Eliza was always lovely in any attire she chose to wear, and nothing had changed. Her long immaculately trimmed beard made her cheekbones even more defined, and her blue eyes were remarkable against the strong nose she’d given herself. Eliza D Braun made quite the beautiful young man.
Examining herself in the mirror, she fussed with the beard until it was as she liked it.
She broke away from her reflection and returned to their luggage. "Well, now to clothing. Luckily the size of the fez allowed me to work in holsters for a pistol, and I have a large bag for rifles. Also, as Wellington and I are men, we can carry curved swords. Aydin was kind enough to include one for each of us."
After they had buckled those on, and stowed as many pistols as could make Eliza happy under their flowing robes, there was nothing else to do but begin the hunt.
The three of them, checked the hallway, and slipped into the corridor quiet as a family of church mice. At the end of the hallway was the servant’s entrance, from there they descended to the basement level where a shift of hotel staff were busy with laundering guest clothes, linens, and other creature comforts of the Palas. Once here, Aydin's map became their guide.
“According to this,” Wellington muttered to the ladies, “the entrance to the hotel’s tunnel should be at the back of the supply cupboard. Behind those linens.” He motioned with his head to a row of bedsheets hanging from a line.
"I love the smell of fresh laundry," Eliza said in a light tone as they moved piles of towels and linens to access the exit. "Reminds me of my Mum." She let out a little sigh as she pressed open the low door at the rear of the cupboard.
He didn’t know what to say to that since he had lost his mother young. As he ducked into the cubbyhole, he idly wondered what Mrs Braun was like and what she would think about him. On this particular mission, it seemed rather unlikely he would get the chance to find out. Again, he didn’t mention that dark thought to Eliza.
"Very telling, the odour of burning clothes does the same for me," Henrietta remarked.
That was a statement just begging for further investigation, but they didn’t have time, so he let it lie. In silence, they descended the neatly constructed but narrow stairs in the walls, to reach an underground tunnel leading from the basement to their guide, Aydin.
“Good evening, agents. Let me be the first congratulate you on your appearance. The reality is superb. A fine group,” he said, smiling. “With you all here, I take it the map is serving you well?”
Wellington glanced at it. "Looks like this takes us at least two blocks away from the hotel. If Jekyll is watching that should give us enough distance to avoid his notice."
"I hope so, but let’s just be cautious just in case," Eliza replied, adjusting her fez a fraction.
He shot her a glance from under a raised eyebrow. "Was that really Miss Eliza D. Braun suggesting caution?"
"I thought it might be worth a go."
“Will the wonders of Constantinople never cease?” Wellington quipped.
“A little less cheek from you, Books.”
“In your disguises this is quite charming,” Aydin noted.
Henrietta glanced between them. "Well, while I am in favour of romantic tension, perhaps we should continue this delightful bit of melodrama at the Bazaar."
Wellington adjusted his belt. The loose trousers, much like the false nose he wore, were taking some getting used to. "A bit of a surprise to find you here, Aydin. Can’t trust us alone then?"
"Not at all," he returned, drawing what had to be a modified Bulldog, "I just thought you might need a little backup."
"The more weapons and eyes the better," Henrietta said, "and having a guide is always better than a map.”
"Then follow me," and Aydin took the lead through the tunnel.
Only a few minutes had passed for the four of them before they emerged into an alleyway off a main thoroughfare. They proceeded into the flow of people with not even a glance from the surrounding crush. A casual passer-by would have taken them for a group of friends perhaps—as long as they kept to the edges of the crowd.
Constantinople was a city of great energy, and no little confusion—both which tended to go together. It was, Wellington knew from his boyhood studies, also one of enormous history and culture. Before the Ottoman Empire, it had been the Eastern City of the Roman Empire. Before that it had been Byzantium. So there were layers upon layers to the streets they now walked, which reached back beyond the time of Christ. He would so have loved to explore that historical aspect rather than the villainous one they pursued.
Around them were the locals going about their work, but also a fair number of travellers. Europeans mingled with Arabs and Russians. Chinese traders haggled on street corners. It was indeed where east met west and did plenty of business.
"Don’t become distracted," Aydin said, leaning over and whispering in his ear. "And speak English, no matter what happens."
“English?”
“Consider the marks for business here,” Aydin replied. “We as merchants want to be as accommodating as possible. We will be practising our mastery of your language openly here. The better our English, the more commerce we see.”
Wellington blinked. “Marks? Don’t you mean customers?”
Aydin shrugged. “Poh-tay-toe. Poh-tah-toe.”
Their guide led them deeper into the city where the main flow of people congregated, with both portoporters and mules laden with goods to either side of them. Wellington spotted a tram with words he recognised on it. Büyük Çarşı.
A surge of pride in his Turkish rushed through him, even as Aydin jerked his head to indicate they should get on. All four of them leapt on board the bulging tram and held on near the back as it rattled and jerked its way through the press of people. It was worth the few coins to avoid all that.
Wellington was excited to be approaching the Grand Bazaar. He’d read about it from the safety of London, but he had never imagined seeing it. Nestled between two mosques, the Grand Bazaar had over twenty gates which led to more than sixty streets. As they pulled up to the Beyazit stop alongside the main gate, he realised they had a daunting—maybe even impossible—task ahead of them.
People streamed in under the white stone arch, which was as ornate as anyone might find on a castle. All the people on the tram bustled off, and the crowd carried the four of them along through the entrance.
Once through Aydin motioned them away from the foot traffic. They pressed close to each other to one side of the stone arch, far from any curious eyes or ears. This innocuous corner was their own quiet sanctuary from the madness of the incredible market sprawling before them.
Wellington's expression must have said it all. Aydin inclined his head, a feigned modesty in his tone as he told them, "I know you probably were expecting stalls, awnings, and a few lonely buildings scattered about. We call the Grand Bazaar grand for a reason."
"Every street has its speciality, so there is a method to the madness" Eliza said, her hand brushing
Chapter Eighteen
Where Mistress Death Makes an Offer
The door slammed behind Filippo, making him jump. Sophia del Morte didn't seem to care, pushing by him, making for the windows overlooking Assisi. She scanned the street below as well as the windows opposite before yanking the curtains shut.
He took a step, and Sophia rounded on him. "Stay precisely where you are!"
The assassin went to the other window, repeating the ritual of checking foot traffic and sight lines. When she yanked the final set of curtains closed, the room descended into ominous darkness.
"Sit," she spoke over her shoulder.
Filippo slipped out of his coat and took a seat on the couch, fumbling with his hat. He watched the ghostly woman, dressed in what would have been better suited for an adventurer, go to this apartment's cellaret and open one of its crystal decanters. The faint scent of almonds tickled his nostrils, so it had to be Amaretto. She poured two glasses without looking at him.
>
The black outfit made her practically invisible, except for the faint gleam of her olive skin when she moved. It was impossible to ignore the menace she exuded, especially when she handed him the drink.
"Graziei," he muttered before bringing the glass to his lips, but he paused. The del Mortes were not just known for their knives and guns.
Sophia shook her head. "Suit yourself." Taking the glass out of his hand she poured his drink into her own before taking a generous gulp. A shudder ran through her once it had passed her lips. "There. Happy?"
Slightly mollified, Filippo nodded.
"I did not save you just to kill you, and I would not ruin a perfectly good amaretto by putting poison in it."
"No, no you would not," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
Sophia tilted her head and smiled. "Granted, I can understand your concern. After all, you are Usher, and Italy is your responsibility, Mr Badger. We both know it was you who gave the order to have my village executed."
Again, the glass stopped short of his lips. He desperately needed the drink, but Sophia del Morte had named the elephant in the room. Now, the question was how to avoid being trampled by it?
"If you’re convinced of my involvement in the destruction of your family," he began, his hand fighting a slight tremor, "why are you helping me?"
Sophia threw back the sweet liquor and took a seat opposite him. Her lips pursed, relaxed, and then pursed again. She looked as if she were chewing on her own thoughts but needed one more taste of the amaretto before continuing. After a third sip, she continued.
"My family holds me responsible for what happened. I was, after all, the only del Morte doing business with the House of Usher." She shrugged. "Of course, I knew the risks, but I thought you all were more easily managed." Her smile was tight as she looked at Filippo. "Obviously, I underestimated the House's tenacity."
"Yes, you did," Filippo stated, regaining his calm and taking a drink of the sweet liquor.
She watched him with a falcon's focus. "Well, my hubris came at a cost. I am now a pariah to my own family."
Filippo had done worse in his time so he was not at all sympathetic. "What a shame… no more family Christmas dinners for you."
"It is a bit more worrisome than that. What remains of the del Morte family is now hunting me."
Filippo set his glass down before him, considering Sophia's words. She was a marked woman to Usher as well, but he had not been in favour of it. The del Morte's—particularly this one—were not to be idly disturbed. Like a pit of vipers, they were best left alone.
Sophia del Morte had already proved she was the embodiment of death. In one evening, the House lost some of their best when a failed abduction turned deadly. Even though it was expressly ordered throughout the ranks to avoid the assassin, standing orders within the House was that if an opportunity arose to eliminate Sophia del Morte, they should take it.
His mind wandered to the sword in his walking stick. This was clearly an opportunity, but it was hard to calculate the risks at this moment.
"So, it would seem that you are in need of an ally?" Filippo asked.
"So it would appear."
The amaretto was finally calming his nerves. He glanced to the covered windows and tapped his glass with his fingertips. Out in the streets of Assisi were three agents of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, and they sought more information about Ragnarök. That they knew the name of the Chairman's passion project was unsettling, and he could not afford to assume these agents were bluffing.
He took another measured sip as he contemplated Sophia del Morte. This woman had a reputation for many things, but not for generosity or charity. "To be blunt, Sigñora, may I ask what exactly you want of me?"
"I need you to get out of this city. With the Ministry onto whatever endeavour you are undertaking, you may have to close down operations in Assisi."
Filippo let out a low chuckle. "This town is simply a gateway to my current project. However, with their presence here, I need to get to Rome straightaway."
"Then I will get you there safely," Sophia stated as she took a seat next to Filippo. "When I tell you to move, you will not question me. If I tell you to hide, you will do so. You will, my dear Mr Badger, have to trust me." She emphasised the point by brushing the hair off his face. He managed not to flinched.
"Just like that?"
Sophia crossed her legs, twisted her lips into a smile, and let out a long breath. Up close all of these actions were quite riveting—and that also terrified him.
Filippo polished off what remained of the drink before leaning forward and fixing his gaze on Sophia. "And in exchange for this, what will you ask from the House of Usher?"
"You said it yourself—an ally. I request sanctuary.”
He raised an eyebrow at this. "Sanctuary?"
"Yes," Sophia replied, adjusting his collar. "I want asylum within the House of Usher. I assure you, for that I will make the arrangement very much worth your while."
This ought to be amusing. "How so? What could you possibly offer me or Usher? Your unending servitude? Since we have plenty of that from others, we have no need of yours."
Sophia laughed, her expression folding into derision. "No, of course you don’t." She spun her empty glass in her fingers. "I intend to deliver unto Usher the whole del Morte family. They have deemed the House and all its associates a priority."
Easing back into the couch, Filippo glanced at the windows. He wanted to look over his shoulder at the door, but what good would that do?
“I am the only thing standing between you and their wrath. So it would seem, we need each other.”
Filippo swallowed hard on that bitter truth and wondered if she had more Amaretto available, or if there was enough in the world to make this more palatable.
Chapter Nineteen
In Which the Last Person You Trust Becomes Quite the Reliable Chum
Brandon Hill lay prone on the bed, a cloth bag packed with ice resting across his forehead.
David Harker sprawled across the couch, his white suit stained with dirt and dust from being tackled.
Bruce stood between them, at a loss for words, save for three. What. Utter. Wankers.
Taking in the ridiculous comedy in for another moment, Bruce went to their suite’s bar and poured himself a whiskey. He wasn’t sure what kind it was. It was clear. It smelt strong, and that was good enough. This was not two fingers’ worth, or even three. This one was a whole fist.
He glared at the other men as he poured. "I cannot believe, you two morons can take a simple operation and turn it on its ass."
It was Harker who protested—or at least he tried. He sat up and let out a small yelp.
"All right then, let’s start with you." Bruce took a swig of the clear alcohol, and shuddered as it tore down his throat. Good God, what lighter fluid were they drinking in this hotel? "Why would you pull a gun on our contact in the middle the street in bloody daylight?"
"Have you ever loved someone so deeply, so completely, that they become your life?" Not waiting for Bruce to answer, Harker blathered on. "Whatever you may think you know about love, I can tell you that my darling Virginia is all that and so much more. That cad knew where my light and love is being held, and you were taking far too long!"
Bruce fixed him with a hard look. He had no sympathy for the bumps and bruises he had personally dealt to this idiot. "Well, not sure if you know this, but we are supposed to work in secret. This means avoiding socially inappropriate behaviours like shooting a man in a restaurant!"
"Mind speaking louder, you git? Don't believe the French couple two floors down heard you clearly enough," grumbled Brandon.
Bruce spun around. "Alright then, Canuck of Action and Adventure, Master of Monkey Knife Fighting, and Spring-Heeled Jack of All Trades, explain to me how you allowed someone to get the drop on you!"
"The attacker snuck up behind me! Not like I have eyes in the back of my head," he snapped as he pressed the ice h
arder against his forehead.
The real trick in being a secret agent, at least for Bruce, was to expect things to go to pear-shaped. No matter the skill of the agent or the plan you have thought out to the last detail, realising things can go completely sideways keeps you on your toes. The leader of the Italian branch of the House of Usher had been within his physical grasp, but now they were even worse off. They had no indication of Virginia’s whereabouts, or why Usher even had her meeting Badger in Umbria. This whole operation had eroded into a dog’s breakfast, and since Bruce was the lead on this case, it would be his head on a plate.
"Your afternoon’s antics set us back months," Bruce said pointedly at Harker. "Now that Badger knows we’re on his trail, he will go underground. One thing he won’t be doing for certain is staying in bloody Assisi!"
"My intentions were honourable," Harker mumbled.
Bruce let out a loud "Pfft!". "If you were looking to help Virginia, you’ve done the complete opposite."
"Now, now, Bruce, go easy on the poor chap."
This was months of surveillance, research, and investigation, all lost on account of that tosser, Highfield, getting in the last word with them for running operations in New York without approval. "Bringing this bloke along with us was nothing more than OSM’s idea of a joke. With this stunt of Harker’s, our trail on Usher has gone—"
A knock came at their door. Bruce drew his Remington-Elliott and made it two steps before stopping at where Harker now sat. "Not. One. Sound," he whispered to him.
Taking a place to the right of the door, Bruce gave his voice a gravely rumble akin to someone just roused from a deep sleep. "You’d better have a good reason to be waking me up."
The voice from the other side of the door was muffled, uneasy. "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but a note has arrived for you."
Bruce placed the pistol’s muzzle against the door, while with his free hand opened the door just enough to reveal a pale, nervous bellhop. "Did you see who delivered it?"
Operation: Endgame (Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Book 6) Page 18