Operation: Endgame (Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Book 6)

by Pip Ballantine

  "Sorry, sir, but it was dropped off by parcel post. Our delivery boy was just paid to take the note from sender to here and delivered it with utmost secrecy."

  Bruce yanked the door completely open. "Did the note bearer ask specifically for Bruce Campbell?"

  "No, sir. The note is addressed and intended for your travelling companion, Brandon Hill."

  Bruce grabbed for the folded note from the bellhop, but paused. The young hotel associate was wearing gloves, a standard for a hotel of this status. Damn. He was just going to have to risk it. Bruce spread his palm and motioned for the bellhop to place the note there. As the bellhop gently placed the parchment in Bruce’s open hand, the Australian peered at it, trying to see if there was anything on the outside of the paper. "Mind if I ask a silly question?"

  The young bellhop perked up at the offer. Maybe he was hoping for a chance to get back into Bruce’s good graces. "Anything you like, sir, within reason. "

  Bruce brought the note up to his nose and took a few sniffs of the paper. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for the smell of paper and ink. ""The bloke delivering the note, did you happen to notice if he was wearing gloves like you?"

  "Why would a postman be wearing gloves?" The bellhop chuckled. "After all, he is handling packages, sifting through envelopes, and, of course, delivering the mail. He wouldn’t be able to hold onto anything."

  "Did the postman looked sickly at all? You know, like he’d was poisoned?"

  The bellhop’s cordial smile faded. "Poisoned? We don’t see a lot of poisoning in this line of work."

  Bruce glared at the bellhop, and the fellow shrank back. So he knew his expression had to be terrifying. Brandon was always better at putting on a cordial look. "Just answer the bloody question."

  "I am confident in saying the postman was not wearing gloves."

  Bruce nodded. That was going to be as good an answer as he was going to get. "Fine then. Thanks for the delivery."

  "Will there be anything else, sir?" the bellhop asked, extending his hand, ready to accept a small token of appreciation.

  Bruce glanced at the cupped hand and then looked up. "You expecting a tip, mate?"

  He responded with a weak smile and a shrug.

  "Right then," Bruce said with a nod. "Your tip: always wear gloves when accepting anything from strangers. You never know where it’s been. Now, bugger off."

  With that, Bruce slammed the door shut.

  "What was that all about?" asked Brandon, as he pulled himself up from the bed.

  Bruce still hadn’t fully touched the note resting in his palm. He carried it across the room as if it were a ticking bomb. Considering how things had progressed for them so far in Assisi, this letter could do just that. "You got that whatchamacallit Axelrod and Blackwell cooked up in R&D for us? You know, the thingamajiggy that can apparently detect poisons?"

  Brandon winced as he hobbled over to the dresser which stored their clothes and a few of their weapons. Third drawer down, he pulled out a polished wooden box that could easily hold a loaf of bread and have a bit of room to spare. It took up the centre of the small table in front of Harker, and with a few flips of locks from opposite sides, the lid split open to reveal a wild combination of miniature boilers, pipes, and hoses, all connected to a long, central vent running the length of the box. It had at one end, gauges, lights, and switches that controlled whatever this contraption did. Brandon was prone to reading the instruction manuals from Axelrod & Blackwell—Bruce was not. His partner flipped three of these switches, coaxing a soft, constant hiss from the machine, just audible over the clicking of cogs and gears inside it.

  "I don’t understand," Harker said, watching Bruce carry the note over to Brandon. "Why all this theatre?"

  "Considering nobody knows we’re here except for the Ministry and that there are people that would be happy enough to see us dead?" Bruce lifted the note into the sunlight, looking for any residue that might glisten. "This was a letter, delivered anonymously, and specifically to Brandon, shortly after someone attacked him, probably from the House of Usher. I would rather err on the side of caution."

  Brandon pulled out from the right lid of the box a set of tongs and waved the letter through the steam.

  "So how’s it looking, mate?" Bruce asked. "Is that whatsitsname doing what it’s supposed to be doing?"

  "If you mean the toxitector, yes, it is working, provided there are no toxins to detect on this note that is." Now the scent of caramel and nutmeg tickled Bruce’s nose. His eyes jumped from the thingamabob to the note itself. The paper did not change colour, smoulder, or react in any sort of manner to the surrounding steam. "If R&D were correct we should have seen something on the paper by now. This note looks clean."

  "Right then," Bruce said, freeing the note from the tongs’ grip. "Let’s see who is reaching out to us."

  He turned the note over. It was strong beige parchment, folded again and again on itself and sealed with wax. The insignia imprinted inside the seal revealed nothing to Bruce. It was not a crest from a country or government office he recognised. Crossing the room, he went to the hotel desk a fetched out a small magnifying glass.

  At first glance it appeared to be nothing more than a red rose, but on closer inspection, the petals were actually various instruments of death. Curved blades. Firearms. Bullets. Instruments of an apothecary's office. And, from what Bruce could guess, other plants that could be poisonous.

  No, Bruce thought, if this is who I think it is...

  Bruce cracked the seal and unfurled the note. While Axelrod and Blackwell’s doohickey hadn’t detected any toxins on the outside, there was no guarantee there wouldn’t be something special waiting for him within. The handwriting was neat, concise, and quite elegant. After reviewing the message, Bruce’s knees went a touch weak. He took a moment to gather his wits, straighten up, and then start reading aloud from the very beginning.

  My dearest agent Brandon D. Hill,

  I regret in subduing you in such a common manner. I meant no offence and I hope you can forgive me.

  I also hope this message reaches you safely, and that you realise this matter involving the House of Usher is strictly professional. Knowing you and Bruce as I do, I understand why you would report Mr Badger and my whereabouts to your Ministry superiors. In fact I am counting on it.

  Mr Badger and I are heading for Rome—which part, I am not yet certain. Whatever Usher operation you are investigating, you must look in that city. I will not interfere in your business unless it involves an extraction for Mr Badger in which case it will become problematic. Please do not make it so. I would so hate for this to become ugly.

  I know there is not much trust in our profession, but I hope my actions for agents Books and Braun speak for themselves. Thank you for your attention.

  Yours sincerely,

  Sophia Del Morte

  Bruce handed the letter to Brandon. His partner read it wide-eyed—then again, before looking up. "So," Brandon began, a slight smile crossing his face, "this gives me hope?"

  "About what?"

  "Maybe Sophia del Morte has taken a fancy to me? Quite nice of her to apologise like that, ain't it?"

  Bruce considered for a moment that his jaw might actually clatter against the floor. "She’s not asking you for an evening out on the town, mate."

  "But," Brandon said, his smile brightening ever so slightly, "there could be a chance!"

  Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. “And what about that Anouk bird? Did you not learn anything from that period of your life?”

  “This is a problem when you meet someone as passionate as you. Yes, it was a rather painful separation period we endured…”

  “Brandon, she tried to kill you.”

  “We were in love.”

  “She tried to kill you with a moose-throwing trebuchet.”

  “It was true love,” Brandon insisted. “Harker here can understand that, can’t you, mate?”

  Harker blinked. “I’m sorry. Did t
his Anouk woman throw a moose at you?”

  Brandon waved his hand dismissively. “Anouk and I have a complicated relationship. Sophia del Morte is different. Sharing a repast with her would be instructional… a purely professional meeting of minds.”

  Bruce swallowed back a groan. His partner may have been one of the most skilled agents in the Ministry, but he just wasn’t playing with all his marbles. Not at all. "Sophia del Morte. You were taken out in the street by Sophia del Morte. You wouldn't survive a dinner with her."

  "That first statement isn't quite true." Brandon lifted a finger as if he were to about to bestow sage advice on to Bruce. "She knocked me out. She did not take me out. If I had been taken out, we would not be talking."

  Bruce went to respond, but could not find the words. Brandon was absolutely right. Sophia del Morte was the type of assassin who did not leave anything to chance. If she wanted Brandon dead, then he would be dead. Instead she had gone to great lengths to make sure he got this message. How long had she been watching them? How long had she been in Assisi?

  And what was that whole business with Mr Badger? Was Sophia del Morte working for the House of Usher once again? That would be nothing short of a stunner on both sides. According to rumours, Sophia and the House suffered a falling out. Falling out with any of the del Morte clan only led to many, many deaths.

  "You got a point there, mate," Bruce admitted.

  "It would seem that we have not only Usher to worry about, but Sophia del Morte as well."

  A voice across the room chimed in, startling them both. "Did you lot read the same note?"

  Bruce and Brandon both looked at each other, then turned to David Harker who was brushing off his jacket. "That note was an apology. A rather eloquent one if you don’t mind my saying."

  "Actually I do mind," Bruce stated. "The lady behind this letter may seem polished and refined, but she's a cold-blooded killer. Make no mistake, mate. If you see her, you’re dead."

  "Gentlemen, I do perceive that this woman is a killer of the highest order, but re-read the letter." Harker hobbled over to where the decanters sat. Bruce had not seen Harker "partake" of any libation since their trip, but as he poured himself a healthy snort, the toff continued, "This is an apology. Perhaps I am being presumptuous, gentlemen, but skilled assassins would not necessarily send such letters after subduing one of their opponents.”

  "She wants something," Brandon stated pointedly. "We are not completely daft."

  Harker shook his head before taking an unmeasured gulp of whatever whiskey he had chosen. "Read the note again. She is apologising to you. There are no direct threats against you, or Mr Campbell. She has offered you a destination. She is keeping you gentlemen in the loop while extending a professional courtesy regarding this Badger fellow. Allow her a wide berth, and you can carry on with your endeavours."

  Bruce and Brandon shared a look at one another. The Australian would never admit it, but he was absolutely right; del Morte wasn’t interested in them, or their mission. What was her game?

  "What do you think, mate?" Bruce asked Brandon.

  "Well, first, what they say about the broken clock is right." He looked down at the note again. "And second, we need to book passage to Rome, with the fastest transport we can find. If we can get a head start on Badger and Sophia, we can get a lead on Virginia."

  Harker’s face brightened at the prospect.

  "Pack your bags and polish your rosaries," Bruce said as he looked at both men. "Looks like we’re paying the Pope a visit."

  Chapter Twenty

  Wherein Danger Lurks Around All Corners of the Sacred City

  His knuckles brushed the wood once again. "Are you in there?" Filippo paused to look up the hallway and down from where he came before leaning closer to the door and knocking again. "Signorina del Morte, are you awake?"

  This was their fourth day together, their second in Rome. As it had been on their travels from Assisi to the capital city, Sophia del Morte slept like the dead. Several mornings and one afternoon, during their trip to Rome, Filippo went to rouse her from her sleep. Those attempts were no different from this morning’s.

  Perhaps she was keeping odd hours in order to watch over them while on the road. Maybe, on account of her chosen profession and lifestyle, she did not sleep well at night.

  Filippo broached the subject once with Sophia, attempting to make light that of the fact she was not a morning person.

  "My sleeping habits are not your concern," Sophia had stated. "Remain confident that I am keeping an eye on you, as well as assuring our safety."

  Filippo remembered bristling at that as he was aware he'd traded being the Ministry's prisoner for hers.

  "So exactly how am I supposed to conduct business, Signorina?" he had asked her.

  "I suppose you will have to be flexible." She took several steps closer to him. Filippo could still recall the extreme discomfort he experienced the nearer she got. While Sophia del Morte was a striking woman, he was aware her ruthlessness matched her beauty and grace. "Even if I am asleep, you are not to leave your room. Your safety is my priority."

  "For that, you have my unending gratitude."

  "Do not mistake my dedication, Mr Badger. Your safety is my passage into the House of Usher." She had fixed him with a hard, cold look. "You are in Rome. A city mi famiglia knows very well, and they are all out for your blood. Do not test your luck against their abilities."

  During their trip from Assisi, this new condition of hers had made things inconvenient. Once in Rome, managing current operations were nigh on impossible. He needed updates from his subordinates. He required status reports from his operatives. He had to make certain that his part in Ragnarök was still progressing forward. Smooth, and by the numbers. That was how things had to go.

  With one more breath for courage, Filippo knocked—this time, louder. That should have roused her even from the deepest of sleeps. " Signorina del Morte, answer this door immediately!"

  The silence threatened to smother him. Filippo surrendered to the compulsion to look up and down the corridor yet again, but it was empty. Everyone else was already about their day—unlike him.

  No. Today would not be a waste. He could no longer wait.

  Retreating back to his adjoining room, he checked his reflection in the mirror. He missed the creature comforts of his home and offices, and the privileges of his standing in the House of Usher. All these things were only a few city blocks from where they were staying, but they might as well have been in Rome, Iowa. He could only hope that the Ministry agents he had met were still in Assisi, chasing their tails, while they had escaped to the Sacred City.

  Escape, Filippo thought, shaking his head. I would have fared just fine had I not been cornered by that other bastardo.

  He adjusted the suit’s fine pressed cuffs, checked the collar, and let his fingertips run the length of his cravat. These little touches were all that remained of what he had come to expect from life. Topping his dark suit with a fine black derby and stroking his moustache with the back of his finger, he gave himself a nod of approval in the mirror. He was ready to head out.

  The sunlight glinting off his silver Usher ring signalled that, yes, he would indeed be able to conduct business today without interference.

  Taking up his walking stick, Filippo Rossi set off for the streets of Rome. He planned to obey only one of Sophia's commands: send no aethermissives. This was totally sensible as any communication could tip off the Ministry. Sophia and Filippo needed to take advantage of their confusion and build a distance between them.

  Æthermissives could also tip off any operatives of the del Morte family. They were hunting Sophia. If he believed Sophia’s tale, they would take down any Usher brothers and sisters they could.

  Pulling the lift gate shut, he pressed the call button for the lobby. During the slow descent he checked the availability of his sword. The blade was still plenty sharp and easily removed from the cane scabbard. He regretted not having the wa
lking stick that doubled as a small rifle, but since their flight from Assisi was so unexpected, all he had was what he was wearing.

  The lift shuddered to a halt. Siding the gate back, he opened to door to the lobby, and grasped at how difficult this all was. Within seconds, Filippo took in the location of every seated couple, assessed sight lines for potential snipers, and memorised every detail in passing of the hotel’s elegant receiving area. Over a decade before his own field training had been exceptional, but he was older now and horrendously out of practice.

  So many potential threats—and this was only the hotel lobby. He had not even seen what waited for him outside.

  While the English took pride in their London and the French held Paris as the Jewel of Europe, Italians revelled in the majesty, history, and pageantry of Rome. Civilisations had risen and fallen all from this one city. Now it was the centre of the House of Usher’s grand scheme that would, according to their Chairman, change the world, bringing the vision of their founders to life. Filippo had to make certain, beyond any shadow of doubt, that his part in Ragnarök remained on schedule, remained perfect. Every success, every setback, conjured memories of Bear.

  With his head down, Filippo slipped into the afternoon pedestrian traffic, working his way through the city. His gaze occasionally jumped to the windows of surrounding buildings, brief glances of potential vantage points. Though, if Filippo were to catch a glimpse of a rifle muzzle or the glint off a scope’s optics, it would be too late.

  From the shadows of a canopy, Filippo saw his destination: a haven in case of impending or unexpected storms. The Raven’s specialty, although they carried books from all over the world and of varying genres, was collections of poetry. A tiny bell overhead announced his arrival; and from the midst of bookshelves, a young, dark-haired woman smiled at him as he entered the establishment. Her eyes darted to another woman—this one a patron—taking stock of what The Raven was offering.