Fox In The Henhouse

by James Lawson

  Fox In The Henhouse

  A Ministry of Detection novella

  James Lawson

  That the soldiers of Britain singlehandedly prevailed against an enemy of such power and malice tells us, without doubt, the light of God shines upon this fair land and its people.

  The Earl of Cranbrook, Commander of the British Army, 1871, on the defeat of the extra-terrestrial Menace at the Battle of London, the conclusion of the War of the Menace.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Also by James Lawson

  About the Author

  1

  Madrid, 1950

  The seconds slowly dropped off until the alarm, and Max Green once again thought this was all a waste of time. He rolled over, checked his watch, and groaned. 3:48am. His superior, Duncan Morrison, had sent a note through just before midnight. Max was to present himself for a one-on-one meeting at 4:00am in some dark alley in Madrid’s red-light district. The streets would no doubt be full of drunken Spaniards who hadn’t found a bed, or were looking for pockets to pick.

  The clock ticked over to 3:55am, and he pre-emptively switched off the alarm. He stood up, rubbed his eyes for a moment, looked around at the piles of reports that littered his desk by the window and sighed. Half-finished paperwork, proposals that went nowhere – the detritus of two solid years of hitting his head against the Ministry of Detection bureaucracy.

  At least a mysterious, early morning meeting will give me something to tell Mum and Dad about, he thought. He pulled on a coat and left his apartment.

  With the sun still down, Madrid was far cooler than the toasted city he had come to know. But despite the temperature, and even though most of Madrid was sleeping, a kind of electricity coursed through the air. Posters lined the streets with bold statements from opposing political parties. A NEW ERA FOR SPAIN hung right next to SPAIN WILL STAND TALL AGAIN. Barely a window in Madrid didn’t have some kind of slogan plastered on it. That didn’t surprise him in the slightest; it was the first democratic election Europe had seen in 70 years. The eyes of the world – or at least those that remained of the civilised world – were fixed on the outcome.

  And in between the posters of the Spanish nationalists and the traditionalists – who still struck a sycophantic chord when it came to the British Empire – were the posters for the Ministry of Detection. STAY VIGILANT. ERADICATE THE ALIEN MENACE ONCE AND FOR ALL. Glaring out from the posters were the cold, yellow eyes of an alien hybrid, standing almost eight feet tall and with ropey muscles strong enough to tear down a tree. Max couldn’t help but shiver. Two years had passed since the last hybrid sighting in Spain. But that didn’t mean they weren’t still there, hiding in plain sight in their human form.

  He came to the corner and lit a cigarette while he waited. At his feet was yesterday’s newspaper. Max smirked at the front page: Duncan Morrison, Captain of the Madrid office of the Ministry of Detection, giving a speech before Parliament. The majority of Duncan’s role lately seemed to be reassuring everyone that the elections weren’t vulnerable to some hidden hybrid cell. Max had to remind himself from time to time that Duncan wasn’t actually a politician.

  Footsteps came from down the street, and he turned to see Duncan approaching him.

  “Morning, Captain,” Max said, and Duncan nodded his greeting.

  “Let’s get somewhere warmer,” Duncan said, whose forearm was bandaged.

  “Everything alright with the arm, sir?” Max asked.

  “Fine, fine,” Duncan said. “Just an accident. These things happen.”

  Max gave another glance to the trodden newspaper on the pavement. The photo of Duncan showed his forearms were not bandaged.

  “Happened last night at home,” Duncan added, and he gestured for Max to follow. “This matter is urgent, Agent Green. Let’s not dawdle.”

  Duncan walked quickly down an alleyway, past a stinking dumpster full of last night’s food, right around a corner, left around another. Max struggled to keep up, and soon they had taken so many turns he knew he wouldn’t remember how to make it back to where they had started. They came to a dark, little café that was obviously closed. But upon closer inspection, Max noticed soft candlelight dancing on the inside of the window.

  “This place is safe,” Duncan said, fishing a key from his jacket. He opened the door and led Max inside. Heavy tables stacked with chairs populated the tiny café. One table had two chairs on either side, and a lit candle in the middle. “Please.” Duncan indicated to the table.

  Max sat down slowly. The whole situation had come around so quickly and dramatically that it had to be a put-on. What was so urgent? Couldn’t it have at least waited until morning?

  Duncan was at the door, locking it as quietly as possible, and peering out between the curtains. “Safe,” he muttered, and joined Max at the table. “I know your time at the Hive hasn’t been the most fulfilling,” Duncan said. “Mostly chasing up other agents’ loose ends.”

  “I’ve valued my time at the Hive, sir,” Max said.

  Duncan raised his hand. “Please. You were one of the brightest recruits from the Sydney office. I imagine the draw of working on the continent was exciting. But to spend two years pushing paper around?”

  Max was hesitant to say it, but Duncan was right. He had been offered the chance to subvert the alien Menace in Europe, where it had seeped into the cracks and the dirt. With enough dedication, with enough hard work, with enough faith in the Crown, they could free Europe from the clutches of the alien humanoid hybrids that had kept it in such disarray for seventy years. Who wouldn’t sign up for that job?

  “The good news for you is we have a situation that requires the full gamut of your expertise,” Duncan said.

  Max’s stomach fluttered. “I’m at the Ministry’s service, sir.”

  “We’ve got a problem,” Duncan said slowly, as though choosing his words carefully. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I have reason to suspect that the Barcelona office is compromised.”

  The words almost knocked Max off the chair. “S-Sir?”

  Duncan nodded gravely. “A mole. At least one, I’m afraid.” He paused, and took a deep breath. “We’re concerned the upcoming election may be at risk.”

  Max sat back and digested the statement. How did Duncan expect him to react? Max had been behind a desk for so long, and he wasn’t exactly across every angle of the upcoming election. The high-level discussions were way above Max’s station. But if Max acted like a fool, it was entirely likely Duncan would cancel the meeting and send Max back to his desk for another two years, with nothing but reports to proofread.

  “Indeed, sir,” Max said, nodding. “Can you be more specific?”

  “Could be something big,” Duncan said. “Something to rattle the city, throw it into chaos. Could be something more behind the scenes. Rumour has it there may be a way to disrupt the election that we’re not aware of. Not because we haven’t been doing our job, but someone inside the team is ensuring that we focus our efforts elsewhere. You follow me?”

  “It’s a hell of an accusation, sir.” An anxious weight pressed down on Max’s shoulders. He’d never done anything remotely untoward regarding the Ministry of Detection, but when a mole was suspected, paranoia shot up sky-high. Innocent men and women had been taken down befor
e in an effort to purge any traitors. “Do you have any clue who it is?”

  “An idea. But an idea isn’t strong enough. I need proof. That’s where you come in. You’re unfamiliar with the Barcelona office, yes?”

  “That’s right, sir,” Max said. “My duties have kept me behind the desk, mostly.”

  “Precisely why you’re of such value to this operation.” Duncan said, and Max blinked.

  He thinks a pencil pusher is of value? Max thought. They must be up against the wall on this one.

  “This operation needs to be kept inside the Madrid office,” Duncan went on. “We don’t know who could be compromised.” Duncan’s voice automatically dropped, as though someone might be listening. “We intercepted a wire from hybrid sympathisers meant for someone in the Barcelona Hive office. In two days, there will be an information exchange somewhere in the Alfama district of Lisbon. We don’t know where, but we know the person handing off the information is codenamed the Sailor. Intelligence has him based somewhere in Northern Africa. I understand all this can seem vague, but it’s a matter none of us can afford to ignore.”

  Max blinked, lost in the moment, suddenly caught out that Duncan had stopped talking. “Do we know if the Sailor himself is human or hybrid?”

  “No,” Duncan said. “Could be either.”

  No wonder Duncan was so unsettled. A mole in the office was bad enough this close to an election, but a meeting in Lisbon, too? That city was still a hotbed of hybrid activity, and likely would be for at least another decade before any sense of order returned. Between the human locals who refused to leave and the hybrids who secretly smuggled in food and liquor for them, the Crown just couldn’t keep a handle on the place. As it was, most of the human lisboetas were too young to remember the War of the Menace. They knew the Crown only as a disruptive influence and in no way trusted it.

  Lisbon was rotten to the core with hybrids who were desperate to stave off reconstruction, as had been achieved in Spain.

  “Now that we’ve intercepted the wire, it’s unlikely the mole will be taking a trip down to Portugal over the next few days,” Max said.

  “You’re not wrong,” Duncan said. “But messages take days to reach Portugal, and that’s through official means. Smuggling a message to cancel the meeting only takes longer.”

  Max fought the urge to smile. “So you’re saying that while the mole won’t be going down to Portugal, the Sailor doesn’t know that.”

  Duncan nodded, returning the smile. He seemed less scattered now that he knew Max understood him. “Exactly right.”

  “What do you need me to do?” Max tried to keep his voice professional, and not betray the sudden eagerness that electrified his limbs.

  Duncan leaned in. “You’ve got to understand something very important. If it’s true we’ve got a mole, then absolutely no one can know what is about to happen. This mission is going to be totally off the books. There will be no paperwork. When it’s over, you’ll never speak of it again. This is, of course, why we’re handling this, and not someone from the Barcelona office. You understand?”

  Max tried to hide the rush of adrenaline that was coursing through his veins. For years he’d chased up small-time leads that always turned out nothing. Now he actually had the chance to do something important.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make no mistake, Agent Green,” Duncan said. “This is a serious undertaking. If you’re discovered by anyone, you’re on your own. You can’t afford to trust anyone, not even someone from the Hive. We don’t know how much influence this mole has.”

  Max nodded. “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  “Even if you think you’re being followed, we can’t abandon the mission.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need you to go to Lisbon and find the Sailor. Now, we don’t know specifically where the Sailor will be in Lisbon, only that he’ll be in Alfama. In a few hours’ time, there is a train leaving from Estación de Mediodía. Take it as far as Badajoz. You’ll need to fudge your way over the border to keep your identity under wraps, but that’s nothing you can’t handle. As this meeting is in Lisbon, it’s technically not in our jurisdiction. But allowances can be made. Time is too much of a factor, and if a message was sent to Lisbon, we can guarantee the Sailor would vanish.”

  Max nodded. His apartment had half a dozen fake passports that allowed Hive agents to slip over borders undetected in case of tip-offs to hybrids. Assuming another identity wouldn’t be hard.

  “The mole has his own contacts, obviously,” Duncan said. “With the wire intercepted, it’s highly probable the mole will be on the lookout for any Hive agents seeking to interfere in Lisbon.”

  “So I’ll probably be tailed?”

  Duncan nodded. “I’m dispatching a dozen or so Hive agents as decoys. They’ll assume false identities and leave Madrid around the same time as you. None will be briefed with anything but the orders to leave Madrid by train and hopefully lure away any shadows.”

  “And once I’ve found the Sailor?” Max asked.

  Duncan pursed his lips. “The objective is to find the mole in Barcelona. But do what you have to with the Sailor. There are a dozen others like him in Alfama, at least. The chaps at the Lisbon office won’t mind if they don’t have to deal with him.”

  Max felt his mouth go dry. “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s not mince words,” Duncan said. “This thing could be big. If there is a mole in Barcelona, he’s high up. Anyone finds out what you’re up to, either in Spain or Portugal, it could turn out bad for you. We can’t trust anyone. Not even the Hive in Portugal. Do you understand?”

  Max nodded. “Absolutely sir. Totally off the books.”

  “Good,” Duncan said. “And try not to get yourself killed.”

  2

  Max got home, and the drunks outside his building had either gone home themselves or passed out in the street. They would lie there for a few more hours until the garbage trucks woke them, or the local police chased them away to somewhere else.

  The train to Badajoz was leaving at 8:30am. With an hour to get ready and get to the station, Max gave himself two hours to sleep. The excitement of the assignment was normally enough to keep him awake, but he knew how important it was to get the nominal amount of rest. He took half a weak sleeping pill, and closed his eyes.

  He woke at 7am, and made himself a coffee to shake off the woolly drug. The warm sun was now streaming in through his apartment windows, and he allowed himself a moment of calm.

  He knelt down and pulled up a corner of carpet from the floor. Beneath were roughed up floorboards, much like the rest of the apartment floor. But Max fiddled with a ring on his finger, and a small metal pin with an even smaller row of metal teeth popped up. He inserted the metal pin into a tiny hole in the floorboards, and twisted.

  There was a short clicking sound, and a section of the floorboard sunk below the rest. It slid on a rail underneath the others, revealing a small safety deposit box with a combination lock bolted into the floor. Max entered the code into the lock and opened the box. Inside were half a dozen passports, a few other documents, a small lock picking kit, a Walther PPK, and a box of .32 bullets. He removed a false heel from his shoe, and inserted the lock picking kit.

  Max removed a few passports and flicked through them until he found the one he was after. Nigel Gunston, born in 1935 in Bristol, son of a British envoy to Australia. Grew up in Sydney (hence the accent), currently working as a wool exporter. Based in Madrid for the last few years. If there was one thing Portugal was getting back on track with over the last few years, it was wool exports. The identity would satisfy the border guards.

  He removed the pistol from the safe, loaded a magazine and inserted it into the grip. He closed the safety deposit box and resealed the floorboard.

  “Nigel Gunston,” he muttered to himself, looking through the various fraudulent stamps and visas throughout the passport. Gunston’s Hive-given backstory was enough to pass for a real person,
but not enough detail that Max would go mad memorising everything. He picked up the pistol from the floor, feeling the weight, and aimed it at a clock on the wall.

  Max had been tied to an office desk for almost two years. Getting out in the field was exactly what he wanted. To go undercover, disappear into the maze, and hunt down a mole.

  So why did the pistol sights rock back and forth faster than his escalating heartbeat? Who was the Sailor? Some lowlife contact on the bottom of a larger organisation? Or the head of the organisation? Max hadn’t been challenged for the last few years; this new assignment was his biggest to date.

  He lowered the pistol and slid it into his ankle holster. It was too late to back out now.

  * * *

  Max waited on the platform at Estación de Mediodía, trying not to seem bothered that the train was already five minutes late. He had dressed in a cream linen suit; the sort of thing wealthy merchants wore on the continent to look like they were the central character in a spy novel. The suit made him stand out, but the Spanish authorities had become so reliant on the Empire that they seemed to idolise anyone from Britain.

  The station itself was busy, with dozens of irritated businesspeople ready to start their day. Spain had changed since Max first arrived. With the election looming it seemed as though the country – or at least the capital – was itching to be an example for Europe to follow. That the trains weren’t reaching this new standard was not going unnoticed.

  He cast a glance around the station. Duncan said he had dispatched decoys. Max couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. But that, he supposed, was the point.