The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (11 page)

“Leighter,” as the female sniper had been called by her fellow, was slumped against the rise where she had taken lookout.
Her scope was still open, its wind gauge still spinning in the light French breeze. Eliza’s one shot had entered the girl’s neck.

“I couldn’t duplicate that shot if I tried,” Eliza muttered.

“I doubt if I would ask you to,” Wellington returned. “Muzzle flash?”

“No, I caught the smoke from the shot along with the sunlight reflection off the scope. That was my target. Even adjusting for windage I was hoping for, at best, taking out the rifle.” Eliza went silent for a moment, staring at the dead woman. “She was on our side, Wellington. On
our
side.”

“And they just eliminated one of their own,” Wellington said, kneeling by the dead agent and relieving her of her coat. “Have we been deemed an inconvenience?”

“Not us,” Eliza said, her eyes still on the corpse. “The Ministry.”

“The
entire
Ministry roster?”

“Alice had a paper from England, probably Portsmouth or Southampton. The story was a column on the perils of technology. A motorcar had apparently exploded, claiming its driver.”

“Yes, and?”

“The driver was Simon R. Boswell.”

Wellington blinked. “Agent Boswell?”

“Welly, he doesn’t even own a car! He’s scared to death of them!” She raised a finger to keep him quiet and added, “There was a local paper in the stack, as well. The headline mentioned a contact I had worked with when here with Harry. Her name is”—Eliza paused and shook her head—“
was
Anne-Marie Bouvier. According to the reports,
Boulangerie Lavande
exploded in the early morning hours. The entire building just went up in flames.”

“Hardly the signature of the Department.”

“So I thought, until I read through the column. Bouvier’s body had been found stuffed in one of her ovens.”

“Stuffed? In an oven?” Wellington stammered.

“According to the journalist it was quite the macabre scene. When the blaze was put out, investigators reported the till had been untouched. The money in there had been reduced to ash.”

He shook his head. “Why would the Queen suddenly deem the Ministry an inconvenience?”

“No idea. Unless . . .” Her thought faded as a wind bent
aside the tall grass, creating emerald waves along the valley. Eliza looked over the field reaching to the château. “Could all this be an elaborate ruse? What confirmation do we really have, apart from the tweed, that these are Department agents? They could be Usher.”

“This would be something very much their style.” He cradled the sniper rifle and Alice’s shotgun in one arm while holding the woman’s bowler and coat. “I suggest we move. Whether they are the Department or Usher, we won’t have much time. Once this lot fails to report in, reinforcements will come.”

Eliza holstered her pistols and stretched her hand out for the sniper rifle. “Just a moment.”

Shouldering the weapon, she pointed it in the direction of the main house. Before Wellington could even speculate what held her interest there, Eliza returned the rifle to him. “Get back to the château,” she ordered before turning towards the main house. “We make for Paris within thirty minutes.”

“And you are . . . ?” Wellington asked.

“Fetching the mail,” she said. “I’ll be fine. Just be ready to move.”

With time slipping away, Eliza felt the need to get the mail?

“Wellington, you yourself said it,” she called over her shoulder. “Not much time. Do not dally.”

There had to be a reason—a very good reason—for Eliza to check the mail at the main house. Yes, a very good reason.

Perhaps by the time Wellington reached the safe house, he would have it.

In Which Old Friends Reunite and Settle Scores

T
he machete blade would hardly ever be described as elegant, but to Agent Brandon Hill that only meant it was misunderstood. Yes, perhaps by design the machete was designed for one purpose and one alone, but even with manual deforestation there was a skill. You could easily whack away at a patch of flora all day and exhaust yourself after only a few feet into the jungle, or you could set a pace, know where to strike, and at what angle to strike vegetation in order to remove it with one stroke. Brandon understood this discipline, having watched and learned under Aztec guides that knew this jungle intimately. He understood the machete was not just some brute of the bladed world, but an underestimated advantage when deep in the heart of darkness.

That underestimation dearly cost Agent Dirk Dandridge of the Department of Imperial Inconveniences. When Brandon’s machete sliced cleanly into his neck, he must have at that moment truly appreciated what that tool could do in the hands of a skilled master.

South America had always held a special place for Brandon Hill. His Canadian lineage considered, one would have
expected his aversion to the heat as being ingrained, but Brandon felt right at home here in this tropic region. The Department fellows were still acclimating to the climate change, and their sluggishness was one more advantage he held over them. Considering how many Department agents were on his heels, Brandon needed every advantage he could get his hands on.

Presently, another advantage he held was that he was ducking through the streets of Colombia with all the dexterity and knowledge of a street urchin. All his years of foot chases and eluding enemy agents were offering a windfall. He had to keep moving, and most importantly avoid getting cornered.

When Brandon came around the row of buildings to find himself at a dead end, he knew this evening’s entertainment was now reaching its Fourth Act. The finale was under way and near its climax.

His eyes darted from house to house on either side of him, and when he brought his foot up to kick in the worst of the two doors he was offered between them, he hoped he had chosen wisely. The door frame splintered at the lock and swung open revealing a dingy hovel of some fashion. He needed stairs, and those were at the far end of the modest dwelling. If there were any locals harboured within he did not hear their screams or shouts of protest that a white man was intruding. He needed to climb and he needed to run.

He had just cleared the second landing when he heard feet behind him. Brandon paused at the third landing only for a moment to try and assess how many were in pursuit. From the looks of the shadows and the thundering underfoot, at least five were on him. He needed to clear two more landings before he took the chase to the rooftops above.

Sunset was just about to begin, and that would be his fixed point. Before Brandon stretched modest stone buildings close enough to one another for him to jump between them as if they were stones across a brook. The further he would move from the centre of town, though, the more perilous the jump from rooftop to rooftop. He set in the direction of the sunset, knowing the aeroport would be closer at the end of his run.

The first two jumps were simple enough but on the third he felt himself landing a bit harder. His mind told him he would need to keep moving, but his body was imploring him to rest.
His fifth rooftop landing caused him to wince in pain. Just a minute to rest. That was all he needed.

He looked back and could make out three shapes in pursuit now. They were well within sight, but his lead was considerable. That, Brandon took comfort in. He sheathed the machete, lifted his knees one at a time up to his chest, just to give them a bit more of a stretch, and then returned to his flight across Colombian rooftops. Just a bit further and then he would return to ground.

His feet skidded to a halt as he looked at the next building before him. The gap looked to be a good ten feet, which, if he gave himself enough of a lead, he could make. The problem was the drop down to it, which was closer to fifteen feet, although it appeared more like twenty-five. If he did not get the landing just right, he risked breaking an ankle or worse on impact. He had to time the jump precisely, otherwise this merry dash would end badly.

“For the Ministry,” he muttered as he walked back to the far edge of the rooftop.

One chance would be all he had. One. Sodding. Chance.

Was his mind playing tricks with him as he sprinted towards the edge? It seemed with each step into the rooftop gravel, with each pound of his foot against the roof, he was actually losing speed. He knew he needed to rest. He knew he needed water. What he truly needed was a bit of luck. He needed to soar as a hawk between the two buildings, and then surrender himself to the sciences of nature so that his body would bend and move as it was designed to do. The medical practice was always on about how the human body possessed so much potential but it never went utilised. It was wasted on idle lifestyles and lazy pursuits wherein the human race chose to observe rather than participate. When Brandon launched himself into the space between dwellings, the coolness of dusk enveloping him in a loving embrace, he hoped to tap into that potential and reap its benefits right there and then, as he needed them straightaway.

First, there was a sinking feeling he had not pushed off hard enough, that he would fall short. Then he felt that odd, queer sensation of gravity, its invisible maw sucking at him and bringing the lower rooftop at him at a dizzying pace. He
had to time this perfectly. Brandon dared to reach forwards with his right foot, his favoured side, and reminded himself in this strange, macabre state of existence between rooftops to give in to the forces of nature. Let his body do what came naturally.

He felt something solid touch his toe. He allowed his leg to bend.
Yes!
He allowed his hand to touch the ground.
Yes!

His shoulder did not fare so well.
Oh bloody hell . . .

There was an audible snap that ushered in a silent wave of pain emanating from that point. He gave out a hard, guttural moan as his body rolled, several times, his dislocated limb striking the rooftop. He was going to have to snap it back into place when he had a moment.

His body stopped at a pair of feet. Even in the dying light of day he could see the tweed in the man’s suit trousers.

“Agent Brandon D. Hill,” the gentleman said, pushing him on his back, “you, sir, are quite mad.”

“Oh right you are, mad as a hatter,” he quipped, “but not so mad that I couldn’t give your lads a good foot chase, eh?” That’s right. There had been five of them. He only saw three continuing across the rooftops. “So what’s it to be then?”

“It is my duty to make certain there is no trace of you remaining, Agent Hill,” the Department man said, drawing what Brandon recognised straightaway as an exciter of Axelrod and Blackwell’s design. “According to our new weapons designers, this ought to do the trick.”

“Oh dashitall, man, are you serious?” Brandon swore. He winced as he pulled himself upright. That injury to his arm was right smart, it was. “I was expecting some finesse like a tranquiliser followed by a bath in sulphuric acid, or perhaps something more diabolical such as being wrapped in cloth as a living mummy and then trapped in a sarcophagus with flesh-eating scarabs.” With his good arm he waved in the direction of the Axelrod-Blackwell exciter. “You’re going to kill me with a
clankerton’s
ray gun, are you?”

“It’s called the Jack Frost,” the Department man said, turning the dial on the exciter’s side to its highest setting. “It’s supposed to freeze you solid so that you turn into an ice statue. Under this sun, by noon, you will be nothing more than mist. Not a trace of you left behind.”

Cremation through cold. “Oh, that’s ripping,” Brandon said, most impressed. “Quite some style shown there. Nice one there, chap.”

The agent nodded. “We thought so.” He barked over his shoulder. “Neville?”

“Yeah, Terrance?”

“Go an’ collect the other lads. I think they might want to see this contraption do its work.”

“Rather,” the other one—Neville, Brandon gathered—said eagerly as he made for the exit. “We’ll still be able to make that last airship out.”

He was still turning for the door when the door opened seemingly of its own volition. It knocked Neville out of the way, and shortly thereafter a figure emerged from the thick shadows of the stairwell. The “Crackshot,” a favourite of Brandon’s from the Wilkinson-Webley line, dispatched without fail the three agents watching from the rooftop overhead. Brandon held his breath at the fact he had just witnessed three head shots within quick succession of each other, a feat that even by his fellow agent Eliza D. Braun’s standards was not to be dismissed. The fourth and final bullet in the Crackshot drove itself through Neville’s heart as his saviour placed the weapon square on the man’s chest and fired. Now spent, the Crackshot clattered to the ground as did Neville.

Gaslight was now mingling with dusk, giving just enough light to the man now closing on them, a steam baton hissing to its full length with an ominous striking of metal on metal.

Sweet Mary Mother of God,
Brandon Hill thought quickly as his rescuer stepped closer, the rugged man’s dark gaze narrowing on Terrance.
Of all people . . .

What cheek!
“Terrance, why don’t you pull that trigger now?” Brandon asked bitterly. “I would rather not owe this man a damn thing.”

“Brandon, hope you don’t mind this but shut ya’ hole, I’m rescuin’ you,” Bruce Campbell spat.

“I don’t know who you are,” Terrance began, splaying his fingers around the Jack Frost, “but I will fire if you so much as take one more step.”

“Go on, do it!”
Brandon screamed, his pain now dislocated much like his actual arm. He felt himself falling into a
wild fury and he did nothing to stop himself in his descent.
“I would rather have fuck all then be indebted to this bastard!”

Bruce halted. He couldn’t disarm the Department man, but Bruce wasn’t about to drop the baton either. “I had that coming, Brandon. I’ll admit to that.”

“You,” Terrance said, stepping back from Brandon, “have chosen the wrong time to look out for a friend. Stand next to him,” he said, motioning with the Jack Frost.

Bruce nodded, looking at Brandon. “Do you mind?”

“He’s the man with the exciter. I’m the one with a dislocated shoulder.” Brandon shook his head, frustrated. “Why would I be the one in charge?”

Bruce stood next to him, close enough for Brandon to bite him in the calf, which was tempting. Of all the people to die alongside, why was God engineering such a terrible, horrible jibe such as this?

“According to the clankertons, this setting should work for two as well.” He pointed the Jack Frost at them and then gave a slight nod to Bruce. “Agent Hill here doesn’t seem to appreciate the sacrifice you made, friend. Rather sad, that is.”

“Nah, it ain’t,” Bruce said, dropping the baton. For him to do that, it really was over. “I knew the odds. I rolled the bones. It was worth it, mate.”

Brandon looked up at the square-jawed Australian. By Jove, he was sincere.

Well, blimey.

The blue-white light devoured the surrounding shadows, blinding them both for a moment. The cold felt so very, very strange, as Brandon knew that while dusk was far cooler than day, it was not the kind of “chill” that should make his teeth chatter, which this did. He saw his breath for a moment, then saw it again. He could feel Bruce flinch beside him as the air grew colder and colder . . .

Then it was done.

“Crikey,” Bruce whispered. “I would call him a ‘poor bastard’ if’n he hadn’t meant this for us.”

“Rather,” Brandon agreed.

Agent Terrance Sorry-I-didn’t-catch-your-last-name of the Department of Imperial Inconveniences was now encased in a large pincushion—for that is what it looked like—of solid
ice. His hands were the only part of his body that seemed to be flesh, but from his forearms an eerie sheen of ice began, blossoming outward and then forming as thick, bone-white spider legs that reached out for purchase but could find none.

“Did this bloody thing—” began Bruce.

But Brandon finished the thought. Something they did often when working together in the field. “—backfire? It does appear so.” He hissed on shifting where he sat. “Good thing Axelrod and Blackwell are mad as members of Parliament.”

Bruce looked him over as he picked up his steam baton. “Did I hear right? Dislocated shoulder?”

Brandon nodded. “Hurts like the right devil, it does.”

He looked at the baton in his hand, then back to Brandon. “D’ya want me to set it for ya?”

The man towering above him was not the man he expected—or
wanted
—to see; but this was hardly a strange situation for either one of them. The Americas. Prussia. Hong Kong. Egypt. How often had they set one another’s limbs in order to reach safety. It was practically part of their job requirements for the Ministry. Certainly, he could risk managing his way to one of the local doctors and they could set his shoulder, and probably do enough damage to it that it would permanently never be proper again. Bruce had, however, set his shoulder at least twice while on assignment. This was nothing new.