made Stanczyk a malkavian in his LP. Go read up the wikipedia entry on Stanczyk:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stańczyk
I shat bricks.
Random Word
Arbiter
- Joined
- Mar 14, 2012
- Messages
- 320
What, no love OR hate for my ideas for Team Wistman?
Retasking Wistman for personal security will immediately reveal their existence to everyone who cares to know. While true that no one would suspect us of foul play simply for having highly trained ghouls, it would make it rather difficult to use them for anything other than personal security in the future. Essentially, it's a permanent solution to a problem we don't have yet, and perhaps needlessly removes options that may yet prove useful.
SCO
Arcane
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2009
- Messages
- 16,320
Nigga, please.
Of course, it's all bullshit when looked at with attention
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Buchanan
fuk you wikipedia.
grotsnik
Arcane
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2010
- Messages
- 1,671
It's a good time right now for Anthony to get into London banking.
The only real problem with RBS as a Dunsirn institution is its 2008 collapse/subsequent rescue package, placing it firmly in the hands of the government. I refuse to believe a Giovanni would be so incompetent. Unless it's part of a larger plan...
The only real problem with RBS as a Dunsirn institution is its 2008 collapse/subsequent rescue package, placing it firmly in the hands of the government. I refuse to believe a Giovanni would be so incompetent. Unless it's part of a larger plan...
ironyuri
Guest
Woops, Hang Seng Bank of China was acquired by HSBC, by the looks of it. I've been mistaking one for the other for a while now :p The signage for the two seemed to be inter-changeable in Hong Kong. My derp.
That's very true, grotbro. Although, if the newspapers are to be believed and the banking crisis was the work of rogue hedge funders (trololol), perhaps it might have been an unforseen circumstance of modern capital. I like the idea that even forward thinking kindred (centuries forward) would not be able to predict, ameliorate or prevent the crashes and crises which are native to capitalism... although I'm sure whoever got the blame for it might now be undead in some crypt somewhere.
RBS is probably not the best way to go, because of the government intervention, there's always Lloyds HBOS, though.
I think more than anything I was afraid we'd get to sit on the board of Tesco Bank or Virgin Money Ltd., distasteful options if there ever have been. :monocle shatter:
laclongquan
Arcane
Isnt that obvious? It's a resource of other clans/barons, but Anthony arranged for its public control to no longer in the hand of the original owners and public in the hands of government. And who got Kine politicians in his bag, especially London Kines? Now he can manipulate the bank through his puppets. It's a perfect Ventrue plot, I tell ya.
ironyuri
Guest
Let's just say fuck it to this whole Prince campaign. Let's get rich. Greed is good.
The beauty of a kindred banking wizard is that Sommers, as long as no other kindred interfere could spend centuries, if not millenia accumulating capital.
Let's leave kindred politics behind and become the ur-Jew. Sommers need never pass his wealth or company on to progeny, he need never suffer the problems of Rupert Murdoch's incompetent son, he can never be indicted for embezzlement or fraudulent practice (he can just dominate any investigators). Sommers could become the world's banker, like the Rothschilds, only... he would be eternal.
Let's do this shit. This LP is now about Sommers' stock portfolio. I say buy low, sell high.
CAPITALIST POWER FANTASY ENGAGE!
Wait for it... wait for it...
I guess you could say we need to .... diversify our *blood* bonds!
The beauty of a kindred banking wizard is that Sommers, as long as no other kindred interfere could spend centuries, if not millenia accumulating capital.
Let's leave kindred politics behind and become the ur-Jew. Sommers need never pass his wealth or company on to progeny, he need never suffer the problems of Rupert Murdoch's incompetent son, he can never be indicted for embezzlement or fraudulent practice (he can just dominate any investigators). Sommers could become the world's banker, like the Rothschilds, only... he would be eternal.
Let's do this shit. This LP is now about Sommers' stock portfolio. I say buy low, sell high.
CAPITALIST POWER FANTASY ENGAGE!
Wait for it... wait for it...
I guess you could say we need to .... diversify our *blood* bonds!
grotsnik
Arcane
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2010
- Messages
- 1,671
Well, since that was a pretty definitive victory for A, I just went ahead with the next chapter.
Chapter 5 - Reflections
You’re beginning to feel as if you’ve passed down into a different level of hell.
The short, black-haired lady with golden hoop earrings and a black bandage dress seems to think you know who she is, because she keeps leaning across the table, touching you on the arm, and telling you intently about ‘life in the recording studio’, ‘Daddy’s friends in television’, and ‘dear Mark, dear Amy’.
“Ah,” you tell her, and “Well, obviously.”
At the front of the room, a burly gorilla in a dinner jacket, introduced as a legend of English rugby, spends the evening yelling about the repellent, hodge-podge works of art, lacking, as Fellowes might say, any sense or any perspective, which are brought out onto the stage at intervals. The assembled rich and famous, yodelling drunkenly and jabbing their hands in the air from their tables, vie to outbid each other for the paintings. It’s hard to say if they’re competing to be the most charitable person at the ball, or if they simply want to prove decisively that money is of little concern to them.
It’s not an unpleasant experience, exactly; it’s simply that every time somebody opens their mouth you have the distinct urge to tear off your silly bow tie and start slashing out every throat in the place.
The black-haired lady touches you on the arm again and says,
“You know, Anthony, sweetie, if you’re not seeing anyone at the moment, Gloria’s just got a divorce. You’ve met Gloria, haven’t you? Her husband ran off with Heather Mills - but I mustn’t gossip, the thing is, she's ever so lovely, and I think the two of you would just hit it off. Sammy, don’t you think Gloria would be just right for Anthony?”
The lady’s husband slurps his champagne and gives you what he probably imagines is a confiding wink.
“Gloria’s a fine bit of totty,” he says. “I say go for it, Tony. Tell you what, I’m doing a shoot up at the estate next weekend; why don’t you come? The girls will be joining us on the final night for a partridge dinner-”
“-don’t be silly, darling, you know you won’t have bagged a single bird, you’ll have to order in something from the Fat Duck-”
“-Lills can invite Gloria, and we’ll, uh, get the two of you talking. Well - how about it?”
A hand, to your immense relief, lands on your shoulder.
“Humpy!” Lills cries, with every sign of delight.
“Hello, my dear,” Trentbridge says. “Do you...er...mind if I take Mr Sommers off your hands for a moment? Business, business, business. There’s no remedy.”
*
Trentbridge looks comfortable, you realise, as he draws you off towards the buffet; even elegant, in a grey, jowly sort of way, in his dinner jacket. You’ve always managed to frighten him with hints of your world; now he’s drawn you into his.
“They adore you,” he tells you with undisguised glee, and begins to help himself to the prawns. “My dear fellow, they adore you. We’ll get the paperwork done next week, sort out some kind of offshore salary arrangement, but...well, you’ve got presence, Patrician, you’ve got real presence.”
“Humphrey,” you reply, turning back to survey the room, “they’re a bunch of clowns.”
“Oh, come now, you’re being a little hard! I thought you were getting along splendidly with Jeremy.”
“That little man with the toupee? I spent ten minutes explaining to him how the bank could cover its tracks better when it comes to ITT Defense investment, and he started telling me about his new set of golf clubs instead.”
“It was a hook. He probably wanted to see how much you knew about golf - you see, he only invites chaps to his tournament that he thinks he can beat. Anyway, he said he thought you were a hell of a find. And Stephen called you a ‘must-have’. Any of the American investors kick up a fuss about you, you’ll be glad to have him on your side."
“Stephen,” you snap back, “is too drunk to stand.”
“Much of this game,” Trentbridge replies, discreetly, “is conducted sitting down. Anyway, I also wanted to tell you...that newspaper column, ahm, er...”
“Mandrake?”
“Yes! Damnedest thing. Apparently this particular piece wasn’t written by any of the regular hacks. Now, Jim seemed to think it must have been put together by an intern - last minute job, you know, to fill up space - but I took Martin for lunch and he said it’d come down from on high, editor himself asked for it to be included.”
That, you think, is not good news.
“All right,” you say. “So what does that mean? The editor wrote it?”
Trentbridge shrugs.
“Could be,” he replies, “could be. Or a pal of one of the owners, wanting to stay anonymous...I’m still putting tendrils out there. I just thought I should keep you up to speed, old boy.”
His cocktail stick stabs down onto the plate, three times in succession, impaling a single prawn on the third attempt.
*
It takes you four calls to get through to Costello, but the night is surprisingly mild, you’ve found a good secluded spot in amongst the colonnades, and you’re damned if you’re going back inside to have chinless morons invite you to their social events.
“Patrician,” she says, when she finally picks up. “I am sorry - I’ve just had a few good friends over tonight for a meeting of minds.”
“Funny,” you reply, “I’m at one of those myself. The Pell-Mell Queen. She knows Turcov, doesn’t she?”
A throaty chuckle.
“You don’t know about that? I thought everyone knew.”
You wait, patiently, for her to continue.
“Oh, you’re no fun, Patrician. Russia, New Year, 1917. Right before the February Revolution kicked off - as far as the Tsarina knew, her darling Rasputin was dead, and the bitch was panicking. Where was her spiritual guide, her prophet, her miracle-man? Now, Turcov’s sire, one of the old-school nobility, he could get word to Nicholas, and Turcov had seen the Queen performing...she led a travelling circus in those days, you see. Turcov spent time with her, saw her act, thought he’d make a deal with her. Together they cooked up the idea that the Queen could ‘speak’ to Catherine the Great, give Alexandra advice, praise her reign...fill a space, replace the Fury, as it were, in the Tsarina’s affections, and push Turcov and his sire closer to the top.”
“I’m guessing it didn’t pan out that way,” you murmur. Pushing yourself up out of the alcove, you step out onto the pavement and begin to pace.
“Yah,” Costello says. “You don’t trust fucking Malks to do as they’re told. Turcov learnt that the hard way. Queen turns up at the palace, bows, makes nice with the gathered nobility, her jugglers and acrobats wowing them all...and, finally, it’s time for the big act. The Queen goes into a trance, quivering, moaning...and she picks up someone. Not Catherine, though. If the story’s right, she finds none other than Ivan Vasilyevich himself, because she starts howling, cursing the Tsar and the Tsarina for bringing mighty Russia to the brink of collapse, prophesising their deaths and laughing about it...”
“Bloody hell.”
“You can imagine how it turned out. The Queen fled that night, and Turcov’s sire sent him out to Paris until the heat died down. And after that, of course, there was no going back.”
You frown. Across the street, perched in the eaves above an old cigar shop, stands a small, black security camera. You could have sworn, merely for a second, that as you paced, it turned to follow you.
Quickly, ducking back behind the colonnades, you pass around the corner of the building, into the alleyway where the bins are kept, and out of sight.
“In the event,” Costello tells you, “the Queen saved Turcov’s life. His sire died the night the Winter Palace fell. Still, if they do meet while she's in town, I'd love you to film the expression on his face. Look - was that all, Patrician? It sounds like two of my little darlings are getting all het-up about the significance of the Fisher King in Eliot. You know how it is.”
“That was all, Costello. Thank you - enjoy your evening.”
You lower the phone, sigh, gaze upwards towards the night sky - and blink, in bewilderment.
A man is crouched on the guttering of the roof on the other side of the alleyway, staring down at you. He’s young-ish, with swept-back blonde hair, and he’s dressed in a fine suit that seems at odds with his current position. It takes you another second to realise you’re looking at your own reflection.
The vision shifts; and suddenly the face before you is no longer your own, but the familiar and rather less pleasant face of Mr Cripps.
“No-one followed,” he growls.
“That’s because they’re not following me,” you reply. “Not on the street, at least. Call the driver and tell him to come around to the back entrance - and check for cameras. If you find one, smash the bloody thing.”
Cripps nods, and goes.
*
“Home, sir?” the driver asks, politely, through the intercom.
You read the text message again.
Turcov called. Wanted me to come to Berkeley Square, trouble with the envoy. Sabbat?
EF
“No,” you answer, with a certain weariness, “no, not home.”
*
Two ambulance men are sharing a cigarette outside the apartment block as you arrive. Their eyes follow you as you glance up the steps towards the thick double doors which stand open, bent back upon broken hinges.
In your best innocent’s voice, running a hand through your hair, you approach them and ask,
“Crikey, I, er, live up here - is everything all right? Gosh, there, there hasn’t been a burglary, has there?”
They grin. One of them says,
“‘S all right, Patrician. Don’t you remember me? Freddie Boulton. Used to work for Sammy Eames.”
You cannot recall the ghoul for the life of you; nevertheless, you shake his hand.
“Of course,” you tell him. “I didn’t recognise you for a second, Freddie; good to see you. Do you know what happened up there?”
“Nobody tells me nothing,” Boulton says, with a slight sneer. “Mr Turcov called me, said to be ready for a couple bodies to go to the crematorium. I ain’t got a clue besides that.”
You shift your weight; broken glass, presumably from one of the highest windows, clinks beneath your foot.
*
The doorway into the penthouse flat, five storeys up, is blackened and maimed; scabs of plaster hang from the ruined walls and line the floor.
“It’s quite all right,” Iacomo is insisting as you step in through the shattered threshold. “The trap at the door caught one of them, and my ghouls finished the other one off. I asked for a few men to dispose of the bodies, Turcov, not for the whole of the London Camarilla to crowd in and start fussing like mother hens.”
Turcov, bent over the two grey body bags lying side-by-side on the apartment floor, glances up, but does not seem at all surprised to see you here.
The Archon, sitting coolly with one leg over another on the, surprisingly, undamaged sofa, acknowledges you by raising the glass of vitae held in one hand, and continues,
“I mean, obviously I’m delighted that individuals such as yourself and Mr Sommers have such a selfless concern for my safety, but the idea that I could not deal with a couple of reckless hunters myself, even in the daytime, well, it’s...”
Turcov lifts something out from the lining of the body-bag, and holds it up to the light. A simple string necklace, with a Tau cross, reddened with gore, dangling upon the end.
“Society of Leopold,” Iacomo snarls. “Idiots haven’t laid a finger on me in a century, and yet they persist, like lemmings. I suppose they followed me across the Channel. Well, I shall have to take a little time out of my schedule to track them down. In the meantime, Turcov, I will require new lodgings.”
“The Palace at Knightsbridge,” Turcov says, getting to his feet, “is unoccupied. You would be far safer-”
The Archon waves a hand, dismissively, and snaps,
“Don’t be a fool, man. If I set up in the Palace, they’ll start whispering I mean to take London for myself. No, somewhere quiet.”
Turcov responds,
“Archon, as long as you are in London, your safety is our responsibility and our priority. If something were, through freak mischance, to happen to you, our beleaguered city would have lost what little honour it has left - you agree, don’t you, Anthony?”
“Of course,” you say, meeting his gaze. What the hell, you wonder, is the old devil up to this time?
“Yes, yes,” says Iacomo, “you’re all absolutely overjoyed that I’ve come along to babysit you, and you say prayers for my eternal soul every dawn before you go to bed. I don’t give a fig for this lip-service, Turcov. If you want to help, find out where these fanatics are hiding for me.”
“Naturally,” Turcov says, wringing his hands, “but in the meantime, Archon, I insist that we strengthen your entourage in case these devils try again. The Sheriff can be here for your protection, of course, while I myself have several ghouls who would be a valuable asset in protecting you during the day, and some of the other barons would gladly contribute to your household until these scum are eliminated. For instance, Anthony - Anthony, my friend, what’s the name of that Toreador bodyguard of yours?”
Ah. Of course.
“Edgar Fellowes,” you reply, unwillingly.
“That’s right, Fellowes. Very discreet chap, Archon, and a damned good shot. I saw him fighting myself, when we attacked a Sabbat base in Deptford last year. He’d be useful to have around - and once you find out where these rats are cowering, he’d be well-suited to help co-ordinate the assault." He beams at you "Well, Anthony - what do you say?”
A) Offer Iacomo Fellowes’ services. You can hardly refuse - and besides, if Turcov realises Fellowes is not with you in London, he might be tempted to try and find out exactly where he is...
B) Refuse; make up an excuse, or laugh it off by suggesting that Iacomo is more than capable of looking after himself. You can’t fall into Turcov’s trap.
C) Raise the stakes; offer Iacomo the ghoul squad.
D) Refuse, but offer Iacomo Mr Cripps instead. You don’t want to give him nothing, after all.
E) Suggest instead that Iacomo stays at Witanhurst for the time being (you, obviously, would have to move out so as to avoid a conflict of interests). It’d certainly be a grand gesture, so long as you’re comfortable with the other barons’ minions being present, unsupervised, in your home...
Chapter 5 - Reflections
You’re beginning to feel as if you’ve passed down into a different level of hell.
The short, black-haired lady with golden hoop earrings and a black bandage dress seems to think you know who she is, because she keeps leaning across the table, touching you on the arm, and telling you intently about ‘life in the recording studio’, ‘Daddy’s friends in television’, and ‘dear Mark, dear Amy’.
“Ah,” you tell her, and “Well, obviously.”
At the front of the room, a burly gorilla in a dinner jacket, introduced as a legend of English rugby, spends the evening yelling about the repellent, hodge-podge works of art, lacking, as Fellowes might say, any sense or any perspective, which are brought out onto the stage at intervals. The assembled rich and famous, yodelling drunkenly and jabbing their hands in the air from their tables, vie to outbid each other for the paintings. It’s hard to say if they’re competing to be the most charitable person at the ball, or if they simply want to prove decisively that money is of little concern to them.
It’s not an unpleasant experience, exactly; it’s simply that every time somebody opens their mouth you have the distinct urge to tear off your silly bow tie and start slashing out every throat in the place.
The black-haired lady touches you on the arm again and says,
“You know, Anthony, sweetie, if you’re not seeing anyone at the moment, Gloria’s just got a divorce. You’ve met Gloria, haven’t you? Her husband ran off with Heather Mills - but I mustn’t gossip, the thing is, she's ever so lovely, and I think the two of you would just hit it off. Sammy, don’t you think Gloria would be just right for Anthony?”
The lady’s husband slurps his champagne and gives you what he probably imagines is a confiding wink.
“Gloria’s a fine bit of totty,” he says. “I say go for it, Tony. Tell you what, I’m doing a shoot up at the estate next weekend; why don’t you come? The girls will be joining us on the final night for a partridge dinner-”
“-don’t be silly, darling, you know you won’t have bagged a single bird, you’ll have to order in something from the Fat Duck-”
“-Lills can invite Gloria, and we’ll, uh, get the two of you talking. Well - how about it?”
A hand, to your immense relief, lands on your shoulder.
“Humpy!” Lills cries, with every sign of delight.
“Hello, my dear,” Trentbridge says. “Do you...er...mind if I take Mr Sommers off your hands for a moment? Business, business, business. There’s no remedy.”
*
Trentbridge looks comfortable, you realise, as he draws you off towards the buffet; even elegant, in a grey, jowly sort of way, in his dinner jacket. You’ve always managed to frighten him with hints of your world; now he’s drawn you into his.
“They adore you,” he tells you with undisguised glee, and begins to help himself to the prawns. “My dear fellow, they adore you. We’ll get the paperwork done next week, sort out some kind of offshore salary arrangement, but...well, you’ve got presence, Patrician, you’ve got real presence.”
“Humphrey,” you reply, turning back to survey the room, “they’re a bunch of clowns.”
“Oh, come now, you’re being a little hard! I thought you were getting along splendidly with Jeremy.”
“That little man with the toupee? I spent ten minutes explaining to him how the bank could cover its tracks better when it comes to ITT Defense investment, and he started telling me about his new set of golf clubs instead.”
“It was a hook. He probably wanted to see how much you knew about golf - you see, he only invites chaps to his tournament that he thinks he can beat. Anyway, he said he thought you were a hell of a find. And Stephen called you a ‘must-have’. Any of the American investors kick up a fuss about you, you’ll be glad to have him on your side."
“Stephen,” you snap back, “is too drunk to stand.”
“Much of this game,” Trentbridge replies, discreetly, “is conducted sitting down. Anyway, I also wanted to tell you...that newspaper column, ahm, er...”
“Mandrake?”
“Yes! Damnedest thing. Apparently this particular piece wasn’t written by any of the regular hacks. Now, Jim seemed to think it must have been put together by an intern - last minute job, you know, to fill up space - but I took Martin for lunch and he said it’d come down from on high, editor himself asked for it to be included.”
That, you think, is not good news.
“All right,” you say. “So what does that mean? The editor wrote it?”
Trentbridge shrugs.
“Could be,” he replies, “could be. Or a pal of one of the owners, wanting to stay anonymous...I’m still putting tendrils out there. I just thought I should keep you up to speed, old boy.”
His cocktail stick stabs down onto the plate, three times in succession, impaling a single prawn on the third attempt.
*
It takes you four calls to get through to Costello, but the night is surprisingly mild, you’ve found a good secluded spot in amongst the colonnades, and you’re damned if you’re going back inside to have chinless morons invite you to their social events.
“Patrician,” she says, when she finally picks up. “I am sorry - I’ve just had a few good friends over tonight for a meeting of minds.”
“Funny,” you reply, “I’m at one of those myself. The Pell-Mell Queen. She knows Turcov, doesn’t she?”
A throaty chuckle.
“You don’t know about that? I thought everyone knew.”
You wait, patiently, for her to continue.
“Oh, you’re no fun, Patrician. Russia, New Year, 1917. Right before the February Revolution kicked off - as far as the Tsarina knew, her darling Rasputin was dead, and the bitch was panicking. Where was her spiritual guide, her prophet, her miracle-man? Now, Turcov’s sire, one of the old-school nobility, he could get word to Nicholas, and Turcov had seen the Queen performing...she led a travelling circus in those days, you see. Turcov spent time with her, saw her act, thought he’d make a deal with her. Together they cooked up the idea that the Queen could ‘speak’ to Catherine the Great, give Alexandra advice, praise her reign...fill a space, replace the Fury, as it were, in the Tsarina’s affections, and push Turcov and his sire closer to the top.”
“I’m guessing it didn’t pan out that way,” you murmur. Pushing yourself up out of the alcove, you step out onto the pavement and begin to pace.
“Yah,” Costello says. “You don’t trust fucking Malks to do as they’re told. Turcov learnt that the hard way. Queen turns up at the palace, bows, makes nice with the gathered nobility, her jugglers and acrobats wowing them all...and, finally, it’s time for the big act. The Queen goes into a trance, quivering, moaning...and she picks up someone. Not Catherine, though. If the story’s right, she finds none other than Ivan Vasilyevich himself, because she starts howling, cursing the Tsar and the Tsarina for bringing mighty Russia to the brink of collapse, prophesising their deaths and laughing about it...”
“Bloody hell.”
“You can imagine how it turned out. The Queen fled that night, and Turcov’s sire sent him out to Paris until the heat died down. And after that, of course, there was no going back.”
You frown. Across the street, perched in the eaves above an old cigar shop, stands a small, black security camera. You could have sworn, merely for a second, that as you paced, it turned to follow you.
Quickly, ducking back behind the colonnades, you pass around the corner of the building, into the alleyway where the bins are kept, and out of sight.
“In the event,” Costello tells you, “the Queen saved Turcov’s life. His sire died the night the Winter Palace fell. Still, if they do meet while she's in town, I'd love you to film the expression on his face. Look - was that all, Patrician? It sounds like two of my little darlings are getting all het-up about the significance of the Fisher King in Eliot. You know how it is.”
“That was all, Costello. Thank you - enjoy your evening.”
You lower the phone, sigh, gaze upwards towards the night sky - and blink, in bewilderment.
A man is crouched on the guttering of the roof on the other side of the alleyway, staring down at you. He’s young-ish, with swept-back blonde hair, and he’s dressed in a fine suit that seems at odds with his current position. It takes you another second to realise you’re looking at your own reflection.
The vision shifts; and suddenly the face before you is no longer your own, but the familiar and rather less pleasant face of Mr Cripps.
“No-one followed,” he growls.
“That’s because they’re not following me,” you reply. “Not on the street, at least. Call the driver and tell him to come around to the back entrance - and check for cameras. If you find one, smash the bloody thing.”
Cripps nods, and goes.
*
“Home, sir?” the driver asks, politely, through the intercom.
You read the text message again.
Turcov called. Wanted me to come to Berkeley Square, trouble with the envoy. Sabbat?
EF
“No,” you answer, with a certain weariness, “no, not home.”
*
Two ambulance men are sharing a cigarette outside the apartment block as you arrive. Their eyes follow you as you glance up the steps towards the thick double doors which stand open, bent back upon broken hinges.
In your best innocent’s voice, running a hand through your hair, you approach them and ask,
“Crikey, I, er, live up here - is everything all right? Gosh, there, there hasn’t been a burglary, has there?”
They grin. One of them says,
“‘S all right, Patrician. Don’t you remember me? Freddie Boulton. Used to work for Sammy Eames.”
You cannot recall the ghoul for the life of you; nevertheless, you shake his hand.
“Of course,” you tell him. “I didn’t recognise you for a second, Freddie; good to see you. Do you know what happened up there?”
“Nobody tells me nothing,” Boulton says, with a slight sneer. “Mr Turcov called me, said to be ready for a couple bodies to go to the crematorium. I ain’t got a clue besides that.”
You shift your weight; broken glass, presumably from one of the highest windows, clinks beneath your foot.
*
The doorway into the penthouse flat, five storeys up, is blackened and maimed; scabs of plaster hang from the ruined walls and line the floor.
“It’s quite all right,” Iacomo is insisting as you step in through the shattered threshold. “The trap at the door caught one of them, and my ghouls finished the other one off. I asked for a few men to dispose of the bodies, Turcov, not for the whole of the London Camarilla to crowd in and start fussing like mother hens.”
Turcov, bent over the two grey body bags lying side-by-side on the apartment floor, glances up, but does not seem at all surprised to see you here.
The Archon, sitting coolly with one leg over another on the, surprisingly, undamaged sofa, acknowledges you by raising the glass of vitae held in one hand, and continues,
“I mean, obviously I’m delighted that individuals such as yourself and Mr Sommers have such a selfless concern for my safety, but the idea that I could not deal with a couple of reckless hunters myself, even in the daytime, well, it’s...”
Turcov lifts something out from the lining of the body-bag, and holds it up to the light. A simple string necklace, with a Tau cross, reddened with gore, dangling upon the end.
“Society of Leopold,” Iacomo snarls. “Idiots haven’t laid a finger on me in a century, and yet they persist, like lemmings. I suppose they followed me across the Channel. Well, I shall have to take a little time out of my schedule to track them down. In the meantime, Turcov, I will require new lodgings.”
“The Palace at Knightsbridge,” Turcov says, getting to his feet, “is unoccupied. You would be far safer-”
The Archon waves a hand, dismissively, and snaps,
“Don’t be a fool, man. If I set up in the Palace, they’ll start whispering I mean to take London for myself. No, somewhere quiet.”
Turcov responds,
“Archon, as long as you are in London, your safety is our responsibility and our priority. If something were, through freak mischance, to happen to you, our beleaguered city would have lost what little honour it has left - you agree, don’t you, Anthony?”
“Of course,” you say, meeting his gaze. What the hell, you wonder, is the old devil up to this time?
“Yes, yes,” says Iacomo, “you’re all absolutely overjoyed that I’ve come along to babysit you, and you say prayers for my eternal soul every dawn before you go to bed. I don’t give a fig for this lip-service, Turcov. If you want to help, find out where these fanatics are hiding for me.”
“Naturally,” Turcov says, wringing his hands, “but in the meantime, Archon, I insist that we strengthen your entourage in case these devils try again. The Sheriff can be here for your protection, of course, while I myself have several ghouls who would be a valuable asset in protecting you during the day, and some of the other barons would gladly contribute to your household until these scum are eliminated. For instance, Anthony - Anthony, my friend, what’s the name of that Toreador bodyguard of yours?”
Ah. Of course.
“Edgar Fellowes,” you reply, unwillingly.
“That’s right, Fellowes. Very discreet chap, Archon, and a damned good shot. I saw him fighting myself, when we attacked a Sabbat base in Deptford last year. He’d be useful to have around - and once you find out where these rats are cowering, he’d be well-suited to help co-ordinate the assault." He beams at you "Well, Anthony - what do you say?”
A) Offer Iacomo Fellowes’ services. You can hardly refuse - and besides, if Turcov realises Fellowes is not with you in London, he might be tempted to try and find out exactly where he is...
B) Refuse; make up an excuse, or laugh it off by suggesting that Iacomo is more than capable of looking after himself. You can’t fall into Turcov’s trap.
C) Raise the stakes; offer Iacomo the ghoul squad.
D) Refuse, but offer Iacomo Mr Cripps instead. You don’t want to give him nothing, after all.
E) Suggest instead that Iacomo stays at Witanhurst for the time being (you, obviously, would have to move out so as to avoid a conflict of interests). It’d certainly be a grand gesture, so long as you’re comfortable with the other barons’ minions being present, unsupervised, in your home...
laclongquan
Arcane
Hmmmmm
"It grieve me to correct my esteemed fellow baron, but I do think my lord Envoy can take care of the matter yourself. I myself have little resource and Mister Fellowes is currently hunting Sabbat right at this moment. I beg my lords' pardon, for they are pressing London heavily. I cant afford to have him sitting around wait for their strike when he can be much better use otherwise."
"Turcov, may I entrust my lord Envoy's care into your extremely capable hands?"
I dont think bowing to Turcov's idea is a good one in anyway (offering Eddie/Cripss/ghoulsquad). It means we are reacting to his idea. Best to deflect entirely. let see how he like his apple now. Beside, with they are together, we know exactly where to find them in the event of an embarassingly kine attack/assassination. Gosh, Turcov, what kind of care are you taking of the Envoy?
Offering your own residence is ridiculous. It mean he and his entourage has the full access to your home. even if he means you no harm, his troop is another matter. You cant trust they will hold your secrets from other barons.
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I'd like to go with a variant of C, offer to track and kill the hunters with our ghoul squad and kine information network. We might not even need to reveal what they are exactly, rather just allude to us having assets capable of dealing a blow to the Society. It'd up the stakes, show Iacomo that we took what he said about helping the Camarilla seriously, and if we are successful it will go a long way to ensuring our continued occupation of Witanhurst. Of course, it'd put a foot in any plans we have about using the squad as an assassination tool against rival barons, but as they are, really, they're going to waste.
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