(Mason spends a point of Notice as he walks the private ballroom.)
After a walk through the room, Mason's got faces, gear and probable nationalities on about two dozen bodyguards in the room - nothing that pings his bullshit alarm, though there is quite the visual spectrum from overpaid bouncers to valets who happen to know Krav Maga. Taking after the radio chatter, Mason takes the opportunity to check out the KMar operatives in the room, all of whom look like they're legit. HOWEVER, Mason does notice
a guy in a suit in a corner who seems to be blind-texting on a flip-phone. One, not a part of any dignitary's entourage. Two, cut of the suit does match the people who Mason's pegged as palace security from the checkpoint earlier. Three, flip-phone, really? Mason's look keeps sweeping - don't want to be caught staring - and it seems the suit doesn't notice the scan. Mason can see him close the phone and then walk away to a backstage door, covertly dumping the phone into a trash bin on the way.
Mason waits an appropriate 15-20 seconds, then cruises on by and plucks the phone off the top of the discarded hors d'oeuvre plates. Nonchalantly, he cruises into a hallway and ducks into a quiet corner. Unfortunate food touches aside, the phone appears almost pristine, insofar as cheap flipphones have ever been pristine. However, on closer inspection, it's missing the back cover and battery as well as its SIM card. Covert Ops 101, but impressive sleight of hand that the Suit was able to do this without obviously manhandling the phone.
(Mason's test vs Preparedness to have Laith waiting in a van outside.)
The call to the van goes through after a few seconds, with Laith's unmistakable chipper tone at the other end. "Dominic's Pizza, we bake 24/7. Can I take your order?"
"Yeah, I want an extra large pepperoni with a side order of a SMS dump from this cell phone," Mason says, sending an image of the manufacturer ID sticker inside the burner phone.
"Gotcha," Laith says. "I'll have it for you in a few minutes. Enjoy the party."
After Laith signs off for the moment, Mason finds himself with company -
one of the dignitary escorts approaches with a smile.
"Excuse me," he says, with that I'm-so-embarrassed-to-have-any-accent-whatsoever Nordic English sound - Mason's got him pegged for part of the Swedish delegation. "Do you know where the toilets are?"
"Sure," Mason says, gesturing with his thumb behind him. "Just down the hallway."
"Oh", the Swede says. "Have you been here before?"
"No, there's just a sign," Mason replies with a smirk.
"Hmm," the Swede says. "Did you see anything else I should know?"
"Meaning?"
The Swede's smile lessens a bit. "I saw you at the trash can."
"Squirrelly French-looking guy dropped this," Mason says. "Pulled the SIM, though, so if you want a paperweight..."
The remains of the Swede's smile disappear. "I think we should continue this conversation with security."
"Whose, yours or ours?"
"Our hosts, naturally," the Swede says. "I think everyone would appreciate it if we both calmly walk to the security team and inform them of what's going on. I'm sure we can clear things up then."
"Why don't we just call them to the ballroom floor so neither of us leaves our posts?" Mason asks, keeping his polite smile as he reaches for the door back to the ballroom.
"That is acceptable," the Swede says. "Please go ahead, and would you do me a favor and keep your hands where I can see them."
"Thought you Swedes were supposed to be nice," Mason says as he heads back on the ballroom floor. "Mind paging palace security? Got a bogey to share."
"Oh, I am being very nice," the Swede says.
Back in the ballroom, the Swede flags down one of the wandering palace security suits while Caroline - appropriately suspicious of his new company - falls in a few paces behind Mason, keeping a two-pace distance as the others congregate in a quieter corner.
"Yes, what is the problem?" security guy asks.
"This phone was discarded in a trash bin," the Swede explains. "My...colleague from the American team found it. If you could please inform your director of the situation?"
The palace guard looks both Mason and the Swede over, then gets on his earpiece in Dutch. "Number 017 from Saturn area. We have a suspicious device discovered by guests. Please send a team." He turns back to you. "We will take care of it," he says. "Can you give me any other information on how you found this?"
"Black hair, nice suit," Mason said. "Looked French. Went down that hallway." Mason nods towards the hallway the mystery guest went down.
"That hallway is not open," the security guard says. "Are you quite sure this is where he went?"
"Considering I saw him go in there, you might want to check your locks," Mason replies.
"Yes, thank you for your observation," the security guard says, then gets back on the earpiece. "Number 017, I need a camera check on Saturn-Eduard." A moment passes, and the guard's expression darkens. "Understood." He turns back to Mason and the Swede. "We will take all further precautions and determine necessary measures. For now, please return to your posts and be ready to follow all instructions from our security team." He holds out his hand to Mason. "The device, please," he says.
"Knock yourselves out," Mason says, handing it over.
The guard nods as the takes the phone, then wanders to one of the doors, where two more guards arrive just in the nick of time. He hands over the phone to them - dropped straight into a shiny foil bag - and gives them a terse briefing, then the two disappear the way they came, presumably headed backstage to examine the phone.
"I'll inform Mace," Caroline says, then walks off, leaving Mason alone with the Swede.
"Good catch," the Swede says, but makes no attempt to leave Mason alone.
Mason ignores him and pulls out his burner for Hesselink.
Alert - thinning black hair, French appearance, unshaven, nice black suit
"Shouldn't you be briefing your colleagues right now?" the Swede asks, having grown - if anything - more suspicious of Mason.
"Just did," Mason replies. "Shouldn't you be?"
The Swede snorts. "I'm watching you," he says, but seeing how Mason isn't betraying anything, he finally turns away and wanders off, though not without throwing a glare over his shoulder.
I will look, Hesselink finally replies, just as Laith gets back on the comms.
"Okay, I got something," Laith says. "The phone was connected since I got here, but there were no calls coming or going in that time. I only captured one message, five minutes ago. It goes 640621. Does that mean anything you?"
"Sounds like a pass code," Mason replies. He looks over to that door the mystery man went through - there's a keypad next to it. "Shit. Laith, door, northeast corner of the ballroom. What does it lead to?"
"Secure backstage, nothing critical in the immediate area," Laith says. "Storage for stage equipment, storage for chairs and tables, art storage...I mean, you could in theory get just about anywhere in the palace, but there's a second layer of security around the royal quarters."
"
Royals are in the fucking backstage," Mason hisses.
"With their bodyguards," Laith says.
"This is Ops," Operations cuts in on the channel. "What's the play, Mason?"
"Guide me to Hesselink's phone, now," Mason says, hustling across the floor towards the secured door, punching in the code. "Turn on the mic and camera, tell me what you can see."
Caroline was just explaining what happened to a stone-faced Mace when she clocks Mason, Oscar Miking across the ballroom with intent in his eyes. She falls in behind him, trailed by the similarly engaged Swede. As Mason reaches the secure door, Caroline hisses through gritted teeth "What the hell do you -", but by the time the Swede is almost close enough to look grimly smug at having ferreted out a threat, Mason has finished punching in the code - and the door opens.
"What the fuck?" Caroline says.
"Stop right there," the Swede says, his right hand obviously reaching - not a quick draw, but a clear enough sign of "I'm going to draw on you in about five seconds if I don't like what happens next".
"Mystery guest is backstage with the royals," Mason says. "I'd save your bullets for him, honestly." With that, he pushes the door open. "Guide me. What do you see?"
"Stop, or I will -" the Swede begins, but Caroline's made up her mind much faster; she turns to block his way and has her hand on her own gun. "Oh, just
try me, Pippi Longstockings," she growls.
"Straight, then right," Laith says as the security door falls closed behind Mason. In all the hurry, there's still a chance to glance upwards at a security camera - and it doesn't have the same red blinking light as the others around the palace. Probably the slight problem the security guard was informed about on the radio. "Careful, you're coming up on -" Laith warns. Mason ducks behind a corner and peeks ahead. The hallway beyond is brightly lit, unlike the rather dim "backstage" corridors with the storage rooms, and the trim's better, too. These are obviously the royal quarters. Two men in palace guard suits, but with thick ballistic vests and one-point slings rocking H&K MP7 PDWs stand guard on either side of the (armored) door. "Hesselink's moving again," Laith says. "Third floor now - how the hell did she get up there? You know how to pick 'em, Mason. Any sign of our mystery man?"
"Not unless he turned to vapor," Mason replies. "You got her mic and camera yet?"
"Trying, but there's a ton of network traffic," Laith says. "She's stopped moving, at least. Okay, new plan, back up to the last intersection, get the second door on the left. Art storage is a gallery with a stairway all the way to the third. Door should be locked, but I'm sure you can manage."
"While you do that, we need everything and I mean everything you can remember about the man," Operations cuts in again. "Your description's the only chance we have of IDing him."
"Thinning black hair, French face, unshaved speckled facial hair," Mason says. He stops before the door, thinks for a moment, then just delivers a boot to the flimsy interior door right at the lock.
(Mason uses Athletics to kick the door open.)
The door splinters first, but finally yields to the second kick. As Mason enters, the room is lit only by the emergency exit lights, casting vague shapes and shadows around. But Mason's hand stops just shy of the light switch - that quiet beat is not just blood rushing through his head. It's another breath. There's somebody else in the room with him...
---
Blessedly unaware of Mason's encounter with what may very well be one of ROI's quote-unquote "five" operatives inside the palace, Tim hurries to find his own way into the magical land of "backstage" in pursuit of two probable targets. He's pointedly not thinking about the fact that even if he does catch up with them it'd put him in a room with two heavily-armed terrorists while the most dangerous thing he's packing is his haircut. But hey, that's a Future Tim problem, and who said anything about a fair fight anyway.
Tim feigns a stumble into one of the bathrooms, easily slipping into a particularly moany and sweaty performance of "Oh, I shouldn't have had that curry!". It clears the bathroom right quick, but Tim's trajectory to one of the stalls has more to it than simply play-acting a rush for the porcelain: there's an air vent cover in the ceiling just above. Tim climbs the toilet, then starts wedging open the cover. Locked, of course, and this would be a breeze if he had his tools, but as is...
(Tim's Infiltration to get into the vents undetected fails by 1, so complication ahoy!)
...as is, a bit of necessary roughness gets the cover to spring open. Tim heaves himself up into the vent and immediately starts sweating for real - suits aren't really made for squeezing through tight spaces like that. Using his complete command of contortionism, Tim tries to pull the vent cover closed behind him, but then it swings open again - looks like his quick and dirty opener busted the locking latch. Tim grunts in frustration but there's nothing to it but shimmying forward and hoping that it doesn't get discovered too quickly.
Fortunately, after a few meters of this, the newer metal vent opens up into a void behind the brickwork, pulling double duty as a cable chute. Is that up to code? Well, the king of the Netherlands can probably get a variance approved. Using the warphone's tracking access to the security cams, Tim half crouch-walks, half climbs through the voids, mantling up a vertical shaft to the second floor ceiling, then crawls on a bit further. Sweaty, dirty and a bit bruised, he finally arrives at the little side gallery room where the cameras lost the pair of KMar operatives.
...who, as Tim can see through the vent grate beneath, are huddled over a trolley table. Peeking out from underneath the painfully white starched tablecloth is a whole mess of precisely-shaped brown lumps attached to what looks like a 3D-printed custom metal "skeleton", which is in turn wrapped with wires.
---
"No, vis is good enough," Luc replies. "I vink I saw a forward post on ve way in."
With Operations's assurance that she'll keep an eye on the crowd with Greg, Luc and Blake retrace their way inside back to the entrance, finding the little side cloakroom that has been taken over by KMar as staging area. Luc maneuvers them into a little side corridor, then assesses the situation vis a vis getting gear from a room full of KMar.
"Tricky," Luc opines.
(Blake spends Chemistry to improvise a stink bomb.)
Blake doesn't opine; he's got a plastic bag with a half dozen choices off the tapas buffet, napkins, rubber bands and a few complimentary matchbooks.
"You checked the bathrooms?" Blake asks.
"Yes," Luc says.
"Okay," Blake says. "Go search the drains. I need hair."
Luc's burgeoning protests are silenced when he sees Blake quickly assemble
something with the matches - clearly, the American has a plan, and Luc's done worse than fish hair from drains. A few minutes later, he returns to find Blake almost done with his little bundle of joy. Wordlessly, Luc hands over the hair and Blake bunches it into the middle of his contraption. Using one final match to light it, Blake cradles the bundle in his hands, marches toward the cloakroom's vent exit and quickly deposits the package, retreating out of sight afterwards.
The bundle doesn't burn. It does however smolder pretty good, and within a minute, the door to the cloakroom opens and the first KMar guy walks out trying to rub the burn out of his eyes. Not far behind him are his colleagues, some of whom look very green around the gills. Following them is a cloud of thin smoke - Blake's little package doesn't quite trip the "OMG there's a fire in the building!" threshold but it does smell like a dying industrial fan had a dinner date with a shredded Norwegian rat - at least that's how it smells when Luc and Blake enter the cloakroom by slipping behind the backs of the coughing and tear-blinded former inhabitants. Why, hello there, KMar uniforms, tactical vests and automatic carbines - don't mind if we do! Steeling themselves for stealing, Blake and Luc quickly do the Agent 47 thing and throw on hasty disguises taken from the back of the stacks to make the missing gear less obvious, then vamoose before the real KMar return.
As they hurry to reach the doors to the stairwell the faux KMar agents used, their comms come back to life with Operations on the line.
"Blake, Lagarde, you have to step on it," Operations says. "Mason's already backstage and Barstow has eyes on some real bad news." To prove the point, she forwards a quick snap of the faux KMar operatives laboring over the device to Blake's burner.
That's a lotta Semtex.
#boardgame #onfleek #icame
