Operation: Endgame (Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Book 6)

by Pip Ballantine

  This was not really happening. Was it?

  The door behind him opened a crack. Chief Highfield poked his head into the interrogation room. His smile infuriated Campbell. "And this is the last reason I am being so accommodating, Agent Campbell." With a wink, he added, "Do give my regards to my British counterpart."

  Bruce let out a long, slow breath, before turning back to look at the determined David Harker. Doctor Sound must have a good reason for sending them to follow this lead of kidnapped wives. At least, he hoped he did.

  "Right then." Harker said, looking between the two of them, "Where do we begin?"

  This mission was already off to a delightful start, but it looked like they could at least afford good booze on the way.

  Chapter Nine

  When the City of Love Welcomes Our Agents of Derring-Do

  Once Eliza and Wellington had cracked Jekyll’s enigma it was a rush to pack their bags and prepare for another nerve-racking æthergate trip. The usual travel lines were out of the question as Jekyll was not playing by the rules. Yet why would he? The man was an utter cad, not to mention a bit cracked.

  So in the midst of all this, the youngest of the Ministry Seven, the diminutive Serena, confronted Eliza and Wellington. She looked up at them, feet planted, a glower carved deep into her usually sweet face.

  "I'm coming with you."

  These were the first words she had spoken to either of them in quite some time. The young girl had been making a real effort to avoid them. Eliza had done the same when she was about her age when her parents were not paying her enough attention—at least in her mind. While the Brauns had a parcel of children and a pub to keep an eye on, she and Wellington had a madman loose in the Empire. None of these things made any difference to a child.

  Eliza had bent down, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "This is far too dangerous, Serena. We’d be distracted with worry for your safety. It would probably get me and Mr Books killed."

  Serena stared down at her feet for a moment and then looked up. "Since the hullabaloo at the East End, everyone’s found a place in the Ministry." Then her face scrunched into a sour expression. "Except Christopher, who’s done found a bottle to crawl into at the local pub."

  Wellington had looked over to Eliza, and she caught in his expression a reflection of her own confusion. She could say nothing in response to that. It was true. All the boys from the Ministry Seven had landed quite nicely on their feet, all save for Christopher. The eldest of the Seven wanted no part of the Ministry even though he was offered a position. He'd discovered the limits of his desire to serve Queen, Country and Empire. He had made noises about finding passage back to London, but the last anyone had heard, he had found a comfortable corner in the Hunter’s Horn, the local pub of Hebden Bridge. He did odd jobs around the town to cover his thirst and modest means.

  That had left Serena. Not even ten, and she wanted a place in the Ministry.

  "I'm sure you could find a place to help out here," Eliza had told her, but those words were not very convincing. Serena wanted to be involved the way she had been in the streets of London. "Alice could use some help in Whiterock, or perhaps you could assist in the kitchens. Only for a little while until you’re older."

  "But Miss Eliza, I'm just as good at infiltration as Jonathan and Jeremy. Better, even!" Serena had crossed her arms before adding, "I can complete that escape room challenge in the West Wing in half the time it takes both of them." Eliza could still remember how surprising that was, along with how proud she was of the girl’s skill.

  "Now, Serena, you understand the kind of work Mr Books and I do. It's dangerous."

  "I know," she insisted. "I saw that when we tangled with that Dottie Diamond tart. Then there’s what happened outside St Paul's. I ain’t no fool."

  "But that was different, that was in London. You don't know Paris like that. We can’t take you with us, because we need you to be safe."

  "I don’t want to be safe. I want to be like you." Serena said.

  Those words struck hard, and Eliza didn’t have any answers for the girl. On one hand she was proud of Serena’s determination, but on the other she was afraid. Was this how Eliza’s mother had felt when she had taken her own post at the Ministry?

  Instead of answering her, Eliza hustled Serena into the care of Alice, who offered up as much tea as the situation warranted. The tearful girl continued to follow them about, and had watched in silence as they finished their packing, headed to the staging area in R&D, and prepared to take their brief trip across the channel to Paris.

  Just as they were about the depart Whiterock, Eliza had reached out for Serena, only to have the child run off, sobbing.

  That memory haunted Eliza even as they entered the æthergate. When they arrived in Paris, her mind was still in a fog.

  "This city is rather beautiful isn’t it," Wellington said, as he leaned against the white stone balustrades of the Pont Neuf, and stared down at the bustle of the tiny river craft below. "A real pity we won’t get to see more of it."

  It was a chilly blue-grey day, so the usual bustle of pedestrians on the bridge was muted. The tall cream and white buildings nearby loomed over them somehow.

  Eliza shivered. Wellington might be waxing lyrical on the beauties of the city, but to her, it was a city marred by Jekyll. That monster had brought them here and made Serena cry. Their circumstances took away the joy of the city. Tomorrow they would board the Orient Express, provided Wellington’s plan panned out. The æthergate had granted them a full day in the City of Lights, but not necessarily for enjoyment. They were here on business, and that was not the way she wanted to see Paris with Wellington.

  Her gaze went from window to window. The itch on the back of her neck reminded her that the villainous doctor could be standing at one of them at this very moment. She hadn’t realised how much comfort she got from Jekyll’s isotope trail; but with Axelrod’s and Blackwell’s tracking solution gone from the madman’s system, he could be anywhere and they wouldn’t know it.

  Yes, though leaving Serena in tears had been difficult, it had also been the right choice.

  Huddling a little closer to Wellington—this was the city of love after all—she squeezed his arm. "Don’t worry, we’ll be able to enjoy it one day. Right now, Jekyll wants us to follow his trail of carnage. To what end God only knows..."

  "True, but such hubris may be the man’s undoing," Wellington said, casting a gaze off in to the horizon. Eliza looked up at him, "Dr Jekyll does have rather a small opinion of our intellect," he said, his breath rising in front of his face. "And a rather too large one of his own."

  "You’re saying that's how we’ll catch him?"

  "Indeed."

  Eliza shook her head. "All of this doesn’t matter because the Orient Express is completely full. We could not get tickets."

  "Yes, I am aware of that."

  "We could take the place of some staff, but the train is so exclusive that the servers all know each other. Intimately. The sudden arrival of two unexpected waiters would be sure to draw attention."

  "That it would."

  Eliza dealt Wellington a quick, light jab to his ribs. "What’s your game then, Books?"

  "As I said to you back at the hotel," he chortled, rubbing the spot she had just poked, "this is a nut that I might have a way to crack."

  Yet from their walk from the hotel to this scenic bridge, he had not revealed to her how he intended to do this. For an archivist there was a surprising touch of the showman in him.

  Motioning with his head for her follow, they wandered to the end of the bridge, their feet now touching the Île de la Cité. Surrounded by the Seine, Eliza allowed her mind to wander through memories of Paris, both when she’d been a solo agent and when she had worked with Harrison Thorne. Her dead partner still haunted certain places of this beautiful city—for her, at least.

  Her eyes met with a street-vendor who, from his proper posture and bright smile, had rather hopefully set up his littl
e stand near their footpath. In the summer he probably did well with all the lovers strolling by the river, but on this chilly, overcast day it was only Wellington and Eliza. The warmth of the square oven underneath the vendor’s wide umbrella was tantalising, drawing them both in. Even agents on the hunt needed sustenance. Eliza’s sweet tooth was already sending commands, and before Wellington could reach for his wallet, she had stepped up and ordered them both chocolate crepes.

  The vendor smiled at them through his grey beard and spooned a ladle of mixture onto each of his two hot plates. He then flipped up the brass cover of the control panel. Watching the skillet as the batter poured in from slim faucets suspended over the hot surface, he manipulated levers and dials as the open skillet pitched and spun. A flip of another switch, the skillet folded onto itself with a quick hiss, creasing the thin crepe in half. The vendor’s elbow flipped another switch on the panel, and the skillet folded itself again once, then twice, turning the crepe into a triangle. Another loud hiss, and the crepe slid through a shower of powdered sugar sprayed from a small arc before slipping into a paper bag.

  "Trèsbon!" Eliza said, taking the crepe for herself.

  She loved to watch artisans work, especially when manipulating such clever gadgets as this. She also loved food.

  They were in the middle of Wellington’s own snack being created when a member of the Préfecture de Police de Paris stepped up and ordered one as well. It was not surprising since the Place Louis Lépine right behind them on the island housed the prefecture, but Eliza took notice when Wellington stiffened. The look he gave her partner was long enough to read the signs: he knew him. Immediately her fingers drifted to the pounamu pistols concealed under her jacket, just in case. Her gaze flicked over the approaching officer’s sharp uniform, shiny silver buttons, and his rank. A Commandant, so very high ranking to be out getting his own crepe. He was carrying a suitcase, with no distinguishing details about it other than it was bulky.

  "Even drab weather as this cannot ruin Paris," he said, setting the case down at his feet, "but if you were indulging in crepes, you could have at least waited for me, Wellington."

  "Bonjour, mon ami, Louis. Ça me fait plaisir de vous voir." The smile on her lover’s face was genuine, and his Parisian French flawless. He shook hands, and for a fleeting moment, Eliza might have thought he was about to hug the man. However, Wellington’s English reserve outplayed this Frenchman’s warmth. He stepped back and gestured to her. "May I present—"

  The man with the perfectly combed moustache and impeccable bearing took her hand and brought it to his lips. "The redoubtable Agent Eliza D Braun. Commandant Louis Renault, at your service. A pleasure to meet you."

  When she glanced at the crêpe vendor, he tilted his head. "Oh, George? Do not mind, he is one of mine."

  "One of your—?"

  "Miss Braun, the French Police are only as good as their information." He nodded to the vendor who handed him a crepe. "George sees quite a bit in his day-to-day vending, I assure you, and he is a trustworthy gentleman."

  "And you know Wellington, how?" She couldn’t help but ask. As far as she was aware, he’d lived a sheltered life in the archives.

  Louis' eyes sparkled. "Ah, now that would be a very long story, and I am afraid you do not have enough time. Let us just say it involved Légion Étrangère, a card game, and a lot of wine." His grin faded. "Unfortunately you will not be having time for sport like that—not with whom you are chasing." His face folded into an angry scowl. "Jekyll has been a thorn in our side as well."

  Paris was rumoured to be where Jekyll had retreated to straight after their tangle with the Ghost Rebellion in India. From the expression on Renault’s face, he had not left the City of Lights unscarred.

  Louis examined his snack. "So, Wellington, am I to understand you believe Jekyll has returned to Paris?"

  He nodded. "In a fashion, yes. We have to find a way to get on board the Orient Express."

  The policeman’s eyebrows raised. "Leisure, or hypersteam?"

  "Hypersteam."

  Louis spread his hands. "It is the maiden voyage for the new service. There are famous people taking advantage of their expedited adventure. Attention from the press. Hardly lends itself to dark operations..."

  “Louis?"

  The officer gave Wellington a sour expression. He did not like that Wellington was spoiling his building of suspense. "It was no easy thing." He opened his jacket and removed two slips of paper. They weren't tickets.

  Wellington opened them and then glanced up. "Really, Louis?"

  Eliza looked at Wellington, who opened the papers before her. Her breath caught in her throat. "Police? You want us to pose as police?"

  The Frenchman shrugged, even as he polished off his crepe. "There was no way to get you in as a guest, or on the staff, but we have five police officers stationed on the train. I have proper uniforms for you both,” he said, motioning to the suitcase. “The Orient Express is an expensive piece of technology, and its passenger list reads as a who’s who of affluence and intellect. We must protect them."

  "Will you be joining us?" she asked.

  "It would be a lovely journey, I am sure," he said, brushing his hands together, before motioning around them, "but who would look after the jewel of Europe?"

  "I see," Wellington said, with a knowing nod. "You think Jekyll will make things rather nasty, don’t you?"

  Louis dismissively waved his hand. "Nothing you cannot handle. I will only get under your feet."

  Wellington glanced across at Eliza, and she smiled. "It wouldn’t be the first time we have pretended to be from another agency. Say thank you to your kind friend, and we can be on our way."

  Louis wiped the chocolate from his immaculate little moustache, and grabbing hold of Wellington, kissed him on each cheek. "I have informed the other three officers that you are special agents along to help. Their names are on that piece of paper. I do hope you don’t cause them too much trouble."

  The twinkle in his eye suggested he wouldn’t mind if they did.

  He took hold of her hand and kissed it once again. "It was a pleasure, Miss Braun. Please take care of Wellington—even if he can be a bit of a—how do you say, dry stick?"

  Her lover straightened, adjusting his cravat, but any retort was cut short when Louis pulled out his pocket watch and tapped it. "I think you will have to hurry if you want to get to the Gare de l'Est on time."

  "Thank you for your help, Louis," Wellington said, picking up the suitcase. "Please give my love to Adèle and p’tit Louis."

  Worried that he was about to get into a long farewell, Eliza yanked him out from under the awning, and towards a row of taxis. She knew the streets of Paris well enough to understand that it was going to be a run, even for the two of them. They found one of the new Hummingbirds, a beautiful piece of vehicular design, running on electricity. She didn’t allow Wellington a chance to even suggest they take a moment to admire.

  Right now their game was, most assuredly, afoot.

  Chapter Ten

  In Which Our Dashing Archivist and Colonial Pepperpot Uphold the Law of the Land

  "Come along, Eliza," Wellington whispered, "otherwise someone will most assuredly—"

  Eliza glanced to either side, yanked him into the small alcove after her, and stole a long, deep kiss from him. Oh, he did love these moments of impetuousness, but now wasn't the time for such affections. Still she must have loved the look of him in the uniform.

  With his lips pressed against hers, Wellington could have broken this kiss at any time, but he was certainly not complaining about the situation. Truthfully, he too was in need of a moment’s respite.

  Despite that, Wellington pulled away and looked at his lover dressed in the trappings of a French police officer. "Someone will most assuredly see us."

  "It’s Paris," Eliza replied, glancing back to the steady traffic of travellers trying to make their schedules, "and no one batted an eyelash as we changed in the back of the taxi."<
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  His smile went crooked. "True, but now we are undercover and incognito, so let us focus on that." With that, he motioned back to the terminal.

  "You are no fun at all, you know that, Welly?" Eliza said, her lips forming a pout as they continued on their way.

  "Yes, I know, I am such a ‘dry stick’ when engaged on a case."

  "A case the director ordered us off."

  "And then put us back on, darling. The alternative to Doctor Sound remaining steadfast in his decision would have meant more innocent blood spilled, now wouldn’t it?"

  "There is that," she admitted.

  The bustle of trams, vehicles, the shrill whistle from a conventional train, and endless currents of people filled the grand station, as light filtered through its magnificently large half-circle window. Together Eliza and Wellington made their way past platforms, flower vendors, and PortoPorters, but everyone parted almost instinctively for them. Whether it was out of respect or fear, no one stopped or delayed them even with all the foot traffic in the Travel Centre.

  Descending the fine marble steps leading to Platform 20, Wellington and Eliza left behind the chaos of the public and entered the posh, exclusive grandeur of the upper-class. This new hypersteam brought the famous Orient Express into a new age. Scarlet banners hung from columns inside the station, while beneath a tumult of onlookers—those important enough to see off the guests of the hypersteam, but not quite influential enough to find a seat on it—gathered. At least they could catch a glimpse of the luminaries of society as they boarded.

  "Now that," he whispered, halting halfway down the staircase, "is a marvel."

  While hypersteam travel was no longer ground-breaking as a technology, the Orient Express’ version introduced innovations that would completely change the landscape of transportation, analytical engines, and navigation. Wellington had heard rumours that this model, the OHX-1, could reach speeds of over one hundred miles per hour. Possibly, one-hundred and fifty miles per hour. The OHX-1 was more angular than other models of hypersteam, these changes offering improved aerodynamics and, in turn, improved performance in distance covered on filled boilers. The recycling pipes needed to create the hypersteam’s super-heated fuel were smaller and better insulated, creating a higher pressure for additional propulsion. He traced the lines of the OHX-1 around to the ornate, elegant passenger cars behind it. If what he had read about the Oriental Hypersteam Express were true, then the cars contained amenities and creature comforts that rivalled the White Star Lines’ Trans-Pacific airships.