To Conquer Death
by Rainne
Interlude: The Watchers' Council
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Quentin Travers made his way through Customs and Security in JFK International Airport with a minimum of difficulty, then made his way outside, followed by several of his Watchers, for a cigar. As he stood contemplating the Manhattan skyline, two of his operatives were at the Delta desk, wrangling several tickets to Atlanta. He had decided on the trip that the wisest course of action would be to check up on his operatives who were watching the Markham home and make sure the girl wasn't there, then head west to California.
His operatives came to him to tell him that there was no way for them all to fly out before the next day, so he sent two of his most trusted men ahead and had another lackey reserve several suites at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel for the rest of them. Once at the hotel and settled in, he placed a long-distance phone call.
As he stood listening to the line ring, he thought about what he would say if the other end was answered. He waited for the line to pick up and eventually it did, but it was with the tinny sound of a message machine. A young woman's voice spoke cheerily at him. "Hi! This is Buffy. Giles has no idea how to work his answering machine, so I'm doing it for him."
In the background, Travers heard a distinctly British voice which said, "Oh, do get on with it, Buffy."
There was a snicker, and the young woman's voice went on. "So anyway, Giles isn't here, so please leave him a message at the sound of the..." — she was cut off by a younger voice which interjected "blood-curdling scream" and then resumed, "...and if he can figure out how to operate the telephone, he'll call you back." The sentence was punctuated by a scream which would have befitted the heroine of a grade-B black-and-white fifties horror flick, and then the more normal message-machine beep.
Travers cleared his throat. "Rupert, this is Quentin Travers. I'm in the States on Council business and we need to talk. I'm at the Ritz-Carlton in New York City tonight, please call me so that we can work out some arrangements." He left the hotel number and his suite number, then rang off and turned to one of his lackeys. "See about getting us a decent tea in here, hmm?"
He settled back in a comfortable chair which faced out the huge plate-glass window into the slowly darkening New York City afternoon and reflected. Giles was admittedly one of his less-capable Watchers. The man was just short of being a failure. Surely it would be easy to manipulate him into giving up the daywalker. It was just a matter of finding the right words.