London #2
He began looking through the clandestine materials, too, sneaking through old files at work from the Portugal desk, reading up on what he could about their political situation, Madeira’s economic woes, information on what activities the studio might be up to.
There wasn’t a lot. No one thought the island was very interesting, intelligencewise.
But there were hints and whispers everywhere.
Some major setback in production around 2044, shortly before the family of actor Marvin Powell settled with the studio for an undisclosed sum, rumored to be eight figures.
He looked at visa applications, tried to cross-check them with people’s online profiles.
Here’s a props assistant who moved from LA to Madeira in 2041, and returned in 2046.
Here’s an IT specialist who left Chicago in 2042 and returned in 2050.
Here’s a neuroscientist who left Stanford in 2040 and returned in 2044.
That’s a lead. Except, she was dead. Sue Whitman, deceased 2053.
There was only so much you could learn from documents, though.
Roger knew that well. That was what the old-timers would have told him.
He increased his anti-surveillance techniques, hiding his research inside flowerpots placed in the back stairwell of his building, and making his walk home after work longer, more difficult to track.
Nobody from Head Office could know what he was doing, not yet.
Not until he hit the streets and sourced some human intelligence.
You had to do that. It was the only way.
But he couldn’t travel to Los Angeles or even Madeira.
Way too conspicuous. Leaving the country without clearance was the easiest way to see you packed up and sent away on early retirement.
Even leaving London was suspicious. Roger didn’t holiday much, so any trip at all would be a problem.
He had to start in London. See what he could see.
Easiest place to begin was the studio’s London offices.
He faked a job application, faked a delivery, faked being a tourist. The London office handled a lot of publicity for the series, negotiated distribution rights in Europe, but otherwise had very little information about production itself.
No one knew what was happening on that island.
He tried a new tactic. He spent many hours reading production updates and rumors from fans.
Who knew more about anything, after all, than a committed fan?
The best place to find human intelligence in Odessa was always with native Odessans, after all.
Why not find the people most invested in this fantasy world, find out what they had to say?
There was a Facebook group advertising a monthly meetup of superfans.
They watched the movies together, talked about what was coming out soon, dressed up, and had discussions about the films and their history and whatever else someone could possibly find interesting about them.
Roger could hold his own. By now he had probably watched and read as much as anybody.
More even. All he had to do was fake passion.
The first meeting he attended, in a community center in South Croydon, was focused on the topic of “wizard lore.” This consisted of a speaker detailing the history of wizards and wands and other magical shit, followed by tea and cakes.
Roger introduced himself, acting a little shy, and explained how he was looking for some new social activities since he had been caring for his sick mum the past few years.
“And how is she doing? Oh, I am so sorry to hear. Yes, it’s good to get out and meet new people after all that.”
Seated next to an older married couple, Roger watched the group’s speaker prattle on about early editions of the books and continuity errors in the films.
“But these days it’s pretty well regulated.
So when you see Gregorian use any magic—and granted these days that’s fairly rare—he’ll always turn his staff about forty-five degrees before doing any spell.
That’s not a signaling or special effects requirement.
That’s to line up with the lore as originally described by J. D. Souard.”
The audience was rapt, for some reason, which meant Roger could easily turn his head from side to side and observe the crowd without anyone noticing.
There was a group of teenagers, all dressed up in some homemade costumes.
There was a group of middle-aged dorks, bespectacled and wearing logo T-shirts.
There was a woman, seated by herself, not looking at the speaker but at the floor.
Roger could not see her well from his vantage point, so when the question-and-answer session ended after an interminable amount of time, he sidled over to the tea and began preparing a cup when the woman approached the table and picked up a biscuit.
“Hi,” Roger said, extending a hand. “I’m Roger. Roger Pendleton. This is my first time here.”
“Oh, hello.” She shook it, and almost walked away with her biscuit before adding, “I’m Lilly Kaminsky.”
Roger smiled and watched her sit back down and eat her biscuit alone.
She was familiar, and Roger knew that any sense of familiarity in his line of work could never be coincidence.
He didn’t believe in coincidence. He glanced at her one more time, capturing an image in his mind of exactly what she looked like: brown hair in a messy bun, brown eyes, short, no makeup, no jewelry, what one could call a “hard face.”
As he traveled home, taking extra care to slip in and out of shops, two Tube stops this way, four bus stops the other, Roger worked back through his memory archive, the thousands of documents and videos and photos.
That face was from somewhere. He shed invisible shadow after invisible shadow, working back north through London slowly, zigging and zagging across the Thames and across his mind.
As he entered his building and began walking up the steps to his door, it came into focus, a lens from far away, telescoping in on exactly what he needed.
He retrieved a USB drive from the second hidden flowerpot (old tech was still the most secure), went into his flat, and powered on the air-gapped laptop he had purchased with cash for his own research.
He put the drive in and opened a folder of photographs, scrolling through quickly.
He knew what he was looking for. They were chronological, publicity stills from the studio and the press, arranged by film and year.
2037, 2038, 2039. He kept going. 2041, 2042.
Here, 2043. June. Los Angeles.
A red-carpet premiere. A large canvas backdrop.
Words, in an elaborate font, emblazoned across it.
The Malicarn: The Return of the Council.
Three people standing in front. Smiling widely is the actor Marvin Powell.
Beside him, smiling much less confidently, another actor named Glenn Mackey.
And beside him, barely smiling at all, eyes squinting and watering under the lights, an unidentified woman.
Brown eyes, brown hair. Short. A hard face.
Roger opened the file’s metadata. He added a note. “Woman on right: Lilly Kaminsky.”
That’s some good sleuthing, Roger. The old-timers would be proud. You really are a spy.