Operation: Endgame (Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Book 6)

by Pip Ballantine

  Eliza replied in a surprisingly even tone, "We had intelligence that Derby was smuggling nadnerczyna."

  "Now there's a word straight from Oxford."

  "It's an extract from the adrenal glands. Nadnerczyna is a natural stimulant, and one of the key ingredients in Jekyll's serum."

  The Australian motioned to Wellington. "You've been around this bloke for too long!"

  "We’ve taught each other a great deal," he replied.

  "As I was saying," Eliza said, "Derby was moving copious amounts of this solution."

  "Come on then," Bruce said, as he led them down to street level where the ornithopter had landed in a wide alleyway. Its tail section protruded into the sidewalk, and citizens of New York weaved and dodged around it as best they could. A small raggedly dressed boy muttered, “Who the hell parks an ornithopter on 2nd Street?” On seeing Bruce rest his hand on the tail, the young lad shot him the filthiest of looks as he took a long detour around it.

  “Lesson learned,” Wellington said to Eliza. “New Yorkers are patient to an extent—but Heaven forbid impeding their progress on a public thoroughfare.”

  She looked at the hostile passers-by and nodded. “Duly noted, Agent Books.”

  The three of them stepped around the giant eagle-like device's tail and into the alley. Currently its talons held Derby O’Halloran. One of his springing legs was absent while the other dangled from his ankle, but the glazed look in his eyes was probably from the forceful nature of his apprehension. With a better chance to see the ornithopter, Wellington could only admire it. A beautiful construction, light and sturdy at the same time, but one would have to be a right nutter to try to fly it.

  Then its pilot emerged.

  "Wellington, Eliza!" Agent Brandon Hill exclaimed, placing his goggles to the top of his head. Before either could evade the gesture, he pulled them both into a tight, awkward three-way hug. "It's been too long."

  "Not long enough between these intimate greetings," Wellington muttered into Eliza's ear. She snorted delightfully.

  "So, Derby," Bruce said, walking up to the man in the grasp of the ornithopter's claw, "You've been a busy bee, I've hea—bugger!"

  The curse wrenched Wellington’s attention from Hill to Bruce and Derby. The street thug had his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Bruce leapt forward and shoved his fingers into Derby’s mouth.

  "No, push the cheeks!" Wellington called out, struggling free of the awkward embrace. "Otherwise, he’ll jus—"

  "ARRGH!" Bruce rapped Derby against the bridge of his nose—almost hard enough to break it. Pulling his fingers free of the man’s mouth, Bruce shook them. "Bastard bit me!"

  Wellington grabbed the man underneath his jaw and pinched hard, but under his fingers and thumb Derby worked something between his teeth. His eyes filled with defiance as he bit through the soft flesh inside his cheek. Both of them froze for a moment, then Derby convulsed before him. A foam, tinged with blood, seeped from between his lips as his body jerked once, twice, then sagged into Wellington’s arms.

  "Dammit!" Bruce swore, bending to one knee to examine the dead man’s face. "Bloody poison tooth!"

  "I thought only Usher’s agents were using those infernal things," Eliza said.

  "Yeah, well, that's standard for any Usher associate now, even the hired help." Bruce looked up at the two of them. "You would have known that, had you been working this case like we have, but you didn’t, and you spooked him."

  Eliza paused. Wellington knew that expression. She was about to explode. "Are you saying this is our fault?"

  "This was an emergency plan, in case we had a runner." Brandon waved cheerily at them both. Bruce gave an awkward wave back. Wellington admired the man’s patience, until he added, "Which thanks to you, we had."

  "You’ve got some nerve, Bruce," Eliza barked back. "We were following up on a lead..."

  "That directly intersected with an investigation we’d been carrying out for at least two months! Would it have bothered you to check and see if there were any active operations in the area?"

  "You must beg a pardon, Campbell," Wellington offered, his tenor growing less and less patient with each word, "as we were chasing a madman who single-handedly orchestrated the near-destruction of London’s East End! Or had you forgotten about that little tussle we had in and around St Paul’s Cathedral?"

  "Usher is changing their tactics. Seems they are in the business of snatching people right now." Bruce shook his head in disgust at the poison seeping out of Derby’s mouth before flicking open the man’s jacket to reveal the silver pin of a raven tucked inside. "Not quite sure what they are doing with all of them, but he might have."

  The idea of the House spiriting away people was not a comfortable one, but it was yet another example of the change in their ranks. "Usher used to prefer the shadows," Eliza muttered to Wellington.

  Bruce adjusted collar. "You're right there, Lizzie. Bloody hell if it doesn’t seem like things are stepping up with them, but thanks to you we won’t be getting anything out of Derby now."

  "Then let us make this up to you, Campbell, Hill." Wellington motioned to Derby’s cooling corpse. "We'll clean this up for you."

  Eliza rounded on him. "Welly?"

  "No, no, no, we should take responsibility for this cock-up. Eliza and I will take care of the body, proper paperwork and all that. As you said, Bruce," Wellington said, looking over to Eliza and locking his gaze with hers, "you can’t get anything additional from the poor sot, so let us take care of this."

  Her brow remained scrunched until she understood Wellington's stratagem. "You are talking about a substantial amount of paperwork, Agent Books."

  "No," Wellington insisted though a tight smile, "we insist." He cast a glance to Bruce who was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes screwed shut. The man was probably pushing back a headache of some description. Wellington looked back at Eliza. Play along, he mouthed.

  No, she mouthed back.

  Wellington raised an eyebrow. So did Eliza.

  "That would be good of you, mate," Bruce admitted. "I'll keep this whole hullabaloo out of my report to the Fat Man."

  "Excellent!" Wellington exclaimed, turning back to Bruce with a bright smile. "Then we have an accord."

  "Sorry about the bother, Books," Hill said from the ornithopter. Wellington considered it a stroke of luck that the Canadian was more preoccupied with his flying machine than the dead lead. "But as it is your blunder that got us here, it's mighty fine of you."

  "Own one's mistakes, I always say," Wellington said with a chuckle and a shrug.

  "Good show, Books!" Brandon flipped a few switches on the ornithopter's modest engine. The engine chugged and churned to life again; but instead of assisting the mechanical bird's great wings to flap, the device started to collapse. Wellington was trying—and failing—not to stare at how the invention was folding upon itself, becoming smaller and smaller in its size. "It stops when it becomes the size of a valise."

  "How very clever," Wellington said with a smile.

  "A valise that weighs just over four stone."

  Wellington's face fell. "Oh... oh dear... most unfortunate."

  "On the contrary, good way to get in a bit of exercise," Hill said. Wellington wasn’t sure of the agent’s conviction in those words.

  "Alright then," Bruce said, looking at the steady stream of people passing. "I’d wish you luck on getting this body out of here without notice, but I honestly don’t know if anyone in this godforsaken city would even give a toss."

  "Something we will use to our advantage," Wellington said.

  "I'm sure." The hiss behind them ceased, and a valise roughly the size of a large dog now stood where the ornithopter once did. "Right then, we’re off. Try communicating with us next time."

  "Of course, Brandon."

  “See you back at the hotel, mate,” Bruce said to Brandon with a nod. With that, Bruce slipped into the crowd.

  Brandon gave Wellington and Eliza a quick s
mile and then hefted the valise. It rose into the air a few inches, but then slammed back to the pavement with a hard thud.

  "Well now," Brandon said, his words a tad winded, "bit heavier than four stone."

  With a quick intake of air, Brandon brought the suitcase up once more. This time, he compensated properly, or at least the best he could.

  "Cheers, all," Brandon groaned, and waddled off.

  Wellington waved to the odd man before turning back to his partner, to find Eliza's expression thunderous.

  "I know what you're going to say," Wellington began, holding his hands up.

  "No, you don't.”

  "I have a very good idea..."

  "You know how I feel about this."

  "Damn it, Eliza, this is not about your odd phobias, this is about Jekyll!" Wellington took a step back and turned his gaze to the body at their feet. "That was uncalled for. My apologies."

  "This is personal, yes," Eliza admitted. "And we're knackered."

  "Indeed." Wellington adjusted his cravat as he bent down to look at Derby. "For the time being, though, we must push on and take advantage of any lead we might have."

  "Should we contact Bruce and Brandon if we find out anything to help them?"

  "Remember this 'favour' we are doing is completely off-the-books. If we tell Bruce and Brandon, they will be asked questions... questions that could implicate them in what we are about to do."

  Eliza nodded. "Fast thinking, Welly."

  "I have my moments."

  Eliza joined him by Derby, allowing her hand to slip into his. "So... how are we planning to move a body?"

  "I confess I am not sure about that part."

  She looked the body from head to toe, then turned back to Wellington. "Well, that's just jolly."

  There was only one option. "Perhaps a call to our hostess is in order?"

  "Quite," she replied, "but I'll let you do the explaining." Her smile was sharp, but perhaps well-deserved.

  Chapter Two

  In Which There May be a Ghost of a Chance

  Eliza D Braun didn’t mind ghosts so long as they knew their place. That, she believed, would be gothic mansions, haunted moors, and the odd theatre along London’s West End. She considered herself fortunate, since becoming a full field agent, to have avoided those stragglers from this mortal coil. Generally hauntings were something juniors in the Ministry dealt with, on account of their frequent debunking. Regardless of the fraction that proved true, these cases required the same amount of paperwork—and that she had no patience for. So, when it came to ghosts, that was someone else’s job.

  Only one time, just after she was assigned to the Archives, she and Wellington handled a triple-event at Christmas time. It was a rather lively haunting.

  After her fair share of time chasing down and containing vengeful spirits, Eliza viewed ghosts as her least-favourite of peculiar occurrences. Very few of these legitimate apparitions had conscious thought. Most just replayed wrongs done to them in life. It was the kind of trapped existence that made Eliza very uncomfortable contemplating. Was it evidence of the afterlife, made so true and convincing that not even the most hardened of sceptics could deny it? Was it an indication of God's cruelty, condemning both innocents and the guilty to a life trapped in a world from which there would be no escape? Or was it a reminder of her own mortality? Whatever it was, ghosts bothered her. Thankfully, not every person turned into a spirit at the moment of death, luckily or the Ministry would be drowning in the damn things.

  So with every flash of light, and every muted moan from the other side of the door, Eliza’s skin prickled. Then, when the young girl emerged from the room where Derbin O’Halloran’s corpse lay, Eliza tried to swallow back her fear. Why was this poor creature using the bloody door? she thought. Surely not for my benefit, I hope.

  "Please," the girl spoke, her smile kind. "Have a seat."

  Bettina Spinnett looked young and reasonably solid, but there was no getting passed it: she was a ghost. The echo of a life once lived, and from the looks of her, cut tragically short. They all sat around a small table with a modest tea set Eliza had seen Bettina placing there earlier. It should have been adorable that the ghost took such care, but it only added to Eliza’s disquiet. Bettina looked tired as she folded her hands on her lap. Another impossible thing for a spirit, but there it was. Still, she had enough strength to pick up the teapot and pour for her living guests.

  "I hope I made it to your liking," she said, filling herself a cup as well. Why, Eliza could not fathom. Discussing the interrogation of a dead man of possible hiding spots of nefarious secret laboratories in New York City with a ghost Eliza could hardly fathom either. "The last time I attempted to make tea for Mr. Books here, it was a bit of a disaster."

  "Tosh, Miss Spinnett," Wellington said with a light shake of his head. "It had just steeped too long. I will admit I was a bit jittery but the amount of work I accomplished that day? Unparalleled."

  The girl chuckled just before taking a sip of her own tea. Eliza smiled tightly at her before casting a quick glance at the teapot handle. A faint sheen of ectoplasm was just visible against the finish of the teapot's willow pattern. Don't stare... don't stare... don't stare, she thought to herself as she took a sip from her own cup.

  Her eyebrows raised slightly. My, but she did brew a good cuppa.

  "So, the interrogation went as well as one would expect," Bettina said, setting her cup to one side. "Derby did not take too kindly to discovering that he was no longer one of the living."

  "As we gathered from the moaning," Wellington agreed.

  "Yes. The moaning." Bettina shuddered, and for a moment Eliza saw through her. Literally. "You would think I’d be used to it by now."

  "I suppose everyone handles death differently."

  Bettina nodded before picking up her cup again and taking a sip. As the interior of the cup came into view, Eliza peered in to see if there were any traces of the ghost’s touch on its rim or floating in the brew. A soft clearing of a throat tore her gaze from the setting. Wellington’s pained expression was not helping her settle, and Eliza took a slow, deep breath to quell her roiling resentment. This was all very well for him since he’d met this phantasm before.

  "Once I managed to calm him down, allow him to gather himself, as it were," Bettina continued, oblivious to the silent exchange between Eliza and Wellington, "I questioned him about his intentions, about his affiliation with Usher and with Hyde."

  Eliza blinked. "Hide?"

  Bettina paused, then shook her head. "Sorry. Old habits. Hyde. H-Y-D-E. That’s OSM’s code name for Jekyll." Bettina bit her lip as she looked outside the parlour where they sat. "Mrs Marsh would tan my backsides if she heard me telling you this. Our communications were breached several months after the San Francisco Incident. We believe it to be Usher as the attack coincided with increased activity from them. A new protocol we have put in place is to use codenames for potential hot targets in the field."

  Wellington’s brow eased as a smile crossed his face. "Jekyll was both Lawson’s and the Maestro’s physician, hiding in plain sight. Very clever."

  "Code names?" Eliza said with a slight roll of her eyes. "You Americans do love the theatrics. I suppose Usher’s code name is ‘Lenore’ on account of the poem?" Eliza gave a little chuckle at the obvious name, but her laugh disappeared on reading Bettina's face. "You’re joking."

  "So far, so good," Bettina admitted. "So, Derby was working with both Usher and Jekyll. The man was a piece of work, seeing as his loyalties went to whoever greased his gears. Derby did not care what he was getting paid, so long as he got his coin. He served both masters, not bothering to note why they would want similar goods. To him it was just another opportunity, one that served him well."

  "Did you manage to find out where Derby was running this little endeavour from?"

  Bettina held up a solitary finger and then set aside the tea setting. She rapped a knuckle—and how she did that, Eliza was at a complete
loss—against the table and its round centre section flipped over to reveal a map of New York City. From a desk just behind her, she opened a drawer and extracted a clear overlay of what looked like thick blood veins. "I think you will find plenty of tunnels under the street here," she said, positioning the overlay across the map. "I can help you scout ahead, but my abilities with weapons are not... well, they are lacking on account of my ethereal nature."

  "Just a moment," Eliza interrupted, "you just poured us a cuppa and you’re saying you cannot carry a gun?"

  "It’s a bit complicated. I can handle household objects. I can even operate scientific devices. Weapons of any sort? No."

  "That’s quite all right, Bettina," Wellington broke in, cleared his throat, and turned his attention to the map. "We’ve been on the trail of Jekyll for months. It’s the specific demands of his serum that serves as his Achilles’ Heel.” He shared a quick glance with Eliza before adding, “I’m amazed his laboratory is so portable."

  "He’s been popping up everywhere," Eliza said, giving him the slightest of nods. "Paris, Kansas City, Singapore, and now unfortunately, New York. It’s rather astounding."

  "Should we inform OSM?" Bettina asked. "Especially after the incident on the commuter express?"

  This tiny, covert office of their American counterpart, the Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical, appeared more a boarding house to passers-by than a base of operations for spies. A sudden uptick of boarders all at one time might be suspicious. They also didn't want their operation to come to the attention of OSM’s Director Highfield.

  "Bettina, you and Mrs Marsh know that we are not officially operating in New York City. Merely dropping in socially as Miss Braun and I are passing through." Wellington blushed a bit as he continued, "I know I am asking quite a bit from both of you, but no one knows New York City better."

  "Jekyll is our problem," Eliza added. "We’re not even sure if he has established roots here. This laboratory could just as well belong to some other mad scientist. You’d be surprised how many there are running around these days."