John Wick, Chapter 4: Si vic pacem

Author's Note: This is the third part of a story collection by Darkpenn. The collection begins soon after the end of the movie John Wick, Chapter 3: Parabellum. This story follows Amico Amicus, which follows In Nomine Patris.

3.Alea iacta est

1

And just yesterday, thought Elizabeth, I was not much more than a glorified filing clerk.

The Adjudicator had not allowed her to go home to collect anything for the trip to London, saying that there would be clothes waiting for her at the hotel. Indeed, there were: expensive and understated, and in the right size. The only thing missing was a carry-bag, so she kept the one she always carried – a relief, in a way, to have something that provided an anchor before … all this … happened.

The hotel was the London Continental. She had often heard of the Continental chain, and the rule that no blood-spilling was allowed there. She remembered that part of the Wick file. It suddenly occurred to her that she might be staying at the Continental so, well, she would not be harmed. It was not a pleasant thought.

Now she was sitting in a castle – a castle! – with the Adjudicator. This was where the meeting of the High Table was going to be, apparently. They were in a room decorated with tapestries and suits of armour, outside another room with an ornate door. It was just the two of them.

"Perhaps it's time I told you," said Elizabeth, "that I have no idea why I am here."

"You are here," he said, "to tell the Security Committee of the High Table about John Wick. They will ask questions and you will reply. Truthfully."

"Huh," said Elizabeth. "I don't suppose I could have done it by Skype?"

The Adjudicator gave something that might, had it come from someone that wasn't him, a sigh. "And I should tell you," he said, "that the Committee has no sense of humor at all. Neither do I."

"I'll try to remember that," she said. "By the way, when you say that I should answer truthfully, do you mean that I should tell the actual truth, as I know it? Or what I think they want to hear?"

"Same thing."

In theory, thought Elizabeth. In theory.

"What is this Committee about?" she said.

"They are the key people of the High Table, aside from the Elder, who will chair the full meeting. They will compile a report for the meeting of the full Table in a few days."

A man came out of the other room and nodded for them to enter. He took Elizabeth's bag from her.

The Committee was five people, three men and two women, seated at a long table. One of them was in a wheelchair, his leg in a cast.

The Adjudicator gestured for Elizabeth to take the bare wooden chair facing the Committee. She did so, realizing that she was shaking slightly. It was like her first day in prison. She had no idea what was going to happen but it was not going to be good.

There was a long silence. Then one of them said: "Tell us, why is Mister Wick still alive?"

Elizabeth cleared her throat. She hoped her voice would not tremble. "There are several reasons," she said. "The first is that he is one tough motherfucker. Very high level of skill in both killing and surviving. You might say he has a gift. Some people might have a gift for, I don't know, baseball or something. They are just naturally good at it, somehow attuned to how the game works. John Wick is naturally gifted at doing … what he does.

"Second, he has some friends. Not many, but a few. There are others who owe him a debt of some sort. They become allies. Even people who are dishonest, vicious thugs will pay back a debt that they owe him. Not out of fear, I think. Because he has some sense of honor. He does not kill for pleasure and he does not kill innocents. That sets him apart from the crowd.

"The third reason is a bit hard to explain. You see, he was married, and he managed to get out of the killing business. The woman died quite suddenly, of natural causes. I think that he wants to continue living as a way of honoring her memory. It's a powerful incentive."

The Committee members spoke softly amongst themselves for a few moments. Then one of them said: "The High Table is not without its enemies, although they are scattered and weak. They might be looking for a leader. Could that be him?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "He is not a leader," she said. "Leadership generally requires compromises, and he doesn't do that. He is a man of action, not words." She took a deep breath, and said: "But … he might be something worse than a leader."

"Worse?"

"I mean that he could be a symbol. Of … well, I suppose the word would be resistance."

One of the other Committee members said: "But he is just one man. One man. That is all."

Elizabeth shrugged. "Yes," she said. "One man."

"But he would not dare attack the High Table, or any of its members. He would not dare."

"Why not?"

"Because … because … he … he would not. No-one ever has. And … and … we have many guards."

Elizabeth shrugged again. "He has never failed an assignment," she said. "Never. No matter how many guards there are, how many soldiers. He will find a way. And now he is working entirely for himself. So he is without any sort of constraint."

The Committee members were silent. Elizabeth noticed that the face of one of them had gone pale. The hands of another were trembling.

They're scared, she thought. The great and mighty High Table, ready to shit bricks.

The man in the wheelchair said: "How will he come? Does he have a regular strategy? Will he come storming through the front door or will he come silently through the back, in disguise?"

Elizabeth adjusted her glasses as she considered. "In the past he has used many different strategies," she said. "It depends on the circumstances. He knows that he is not bullet-proof so he will not confront a large number of soldiers if he can avoid it. And he is patient. He always waits for the right moment."

A dark-skinned waiter who had been standing in the corner came over and set up a small table next to her, with a glass of water. She drank it down in a moment. The waiter brought her another.

The woman whose hands had been trembling said: "We … we … I think we should double the security. More guards."

"The usual contingent is already deployed here," said the man in the wheelchair.

"Then we should get more. From somewhere. I am sure there would be many people in London willing to do it. Pay as much as is needed."

Several of the others nodded. "As many as possible," said one.

The man in the wheelchair looked at Elizabeth. "Your views?" he said.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to have more boots on the ground," she said. "But have you considered deferring the meeting? Just … not having it?"

"That would make us look very weak. Like we were running away. Is that what you are suggesting?"

"I suppose you could look at it that way."

"It is something to consider," said one of the Committee.

"A … deferral," said another. "We could say … we could say that, er, perhaps we could say that we decided to defer the meeting until the new Camorra representative is chosen."

Excuses, thought Elizabeth. They're looking for an excuse to cover their fear.

"There will be no deferral," said the man in the wheelchair. "The meeting will proceed as planned. This is the High Table."

One of the members whispered something to the others. Elizabeth thought she heard the word 'helicopter' mentioned. The others nodded.

Four of the Committee members got up and left the room. The man in the wheelchair gestured for Elizabeth and the Adjudicator to join him.

"Your information has been useful, Miss … I am sorry, I do not know your name," he said.

"Elizabeth is fine," said Elizabeth.

"Elizabeth, then. I am Berrada, by the way."

"Ah. Of Casablanca. I made a note in the Wick file about your getting shot. And bitten."

"Yes, that was not a good day. When I am back on my feet I will organise for Sophia to be hunted down and brought before me. Elizabeth, I understand that you encountered Mister Wick personally a little while ago. In New York, in Administration. I saw the footage. Tell me, do you happen to know how Mister Wick discovered the location of the High Table meeting?"

"Me?" said Elizabeth. "Why should I know?" Not a no, exactly.

"And do you happen to know how Mister Wick located Administration? It is a closely guarded secret, after all."

"No, I don't know."

"Well, perhaps this will enlighten you."

The man who had taken Elizabeth's bag came over. He put it on the table, open. She noticed now that there was a small tear in the lining. The man tore it further, and pointed to a small disk hidden inside.

"That," said Berrada, "is a homing device. The battery is dead now, but it was most likely how Mister Wick and his associates knew the location of Administration. It was found by the metal detector at the door, when you entered this castle."

Elizabeth gasped. "But … how? How did it … goddamn, it was that guy! I knew he was too handsome to be true! But, believe me, I didn't know it was there!"

"I believe you," said Berrada. "If you had known you would have disposed of it as soon as it had done its job. Nevertheless, that Mister Wick's associates were able to plant it constitutes a terrible breach of trust on your part. An abrogation of the Rules. For that, there must be a penalty. That will be something for the High Table to decide." He gestured to the Adjudicator. "Put her in the room next to … our other guest," he said.

2

"What," said Wick, "can you tell me about St Blaine Castle?"

"I can tell you everything," said Forsythe Page-Gorman of the Royal Historical Society, Castles and Landmarks Department. "I have written papers on it. Would you like to see my slide-show? What do you want to know, that you are paying me such an exorbitant amount of money for?"

"Let us say, hypothetically, that I wanted to get in there, and the people inside wanted to keep me out. How might I get in? Is there a secret entrance or something?"

Page-Gorman adjusted his glasses. He pulled out several large architectural drawings from a rack and spread them over his desk. "Dear boy," he said. "St Blaine Castle was designed for exactly the purpose of keeping unwanted guests out. It has done that job for centuries. There is a surrounding wall and the three gates are set up so they can be heavily guarded, with views in every direction. The castle is still essentially the same construction, although I understand that the owners have added a range of security devices, and of course the helipads. That is why the government often rents it for international conferences on terrorism and the like. And there are no trees or anything that could provide cover within shooting range. I do not know who is currently renting it but I must say that they have chosen the most secure place in the UK."

Wick studied the drawings. After a long time he pointed to something on one of the blueprints. "What is this?" he said. "A closet or something? If it is, it's in an odd place."

Page-Gorman took a magnifying glass from a drawer and looked. "Ah," he said. "Well-spotted, Mister Anderson. That is a priest's hole. Not uncommon in places of this vintage. You see, during the religious wars that wracked the country for many years priests would often hold services in the castle chapel. But if the soldiers of the opposing faith showed up they had to have somewhere to hide. The door was built into the wall, and there is a catch just above, on the lintel, that opens it. But the last person who tried to hide there was found and burned at the stake. They played it tough in those days. And even if you were able to hide there it still doesn't solve the problem of how to get into the castle in the first place."

"No, it doesn't," said Wick. "But it's a start."

END (to be continued)