Logs for ShadowRN and Associated Mailing Lists

From:	Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Safe House
Date:	Tue, 9 Nov 1999 23:03:29 +0000

Message no. 1 *****PRIVATE: Personal Diary File
CC: FBI Operational Archive
>>>>>[+++++begin recording
I've been twiddling my thumbs for too long when the call comes in. A voice
I don't know, inviting me to an address I've never heard of.

>From the outside, it looks like a small office building or a big house. A
small sign says it's "MacroTronix Design Services", and inside the fence
there's parking for several vehicles: a blood-red Dynamit convertible and a
newish Chevy Cobra are two of the parked vehicles, along with a beat-up
old Army-surplus utility truck and a couple of motorbikes.

The door is locked. It opens a few moments after I buzz: 'Marlowe',
Andrew Kryzdanovich, Julianne's husband. "Come on in, Tom." he greets
me. "Want coffee?"

The place smells... cold and damp and musty, with new overlays of
catalytic heaters and people and coffee and cigarette smoke and thirty-
weight oil and Break-Free gun lube.

It feels like it had sat empty for a long time, and only just been brought
back to life.

"Safehouse." I say. I know what places like this are, even if this is the first
time I've been in one.

"Think so. Quinn knows more than I do about it." the PI replies.

"Quinn? Who's he?"

"_She_." Marlowe chuckles and pushes a door open. "Among other things,
she's our armourer at the moment."

I boggle. Not at the blonde woman sitting cross-legged on the floor,
listening to some loud music from a boom-box, but at the array of
firepower laid out around her.

A couple of Franchi SPAS-22s. Civilian, semi-auto only, but with ten-gauge
who really cares? Boxes of slug and #4 shot and full-bore-explosive ammo.
All three have been cut down, the barrels sawn down to the length of the
magazine. All have tactical flashlights, smartlink adapters, and one has a
folding stock instead of the civilian fixed version.

An Enfield AS-7, with four of those hideous drum magazines. Its stock has
been drilled and bored out... someone's adapted it to a _tripod_. I can't
help but wince at the idea.

At least a dozen pistols. Various types, various makes, all the same
calibre, next to boxes of cartridges, all functional and deadly and nasty.
Glocks, SIG-Sauers, Brownings, Colts, all chambered for the same calibre
but otherwise a lively variety.

Two Remington 950 rifles. Unfussy, unmodified, very new-looking, but a
great way to reach out and touch someone.

Two Marlin lever-action carbines. Boring and deadly. Big-bore bullets, long
barrels, ugly things to be shot by.

The blonde woman seems to be working on some assault rifles. Old M4A7
carbines, quite a few of them, in two piles: she's mating receivers from
one pile to trigger groups from another, apparently checking fit and
finish.

"Where did you get those?" I ask. Pistols, shotguns, bolt-action rifles, you
can finagle. Thank the Second Amendment for that.

But full-auto assault carbines?

She snaps her fingers at the stereo and the volume drops to a more
tolerable level. "Easily. Mismatched gun laws." Happy with the way one
hybrid weapon mates, she works the action a few times, sets it aside.

"Explain please?" I wish I knew what was going on around me. Asking
helps, sometimes.

She takes pity on me. "UCAS law controls the trigger group, right? Ares
make these R701s for old-timers who still think the M-16 was the best
rifle ever. Legal, very semi-auto-only, cheap. With me?"

"Sure." Her accent isn't entirely UCAS. I get a sad sinking feeling...

"But there's lots of old M4A4 and M4A7 carbines going surplus, and some
people like to collect weapons. Even in countries where you can't shoot
them. So, you deactivate them." She throws me the receiver of one
carbine: I catch it.

It's been screwed up big-time. The barrel's been plugged and then filled
with molten metal, the bolt's been roughly welded into its carrier and the
bolt-face and firing pin ground off. I'd guess that, inside the handguard,
the gas tube's been cut away and the barrel sawn, too. This receiver is
_ruined_ for all time.

What about the trigger group?

She reads my face, laughs, and begins assembling another of the M4s.
"_These_ are legal, legitimate, single-shot-only weapons. The trigger can
only fire semi-auto, the magazine well can only accept Ares' five-round
magazine. Fixing it to be a proper assault rifle's half-a-day's work and
some specialist and scarce parts. 'Course, the barrel and receiver are
fine..." Quinn throws the trigger group away to join three others. "But
_these_ weapons are legally deactivated by UK law, even though the
trigger group hasn't been touched."

"It can't be that easy." I shake my head.

"No, it isn't, that's how come there's half-an-hour's work in fixing and
fitting and adjusting per rifle." She goes to work on some obscure part of
the mechanism with a needle file. "But it gets us some seriously nasty
firewpower, legally and cheaply and without any traces that Malone can
trace. Three down, three to go, armoury complete by bedtime."

"How about the Federal Government?"

"We _are_ the Feds, aren't we?" Quinn asks, switching the needle file for a
tiny cordless drill. "Someone notices all these purchases, they notify the
SAC, who is you, so who cares?" The drill makes a mosquito whine as she
drills into the receiver's metalwork. "And the deact weapons, and the
Enfield magazines, and the other UCAS-illegal stuff, came in to the British
Consulate in the dipomatic bag."

"You're kidding." Diplomatic bag?

"Am I smiling? Malone fucked with British Intelligence a while ago. They
have long memories and a long reach. They won't get overt... but we've
got some useful covert help from them."

I turn and move out of the doorway, as another blonde woman - this one
shorter, wearing biker leathers and a denim cutoff - limps into the room
and deposits an amazing load of ammunition. A thousand or two rounds,
at least. "Last but one, Quinn." she says in a Southern-accented voice.

"Thanks, Harley. Meet Special Agent Elliott. Elliott, this is Christine Harley
Davidson."

"Meetcha." the biker acknowledges. "He cool?"

"Yeah. At least, not too warm. Sort of clueless, but learning."

Gee, thanks, Quinn. But I guess I deserve it. Harley turns to leave, with a
squeak of metal: one leg's supported in a brace-type gizmo, I notice as
she goes to get the last pallet of ammo.

I look again at the arsenal. We could fight a war with this lot.

A chill runs down my back as I realise, that's exactly what we're proposing
to do.

I thought I knew what I was getting into.

I didn't think I'd be so scared.]<<<<<
-- SAC Tom Malone <23:02:35/11-09-60>

+++++end diary]<<<<<
-- Tom Elliott <11:03:24/10-12-60>

From:	Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Safe House
Date:	Fri, 19 Nov 1999 00:42:55 +0000

Message no. 2 *****PRIVATE: Personal Diary File
CC: FBI Operational Archive
>>>>>[+++++begin recording
I look at the tape Marlowe gave me. He's already going to work on how we
should deal with it.

It's an illegal intrusion into a private individual's privacy. I ought to arrest
him for that.

But it's priceless intelligence on Don Malone's operation. I need it.

Damn. Well, even having handled it means I tainted the investigation and
screwed us up for good in court. Might as well learn what it said. I slot the
sliver of optical data into a player, jack in.

++++begin transcribed recording
L: Don Malone.

M: How's it going, Lucky?

L: Slow, quiet, well. The cops and Customs checked Wells out. Cleaned it
up some: we left them some signs that Wells had been dirty and letting
stuff leak, let them see we wanted to keep the place clean now.

M: What about your neighbours?

L: Haven't noticed our presence yet, and I'd like to -

M: I need that place secure, Lucky. Carve out some territory 'round it.

L: Seamus, that isn't a good idea.

M: If I want your opinion, I'll give it to you, Lucky. I've had it with
sneaking and hiding and getting fragged by everyone who feels like it.
That Yak bastard, what's his name?

L: Matsehori Riku.

M: Yeah, him. Shove him back and cut yourself some turf. I want the
Seattle operation self-financing by the end of next year.

L: Don Malone, you don't seem to-

M: You still there, Lucky? I got serious pressure on me here. People are
asking, has Seamus Malone lost it? Has he lost his balls, is it safe to
fuck with him, can we show him disrespect?

I need to show those pricks who's the Man. Now fucking make it
happen. I'll send you some good ole boys to help you. Make it loud
enough to hear in Vegas.

L: And the cops, Seamus? What do you propose to do about the cops?

M: I'm still connected in Seattle, I got old friends and I made new friends.
The cops do what the politicians say, and I'll keep them off your back. I
mean, how much hassle did Eric get from the Law? Some things I do
_really_ well.

L: Point taken.

M: Loud, Lucky. Remember loud. I know Eric fucked it all up, but you...
you're the best at this business. I know you wouldn't do it this way if it
was up to you, but I pay you to fix _my_ problems. Get me?

L: Yes, I get you. <sigh> When are the boys arriving?

M: Soon. They'll be in touch. Can you equip them?

L: I've been stockpiling, so no problems there. What about Ilbury?

M: What about him?

L: Didn't you hear? He was throwing his sanctimonious little news
conference when two SIGA agents grab him. There and then. Except
SIGA's been disbanded for months... someone snatched him right in
public as fake Feds.

M: Who the fuck...?

L: Man and a woman. No idea who, yet. All we got are faces, and you can
fix those for chump change. Well, faces and big brass balls. I could use
talent like that.

M: So where did Ilbury go?

L: No idea, but my best guess would be Dona Minnie.

M: That bitch!

L: Hey, it costs me jack here, gets rid of that whiny little geek Tate, and
makes her happy. Doesn't hurt us at all that I can see. Makes Eric look
bad, but then he's _dead_. Out with the old, in with the new...

M: Yeah... still, be careful. I got a lot riding on this, Lucky.
+++++end transcript

Hellfire and damnation.

Another Mob war. This time, though, not out in the middle of the Barrens
where nobody gives a flying frag. This one's going to blow up in the heart
of Seattle... well, in one of the lungs at least.

What the hell should I do?

About the only thing I _can_ do. I walk to my room (past the thumping
beat of some Godawful rock band, apparently called 'Killing Zone', from
Quinn's quarters).

Body armour: the Discretion(TM) undershirt, then the heavy flak jacket (it
looks like a down vest from a distance, at least) over my sweater.
Weapons; my SIG-Sauer sidearm, two magazines, all on my belt under the
loose fold of the sweater's knitted synthwool. The vest's pockets full of #4
buckshot, for the SPAS-22 shotgun. I guess, like most of the others here,
that from now on I won't be out of arm's reach of this ugly killing
machine.

I regard it sadly. It's a thing of technical elegance, especially with Quinn
and Harley's modifications. Eight spare rounds clipped to the side of the
reciever, a widened ejection port and throated feed ramp, holographic
sights, tactical flashlight. a muzzle brake, a Sorbothane pad on the butt to
ease the sledgehammer recoil... yet, for all its efficiency, it's designed to
one thing and one thing only: to kill.

I signed up to serve and protect. To do that I'm going to wade in blood, it
seems.

Hart warned me, and I signed up, and only now is it coming to strike me
that Malone has many men armed with weapons like this, who don't give a
good God damn that I'm a Federal officer but will kill me for interfering in
their plans without a second's hesitation.

But it's too late to change your mind _after_ you've stepped off the ledge.
I was warned, I made my choice.

Now I'm going to live or die by it.

I just wish I didn't feel so scared. I wish I had someone I could talk to. I
wish I were somewhere, anywhere, other than here.
+++++end diary]<<<<<
-- Tom Elliott <11:03:24/10-12-60>

From:	Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Safe House
Date:	Tue, 9 Nov 1999 23:03:29 +0000

Message no. 3 *****PRIVATE: Personal Diary File
CC: FBI Operational Archive
>>>>>[+++++begin recording
I've been twiddling my thumbs for too long when the call comes in. A voice
I don't know, inviting me to an address I've never heard of.

From the outside, it looks like a small office building or a big house. A
small sign says it's "MacroTronix Design Services", and inside the fence
there's parking for several vehicles: a blood-red Dynamit convertible and a
newish Chevy Cobra are two of the parked vehicles, along with a beat-up
old Army-surplus utility truck and a couple of motorbikes.

The door is locked. It opens a few moments after I buzz: 'Marlowe',
Andrew Kryzdanovich, Julianne's husband. "Come on in, Tom." he greets
me. "Want coffee?"

The place smells... cold and damp and musty, with new overlays of
catalytic heaters and people and coffee and cigarette smoke and thirty-
weight oil and Break-Free gun lube.

It feels like it had sat empty for a long time, and only just been brought
back to life.

"Safehouse." I say. I know what places like this are, even if this is the first
time I've been in one.

"Think so. Quinn knows more than I do about it." the PI replies.

"Quinn? Who's he?"

"_She_." Marlowe chuckles and pushes a door open. "Among other things,
she's our armourer at the moment."

I boggle. Not at the blonde woman sitting cross-legged on the floor,
listening to some loud music from a boom-box, but at the array of
firepower laid out around her.

A couple of Franchi SPAS-22s. Civilian, semi-auto only, but with ten-gauge
who really cares? Boxes of slug and #4 shot and full-bore-explosive ammo.
All three have been cut down, the barrels sawn down to the length of the
magazine. All have tactical flashlights, smartlink adapters, and one has a
folding stock instead of the civilian fixed version.

An Enfield AS-7, with four of those hideous drum magazines. Its stock has
been drilled and bored out... someone's adapted it to a _tripod_. I can't
help but wince at the idea.

At least a dozen pistols. Various types, various makes, all the same
calibre, next to boxes of cartridges, all functional and deadly and nasty.
Glocks, SIG-Sauers, Brownings, Colts, all chambered for the same calibre
but otherwise a lively variety.

Two Remington 950 rifles. Unfussy, unmodified, very new-looking, but a
great way to reach out and touch someone.

Two Marlin lever-action carbines. Boring and deadly. Big-bore bullets, long
barrels, ugly things to be shot by.

The blonde woman seems to be working on some assault rifles. Old M4A7
carbines, quite a few of them, in two piles: she's mating receivers from
one pile to trigger groups from another, apparently checking fit and
finish.

"Where did you get those?" I ask. Pistols, shotguns, bolt-action rifles, you
can finagle. Thank the Second Amendment for that.

But full-auto assault carbines?

She snaps her fingers at the stereo and the volume drops to a more
tolerable level. "Easily. Mismatched gun laws." Happy with the way one
hybrid weapon mates, she works the action a few times, sets it aside.

"Explain please?" I wish I knew what was going on around me. Asking
helps, sometimes.

She takes pity on me. "UCAS law controls the trigger group, right? Ares
make these R701s for old-timers who still think the M-16 was the best
rifle ever. Legal, very semi-auto-only, cheap. With me?"

"Sure." Her accent isn't entirely UCAS. I get a sad sinking feeling...

"But there's lots of old M4A4 and M4A7 carbines going surplus, and some
people like to collect weapons. Even in countries where you can't shoot
them. So, you deactivate them." She throws me the receiver of one
carbine: I catch it.

It's been screwed up big-time. The barrel's been plugged and then filled
with molten metal, the bolt's been roughly welded into its carrier and the
bolt-face and firing pin ground off. I'd guess that, inside the handguard,
the gas tube's been cut away and the barrel sawn, too. This receiver is
_ruined_ for all time.

What about the trigger group?

She reads my face, laughs, and begins assembling another of the M4s.
"_These_ are legal, legitimate, single-shot-only weapons. The trigger can
only fire semi-auto, the magazine well can only accept Ares' five-round
magazine. Fixing it to be a proper assault rifle's half-a-day's work and
some specialist and scarce parts. 'Course, the barrel and receiver are
fine..." Quinn throws the trigger group away to join three others. "But
_these_ weapons are legally deactivated by UK law, even though the
trigger group hasn't been touched."

"It can't be that easy." I shake my head.

"No, it isn't, that's how come there's half-an-hour's work in fixing and
fitting and adjusting per rifle." She goes to work on some obscure part of
the mechanism with a needle file. "But it gets us some seriously nasty
firewpower, legally and cheaply and without any traces that Malone can
trace. Three down, three to go, armoury complete by bedtime."

"How about the Federal Government?"

"We _are_ the Feds, aren't we?" Quinn asks, switching the needle file for a
tiny cordless drill. "Someone notices all these purchases, they notify the
SAC, who is you, so who cares?" The drill makes a mosquito whine as she
drills into the receiver's metalwork. "And the deact weapons, and the
Enfield magazines, and the other UCAS-illegal stuff, came in to the British
Consulate in the dipomatic bag."

"You're kidding." Diplomatic bag?

"Am I smiling? Malone fucked with British Intelligence a while ago. They
have long memories and a long reach. They won't get overt... but we've
got some useful covert help from them."

I turn and move out of the doorway, as another blonde woman - this one
shorter, wearing biker leathers and a denim cutoff - limps into the room
and deposits an amazing load of ammunition. A thousand or two rounds,
at least. "Last but one, Quinn." she says in a Southern-accented voice.

"Thanks, Harley. Meet Special Agent Elliott. Elliott, this is Christine Harley
Davidson."

"Meetcha." the biker acknowledges. "He cool?"

"Yeah. At least, not too warm. Sort of clueless, but learning."

Gee, thanks, Quinn. But I guess I deserve it. Harley turns to leave, with a
squeak of metal: one leg's supported in a brace-type gizmo, I notice as
she goes to get the last pallet of ammo.

I look again at the arsenal. We could fight a war with this lot.

A chill runs down my back as I realise, that's exactly what we're proposing
to do.

I thought I knew what I was getting into.

I didn't think I'd be so scared.]<<<<<
-- SAC Tom Malone <23:02:35/11-09-60>

+++++end diary]<<<<<
-- Tom Elliott <11:03:24/10-12-60>

From:	Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Safe House
Date:	Fri, 19 Nov 1999 00:42:55 +0000

Message no. 4 *****PRIVATE: Personal Diary File
CC: FBI Operational Archive
>>>>>[+++++begin recording
I look at the tape Marlowe gave me. He's already going to work on how we
should deal with it.

It's an illegal intrusion into a private individual's privacy. I ought to arrest
him for that.

But it's priceless intelligence on Don Malone's operation. I need it.

Damn. Well, even having handled it means I tainted the investigation and
screwed us up for good in court. Might as well learn what it said. I slot the
sliver of optical data into a player, jack in.

++++begin transcribed recording
L: Don Malone.

M: How's it going, Lucky?

L: Slow, quiet, well. The cops and Customs checked Wells out. Cleaned it
up some: we left them some signs that Wells had been dirty and letting
stuff leak, let them see we wanted to keep the place clean now.

M: What about your neighbours?

L: Haven't noticed our presence yet, and I'd like to -

M: I need that place secure, Lucky. Carve out some territory 'round it.

L: Seamus, that isn't a good idea.

M: If I want your opinion, I'll give it to you, Lucky. I've had it with
sneaking and hiding and getting fragged by everyone who feels like it.
That Yak bastard, what's his name?

L: Matsehori Riku.

M: Yeah, him. Shove him back and cut yourself some turf. I want the
Seattle operation self-financing by the end of next year.

L: Don Malone, you don't seem to-

M: You still there, Lucky? I got serious pressure on me here. People are
asking, has Seamus Malone lost it? Has he lost his balls, is it safe to
fuck with him, can we show him disrespect?

I need to show those pricks who's the Man. Now fucking make it
happen. I'll send you some good ole boys to help you. Make it loud
enough to hear in Vegas.

L: And the cops, Seamus? What do you propose to do about the cops?

M: I'm still connected in Seattle, I got old friends and I made new friends.
The cops do what the politicians say, and I'll keep them off your back. I
mean, how much hassle did Eric get from the Law? Some things I do
_really_ well.

L: Point taken.

M: Loud, Lucky. Remember loud. I know Eric fucked it all up, but you...
you're the best at this business. I know you wouldn't do it this way if it
was up to you, but I pay you to fix _my_ problems. Get me?

L: Yes, I get you. <sigh> When are the boys arriving?

M: Soon. They'll be in touch. Can you equip them?

L: I've been stockpiling, so no problems there. What about Ilbury?

M: What about him?

L: Didn't you hear? He was throwing his sanctimonious little news
conference when two SIGA agents grab him. There and then. Except
SIGA's been disbanded for months... someone snatched him right in
public as fake Feds.

M: Who the fuck...?

L: Man and a woman. No idea who, yet. All we got are faces, and you can
fix those for chump change. Well, faces and big brass balls. I could use
talent like that.

M: So where did Ilbury go?

L: No idea, but my best guess would be Dona Minnie.

M: That bitch!

L: Hey, it costs me jack here, gets rid of that whiny little geek Tate, and
makes her happy. Doesn't hurt us at all that I can see. Makes Eric look
bad, but then he's _dead_. Out with the old, in with the new...

M: Yeah... still, be careful. I got a lot riding on this, Lucky.
+++++end transcript

Hellfire and damnation.

Another Mob war. This time, though, not out in the middle of the Barrens
where nobody gives a flying frag. This one's going to blow up in the heart
of Seattle... well, in one of the lungs at least.

What the hell should I do?

About the only thing I _can_ do. I walk to my room (past the thumping
beat of some Godawful rock band, apparently called 'Killing Zone', from
Quinn's quarters).

Body armour: the Discretion(TM) undershirt, then the heavy flak jacket (it
looks like a down vest from a distance, at least) over my sweater.
Weapons; my SIG-Sauer sidearm, two magazines, all on my belt under the
loose fold of the sweater's knitted synthwool. The vest's pockets full of #4
buckshot, for the SPAS-22 shotgun. I guess, like most of the others here,
that from now on I won't be out of arm's reach of this ugly killing
machine.

I regard it sadly. It's a thing of technical elegance, especially with Quinn
and Harley's modifications. Eight spare rounds clipped to the side of the
reciever, a widened ejection port and throated feed ramp, holographic
sights, tactical flashlight. a muzzle brake, a Sorbothane pad on the butt to
ease the sledgehammer recoil... yet, for all its efficiency, it's designed to
one thing and one thing only: to kill.

I signed up to serve and protect. To do that I'm going to wade in blood, it
seems.

Hart warned me, and I signed up, and only now is it coming to strike me
that Malone has many men armed with weapons like this, who don't give a
good God damn that I'm a Federal officer but will kill me for interfering in
their plans without a second's hesitation.

But it's too late to change your mind _after_ you've stepped off the ledge.
I was warned, I made my choice.

Now I'm going to live or die by it.

I just wish I didn't feel so scared. I wish I had someone I could talk to. I
wish I were somewhere, anywhere, other than here.
+++++end diary]<<<<<
-- Tom Elliott <11:03:24/10-12-60>

From:	"Brian E. Angliss" <ANGLISS@***.PSU.EDU>
Subject:	Safehouse
Date:	Sun, 30 Jan 1994 15:15:40 -0500

Message no. 5 *****Encrypt MILE_HIGH Blitzkrieg MPCP*****
>>>>>[Moriarity tells me that your old place was rather old(his exact
words)
and could have been more up to code structurally. I've got him setting up
a place for us, but at a fee. And besides, if Hammer takes it down, he may
just decide that the Security Protocols are in effect. And that would beVERY
bad for any other partys not allied with Central. Last time that happened some
very powerful people were removed from thier positions(like the Governor of
Conneticut, the Security Chief of Ares Macrotech's main office in New York, and
several dozen others. All Illumaniti members too...). And hey, I can have him
track Hammer's movements easy enough. Central has a Devner outlet as well, and
Sun and whoever found out long ago when tracking Journey that the Denver
shadows are darker than a cave at midnight, and they like to hide thier secrets
too. 20 years of entrenchments in Denver will do that. But again, he won't
do it for me even(and I started the whole thing) unless I pay him. But I have
several dozen good contacts that can get us just about anything. Diana'll meet
you at the safehouse, located*****MAXIM ENCRYPTION, production version,
location*****. It should be ready by the time you get there. Diana'll know
it's you(she knows what you look like).]<<<<<
-- Action Jackson(15:10:26/01-30-55)

>>>>>[Hammer, I look forward to putting one of my signature dikoted arrows
through your neck. Hope you can find me!]<<<<<
-- Action Jackson(15:11:34/01-30-55)

*****Encrypt NONAMESPECIAL, Target: Moriarity*****
>>>>>[Ok, here's the nuyen, now set up the target house and the real one.
What
do you give the chance of compromise?]<<<<<
-- Action Jackson(15:13:13/01-30-55)

>>>>>[About 8%. Low enough that I can still do this. If it goes above 10,
you
get cut off. If it goes above 20, Hammer becomes a low-priority risk. Above
30%, and he's on the drek list. 40% and he's dead within 24 hours, guaranteed.
If it goes higher than 50%, Denver becomes a war zone and the Denver outlet
gets blown and replaced in a couple of months. Try to keep it below 20,
please. And yes, I know you are reading this Hammer, although I doubt that
you take it seriously. You should.]<<<<<
-- Moriarity(15:17:15/01-30-55)

From:	Mike Goldberg <m_goldberg@**.COLORADO.EDU>
Subject:	Safehouse...
Date:	Tue, 1 Feb 1994 16:06:46 MST

Message no. 6 ***** Encrypt: Paradise lost v2.3: AJ
>>>>>[ Yes. I know for a fact that Dragoneyes, Doc Grizzle and I
(Gutterrat)
are in desperate needs of a safe place to sleep. ]<<<<<
-- Gutterrat <16:01:14/2-1-55>

***** Encrypt: Misery v.2.7: AJ
>>>>>[I am interested in a safehouse, but only so that we can plan, and
figure
out how to save alot of chummers. ]<<<<<
-- Bruce <16:03:00/2-1-55>

>>>>>[ Ah the amazements of reality. While you all screw around trying to
figure what way is up... I have Blitzkrieg and Firewraith in my hands. Phoenix,
Doomsday are hands of interpol. And WHAT is in trouble with the local
authorities. In addition, you all are just trying to regroup. How ironic.

Oh, I almost forgot... Bruce, whenever you get around this, I just recieved
this message. Your friend Karl... you know the one that save Blitzkrieg and
Firewraith when they were last in Berlin.... well he's a dead man now.
So AJ, when am I going to get one of those pretty dikoted arrows of yours in my
neck?]<<<<<
-- HAMMER <00:07:13/2-2-55>

From:	Mark Imbriaco <mark@******.net>
Subject:	Safe-house.
Date:	Tue, 26 Mar 1996 09:08:10 -0500 (EST)

Message no. 7 *****PRIVATE: Lynch
>>>>>[ I just saw Trideo-Pirate's post. Looks like old Commander Drake
and Special Branch are looking for you. If you need a secure place to
crash, let me know. Another thing I wanted to contact you about was a
friend of mine, Tangent, is currently between jobs. A member of his
team was fragged over pretty badly by someone with some BTL tortureware
a while back, and he'd like to do his part in hurting the distribution
some. If you can use him or his team, contact him at >>encrypted<<.
His most recent work was the op down in Cairo that took out the third
Maxim nuke storage.

Take care, chummer, and watch your ass. ]<<<<<
-- Griffyn <09:07:31/03-26-57>

From:	shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk (Paul J. Adam)
Subject:	Re: Safe-house.
Date:	Wed, 27 Mar 1996 02:56:52 GMT

Message no. 8 *****PRIVATE: Griffyn
>>>>>[Many thanks for the offer, Griffyn, I may well need it. Plenty of my
bluster and bravado up front, but Drake's good and InterPol are tough to
go up against. Damn, I wish I'd taken that FBI antiterrorism job instead...
less interesting, but more protection.

I'll contact Tangent, too. Cairo was very nice work: if he was behind that,
he's good.]<<<<<
-- Lynch <01:34:15/03-27-57>

*****PRIVATE: Tangent
>>>>>[Greetings. Griffyn recommended I speak to you: he said you had a
teammate who had suffered from some BTL tortureware. I've just had
Aztlan set InterPol on me, for hitting a few of their supply lines into
North America, and I'm thinking this is bigger than just a way to make
Aztlan some hard currency: which is why I'm going to *really* chase it
soon.

I'd appreciate any information you have. I'd welcome any help, too, since
at the moment everyone seems to believe I'm working alone: if you want in,
you might be able to work in the background while everyone shoots at
me.]<<<<<
-- Lynch <01:39:42/03-27-57>

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