by Arthur Slade
Cook entered with a dish of roly-poly, a rolled-up suet pudding with custard on the side. It had been a childhood favorite of Mr. Socrates, and always reminded him of his years in the navy, too. His fellow officers had called it dead-man’s arm.
As Cook set the pudding on the table, someone rang the door chimes. A moment later Tharpa entered with a telegram. Mr. Socrates set down his spoon and opened the envelope. He quickly decoded the message: Octavia reporting stop ship rammed by unknown unseen enemy stop Modo lost in ocean stop hiring searchers stop need funds stop orders stop.
Mr. Socrates read it again. “He’s dead,” he whispered.
Tharpa stepped toward him. “The young sahib?”
“Yes. He fell into the ocean more than eleven hours ago. He would be frozen to death by now. All that work, lost. And that foolish girl believes he might still be alive. I did try to teach her to be logical, but clearly she doesn’t listen.”
“Are you certain that she is the one you are angry with, sahib?”
Mr. Socrates scowled and looked up at Tharpa, who stood there, arms crossed. His gaze was steady, calm, but the glimmer of a tear rested on his cheek.
“Exactly what are you daring to suggest? With whom do you suppose I should be angry? Myself? Or is this more Dalit mysticism?”
“I am speaking as your friend.”
“Friend?” The word took Mr. Socrates aback. Friendship was not a term they had ever used to describe their relationship over the years. He had lifted Tharpa from the muck of Bombay, from a miserable life as part of the untouchable class, and this was how the man repaid him? By accusing him of … of … Mr. Socrates wasn’t exactly certain what.
“Yes, friend. You are my sahib, but you are my friend, too. It is not impossible to be both. I concluded that long ago. Just as Modo is both my friend and my pupil. If he is dead I will mourn him deeply.”
“If he is dead? This is too much, Tharpa.” Mr. Socrates stood up with a grunt of exasperation. “Cable Octavia in Reykjavik. She is to cease all activities and return to London immediately for reassignment.”
“If that is what sahib wants.”
“Yes, that is what I want! Please send her the message now!”
Tharpa nodded solemnly and left the room.
Had everyone gone mad? Mr. Socrates looked down at the roly-poly. Dead-man’s arm. His stomach turned and he pushed his chair back from the table.
He climbed the stairs to his room, his limbs heavy. He had to be resolute. This day was far from done, but here neither Tharpa nor Cook would bother him.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he saw that he was older. All that work training agents, setting them on their assignments. His great struggle against the enemies of Britain. Many had died serving the cause; Modo was just another death. Another sacrifice.
His eyes strayed to the portrait on the dresser of his wife, Margaret, dead now for twenty years, and below that the golden bracelet he’d bought for the baby, the boy his wife had died giving birth to. The child had taken his last breath only moments later. Mr. Socrates could still feel the child’s lifeless body in his arms. His child. His son. Dead.
Modo dead? It couldn’t be. Surely he had been prepared for the risks better than that.
Are you certain that she is the one you are angry with, sahib? Tharpa was always speaking in riddles. It was infuriating. Just what was he insinuating?
Octavia was acting out of passion, not reason. She deserved his anger. And Modo was not his son. He was a highly trained agent of the British Empire. Mr. Socrates crossed his arms. He was, above all else, the stalwart commander of the most powerful agency in the world. He had to move the pieces on the chessboard without succumbing to maudlin sentiment.
Despite these conclusions, he found himself moving across his room, opening the door, and walking down the hall, to the top of the stairwell. He spoke without knowing if anyone would hear him. “Tharpa”—his voice was a hoarse whisper—“wire Octavia five hundred pounds. Tell her to continue the search.”
He heard Tharpa answer from the shadows below. “I shall, sahib.”
18
Thievery and Secret Pacts
When Modo returned to his cabin, the door was closed and everything seemed to be in place. But when he looked under his mattress, the wireless telegraph had vanished. Stolen! How could he confront the captain without admitting what he was missing? She wouldn’t believe it was a piece of photographic equipment. Anyone with basic technological knowledge would spot it as a wireless telegraph. Cerdà would recognize it in a heartbeat.
But had the theft been at the captain’s orders? Was the dinner a ruse to give them time to explore his room?
There were other potential suspects. Colette couldn’t have taken it, since she had been seated at the table with him and had left when he did. Then Modo remembered her beguiling smile and the way Comrade Garay had responded to her with a blush. She had been on board for a fortnight. Time enough to bend a crewman to her will.
Without the telegraph he was, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner on the Ictíneo. It wasn’t as though he could just open a hatch and be on his merry way.
He felt a little slaver collect on his lip, a sign that his face was beginning to droop. He looked in the mirror. Already his features were melting like wax.
A knock at the door. He shuddered.
“Yes?”
“It’s Colette. I need to speak with you, Mr. Warkin.”
Angrily, Modo tried to stop the changes. No, having a temper tantrum wasn’t helpful. It clouded the mind. Mr. Socrates had told him that a thousand times. He focused, forming the Knight face again.
“Mr. Warkin?”
“Just a moment.” Modo quickly straightened his eyes, a bead of sweat running down his cheek. He ran his fingers through his hair, relieved that it wasn’t falling out yet. He was certain he could hold this form for twenty minutes at most.
He opened the door an inch, but Colette pushed her way in and closed it behind her. The room felt very small. “No one saw me come here,” she said, “but there isn’t much privacy on this death ship.”
Modo backed away from her, leaning up against the far wall. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes burned into his. “I apologize for the intrusion.”
“Yes, well, how may I serve you—I mean, be of service?” he asked.
“By telling me the truth,” she said.
“The truth? It’s inappropriate for us to be alone together. I’m a married man.”
“Liar!” She said this with such force, Modo felt as though he’d been slapped.
“I am!” he squeaked.
“What color are your wife’s eyes?”
“They—they’re …” He paused, picturing Octavia. “Green. Green!”
“Hmmph. I’m particularly gifted at observation, Mr. Warkin. The ring on your finger is too big for you, and very shiny.”
“We were just married. I’ve been meaning to get it sized properly.”
She grabbed his arm. “Stop it! You’re being pointlessly evasive.” When she let go, his arm stung. Her strength surprised him. “Your ship dropped anchor at the exact coordinates we were investigating. The Atlantic is too vast for such a coincidence.”
“We were photographing the sea. The light is perfect and—”
She put up her hand. “Nonsense! Stop this charade, Mr. Warkin, if that in fact is your name. Captain Monturiol can’t see what’s right in front of her nose, but I can. You watch the others. You analyze. You are inquisitive. My guess is that you’ve been trained in these arts; the question is, by whom?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Colette grabbed his hand this time, but held it gently, as though they were old friends. “Please, don’t lie to me,” she said softly. “We’re the only two sane people on board, and we could be trapped here with this madwoman for the rest of our lives. Tell me the truth.”
Modo took a deep breath. She had a point. “Well,” he said, removing his sweat
y palm from hers, “I suppose France and England are not officially at war. And we have cooperated in the past. The Crimea being but one example.”
Her smile was dazzling. “I knew it! I knew it! Trained by the Brits, of course. You’re all so wooden.”
“Wooden?”
“You’re not natural acteurs. Honestly, it’s as though you’ve all got rigor mortis. There’s something about the fog and cold that makes you stiffen up.”
“I must say, I’m insulted.” As he said it, though, he couldn’t help laughing. Her brown eyes flashed.
“We must make a pact, Mr. Warkin.”
“What sort of pact?”
“We’ll get out of this coffin together, that is our pact! Come hell or high water.” Modo raised his eyebrows. Colette was trained to be devious. “All right, but just so no one gets the advantage, we’ll inform our countries simultaneously about the existence of the Ictíneo.”
“I’ll shake on that,” she said, and so they did. Her hand was warm, her grip vise-tight.
“The question is,” she went on, “how do we contact our countries? I’ve never seen the crow’s nest of this ship—it’s somewhere in the bow. There may be a means of communication there. Or we may have to send a message some other way when we surface. It may be a note in a bottle.” Modo enjoyed her sardonic tone.
“How often does this submarine ship surface?”
“Every three days, to refresh its oxygen. There’s a slim chance we’ll surface near land or a friendly ship.”
“There is something else,” Modo said.
“Which is?”
“I have a device that will allow us to communicate with outsiders.”
“Really? What is it?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Oh, Mr. Warkin. I see. Your wireless telegraph is a state secret.”
Modo’s eyes twitched. He paused to consider his options and chose to give in. “How did you know?”
“I have my ways. Where is it?”
“Well, that’s the thing. It was stolen.”
“Stolen?” She furrowed her brow.
“Yes, it was hidden under my mattress.”
“Then Monturiol knows. And she would certainly recognize the device. She’s playing a game with us.”
“Is it possible one of the crew searched my quarters and has kept it, not knowing its purpose?”
“Perhaps. Though you will find that these Icarians, as they call themselves, are slavish to their duty. It seems unlikely one would keep this secret.”
“But suppose the thief just wanted something that none of his comrades had.”
Colette pursed her lips. “Still, we must assume she knows—but she’s very blunt, so it’s not like her to hide her motives. We’ll have to wait until she plays her hand.”
“How many men and women are under her command?”
“I’ve met twenty-two different comrades. But this labyrinthine vessel could hold a hundred at least. There are cabins on both levels, some with four bunks each.”
“Are there other ways off the ship?”
“I’m not aware of any, but they keep the aft and the bow under lock and key.”
“Then we shall have to assume the only way out is through the top hatch.”
“Yes.” She touched his hand. “My word is my honor, Mr. Warkin. Do you trust me?”
Modo tried to read her intentions in her face. “Trust? Between agents?” His chuckle was cut short by the severe look in her eyes. “I give you my word too.”
“Then what is your real name?”
“It’s Modo.” The moment he said it, he cursed himself. Mr. Socrates would never want any foreign agent to know his real name!
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Modo.” She shook his hand again, this time lightheartedly, her eyes scanning his face. Was it still holding its shape? “Mademoiselle Colette Brunet is my real name, but you may call me Colette in private. When I was dragged, half frozen, into this ship, I let them know my real name without thinking. But these Icarians know nothing of my true background.”
“I—I must admit I know who you are,” he muttered. “I studied you. I …” He didn’t know what to say and was surprised when he blurted out, “I’m sorry that your father died.”
Colette’s face went pale and she quietly said, “Thank you.” Then she turned, pausing at the door. “One final thought, Modo. If Monturiol knows that you’re a spy and is suspicious of me, then this proposed walk under the ocean may be a trip to our own execution. Think on that.”
She left and closed the door.
He did think on it, throughout most of his fitful night’s rest.
19
Hard Truth
Octavia dragged herself to a boardinghouse that overlooked the bay, paid the elderly woman for a room, and turned to go upstairs, only to find the Hugo’s captain sitting in the drawing room by the fire, a mug of coffee in his hand. “Mrs. Warkin,” Goss said, “please sit down.”
She did, and it was the first time since leaving the Hugo that she had allowed herself a moment’s rest. Goss poured a mug of coffee and handed it to her.
“Your luggage is here,” he said. “You left it on the ship, you were in such a hurry. I presume you were unable to find a rescue party.”
“No one dares go back to that area!”
He nodded. “I have spoken with several other captains and with the port authority. Many ships have been struck there. Some have gone down. We’re lucky we weren’t one of them. Still, my condolences once again on your loss.”
Octavia froze. “Condolences?”
“Well, yes, I’m so sorry that your husband has perished.”
“No!” She couldn’t control the emotion in her voice. “No. He’s still on that barrel.”
“Since age eleven I have lived on the sea. No one could survive in that water for more than a few hours.”
“Then a ship has picked him up. I know it in my bones.”
“No captain worth his salt would dare go there.” Again his voice was soft. “The truth is hard, I know, but it would be better for you to face it.”
She set down the coffee cup and stood up. “Thank you for the coffee, Captain Goss,” she said before climbing the stairs to her room, where she collapsed on the bed, not even taking the time to remove her shoes.
Later that night Octavia heard something being slipped under the door. When she read the telegram from Mr. Socrates, she didn’t know how to interpret it. Did he believe Modo was alive, or did he just want his body? Either way, she would have to hire a boat. She dared to feel a tinge of hope. Then something Goss had said came back to her. No captain worth his salt would dare go there.
It was time to find a captain who wasn’t worth his salt.
20
A Stroll at Full Fathom Five
Colette had breakfast in her cabin, delivered by a female comrade. The Icarians were often hard to tell apart, given their uniforms, but this one she’d nicknamed Big Chin. She was as mute as all the rest of them, and so dull and stolid that Colette was certain she was part ox. Colette ate two slices of seaweed bread, all the while thinking, My heart, my soul for a croissant. She longed for eggs from a chicken, not a turtle. And lamb, too! After twenty-one days of fish-based meals, she would have killed for lamb chops.
She had spent much of the night trying to figure out who Modo was. She believed him when he said he was an English agent. She had placed his accent as London upper class, but couldn’t get any more specific than that. She’d had her suspicions upon first meeting him, and they had been confirmed by his behavior at the dinner table. And it was especially obvious that he had only a rudimentary knowledge of photography.
She wondered if he was younger than he appeared to be. The rash confused her, though. Was he faking that? For what purpose? As an agent it wasn’t a good tactic to draw attention to yourself. And that mask certainly drew attention.
As she swallowed the last mouthful of bread, someone knocked on her door. She o
pened it to find Cerdà. “Captain Monturiol thought you should come early to the lock chamber. It will take some time to dress, and it is best to be suited up while no men are present.”
“Ah, how modest of Monturiol,” Colette said wryly.
Cerdà led her down the corridor; he was so large that both his shoulders nearly brushed the walls. Anselm Cerdà was a hard one to peg. Despite the fact that none of the Icarians wore any insignia, he seemed to be Monturiol’s second-in-command. Colette had gathered bits and pieces of information: he was an engineer and had brought this ship to life, using Monturiol’s father’s schematics. He spoke Catalan, French, Spanish, and English fluently. And he had no sense of humor. At least, Cerdà never responded to any of Colette’s quips. He answered all questions in a matter-of-fact way and was, it seemed, emotionless. The perfect Icarian.
They descended the spiral staircase through the bridge. Colette stole a glance at the pressure gauge. It was at ten atmospheres, so they were one hundred meters below sea level. Her father had taught her marine science, so she knew each atmosphere of pressure was equivalent to 10.6 meters of water pressing down on the gauge.
They went through the library, and for the first time, Colette was allowed into the lower hall leading to the aft of the ship. She kept her eyes wide open, counted her footsteps. From this she calculated the overall length of the Ictíneo to be at least fifty meters. There were more cabins on either side of her, and new clusters of gauges.
The journey didn’t feel particularly ominous, but her heart skipped a beat when she allowed the idea of an execution to invade her thoughts.
“Is it … sunny out today?” she asked to distract herself. Cerdà glanced down at her. “We do not experience the ravages of the sun in Icaria.”
