by Arthur Slade
He did stop to read the papers: the Montreal Gazette, the London Times, and the New York Post. There were the usual stories of terrible railway collisions, of political campaigns, addresses to Republicans, even an article that graded butter. He paused over a story about bodies disappearing along the Pacific Coast. If he’d had more agents, he might have pursued it further. Most likely it was resurrection men selling cadavers to medical establishments. There was so much to learn about the human body and not enough dead bodies to go around. He set down the paper, and his mind cleared.
In time his boredom grew to excitement, for a pattern was beginning to emerge. A large purchase of metal from Ontario had been made by several companies with Greek names. Did the Clockwork Guild not have a penchant for using Greek names? It was perhaps a reference to the past glory of that civilization. The metal had been shipped to an unknown destination in the Pacific.
He worked even longer hours. He read accounts of metal leaving from Vancouver, from Seattle—and spotted a large shipment three years ago to a Chinese buyer in the Yellow Sea. That piqued his curiosity, for he knew that Hakkandottir had once been employed by the Chinese triads, the pirates and brigands who fought both the emperor and the British empire. He’d dealt with many of them, Hakkandottir included. He knew she’d not easily give up those ties.
Sixteen years ago he had met her in a sword fight on the deck of a two-masted junk and severed her hand. At the time he’d been pursuing the leader of a triad, someone known only as 489. It was a number from Chinese numerology that referred to the dragon master, the leader. Mr. Socrates had been reassigned to India, but his fellow servicemen had never discovered the identity of that triad leader. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? The elusive 489 could have formed the Guild. The organization did not have the structure of a triad—it was something much larger—but would take the same skill set to control. It was entirely possible.
He remembered the junk, the ship of Hakkandottir’s that he had captured. It had been steam-powered, with an engine he’d never seen before.
Was it all connected? Oh, Alan, you fool. Of course! Their nest was in the Pacific; as far from British might as possible. Now the only difficulty was to pinpoint exactly where they were.
It became clear what he must do. It was a big world, made smaller by train and steamship. He summoned Cook and Footman. By the time they were standing before him, he was practically vibrating with excitement.
“I’m about to ask the two of you to charge full steam up a hill,” Mr. Socrates said.
“I was hoping so, sir,” Cook said. “I’m ready, willing, and able. Just point me in the right direction.”
Footman only nodded in agreement, but Mr. Socrates was certain he saw excitement in the Chinese man’s eyes.
11
The Heart of the Agency
It had been relatively simple for Modo to take Directeur Bélanger’s form. Modo had paid for a room in a nearby hotel and rested for several hours. He then removed his mask and composed the face while staring at the man’s photograph. Colette had fetched clothing from a haberdashery, while Octavia quizzed him about the upcoming mission. When he emerged, dressed in a dark suit and a long jacket, belt cinched tight, he was amused by Colette’s shocked expression.
“Sacré bleu!” she said. “You have captured the image of Directeur Bélanger.”
“It’s a stunning gift, this shape-shifting.” Modo had meant this to be lighthearted, but he was suddenly aware that it sounded like bragging.
“Très excellent is what it is!” Colette said.
“I prefer when he looks younger,” Octavia added.
“Young or old, the disguise lasts for only a few hours, so let us hasten away,” he said. Within minutes they were in another fiacre and, shortly after that, had returned to the Bureau.
Despite the plain facade of the stone building, Modo felt as if he were looking at a fortress. The fence was taller than any of the nearby ones and there were several guard stations and plenty of gas lamps, making the courtyard relatively bright. He wiped the window of the fiacre, for their breath had fogged the glass.
Smoke rose from three smokestacks protruding from the roof of the building. In the short time Modo had been watching he’d seen three tarp-covered wagons stop at the gates, present papers, and then continue up to a large delivery door that led into the lower section of the building. Were the tarps hiding arms or stacks of files?
“Are you certain you want to do this?” Octavia asked. “I don’t know that we can trust her.”
“I do have ears,” Colette said.
“I want you to hear,” Octavia answered. “This could very well be a trap.”
“Why this whole complicated ruse, then?” Colette asked. “If it were a trap I could have agents swoop down on us at this very moment.”
“Modo is the strongest man I’ve ever met. To even stand a chance of capturing him you would need to draw him into your lair first.”
For a moment Modo thought Octavia was having him on, but her face said otherwise. She really was bragging on his behalf. Well, it was the truth. Even Tharpa couldn’t beat him at arm wrestling.
“I know you find this hard to believe, but I trust her, Tavia,” Modo said as he patted Octavia’s hand. “She may have been a French agent, but her word is good as gold, that is one thing I learned on the Ictíneo. And I need this information. We need it. I believe Mr. Socrates would agree with me.”
“There is no time like the present,” Colette said. A light flashed to life inside the carriage and Modo was momentarily blinded by it. She’d shone what looked like a pocket lucifer directly at him.
“You have a battery-powered lamp?” Modo asked. “I didn’t think the French were so advanced.”
“Oh, la petite lumière? It is an old technology. The English are not the only ones with batteries.” She peered at his face. “It continues to amaze me how much you look like Bélanger. Now, you remember the map I drew for you?”
“I’ve memorized it.”
“Then you will recall that the office you want is in the center of the fifth floor? And that it belongs to Lucien Quint?”
“Yes, of course I do. You need not repeat the instructions,” he snapped. Perhaps he was getting nervous. “I have the plan in here,” he said softly, tapping his skull. “You have prepared me well.” He paused. “Both of you.”
“Then we shall begin,” Colette said. She knocked three times on the ceiling of the fiacre and the driver drove up to the front gates and stopped. Modo opened the door and stepped down onto the street.
“Sois agressif!” Colette whispered. “Remember to be gruff. Not your usual polite self.”
“Indeed I shall,” he replied gruffly, then smiled.
“Take great care,” Octavia said. “Don’t go running around like a bull in a china shop.”
“The two of you are acting like mothers,” he hissed, then turned away before either could get another word in. Truth was, he’d be happy to be out of the wagon, away from them.
He strode to the front gate. Behind him, he heard the fiacre pull away.
“Arrêtez-vous!” the guard commanded.
“Arrêtez-vous, Monsieur,” Modo said, correcting him.
“Mot de passe,” the guard said.
“Ashenden!” Modo barked, for Colette had given him the password. The name had no meaning that he could discern, though he found it odd that they used a British surname.
The man nodded and said in French, “Welcome back, sir.”
Modo, pleased his appearance had fooled a guard, didn’t give the man another glance. He carried on to the main entrance, passing a second guard station. Two hounds growled and their master pulled back on the leashes. “Shut those hogs up,” Modo spat in French, then opened the door to the Deuxième Bureau.
He marched smartly down a brightly lit hallway. Of course the French would have electric lights; they liked showing off the latest advances. Modo found this new type of lighting to be garish, no
t nearly as warm and natural as gaslight. He tried to set aside his worries that the brightness would make it easier to spot any mistakes he’d made in his transformation.
How many papers about England, about Queen Victoria, about Mr. Socrates, about Modo himself would be filed in this very building? If he had hours to spend he could uncover a lifetime of secrets. But there was only one secret that Modo wanted to uncover tonight.
He encountered another agent, who saluted, but Modo just stomped by. A guard at the door to the stairwell also saluted, but Modo didn’t even look at him, giving the air of a man in a hurry. He burst into Bélanger’s office and closed the door, then immediately exited out the office’s back door and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor.
Room 5498 was exactly where Colette’s map had indicated it would be. He opened the door and charged in, just as he imagined Bélanger would do. This was a mistake, as he banged his knee on a desk. He cursed and flicked the brass switch for the light. It flickered to life. This room was smaller and bursting at the seams with perfectly piled papers, folders, and files.
He went to the desk Colette had told him about and discovered that the file drawer had been locked. It took him more than a minute to pick the lock with two small pins he had in his vest pocket. He chastised himself for not practicing enough recently. The lock eventually clicked and he pulled open the drawer; all the papers inside had been neatly placed in labeled folders. Ah, the bureaucrats were good at this sort of thing.
He found a thick file marked Subject Modo: 24601 and began to read its contents. At first there was very little of interest or import, only conjecture on his whereabouts. Someone had seen him in India. India! He laughed. He’d never been to Tharpa’s homeland. Then he went back to the drawer and thumbed through several more files, stopping at one marked Ictíneo/Brunet/Modo. He opened it and skimmed the pages until his eyes found this: “Agent Brunet insisted that an agent with the code name ‘Modo’ was able to change his shape and his facial features. Her description led Investigator Quint (47b321) to doubt her sanity, but after several tests by doctors she was certified as sane. Quint searched records in England …”
He folded up the page and stuffed it into his pocket. Perhaps there was something else in the file, but it would take days to read through it all. He was here for one file only.
He noticed an envelope had been clipped to the back of the file. Curious, he opened it. Inside were several pages, including a handwritten note in French: “Copies of pages 1 through 8 appear under Brunet, Colette: 15901. It is important detail for file Modo: 24601. Agent Brunet complains of nightmares and is easily excited. Her discovery of the Ictíneo was exemplary, but the loss of the Vendetta leads us to conclude that ultimately she failed in her mission. She complains of dizziness and lack of sleep, and when interviewed by the physician she blames this on seeing the face of the English agent Modo, a face she describes as being ‘gargoyle ugly.’ She has mental fatigue compounded by physical exhaustion, and an extended stay in a sanatorium is recommended. When Brunet is released again, she should be put on light duty only.”
Mental fatigue? Blames this on the face of the English agent Modo? Gargoyle ugly? So seeing his face had marked her. The deaths of hundreds of her comrades, the weeks spent as a prisoner on the Ictíneo, the fight for their lives: these were all hardships, but none were listed as contributing to her illness. It was seeing his face. His true and ugly self. That was what had broken her. He skipped ahead where three sentences had been underlined:
Brunet has become extremely delusional and is no longer in full control of her faculties. She was sent to Laroque Sanatorium for three months, but the stay did not improve her condition. She was declared unfit for duty and released from employment on July 7.
She’d spent time in a sanatorium! He’d seen the inside of Bedlam, London’s most infamous home for the deranged. The people there had been totally cracked. This information threw everything into question. Had anything Colette said so far been the truth? Were his parents actually alive? Was he even French? No, that part was true. Mr. Socrates had confirmed it. And the French agents were looking for his family, so there had to be something to it.
Why was she helping him? Out of pity? Did she feel she owed him?
He put the documents in his jacket pocket. He stole several other papers that he hoped would contain something about his parents. He began to comb through the remaining papers, madly hoping to find his parents’ current residence.
The door swung open and a man walked in. “Directeur Bélanger!” the agent exclaimed in French. “I didn’t expect to see you in the office this evening.”
Modo closed the file drawer with a bang, keeping his voice gruff. “Since when do I report to you?”
Colette had described Quint as thin and pale, and this man fit that description, though the electric lighting made everyone look pale. “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”
“No, Quint. Nothing.” Modo kept his sentences short. The more French he spoke, the greater the chance of a gaffe. The agent would know Bélanger’s voice well, but Modo had discovered that people would believe their eyes before they’d believe their ears.
“I understand, sir. May I have a few seconds of your time?”
“I’m extremely busy.”
“I just need to ask you about the Modo case. I’ve made great headway on the location of his family. And I have an important request.”
“What’s that?”
“I would like Colette Brunet to be arrested.”
“Brunet? Why?”
“Because, sir, she has betrayed her former position. I have proof she has been continuing to research Modo, even after her removal from the Bureau. She has recently been associating with foreign spies.”
Modo stood up. “How do you know this?”
“For the past few weeks I’ve had her followed.”
“Under whose orders?”
“You gave me full rights, sir. Remember? Do what is necessary were your exact words.”
“Quint! Don’t be impertinent!”
“I apologize. But I must tell you that these spies she has been dealing with are British.”
“British? Have you proof?”
“Yes, sir.” He paused, a glimmer of a smile crossing his face. “You are the proof.”
Modo stiffened. How could the man have guessed? “I don’t follow.”
The agent reached into his coat and removed a pistol from his pocket in a swift, well-rehearsed motion. “I am not Quint. My dear directeur may have hundreds under his command, but he would recognize me. I can’t believe you are here, that you have come to us.”
“Put away that gun! What madness is this?”
“I’ve been doing much of the fieldwork on your case for eight months now. I’ve interviewed Brunet. I’ve read the reports of your ingenious robbery of the French Embassy in London. Do you think I’d miss the connections? But never did I imagine that you’d walk right into my office.”
“Put down that gun at once. You are mistaken!”
“Am I? Then tell me my name.” Colette hadn’t mentioned any other agents.
“Put away the gun, you fool!”
“Modo, enough of this,” the man said calmly, this time in English. “I am impressed. You do look very much like Bélanger, except shorter. I was handpicked and trained by him. He comes from southern France and has a Meridional accent. Oh, and Quint retired three weeks ago; I inherited his office.”
Modo sat down and shrugged in a friendly manner. “You’ve caught me. Congratulations. What is your name?”
“Philip Laroche. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am—how do you English say?—an admirer of your work.”
“So what do you intend to do with me?”
“Ah, you’ll know soon enough. For now, we have a room where I would like to take you for questioning. It’s a quiet place on the lower floor of the building. I’d like to inquire about so many things. This Clockwork Guild, were they just a figment of Br
unet’s imagination? And the Association de la Permanence that controls you. And this Mr. Socrates. So much to review. You’ll be detained for some time, but your favorite meals will be served. We aren’t barbarians. It will be a pleasant and polite series of conversations, I promise.” He waved his pistol. “Now please stand up or I’ll shoot you.”
12
Transporting the Dead
In her thirty-seven years Miss Hakkandottir had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies, and now she was carrying load after load of cadavers to the island. She had been at it for weeks. There were three more coffins resting in the car of the airship Hera as she floated across the Pacific. This last batch had been from New Zealand, brought to her by desperate prospectors who had yet to find a vein of gold. Another hanged man, his neck stretched too long. Someone who’d died in a mine by suffocation, the body in pristine condition; a particularly happy find. And a man who’d ingested poison after losing all his money in a card game. He was an odd shade of yellow.
Designed by Dr. Hyde, the ice coffins showcased his trademark ingenuity. Despite the humidity and warmth of the Pacific, the ice melted slowly so the bodies stayed cold, in the same state they had been not hours before their deaths.
Miss Hakkandottir’s orders had been to keep the coffins closed, but curiosity got the better of her and she opened them one by one to gaze down on the faces of the dead. Hardened, muscular men who had lived tough lives. The combination of gases and cold kept them looking as though they could snap their eyes open at any moment. She mused about what she’d look like when she was dead and shrugged it off. Death was not something she dwelled upon. Fearlessness is better than a faint heart, her father had told her many times. The hour of her death had been written long ago; she could not prevent it.
