by Arthur Slade
“There are no other boats,” Marlin said.
The water was now up to Colette’s knees. The three of them bailed as hard as they could, but after a few minutes Fortant fell over. Colette and Marlin pulled him upright.
“We can’t save the boat,” Fortant sputtered. “Cling to the wreck.”
“I’ll fire another flare,” Colette yelled, and pulled the trigger. What she saw by its light sent a wave of panic through her chest.
Shark fins. They were circling the boat, bright white in the moonlight.
“Mon dieu!” Fortant gasped. “My blood has attracted them! I am sorry—there is only one way to save you.” Before Colette or Marlin could grab him, he heaved himself over the side.
“Chief Fortant! Chief Fortant!” Marlin cried, but the chief slowly swam away. He let out a scream and Colette and Marlin heard splashing and thrashing, then nothing more.
The lifeboat went on sinking. “We’re too heavy!” Colette shouted. A wave hit, flipping the boat and tossing them into the ocean. The frigid water numbed Colette’s thoughts. She flailed around, eyes burning in the salty water. Feeling something solid, she grabbed on to the overturned boat.
Marlin was already clinging to the other side. “Perhaps we’ve drifted far enough away from the sharks.”
Her teeth were clattering too hard to reply.
“Don’t kick!” he whispered. “They’re attracted to motion.”
He needn’t have worried. Her legs were already frozen and still. The cold was forcing its way inside her body, cooling her blood, slowing her heart. The ocean was oddly quiet; the men had stopped shouting for help.
“Are they gone?” she said softly, but Marlin replied with a harsh grunt.
“Marlin!”
“I think one took my foot,” he rasped. His eyes were wide with fear. “I’m too numb to be certain.”
“Climb higher on the lifeboat!”
“I—” Then he was gone, sucked into the depths.
“Marlin? No! No! Where are you? Marlin?”
Something thumped into her leg and she stifled a scream. Don’t move! Don’t move!
Several shark fins passed near, then turned away. She felt an unexpected sensation, as if she were being lifted up, into the air. Something larger than a shark rose in the water below her.
2
The Familiar Intruder
Consul Gaspar Le Tourneau’s wolfhounds were trained to protect him. He’d purchased them in Germany, and they had provided company during those lonely years at the French embassy in Berlin; they had traveled with him to New York and then to the embassy in London, which was now his home. Greta and Gunther sat with their ears raised. Their once sable backs were flecked with gray.
Gaspar knew he should be looking for younger replacements, but he had such affection for these two. And they had saved his life on more than one occasion.
They were restless today. Gunther padded over to the door, and it opened. Siméon, Gaspar’s personal servant, stumbled in and the dogs began to bark. Gaspar rolled his eyes. The hounds were getting too old. He commanded, “Halt den mund!” and they stopped. They’d been trained by a German and responded only to that language. They watched Siméon with hackles raised.
“You should knock,” Gaspar said in French. “You upset the hounds.”
Siméon’s thick face was dotted with beads of sweat. He held a tray of coffee and croissants, and looked fearfully at the dogs.
“Me thought you sleep,” he replied in mangled French, his voice terribly hoarse.
“Are you sick? You can’t even put a proper sentence together! Go back to your quarters at once! Don’t bring your affliction into my study.”
Siméon shook his head. “Not sick. Dog scared me.”
“Are you drunk? I command you to put the tray on the desk and go.”
Siméon crossed the room and the dogs growled even more. Gaspar shouted, “Ruhe!” and the wolfhounds fell silent. Siméon’s waistcoat was untucked and his trousers were not properly pressed. “You are not presentable! Your appearance reflects badly on me and on all of France.”
“Apologies me,” the servant replied.
At the sound of his voice, the dogs bared their teeth, dripping slaver. Gaspar put a hand to his temple. All this commotion and he had not even had his croissant yet. “Aufhören! Aufhören!” he demanded, and the wolfhounds looked at him. “Raus!” He pointed to the door and they slunk out of the room, but not before Greta took a nip at Siméon. The servant jumped back, let out a little eek, and said, in English, “Bad dog.”
“They only understand German, you fool.”
Siméon closed the door, muffling the barks and yips. He set the tray down on the desk, wiped at his face, and drew a pistol from his inside jacket pocket, then said, in English, “I don’t care what they understand. It’s more important to me that you understand the situation.”
“Siméon! Put down that weapon. What game is this?”
Siméon took a step closer, the pistol pointed steadily at Gaspar. “It’s not a game and I’m not Siméon. You usually breakfast in the garden at this hour. Alas, today you changed your pattern.”
As Siméon moved closer, Gaspar noticed that his servant’s nose was a little wider than it used to be, his eyes not quite the same green.
“Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter. What I want from you is information.”
The door rattled as the dogs scratched at it, but the man took no notice.
“What sort of information?”
“Two files. One on a woman named Colette Brunet. The second on Project Ictíneo.”
Gaspar swallowed. No one on this godforsaken island of Englishmen was supposed to know about that project.
“And if I do not provide the information?”
“I’m a good shot. Not that it matters at such close range.”
Gaspar nodded. “I would rather not die before drinking my first cup of coffee of the day.” He casually reached under the desk and pressed the alarm button, assured that a bell would ring in the security room.
“The alarm is disabled,” the man said.
“Ah, where is Siméon?”
“He’s been … detained. Now, to the matter at hand. Get me those files.”
Gaspar was well aware that he could be shot the moment he handed over the files and then the intruder would have the information and France would be short one ambassador. He searched his memory for what the files contained, what exactly he would be giving up.
“Now!” The man took a step closer.
The dogs continued to bark, pawing at the door. Why didn’t I trust them? thought Gaspar. Perhaps their barking would draw that dunderhead Marcus, head of security for the embassy.
“I am—I am not certain I have the papers.”
“Do not stall!” The man’s gaze was steady and he thrust the pistol at Gaspar. The ambassador grimaced. There wasn’t the slightest tremor in the man’s hand.
Gaspar pushed away from the desk, the wheels on his wooden chair squeaking. He stood, hands held up, and walked slowly to the back of the room, so as not to alarm the man. He removed an etching of the Arc de Triomphe from the wall, revealing a safe. The combination was complex. Think! Think! His trembling fingers began to move. The lock clicked open. He would not give away everything. Just enough to make this man think he had it all.
But Gaspar was shoved aside. “I apologize, Mr. Le Tourneau, but you try my patience.” With one hand the stranger reached into the safe; the other held the pistol pointed unswervingly at Gaspar. Francs, rubles, American dollars, maps, and more fell to the floor. Gaspar studied the stranger. He looked younger than he had first appeared, his sideburns now askew. They were fake.
“Aha!” The intruder clutched a brown envelope.
The office door burst open and the dogs were across the floor in two heartbeats, jaws open wide. As the man swung the gun toward them, Greta caught his wrist. He grunted in pain, dropping the pistol. Marcus stood in the
door. “Sir, what—”
“You fool! Grab him!” But the intruder had slammed Greta against the wall and had lifted Gunther and thrown him toward the door, knocking Marcus to his knees.
Gendarmes ran in, some tripping over Marcus.
“Shoot him! Shoot him now!” Gaspar shouted.
“I apologize for the mess,” the intruder said. Then he charged toward the gendarmes. They froze, but at the last moment he veered around them and leapt through the window, somehow bounding off the balcony and up toward the roof.
Gaspar howled, “Get him!”
“Yes!” Marcus yelled. “After him! After him! Gilles, to the street; Andres, with me to the roof.”
As the guards ran off, Gaspar looked out the window at the tiny faux balcony. The intruder was extremely agile.
Gaspar searched the safe. All was accounted for, except one file and a map.
3
The Report
Modo clung to the edge of the sill and swung himself up, cursing his luck. He had come away with little more than a handful of papers, which would irk Mr. Socrates. It had taken a fortnight to plan and rehearse the assignment, and only a minute to botch it.
It was five stories to the street below. People were staring up, mouths agape, to see where the broken glass had fallen from. He swung over to another balcony, landed on both feet, and ran across the balustrade. The pedestrians were getting a show that rivaled anything playing at Astley’s Theatre Royal. As he jumped and grabbed an awning and swung onto the roof, it occurred to him that the theft would be in the papers. Another mistake! The embassy would never report exactly what was missing, but Mr. Socrates was displeased whenever an agent caused enough stir to make the news. Blast it!
Modo bounded across to the next building and over a slanted roof, frightening pigeons. It brought him such joy to leap and dash over London’s roofs. It had taken years of training under the watchful eye of Tharpa, his martial arts instructor, to make every step so sure, to perfect his balance. The six months he had spent practically living on London’s rooftops had served to heighten his skill. He could get all the way to Buckingham Palace and back before a cab could complete half the trip. What other fourteen-year-old could do that?
Today he only needed to go a few blocks. He hopped onto the roof of Harrods grocer and lowered himself onto a balcony, unseen by the people on Brompton Road.
After removing his jacket, Modo examined the scratches and bite marks on his arm. Not too deep, and the bleeding had stopped. He’d had bad luck before with dogs; they didn’t seem to be fooled by his disguises—no surprise since they relied on their sense of smell. He’d treat the wounds once he was back at Victor House. He turned his suit jacket inside out and pulled it back on.
“And now,” he whispered to himself, “to become someone else.”
He drew in a deep breath, gritted his teeth, leaned against the building, and concentrated, picturing his face shifting into one he called Mr. Dawkins, his “young lord with dimples” face. His bones ached, his muscles burned, and he sweated as his eyes grew larger, shifting from the squinty, tiny eyes of Siméon, who was at this point lying in an opium den. With the creaking, cracking of bones moving and enlarging, Modo’s jaw grew longer, his nose wider. He ensured that his hated hump remained flattened on his back.
He’d been able to change his appearance since infancy. He’d trained for years to develop this “adaptive transformation” under the watchful eyes of Mr. Socrates, but it still took intense concentration. And it hurt. Oh, how the shifting hurt! He grimaced and grunted, hearing Mr. Socrates’ voice: “You must perfect each face. No drooping eyelids or sagging cheeks, no sign of your true ugliness. Perfect it, Modo!” He didn’t stop until every last bone was in place. He looked at least twenty-five years old now. He yanked off the sideburns, then took out a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. He didn’t transform the rest of his body—if he did, his clothes would no longer fit. He had stashed a long, dark coat here. He pulled it from behind a chair and threw it around his shoulders.
The final touch was a collapsible top hat. With the press of a button it popped from flat as a fritter to full height. Modo placed the hat on his head, then climbed through the window and into an unoccupied room. In the next room he surprised a seamstress, who looked up from her work. “Oh dear!” she gasped.
“My apologies.” Modo gave her a sweeping bow.
He made his way to the ground floor, stopping only to buy a jar of gooseberry preserves. He sampled them as he walked along the street. He could easily have traveled by rooftop, but he would be far too sweaty by the time he arrived at Victor House. Mr. Socrates wouldn’t approve of that.
Modo had spent the past two days in the embassy, serving food and speaking little, as his French was only passable. Much of the time he pretended to be sick. He especially avoided the other servants, as they would likely have become suspicious. The ambassador and secretaries and commissaries hardly gave him a look because he was only a servant, which made his task easier. He had assumed the ambassador was out of his office, and intended to break into the safe; a nasty surprise to find Le Tourneau there. Mr. Socrates would not be happy with his poor planning.
Feeling bolder, Modo walked back down Brompton Road and Knightsbridge, past the embassy on the opposite side of the street. He glanced at the broken window on the top floor and snickered when he saw the gendarmes running back and forth along the street. London policemen were trying to gain entry to the embassy, but they were being barred by gendarmes. Carriages and an omnibus rattled past.
Then he heard barking and saw the two wolfhounds being led by Marcus, both straining at their leashes and glaring right at him. Modo nearly choked on a gooseberry. He cursed himself for being too arrogant and quickened his pace. He passed the gawkers and turned down the next street to hail a hansom cab. After twenty minutes of being jostled about, he was deposited in front of Victor House. Modo didn’t know whether Mr. Socrates owned the grand mansion himself or if it was a possession of the Permanent Association, the secretive British group that managed agents all over the world. The Association had formed to protect Britannia from outside enemies. That was Modo’s best guess, at least. Mr. Socrates was typically tight-lipped when it came to explaining the Association’s goals. Modo mentally listed the estates of which he knew—Tower House, Ravenscroft, Victor House—but he imagined there were many more. The Association was no doubt rich beyond his wildest calculations.
Right next to the iron front gate was a statue of Mars, the god of war, standing with a lance in one hand, a shield in the other. Modo rubbed the shield for luck. Mr. Socrates would frown upon such superstition.
At the front door, Modo knocked. It opened and Tharpa smiled, his teeth made brighter by his dark skin. Modo resisted the urge to hug his combat instructor. He hadn’t done that since he was a child. “I recognize this face, young sahib,” Tharpa said.
“One day I’ll arrive with a face you’ve never seen.”
“I will know you by your smell, Modo.” Tharpa laughed. “Please come in.”
Modo stepped into the front hall. “It’s so good to see you, Tharpa! You’d be proud of how far I jumped, running along balustrades and swinging over flagpoles. Everything you taught me.”
“Yes, as I have always said, young sahib is part monkey.” Tharpa took Modo’s coat sleeve and gently lifted his wrist. “Tch, tch. Wounded. Again.” He rolled back the sleeve and looked over the scratches on Modo’s arm. “Ah, always you are in trouble with dogs. Come to me when you are finished with your report. Mr. Socrates awaits you in the study.”
Tharpa entered the study before Modo and announced, “Young Modo is here.” Then he withdrew.
Modo strode into the circular study, trying to look confident. Mr. Socrates was seated at a table in his red satin smoking jacket, pipe burning, glasses on his nose. His white hair had been cut so short, it stuck straight out. For nearly fourteen years this man had been the closest thing Modo had had to a father
. Every lesson, all the minutiae of Modo’s education had been planned by Mr. Socrates.
Now his sharp eyes measured Modo, who felt as though his master’s gaze was sizing up his deficiencies. Modo adjusted a button on his coat, wondering how old Mr. Socrates was: fifty-five? Seventy? A hundred? Mr. Socrates lowered his glasses.
“Welcome, Modo. Do have a seat,” he said. Modo chose a chair next to the wall of books. It squeaked. The table in front of him was spread with documents and maps, lit by light from the nearby window.
“Please give me your report.”
“Well, I began, as you suggested, by acting somewhat ill and surly so that others at the embassy would not suspect my disguise. I did my duties as a servant, but retreated to my room, feigning illness, when my features began to shift back to their usual state—”
“The results, Modo. What happened and what did you bring me?”
Modo recounted his last few minutes at the French embassy and produced the two papers he had stolen.
“This is all?” Mr. Socrates said.
“I didn’t expect him to be in his study.”
“Well, perhaps you should have carried on with your disguise.”
“I don’t believe I could have, sir. Some of the staff were becoming suspicious. And once Consul Le Tourneau believed I was sick, I felt it would be some time before he would allow me back in his quarters.”
Mr. Socrates nodded. “Yes, your line of reasoning is acceptable. Good.”
Modo breathed deeply. That was as close as Mr. Socrates ever came to giving a compliment.
As Mr. Socrates examined the documents, Modo eyed the book spines beside him. Intravascular Medicine. A History of Espionage. Britons and Britannia. Outside the window, the midday sun shone down on the garden of Victor House. It being November, there were no flowers, but the vines and leaves were still quite green. “Well, this is something, at least,” Mr. Socrates said, holding up a sheet of paper. “I wouldn’t call your mission an unqualified success, but I can work with this.”
