A/N: See? Told you the chapters would come quicker now. And behold, we introduce the Action Plot! A couple confusing acronyms might be found within: CSIS is the Canadian Secret Intelligence Service, analogous to the CIA. The RCMP, while they're the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, don't really ride horses all that often, but they are a nation-wide police force that tends to handle high-level crimes. Like the FBI, but also with some unique differences. Other than that... I think we can all muddle through. Thanks for all the feedback guys! It's really encouraging me to write.

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Ottawa, the very next day, and Logan wasn't sure he'd ever get the scent of hospital out of his nose. It was bad enough in the medical bay back down in Westchester, but there, at least, Jean's scent was equally strong amongst the trappings of her domain. Here...

Here, in addition to permanently jamming his sense of smell, he was going to get run over by a damn gurney, any minute now. Just how long did it take to get a cast off someone's leg? Leaning warily against a wall and tripping the odd medical resident, he stared at the closed door to the treatment room where Jean was closeted, occasionally picking out her voice, raised in polite medical argument over whether or not her x-rays warranted going from a cast to a brace.

He'd put his money on Jean.

At the moment, however, he needed to go put some money in a pay phone. Stopping to lean on the counter at the nearest nursing station, he allowed that "If Dr. Jean Grey asks, I'm making a few calls over there," with a jerk of his head, and sloped off towards a bank of them.

"Put me through to James Hudson."

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A few hours later, with a leg brace enhanced Jean safely installed and exclaiming over room service at a hotel about seven degrees more swank than he usually was accustomed to, the Wolverine found himself at a small brick office building in the shadow of Parliment Hill. Legacy of Centennial year construction efforts in the late sixties, it was home to the sort of tiny government departments that taxpayers overlooked, and a few other departments that sought hard to cultivate the image of that. The floors featured faded orange and brown industrial carpet, half the chairs had split seats, and on one doorway was a discreet little plaque reading 'Department H'.

Hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, Logan let himself in. One small room, crammed to the gills with three desks, filing cabinets, piles of printouts, computer disks, a coffee maker and mugs arranged like a shrine, and one James Hudson, a solidly built man who looked more like an outdoorsman than the brilliant researcher he was.

He was also grinning fit to kill as Logan shouldered in, rising from his computer to cross the limited floorspace, and clap him about the shoulders. "Damn, it's been a while, but I knew you'd turn up eventually. Welcome to Department H... told you we'd make a go of it, didn't I?"

"That you did, James, that you did." Logan was forced to agree, even as the general orange, brown, and lack of windows earned an editorial eyebrow. "Yup. Average passerby would have no clue in hell what you've got going here." A pause, and the eyebrow twitched again. "...whatever it is you've got going here. How's Heather?"

"Oh, gorgeous as always. Still rags me about having to come save our asses in order for her husband and his best man to make the wedding... good times, man, good times. In town long enough to come over for dinner?" While he was bantering away, James rose and calmly and methodically swept the room with what appeared to be a long black wand mounted on top of some digital box that bleeped and chimed at irregular intervals.

"Help yourself to a seat and some coffee while you're at it." he continued, not missing a beat as he produced a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and began digging about behind a standard government office framed print of rural Canadiana. A grunt later, and a tiny black Something was removed from it, which was walked across the hall and slid beneath the doorway of the National Turkey Farmers' Licensing Board before the man took a seat back at his desk again. "CIA." was the one word explanation, as the bug detector was returned to his desk drawer.

With a grunt and another quirk of his eyebrow, Logan looked up from where he'd been gazing approvingly at a tin of Tim Horton's ground coffee and wondered the obvious question of "What the hell's the CIA doing spying on Canada in general and you in specific? Incidentally, it's been too damn long since I've had a good cup from Timmy's. Been down in the States a bit lately."

"I heard." replied James, not sounding surprised. "Keeping company with Dr. Charles Xavier, philanthropist, mutant rights supporter, and all around distinguished and respected figure. Who also has a modified SR-71 living in his basement. And you turned down working with us 'cause you didn't want to save the world, you just wanted to drive around in that beat up old truck of yours." A snort. "Can I say 'I told you so'?"

"No. But you can tell me where you keep the coffee filters, how you know so much about that, and what the CIA's doing bugging your office."

"Filing cabinet to the right, top drawer, satellites and good interdepartmental relations with CSIS, and the fact that there are certain members of the US government who feel that any country who officially sees mutants as just people with abilities to be put to use, rather that witchhunted as potential terrorists are just a bunch of red Communists out to take over the world. It's the Underground Railroad, gay rights and draft dodging all rolled into one. Now, trade, what's got you up here, business for the shadowy Xavier, or what?"

There was a rustling as Logan went about setting a fresh pot to brew, and then an uncomfortable shrug. "Partially something personal, partially... Know about anything wierd happening out in Halifax? Mutant-related wierd?"

In answer, James went over to another filing cabinet, and removed a manila envelope. Clearing a space on his desk between a half-assembled molecular modeling kit, and a picture of he and his wife, he poured out a collection of photographs and police reports, noting that "Of course, I'm not showing you this... but take a look over it."

The photos were black and white, eight by ten sheets glossy with good finishing, but grainy courtesy of distance and poor lighting. Still, the imagery was clear, with physical mutants, some barely over sixteen and all looking drugged, being loaded and unloaded from a standard shipping container. "Smuggling ring from countries with strict anti-mutant laws."

"No, worse than that. Smuggling ring operated by a fellow named Lesair. European crime boss who made his money in the white slave trade. Now, there's even more exotic birds to be sold. Got to keep up with the times, you know." A short bark of harsh laughter from James, his expression a mixtured of sickened, angry and frustrated. "I've got the evidence, man. They're using Halifax as a transfer point before heading out to foreign markets. But Lesair's got himself some greased palms in the government. Not at high levels, necessarily, but right at one of the levels between me and them, so none of my requests get through. There's another shipment set to come in in a little over two weeks, and I can't act on it, because I can't get a requisition through the channels to beg for more without tipping him off that something's up, and messing up the RCMP's investigation. My hands are tied, unless..."

A look passed between the two men just then, accompanied by twin smiles that didn't bode at all well for the absent Lesair.

"Yeah."

"Yeah. I can't give you names and numbers now, not with so many different groups watching this little office building, but I've got a man in Montreal that I'll route them through to you. Here's the address." A piece of paper with numbers, but no name, was handed over and promptly introduced to the tame black hole that was Logan's pocket.

"That's in the main shopping district."

"Yeah, he's a fashion designer for his day job."

"Well, that's one thing that should make Jean happy..." was vented in a disbelieving murmur.

"Who's Jean?" James promptly pounced, chuckling suddenly and grinning once more. "You don't mean Jean Grey, do you? If you do, Heather will kill me if she doesn't come to dinner. I've seen her on the news... you lucky dog. Always did have a thing for redhea--" He silenced himself at a quick shake of Logan's head, and an expression that was doing its best impression of a prarie thunderstorm. "Right. The something personal."

"Yeah." Logan quickly got to his feet, moody look still in place, although the paper cup of coffee he'd gotten mere moments earlier was still being cradled protectively. He volunteered nothing further, jaw working silently, before at last he offered that "I've gotta go. But say hi to Heather for me, and if you want a lead on something, get folks out to check through the ruins of a busted dam complex out in northern Alberta." And with that, the Wolverine was off again, a head full of thoughts.

Unusually, he failed to notice the couple watching him leave from their car parked outside the building. Or that they were the same couple that had earlier been sitting on a bus stop bench when he'd arrived.