3

It was Faith’s idea, making him wonder what he’d done to piss her off.  It was probably the Mystique thing.

Or maybe not. It wasn’t actually as bad as he thought. She had thought since shaving off his stubble and sideburns gave him maybe a half hour of hairlessness, he should try waxing it. In theory that would last six weeks, so she figured he may have up to two hours of clean shaven appearance. It was worth a shot, and she applied the wax and ripped it off, and while he braced for pain, it wasn’t that bad. He expected something hideous, but it was just a hot stinging sensation. The Forty Year Old Virgin had lied, damn it! Either that, or it was his high pain tolerance. Nothing really compared to having molten adamantium injected into your body or having someone use a bone saw on you while you were still conscious.

He thought he looked horribly funny without any facial hair, he didn’t recognize himself in the mirror, but that was the whole point. Combined with a watch cap and cheap, dark sunglasses, he looked like he could have been anybody, and this anonymity was heightened by a plain t-shirt/jeans/ hiking boots wardrobe. He refused to give up his brown leather jacket, because he felt he had to have a little bit of style … although Faith snickered when he said style.  What? It was a nice jacket! Okay, it was kind of old and battered, and he’d once been stabbed in it, but the blood had come out once he ripped out the lining.

Before he left, she felt his still smooth jaw line, remarking “How strange is this?”

“Not having a beard?  Very strange.”

“No. I mean … you’re really good looking. Not that I don’t think you’re a good looking guy normally, ‘cause you’re a sexy beast.  It’s just … huh.  This isn’t quite what I imagined you’d look like under all the fur.”

This was making him very uncomfortable.  Was she flattering him or insulting him?  Doing both at once?  He was leaning toward both.  “I think I’d rather not see myself.”

“A psychologist would have a field day with that statement.”

“Yeah, well … good thing neither of us are shrinks.” He gave her a kiss and headed out on morning reconnaissance duty.

The Russian mafia conglomerations seemed to be settled around the dock areas, specifically around the region of two hotels, the Chelsea and the Pacific Grand. Although Mystique had done a yeoman’s job of surveillance, she had been unable to confirm which hotel Vogel was in. He was using a new Western alias, and it was more than likely that a decoy using a somewhat similar name was staying in the other hotel to throw any enemies off the scent.  Metaphorically speaking.

These were touristy areas, with lots of cafes and small shops, so he sat at the outdoor table of a coffee place which had a good view of both the Chelsea and the Grand, ordered a needlessly frou-frou green tea, and simply waited. He wished he could read, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the front of the hotels. Faith had loaned him her iPod, although she had loaded on some songs that she thought an old guy like him might like. He only listened with one of the ear buds plugged in, as he still needed to hear what was going on around him, and occasionally pretended to read a newspaper.

One of the old guy songs she had loaded up was Elvis Costello’s “Oliver’s Army”, which struck Logan as ironically funny.  That chorus - “And I would rather be anywhere else but here today” - applied not only to this situation, but to his life in general.  He just had one of those lives that might have looked good on paper, but was fairly horrible when you actually lived it.

It was better to think about this and the strange banalities of Canadian politics (who, bless their hearts, had never even considered mutant legislation of any sort - a few of those weird religious far-righters brought it up, but it was far too radical for anyone else to think about it, or, in other words, way too American) than what may have happened with Vogel. He and Mystique had been working for different sides, even though they obviously had the same goal: taking possession of Overlord. So what could Vogel have done that affected both of them, and in such a way that Mystique assumed he’d want revenge as badly as she did? What were the options?  Death, torture, imprisonment, mayhem - the usual, in other words. But how did the pieces fit? How did he and Mystique wind up working together for once? How did this all lead up to Vogel escaping while Logan planted a white phosphorus bomb in his lab? There were way too many questions, leading to only two possibilities:  either Mystique was lying, or it was so nasty he really was better off not knowing.

He had just shuffled around the play list until he landed on a Tool song - now Tool was never fail, excellent fighting music - when he noticed three men in dark coats walk by, headed up the street. It wasn’t an especially warm day - it was sunny and not bad for Canada - and yet they were all wearing black leather gloves.  To cover tattoos? Probably.  He heard a snatch of conversation as they walked past, and they were speaking Russian.  (They were also discussing someone’s wife in less than flattering terms.)  He watched and waited, putting his sunglasses back on so they didn’t notice the direction of his eyes.

Groups of these dark suited men gathered like a murder of crows in front of both hotels, making themselves conspicuous and yet inconspicuous at the same time. Perhaps there was a thug convention in town.

He finished his tea and started casually sauntering up the street, picking the Chelsea side only because it shared a street with the coffee shop. He turned off the iPod and put it away, catching bits and pieces of Russian conversation. Nothing illuminating; someone didn’t like Canada, another guy was complaining that he was getting hemorrhoids from sitting around so much (which made Logan feel like thanking him for that newsflash).  Then someone complained that this was all “needlessly paranoid”, and Logan was inclined to agree with him.

Eventually, two subtly armored Escalades pulled up outside of both hotels, the one on the Chelsea side of the street bearing the plates Mystique had photographed, and more dark suited but obviously well built men boiled out of both doorways. Certainly Vogel - or Vogel’s double - was soon to come out and duck into the SUV.

Logan wandered up to the nearest black clad thug, and asked, with a heavy Alberta accent, “’Scuse me, do you got the time?”

The man was taller than him, and if he wasn’t wearing shoulder pads under his jacket, then he was the squarest man he’d ever seen: square jaw, square shoulders, head beveled like a stair post. His hair was brown and cut painfully short, making his ears stick out like handles. He smelled like gun oil, body odor, cigarettes, and, inexplicably, doughnuts. Logan could tell he was glaring down his nose at him, even though he was wearing black sunglasses.  Logan repeated, in his hammiest Canadian bumpkin accent, “Time?”

The big Russian monolith finally said, in heavily accented English, “I don’t speak English.” Which Logan knew was total bullshit.

Still, he played up his role as a generic idiot. “Time?” He repeated the word louder, pointing at his wrist. “Time?!” He was tapping his wrist with greater emphasis now.

The Russian was just radiating disdain. He spun on his heels, showing his broad back, a way of saying “Fuck off” without actually uttering the words. He muttered under his breath “Stupid son of a whore”, but in Russian, so Logan knew better than to react to it. It was then that Vogel - or Vogel clone - came out of the Chelsea. The men were stacked side by side, so it was impossible to get a good glimpse of him without being obvious about it, so Logan turned to the side, trying to catch the man’s reflection in the car’s shiny surface, and took a deep breath, parsing the scents.

There were so many men here it was difficult; he smelled lots of guns and tobacco and body odor and cologne and hair gel and alcohol and everything they had for breakfast that spilled on them or was oozing through their pores. The foods were familiar, even some of the colognes and hair gel … but the men? As the man who would be Vogel was hustled into the Escalade, Logan turned and walked away, sure he had smelled all he needed to here.

He ducked into a shop doorway and pulled out his cell phone, and faked punching in a number and talking to an enraged spouse. It was cover for the lingering Russian mobsters, as there were too many of them to fit in the Escalades with Vogel. It was shockingly easy to pretend to be a henpecked husband, explaining he’d be late because he turned down the wrong street, pausing for good lengths of time so his phantom wife could chew him out for being such an idiot. A couple of them shot looks at him as they walked on past, but at least one seemed to scowl in that “poor son of a bitch” way.

They had pretty much scattered when a lean black man in a blue polo shirt and khakis approached him, chuckling warmly. “Do you got the time? That was classic, old man,” Mystique said, in a voice that sounded like James Earl Jones. No, it was James Earl Jones; she looked like Tiger Woods, but sounded like Darth Vader sans breathing apparatus. “Brilliant. I knew there was a reason you were the only X-Man I didn’t totally hate. Your memory may be shit, but you still got the operative chops.”

He pocketed his cell phone - which he'd never turned on - and fixed her with a stern look. That was a compliment, but Mystique somehow didn’t make it sound like one. “It’s the oldest trick in the book. Make them dismiss you as a threat instantly and get close. The only skill in it is acting like a total idiot.”

“And you do that wonderfully.” She grinned, showing off perfect teeth. But the grinned died so fast he was sure it was never genuine. “Was that Vogel?”

“No. And from what I could see of the guy’s face, he was too young. He hadn’t had plastic surgery; he was just twenty years behind Vogel.”

She nodded, glancing up the street. “I didn’t get a good look at the other guy from my vantage point. But it must be him.”

“Who were you?”

She jerked her head down the opposite way. “Homeless woman looking for bottles in the trash can.”

He nodded, recalling seeing the woman as he left the coffee shop. That was excellent cover. Just about every urban dweller dismissed homeless people out of hand, especially the truly sad-sack bag ladies.  It was like the guilt and the pity hurt too much to look at them for too long. “I guess our next move is for me to get inside the Grand, so when he comes back, I can try to pick up his scent in the lobby.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s gotta be him, Logan.”

“I heard one of the Russians complaining that this was all needlessly paranoid. What if this is a double blind? What if they’re both decoys and Vogel has stashed himself elsewhere, out of the city? Can we put that past him?”

She frowned and almost sneered. “You’re the one being needlessly paranoid.”

“You want to do this fast and sloppy, or do you want to get it right?”

She actually snarled, but it was more a reaction to the situation than to him.  He hoped.  “Fine. Do you have a way to get into the Grand?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

She grabbed him by the collar and swung him around, so he was standing in front of her. For a split-second he got the bizarre idea she was either going to throw him through the window or kiss him (or both?), but really she was using his body as a shield from the street. The door behind her was made opaque by black crepe, hung up in advance of Halloween. She still had a hold of his collar as she morphed out of her current form, bleeding into the form of a solid looking Hispanic woman in a white and blue maid’s uniform. “I can get us into the hotel.”

“One that doesn’t involve violence?”

She grinned savagely. “Are you gonna be a dick about this?”

He removed her hands from his collar, and said, “Yes.  I’ll get in in my own way.  Remember - no hurting civilians.”

“Hurt? You said don't kill. I get to hurt some of ‘em, or it doesn’t work.”

“We’re not arguing this. You’re a master of subterfuge; you don’t need to use brute force it all the time. And if you want me in that hotel to confirm Vogel’s identity, you’ll play by my rules.”

Her eyes glittered like broken glass. “Do you really think you won’t pay for this?”

“I’m sure I will.  But let’s discuss it later.”

“Discuss isn’t the word,” she said icily, and then slipped aside and walked across the street to the Grand. Yeah, discuss was probably the wrong verb.

His plan was very loose, but he thought it might have a chance of working. He went a couple of blocks over to a high-end thrift store - it said it had “vintage clothing”, which meant that the prices on old crap were marked up for no reason whatsoever. He went in and bought some nice clothes that he thought he could live with for a while, and called Faith while he changed in the small fitting room. He’d already bought the clothing, but asked the clerk if he could change in the back. She looked at him really funny, but she said okay, although she stared after him like he might be a serial killer.

He asked Faith if she had a credit card he could charge a room to, as he had none. He had no actual, legal form of identification at all.  That was the problem when you had no fixed address (well, he supposed he could call the mansion his home now), no full name, no birth certificate.  He had a Canadian driver’s license, but it was a quality fake; he rotated last names chosen at random, picked for their general commonality and innocuousness. He supposed he could make up information, it was unlikely anyone would check it, but he didn’t like the idea of someone being able to track him with financial information. Okay, yeah, that was probably paranoia, but by now he couldn’t help it. Leaving a paper trail just made him feel like he was asking for more trouble than he already had.

After asking why he needed a credit card he told her, and she said to wait a minute. He took the opportunity to finish changing clothes, and on his way out of the shop he shoved his other clothes in a donation box. When Faith got back on, he was walking back toward the Grand. She told him that Tony was calling the Grand now to say he had dispatched a person on his behalf to reserve a suite for him so it would be ready as soon as his plane landed. Now Tony wasn’t in a plane, he was at his Vancouver home, but the staff wouldn’t know this, and as soon as he confirmed Logan was his emissary, they’d run around like panicky ants getting everything ready for him. Using Tony’s name would guarantee he could park his ass in the lobby all damn day and no one would hassle him. It was perfect.

He asked Faith what she’d told Tony about wanting the room, and she said she’d simply said that he needed it for this “thing” he was working on. That was it. Which probably meant that Tony’s guilt about using him against the Yakuza and the Triad was still in full effect. And good, he should still feel bad about that. He supposed he should forgive him at some point, but he wasn’t sure when. He was probably being a brat - he wasn’t the first person to use him, and frankly what he did wasn’t all that bad - but he'd honestly thought Tony was better than that. Then again, no one ever made a billion dollars being nice all the time.

Logan added the hat to the donation bin, and tucked his sunglasses in his pocket. He checked in a mirror in the thrift shop, just to make sure his facial hair hadn’t grown back yet. It hadn’t, but it took a moment for him to recognize himself. He did look different - and for some reason, he really didn’t like it. His face looked too open, too fragile somehow, his eyes seemed to take up too much space, and it just unnerved him. But it was a perfect way of hiding in plain sight, because no one would recognize him.

The inside of the Pacific Grand’s marble tiled lobby was just as pretentiously elegant as the Ashford’s, and he passed the biggest vase - no, technically he supposed it was an urn now, although not the kind you used for remains (unless you cremated an entire village and needed a monstrous urn to jam them all in) - he’d ever seen, filled with a flower arrangement so large it was bigger than him, and he felt the urge to turn and flee. He wasn’t sure why, except he always felt painfully out of place whenever ostentatious wealth was displayed.

Tony was good at his word. He was on the phone with a good looking Asian kid behind the front desk, who looked like a refugee from an ‘80’s ska band with his dark suit, skinny dark tie, and crisp white dress shirt. Logan confirmed he was Tony’s messenger, Tony confirmed his identity on the phone, and the kid started falling over himself to serve him. The kid just decided to give Tony the “Presidential Suite”, which was the huge room on the top floor that actually took up the entire floor, and Logan watched, amused, as all the staff started bustling about.

He took a seat on a curved, honey colored velvet sofa, and started actually reading the newspaper while keeping the corner of his eye on the front doors. At one point, while swapping sections of the newspaper, he saw the ska kid disappear into the back, but he returned almost immediately, moving to the computer and doing something on it, his hands flying across the keyboard. There was something different simply in the cadence of the typing that made him look up, and at the same time the kid looked up and met his eyes.

It wasn’t the kid.

It was the look in the eye.  Oh, he appeared strangely, genuinely cheerful - maybe he was already dreaming of the massive tip - but while his smile was polite, the eyes didn’t reflect the smile. They were rather cold, actually, and he was sure he recognized the look:  Mystique.  She must have known he recognized her, because as soon as she was finished doing whatever she was doing at the computer (probably accessing the guest registration files, trying to figure out which was Vogel), she blew him a kiss.

There was an overweight, pale man in a rumpled suit approaching the front desk, and he turned to see who the clerk was gesturing at, and when he saw it was Logan, a look of shock and naked disgust crossed his face. That instantly pissed Logan right off, so he blew Mystique a sarcastic kiss right back. That made her grin so broadly that it threatened to split her entire head in half, and then she disappeared into the back. Logan glanced back at the businessman, and gave him a look that promised a hard, cold death.

All the blood drained from his face, and as he turned to the counter he managed to trip over his own feet; it seemed to take him a moment to find his voice.  Good.  He hated those fucking judgmental bastards.

The real kid came back then, cheerful and busy, and didn’t seem to understand why the businessman was looking at him askance. Logan made a mental note to get Tony to leave him a nice tip.

He’d finished with the Toronto paper and moved on to the Montreal one when he heard suddenly, “Darling, there you are!” He looked up to see a slim brunette in a clingy brown dress standing right in front of him. She leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek, and then sat beside him, holding his hand. “Tony’s not here yet?”

“No.” As soon as he was certain no one was paying attention to him, he whispered, “What the fuck are you doing, Mystique?”

She leaned in close, and whispered, “Did you really think I was going to sit this one out?”

Logan sighed wearily. “I was hopin’. Find what you wanted on the computer?”

“I downloaded the guest lists to a flash drive, including pending charges to the rooms. We might be able to figure out who Vogel is that way.”

“By seeing who’s drinking the most vodka? Calling the kitchen and asking for borscht?”

She gave him a brief, cutting glance. Her eyes were the same brown as her hair and her dress - apparently it was a theme. “Aren’t you too old to be a smart ass?  By the way, loved the kiss, earlier.  Did you see the look on that fucker’s face?”

“Yeah. I hate assholes like that. We’re all human, we all hurt and bleed and die, and yet some people insist on these bullshit divisions and bullshit reasons to hate each other.”

“I agree. There’s good reason to hate people. They’re mucking it up.” She smiled slowly, slyly. “And some of us don’t die and stay dead, now do we?”

She had to bring that up, didn’t she? He gave her a sour frown that only made her smile more. “Since we got the time, why don’t you tell me what the fuck actually happened between us and Vogel?”

That made her stop smiling, and she shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “You’re guessing.”

“It’s an educated guess.  You tipped your hand back in your hotel room.  So what the fuck did this guy do to us?  I want an answer, darlin’, or I stop playin’.”

“Is that the only threat you have?”

“No, but it seems to be the best one.”

She sighed, and gave him a look that suggested separating his head from his neck would be much more enjoyable. But she looked away, at the huge urn and flower display, and needlessly smoothed out her dress as she crossed her legs.  (She was her dress - why smooth it?)  “I don’t know all your story, just pieces.”

“It’s more than I got.”

She took a minute to gather her thoughts, or maybe concoct a story.  He‘d have to figure out which.  “Vogel, as part of his government agreement, worked at this prison in Russia that was known as the Abattoir, because so many violent criminals were sent there, and so many killed each other. The wardens didn’t honestly care; the animals ripping themselves to pieces were doing them a favor as far as they were concerned. You can probably still find pages about it on Amnesty International’s website. He was supposedly using them in a genetic search for criminality, searching their genomes to find a common factor. But he was also conducting some heinous medical experiments on the prisoners, with the quiet blessing of the wardens and the government. It wasn’t like they were going to see the light of day again; most of them had already been dismissed as trash of the most toxic kind. No one gave a shit about them, or how horribly they died.

“And that’s where you met Vogel.”