[i]In all things, conduct oneself with dignity. Even in the face of certain oblivion.[/i]

The room was dimly lit, cast a little crimson by the fading sun behind thin, scarlet curtains. It was the roomed of a scholarly man, a learned man and a wealthy one at that. Tall mahogany bookcases were stuffed with all many of old and obscure tomes. In the middle of the room, two lush and plump armchairs sat. Two gentlemen, each clad in pinstripe, shared a box of fine cigars. 

"Can I ask who gave the order?" said the elder gentlemen, as he considered the glowing ember at the end of his Cuban.

"You can." said the second.

"Would you tell me?" The gentlemen took a drag on the silken smoke, smooth and bitter. After being caught a moment in his lungs, it was expertly pushed out through the nose in twin spirals. He took another breath, a deep drag this time.

"But of course not." The two of them shared a single, solemn laugh before the gunshot cut it short. The silencer turned the Webley's report into a cough and a single brass cylinder landed gently on the thick shag carpet. From the punctured lung, fine cigar smoke drifted. The second bullet ruptured the heart, finishing the job. Double-tap, from sitting, guaranteed kill. Mr. Tinker took a drag on the cigar, savoring the rich, exotic flavor of the tobacco. Fine stuff, fine stuff indeed. 

It seemed poor taste to use such a fine cigar as the first spark in an arson, but one made do with what one had to hand. Some kerosene from the manor's kitchen, splashed liberally around the library and making sure to get a lot of the accelerant on certain leather-bound, ancient tomes that were not on any approved reading list, then the last nub of still-burning Havana to set it all going. From the bottom of the house's garden, the fire was quite beautiful as it consumed all evidence of the cult, its holy book and its demagogue. But really, anyone who read the Necronomicon for fun or pleasure should have expected what was coming to them. He met his end with dignity, at least. Mr. Tinker checked his phone, seeing a text message commanding him back to London on quite short notice. Well, the Aston Martin still had a full tank, he supposed. 

On the road back, he flipped open the phone again and dialed a number from memory. "Yes, Minister, it's done." Then the phone flipped shut again. 

Naturally, a gentleman was never late and Mr. Tinker was nothing if not a gentleman. Though he had to drive through the early hours to arrive at the expected time, he found such times quite meditative and calm, never seeming to drain as much as the normal hours. Still, his current suit smelled quite awfully of smoke and he'd had to change that, naturally. There was a spare in the back seat and on the side of the night road, he'd swapped umber single-breasted for charcoal pinstripe double-breasted. He parked the Aston - silver, vintage - in front of the facility and checked his tie was nice and straight in the rear-view mirror before heading in properly. The conference room was already close to full by the time he'd arrived, which was perhaps a little surprising. 

Tinker respected many of his colleagues, but others he considered little better than the beasts they fought against. Take, for instance, the snake-man, the one to his right hand side. Dreadful specimen, that one. Just never sat right with him, a gut-thing, nothing particularly personal behind it. And the blood-soaked fool - Lazarus. Whatever virtue the Crown saw in keeping him on a leash instead of in a cage or in the ground, Tinker would never see. Walking around soaked in crimson somewhat defeated the point of a covert organization. If nothing else it was unhygienic and unprofessional. But of course, it would have been quite improper to give voice to such opinions directly. So he calmly sat near the other Black Dogs - Raven, Rune and Striker - and produced a small moleskin from his pocket, ready to make note of any important briefing information.