The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (12 page)

“Go on, old friend,” Brandon said. “You know wh—”

The baton sliced through the air and struck hard into Brandon’s shoulder blade. That would be the second time Brandon heard another sickening snap within a single evening. Not pleasant, at all.

His intended scream was instead a choked yelp, followed by a growl that turned into words. “You could have let me finish, you daft prick, so that I could prepare myself.”

“Really?” Bruce leaned closer to him. “How’s the shoulder?”

Brandon slowly rotated it back, wincing still but not as sharply as he had earlier. “Tender, but it works.”

“Then you were ready,” Bruce stated. He then regarded the steam baton in his hand. “Had to pick this up before leaving Queensland. Thanks for letting me break it in properly.”

“You’re welcome.” The pain of dislocating his shoulder
was now taking its toll, but that wasn’t all. As he got to his feet, he found out how much all of the rest of his body ached.

“So you feel up for telling me what’s the score?” Bruce asked, retracting the weapon to a smaller size.

“Certainly, but first,” and Brandon cocked back and struck Bruce’s jaw. Had he not been so sore, he would have knocked him on his ass. Instead, Bruce merely stumbled a bit. “That was for Ihita.”

Bruce worked his mandible left and right, rubbing it gently and then moving it up and down. “Fair enough. Now, what—”

Brandon gathered up enough strength to bring his foot right into Bruce’s crotch. Chances are he hadn’t felt anything like that since his last mission in the field, before he set his sights, for whatever ridiculous reason, on working in administration.

“That was for me. Now, we’re even.” As Bruce remained on one knee, Brandon took a deep breath and motioned around him. “It all started when this chap, Dandridge, stopped me in a brothel.”

“A brothel?” Bruce wheezed.

“I was in need of comfort, seeing as something a bit more tangible had been torn away from me. Please,” Brandon warned, “do not interrupt me again as I may be reminded of certain things and may find myself in a need to vent pent-up frustrations.”

Bruce gave a nod as he motioned with a free hand for Brandon to carry on.

“He introduces himself as a member of the Department, come to bring me in for an emergency extraction. That was when I asked him, ‘You mean the Phantom Protocol where I am supposed to go underground or otherwise be a target for your lot?’ and that’s when things got sticky.”

“Six on one?” Bruce raised himself to his feet, shaking his head. “Hardly fair.”

“Good thing you were there to even up the odds.” Brandon glanced over to Neville, but really had nothing to say about the dead Department agent, or his compatriots. “Good to see you, mate.”

“It’s good to be seen aboveground, mate,” Bruce replied. “Had a bit of a scrape in Rockhampton. Thought I’d head to South America, see if you could use a hand.”

“So, now what?”

“Phantom Protocol, eh?” he asked. Of course Bruce wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t have received the signal as his ring didn’t leave with him. “We keep moving. It’s all we can do.”

“But where, Bruce?” Brandon asked. “This is the Department.”

“The world’s a big place. Two people can disappear in the Empire, you know that.”

A voice that crackled,
“Salutations, my fellow Ministry agents!”
made them both jump.

The all-too-familiar voice was coming from the Jack Frost.
“I can make the bold conclusion that if you are hearing this, you are Ministry agents, as these cads from the Department of Imperial Inconveniences have commissioned our exciters. We have delivered our order, yes, but we would hardly turn on those whom we swore to protect with our works of science. That is why Doctor Blackwell and I have rigged all our weapons to fail. Catastrophically.

“Now if you have been caught off guard by the appearance of the Department, allow me to explain. Doctor Sound has enacted Phantom Protocol. We are now, officially, dark. If you are wondering exactly what you need to do at this point, I recommend you make certain on the twenty-second of April to rendezvous with your fellow agents at the beginning. The beginning, as we all know, is the best place to start, yes? See you very soon. Remain vigilant.”

The Jack Frost sparked and sizzled, and then smoke slipped out of its top vent. Night had now fallen over Colombia. Brandon remembered the Department agents talking about the final airship leaving later that night.

“Did any of that make sense to you?” Bruce asked.

Brandon motioned to the rooftop where Bruce had felled the three Department agents. The building he had made his daring jump from now looked far taller than before. Brandon was exhausted, but better passage awaited him once he and Bruce found those tickets. “We’ll need to grab some airship tickets from those lads up there.”

“And then what?”

“You heard Axelrod,” Brandon said, shrugging his still-tender shoulder with a wince. “It’s back to the beginning.”

Wherein a Science of Ages Past Reveals the Truth

O
n opening the door, Wellington was greeted by the sound of a simple shotgun’s hammers pulling back to a firing position.

“Stand down, Alice,” Wellington assured the maid, and the weapon she shouldered dropped, but only by a few inches. “All’s well.”

“Where’s Miss Braun?” she asked, the children slowly emerging from the shadows to huddle behind her.

“She’s . . .” It sounded even more ridiculous when he said it aloud. “. . . fetching the mail.”

“She’s
what
?!”

Wellington emptied the contents of his arms out onto the large table in the centre of the kitchen. “You know the lady’s mind as well as I do,” he said, handing Alice her Mark III back. “She insisted, and I would not question it for we know that way lies madness. Thank you very much for your sidearm, by the by.” He flipped open the jacket and pulled from the inner pocket the sniper’s identity. Her name had been Esmeralda Helen Leighter, or at least that was the identity she was travelling under on this assignment. He flipped through
her passport, quietly marvelling at the amount of visas decorating its pages. Travel, it appeared, had been second nature for Esmeralda. “Come along,” he muttered, oblivious to those gathering around him. “You must be in here somewhere.”

On the back flap of the identification, adhered with a small dollop of beeswax, was a single page document, folded several times over. This, if protocol was being followed, should have been her travel papers. Once free of the passport, the paper opened of its own accord, revealing quite an itinerary. Esmeralda had set foot on France’s shores on the same day as Wellington and Eliza. After a few days in Normandy, her next destination was to be Malta, then Egypt, Sudan, and Kenya. The transportation plans ended there. All of her stays were brief. Only a matter of days.

A knot formed in his throat as he saw the telltale stamp in the travel order’s lower-left corner. It was the crest of the Department of Imperial Inconveniences. This was no ruse. This was, in fact, their own government.

The door opening caused him to jump. Eliza entered to a jubilation of concern and relief. She waved her hand, blushing a bit as she spoke. “Please, no fuss. We have mere minutes before someone comes looking for their own or the
Sûreté
are called in to investigate. Alice, get the children ready. We have a difficult and complicated road ahead of us.”

“Yes, miss.” She motioned to the children, gathering them around as a mother hen would with her chicks. “Come along, Mr. Books and Miss Braun are on the job now.”

“I managed to get the coat off that Department bloke you were chatting it up with,” Eliza grumbled, tossing it on the centre of the table. “Bastard was wearing a Stinger on his forearm. From the looks of the trigger, it would have gone off the moment you shook hands.”

“Charming,” Wellington sneered.

“I also managed to find a few identifications and—”

“Are we going to die?” cut Serena’s voice through the hubbub.

No one moved. Eliza stared for a moment at the cream-coloured envelope in her hand, appearing to be at a loss for words.

Wellington tossed the Department agent’s passport onto the table before him and walked over to the child clinging on the
skirts of the formidable Alice. Sinking to one knee, Wellington looked into the little girl’s eyes. “Are you afraid, Serena?”

“Yes, Mr. Books,” she said in an unexpected tone of purest honesty. “We’ve been in some scrapes, to be certain, but nothing like this, being chased to Froggyland and all.”

“Well then”—he paused, looking at them all before continuing—“good. I’m glad you’re scared. You all should be. This is not the time to posture and pretend you are greater than the sum of your parts. We are facing our own government, and these agents are not to be underestimated. I did, and it was nearly the death of me. The Department of Imperial Inconveniences is unlike any foe you have ever stood against. They will make Diamond Dottie and her lot look like the St. Johns. You follow?”

One by one, including the eldest, Christopher, they nodded.

“Do not let that fear inhibit you, though,” Wellington continued, giving Serena’s arm a gentle squeeze. “You must channel it. Allow it to heighten your senses, quicken your reflexes, and that will come with time. Time that Miss Eliza and I intend to earn for you all.” He turned back to Serena and smiled warmly. “No, little Serena, you will not die. Not while Eliza and I draw breath.” Wellington then motioned to the other Ministry Seven and nodded. “We will need to travel light and as covertly as a party of ten can.”

Arms suddenly wrapped around his neck as Serena hugged him. It was a gesture that he would not have anticipated from the street urchin, but one he returned with equal genuineness. He heard Alice whisper, “Come along, everyone,” and Serena broke the embrace.

How far he had come. Once upon a time, Wellington would have felt the need to check for his wallet. Now, he felt robbed of additional affection from the youngest of the Seven.

“So you know for sure it’s the Department?” Eliza asked.

“Their seal is on the travel orders. This Esmeralda Leighter was quite the world traveller, and a few of her passport stamps I recognise from case files.” He shook his head, poking at the passport. “While they might be able to make the documents, I doubt they have access to the Department seal.”

“Agreed, we’d have even more trouble if that was the case.” It was obviously an uncomfortable thought, because she quickly
changed the subject. “I think you’ve got a champion there with little Serena.”

The chill that swept over him threatened to knock him over. He suddenly felt the need to hug that child once more.

“Whatever—” Wellington chided himself as he felt a tear in his eye. Now was not the time for emotion. “Whatever do you mean?”

“The way you rescued Serena during that Diamond Dottie con. A child of the street wouldn’t forget such a gesture. Serena, more so.” Eliza tore open the envelope with her finger. “And thank you. I think you reached them all. We’re going to need some faith to get us to tomorrow, or wherever this takes us.”

Wellington motioned to the envelope. “What exactly is that?”

The card Eliza pulled from the envelope was a bright red colour with sections—squares and rectangles of varying length—appearing to be randomly cut from it. He could not decipher any real pattern to the holes in the card, except that on a glance the sections were all the same height.

“Orders.” She flipped the card over. “Page twenty-one. Come with me, Wellington.”

He followed her to the adjoining room, a modest parlour that offered a gaming table, a small couch and chair for pleasant conversation over tea, and another pair located by a single shelf of books. Eliza immediately went to it and ran her finger along the spines one by one.

“And there you are,” she whispered, pulling from the collection a single volume.

Wellington looked at the title of the book and sniffed. “
Countless Hues of Crimson
? Oh, Eliza, I would not even allow Archimedes to urinate on such drivel. This author, H. J. Rodwell, mocks English grammar on so many levels. I believe this book could encourage the Empire to remain illiterate! And his characters—
Oh, don’t get me started!
”

“Are you quite finished with your book review?” Eliza asked, her eyebrow crooked sharply. “Because these are our orders.”

His brow furrowed. “An erotic novel of dubious merit?”

She held up the card, and Wellington could just make out printed in its corner
Page 21
. “Watch and learn, Welly. Watch and learn.”

Over her shoulder, Wellington observed as Eliza flipped through the pages to the designated spot. His eyes scanned the words there, and his heart sank at the horrible prose staring back at him:

Wellington let out a groan. “I think a small part of me just died.”

“Not the most elegant of prose.” Eliza gave a chuckle as she added, “And not particularly erotic either.”

“And yet, ladies of society could not snatch this novel up any faster.”

“Indeed,” she chortled. “Imagine Axelrod and Blackwell’s surprise.”

He went to agree, but his words drowned in the bile that this clunky prose had already evoked. “I—beg your pardon?”

Eliza flipped the book to the cover. “H. J. Rodwell is actually Axelrod and Blackwell. This,” she said, flipping back to page twenty-one, “was what you missed being in the Archives. A new contingency plan for field operatives, cooked up by R&D and approved by the Old Man. The idea was to publish a series of encoded messages in a book no one in their right mind would read. This way, we could get the orders safely to secure hideouts by merely purchasing them from a bookshop as opposed to using a secure courier.” Eliza shook her head. “However, no one expected
Countless Hues of Crimson
by first-time author H. J. Rodwell to become the next literary sensation.”

“Don’t remind me.”

She held up the red card. “Ready?”

The card fit the width of the page perfectly, and on lining up the top right corner of the book with the card, Wellington’s breath caught in his throat. The perforated card, which he now recognised as a Cardan Grille, revealed only segments of words and parts of prose. Its original awkwardness was now replaced with a direct message from headquarters:

There it was—the death warrant. Not only was the Ministry disavowed by the Crown, but the Department of Imperial Inconveniences was now hunting them.

And possibly, from their reaction to you,
his father whispered in his ear,
they know what you are.

Perhaps,
Wellington replied to his ghost,
but so does she. And I love her. Eliza and I will rise beyond this.

“Doctor Sound must have sent these orders after informing the Queen that the prince and his valet were killed,” Eliza said, her eyes reviewing the revealed message again and again while working her ring free. “And this is page twenty-one.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“This is Phantom Protocol. We are dark. From the postmark and the number on the Grille, we have twenty-one days to carry out these orders. Less than that as we met with Alice and the Seven.”

“To get back to England?”

“To reach the rendezvous point, which is this Circle’s Red Lion, whatever that may be.”

Wellington grinned. “And this is why you could consider yourself fortunate to be smitten with a walking, breathing, analytical engine like me.”

Her lips pinched and twisted into a smirk. “Explain yourself, Welly.”

“The Red Lion, a quaint pub located just inside Avebury Circle,” he offered, his head bobbing back and forth jauntily, “and where the Ministry itself was founded in 1839.”

Eliza blinked. “Really?”

“Brilliant spot of planning, that is.”

Eliza looked at the message, her smile fading slightly. “Provided Her Majesty also does not wax nostalgic as Doctor Sound does and deduces his fall-back position.”

“Fortune favours the brave, does it not?”

“It certainly favours you,” Eliza said, pecking him quickly on the cheek. “To think it all started with a kiss in the Archives . . .”