Turning to follow his partner’s gaze, a choice curse fell from Bruce’s lips on seeing David Harker, dressed in such a manner that he stood out in the Marketplace. He might as well have a giant banner that read "I am a cloth-eared git bumbling his way through Italy. Please rob me!" suspended over his head. Harker’s suit was spotless white. Not a muted cream or even a soft white. Bright white. The accompanying hat he wore, a simple boater's hat, was much like his suit—spotless, free of any sort of wear—as if purchased only a moment ago.
This would have been enough to push Bruce and Brandon’s efforts into disarray, but to top it all off David Harker was passing out paper leaflets to anyone and everyone walking by him. The man might as well had lit a bonfire in the middle of Assisi's town square and danced naked for all to see.
"Bet I can guess what he’s giving out to Italy’s great unwashed," Bruce growled as he came to his feet.
His stride devoured the distance between himself and Harker. With a loud snap that made the man jump, Bruce snatched the flyer free from his hand. What Bruce saw and read there was no surprise. The artist he had hired had done a good job of rendering David's "Sweet Virginia". Bruce could tell that since he'd had her picture shoved in front of his face so many times by her blithering idiot of a husband. The word "MISSING" stretched across the top of the flyer, filling the top quarter of the page. Underneath the portrait was Harker’s name, the hotel he had booked for them all, and contact information.
"Mr Harker," Bruce began, crumpling the flyer in one hand but paused.
"Are you mad?!" was the phrase perched on the tip of his tongue, but he had to proceed very carefully. The tosspot was not only bankrolling this entire mission, but he had the blessing of both the Ministry headquarters and the Crown itself. Bruce had to employ diplomacy on this matter—not one of his greatest skills.
"I understand you are..." and he ground his teeth as the flyer crinkled in his fist, "... distraught over the disappearance of your beloved. Believe me, you made that quite clear during our voyage here. But you cannot—"
"What do you mean, I cannot?!" Harker blurted, wrenching the flyers away from Bruce’s grasp. "My finances that are funding this English-American venture. All it would take would be one æthermissive and I can assure you the newswires will find my story most compelling."
Brandon came up behind Bruce in an attempt to smooth the waters. "Mr Harker, we are trying to find your wife. Nefarious sorts have taken her from you..."
"And I am intending to raise awareness, and recruit as many people as will hear me to aid in our search for my dear Virginia."
"Exactly," Bruce replied, "and you are recruiting complete strangers, any one of which could be working with the kidnappers."
Harker looked around, his puffed-out chest deflating. Not completely though. "You can't be certain of that."
Brandon grabbed the remaining posters out of his hand. "The point is, neither do you."
"This is how operations work, mate," Bruce said, leaning into Harker. "These people have no idea we are here. The more we can work in secret, the more of an advantage we have over them. If they become aware we are here, we’ll be chasing their dust. So, burn these flyers and we do this our way. Low profile. Undercover. Ya’ understand?"
"I... paid a rather hefty penny to have them printed," Harker stammered.
Brandon glanced at the flyers, looked back to Harker, and shook his head. He started back up the stairs of their hotel.
"You want to be a part of this job, feel like you are entitled to be as you are picking up the bill, then fine. Sign the check, tag along, but you do things our way."
Once Brandon returned with nary a flyer in sight and Harker brought to heel, the three gentlemen walked a little further down the street, dodging shoppers and toddlers. Bruce’s gaze darted from building to building, his cursory glances meant to look like those of a tourist’s; but for his own part, he was not enjoying the architecture so much as he was watching for sightlines. It was impossible to judge how much damage this plonk head had brought to their operation.
"So you have some idea where in Umbria my beloved is being held?" Harker called over the surrounding din.
Both agents turned to stare at him. "You mind speaking a little louder because I’m not sure the merchants in Florence heard you," Bruce said in a low voice.
"Florence?" Harker chuckled. "That’s miles from here."
"Bruce," Brandon broke in with a dark look, "I’ll slip on ahead whist you train our Junior Agent here."
"That might be for the best.” As his partner walked away, the Australian could tell his partner was done with Harker. Brandon might have a slow temper, but once it got going, it was a terrible thing.
With a touch of his finger to his lips, Bruce beckoned for Harker to follow.
After a few minutes of bobbing and weaving through foot traffic, the two men stopped in front of a pink-coloured building, no different to those around it. Bruce didn’t find the dwelling characteristic of Usher. They usually preferred something more dark, brooding and opulent. Anything gothic really.
"This is the first step in finding your beloved, Mr Harker. Within these humble trappings is a defector from the group we believe are behind your lovely’s abduction."
"Just a moment—you know who abducted my sweet Virginia?"
Right, how do we broach this subject? The House of Usher was a secret society. Granted, organisations like his, OSM, Section P, and others were well aware of them, but to avoid panic and paranoia, his superiors kept that knowledge from the public.
Except now the public was standing within punching distance.
"Mr Harker—David—" Bruce began, "what your government’s agency and my government’s agency do are not very different. We handle cases considered too unusual for the authorities, and this means we have dealings with nefarious individuals."
Harker swallowed hard. "Nefarious?"
"Oh, yeah. The worst, and right now, I’m about to meet with one of their lot."
"Are you..." Harker swallowed again. "Are you sure this is safe?"
"Bloody hell, trust me will you? I won’t let so much as a hair on your head get harmed."
Harker gave a sharp nod before releasing the breath he was holding. "Very well. What would you have me do?"
Bruce lead him into the foyer of the building where, as his good Australian luck would have it, a bench was open. "I want you to sit here and keep a sharp eye while I go and have a chat with this scallywag." Harker was the sort that he would enjoy feeling as if he were contributing to the intrigue. "Keep watch and I’ll yell if I need any help. All right?"
Harker gave a nod and dropped into a position on the bench that he must have believed communicated casual.
Bruce entered the lift and began his ascent. Inside, the building was quite simple and clean. The checkerboard tile had a high polish, the walls were smooth, and the wooden doors gleamed. Hardly the kind of setting Usher tended to prefer. However this informant of his was not the run-of-the-mill Usher operative. He preferred a more comfortable setting for his business. Today, this meeting was happening as he had uttered one word capturing his and Brandon’s attention: Ragnarök.
Usher had been keeping this operation Bruce and Brandon had uncovered in Russia close to the vest, but they had tripped up using the ticket Virginia Harker had purchased with her husband for Italy. Thanks to the photo that Harker always carried, it was easy enough to find she had picked up a train ticket from the Florence Travel Plaza, her destination from New York. From Florence, she had grabbed the first train destined for Assisi. While Virginia had been well-educated, she was not fluent in Italian. That made it easier to identify a lone female tourist attempting to find her way through the countryside. Considering this trail left behind, it was like the House boys weren’t even trying.
This convenient trail ran cold once they had arrived in Assisi, so now the clock was ticking in earnest.
His informant surprised him on mentioning Ragnarök when Bru
ce had asked about Virginia Harker’s kidnapping. The staged disappearances OSM had been contending with and Ragnarök had something in common, and Bruce’s informant was eager to share with him what he knew.
With that weighing on his mind, Bruce exited the lift but froze by the third step. In the corner opposite something moved. Drawing a modification-free Bulldog, he slid into a corner and waited. It could be a House boy. It could also be some old lady wrestling with her groceries while trying to manage the door.
One way to find out.
He waited for the shuffle to still, and that was when Bruce dragged his foot across the floor in a slow scuff, then tapped his heel three times.
Nothing.
Bruce repeated the gesture. Scuff. Tap. Tap. Tap.
A voice from where the sound came from asked, "Bruce?"
Lowering the Bulldog, he let out a slow exhale. After a peek around the corner, he found Brandon folding up some metallic device and stuffing it into his satchel. "How in the blazes—"
His partner grinned and patted his bag. "I used these claws of R&D’s to climb up here." For some reason known only to him, Brandon was always eager to try out any of Blackwell’s or Axelrod’s creations. It was as close to a death wish as an agent could come in Bruce’s opinion. It was the only thing he shared in common with Wellington Books: a healthy distrust of those two clankertons.
"So how experimental are those things?" Bruce asked. "They even christened?"
"Not yet," Brandon said, the eagerness in his words threatening to overwhelm him. "You think they would let me name them?"
Bruce gave him a shrug. "With our R&D geniuses, anything is possible."
"That it is, mate. That it is."
"How are we for tactical surroundings?"
Brandon motioned for Bruce to join him by the window. He motioned to the surrounding structures. "Foot chase across the rooftops might be a bit of a challenge with the sharp angle of the roof. Main concern is that chapel," he said pointing to a tall bell tower jutting over the village's modest skyline.
"Great," Bruce grumbled. "Perfect sniper location."
"But the good news: no sign of being watched, at least from the ground."
A sudden shift in wind carried with it the comforting scent of bread baking and succulent meats on an open fire somewhere. Bruce fought the sudden urge to sneak away for some pasta and a glass of wine. He had developed quite a taste for Italian food even if he had to watch his back for the del Mortes to get the good stuff.
"Why don’t you make for that belfry, mate. I’ll give our contact here a right and proper shakedown."
Brandon gave a curt nod before asking. "What about our unexpected guest?"
"He’ll behave." Bruce motioned back to the lift with his head and added, "I’ve got him keeping a watch on the lobby."
Chewing on his bottom lip a little, Brandon looked back and forth between the lift and the window he had just scaled up to meet with his partner. "Even that might be too much."
"Don’t you worry, mate," Bruce assured him. "I’ve brought him to heel. We treat him like a diplomat or HVT and make him feel like he’s an active part of our little ballyhoo. Right?"
Brandon screwed his face up. "High value target or not, I don’t like it. He’s... unreliable."
"He’s the money right now."
"I’ll go back the way I came," he grumbled, pulling out one of the metallic, chain-mail gloves from his satchel. "You’ve got your Ministry ring on?"
"Of course," Bruce said, holding up his hand. "Why?"
Brandon sat on the windowsill, placed his hands on the exterior, and lifted himself out into the open space. "I overheard a rumour back at R&D when I picked these gloves up. Something about replacing them."
"With what?"
"You really wouldn't like it. Enough said."
The agents shared a little salute. "Enjoy yourself, mate." Brandon’s smile brightened before Bruce took a few steps forward and pointed at him. "Not too much, though."
By the sudden, deflated expression on Brandon’s face, that little suggestion had been necessary.
Bruce smoothed out the front of his waistcoat and approached the door of the apartment where he would meet his informant. Something did not feel right about this. Up until now they had communicated through dead drops and coded messages, having only “met” in a back alley a few blocks from this building. The informant had disguised his voice in this introduction and never left the shadows. This would be their first face-to-face. Previously this informant had offered up reliable details of smaller operations. With the mention of Ragnarök and an actual meeting, Bruce was certain his man on the inside would be expecting safe passage in exchange for information.
With David Harker along for the ride, this simple defection would prove difficult.
Finally deciding now was as good as the next moment for his approach, Bruce knocked twice. Paused. Knocked three times.
His grip tightened on the handle of his gun, but a muffled voice responded. "Good. You’re alone, Campbell."
How did he know that? Bruce's thought scattered as he glanced up to see the metallic snake, its smooth, featureless glass "face" bending towards the opposite direction of the corridor, then bending back to him. "Outside of the Remington-Elliot in your coat, any other weapons I need to worry about?"
"You only have to worry about what I’m carrying," Bruce pulled his hand away from his lapels, "if you are intending to double-cross me. That’s not in the cards today, is it, mate?"
The latch pulled back, and Bruce nudged the door open, its low creak sending a chill up his spine. It was far too bloody quiet in this building for his liking. He watched as his Usher mole, Adolfus Maine, backed up, a modified shotgun in his grip, pointing at Bruce’s chest. The weapon’s indicators cast soft green light against the man’s trigger hand.
Only when the door closed behind him did Bruce dare to speak. "The raven comes in the morning."
The young man’s back stiffened, but he looked Bruce up and down before replying, "But not if the lion gets him first."
This was the first time Bruce had laid eyes on Adolfus Maine. In fact he wasn’t even sure if that was his informant’s real name.
Maine couldn't have been more than eighteen years old. A scruffy attempt at a red beard resided on his rosy cheeks and wrapped around his chin. The glasses he wore were another feeble attempt to make him look older, but were about as a successful as the facial hair.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he examined Bruce, but he lowered the shotgun. "Are you all there is?" he said, his eyes darting to the door as if he expected a horde of agents to burst in.
"Only me."
Moving very slowly, his hands open and facing Maine, Bruce slipped up to him and flipped the safety above the trigger. The indicators switched from green to yellow. Now, the bloke would not shoot a hole in the floor.
"Look, mate, I’m all you need." The boy turned pale. A change of tact was in order, or Bruce realised he might have to change a nappy. "Rest assured, I’m not alone. Alright? Got an agent across town in the church and got a bloke downstairs."
His informant looked him over again, but this time he nodded. Holding out his hand he said, "Argus Tinsdale. Thank you for making these arrangements on such short notice, Agent Campbell."
"Argus Tinsdale?" Bruce asked. "Not Adolfus Maine?"
Tinsdale barked a dry laugh before flipping the hood up over his head. He now looked like a well-dressed monk. "You didn’t think me foolish enough to use my actual name when turning over secrets to the enemy?"
"Makes sense, not that you mention it." Bruce cleared his throat. "It’s good to meet you face to face."
Tinsdale walked in a strange, serpentine pattern around his parlour. "You are far older than I thought you were, Agent Campbell."
Bruce was about to return his own thoughts on Tinsdale and his age, but froze as he took in the boy’s dwellings. For such a young pup, Argus Tinsdale had quite the opulent lifestyle. This was the kind of
apartment that would have made Eliza D Braun green with envy. Deep, dark colours, textures that promised only the finest of comfort and quality, and various works of art, both paintings and sculptures, that spoke volumes of Tinsdale’s breeding and education.
“Nice bit of tinker at the door,” Bruce said, motioning to the odd surveillance contraction. “Very clever.”
“Invention is a bit of a hobby of mine. Some people say I am far too clever for my own good. Sometimes, I think they are right. Sometimes.”
"Got to hand it to you, mate," Bruce said, continuing his way into the apartment, "you are certainly..."
"Stop!" Tinsdale snapped.
Bruce froze and followed Tinsdale’s frantically waving hand to his own feet. Bright white tape outlined a border of some kind. They were some distance from the windows. “Am I right in assuming these are the boundaries of possible sightlines?”
“So long as you stay within these boundaries, you should be safe.”
Taking a generous step back from the lines, he asked, "What exactly did you do for the House of Usher, Mai—sorry, Tinsdale?"
"I ran their accounts."
"So you’re one of them number blokes, balancing the books, making sure payroll goes through, that sort of thing?"
"Yes."
Quite the prize, especially considering the boy’s age. "And you're what? Eighteen? Sixteen?"
"I’m nineteen, thank you very much!"
Bruce shook his head. "Pardon me then." Walking around the borders of the sightlines, he peeked through a break in the curtain. "Well, for a numbers bloke, you’re quite the cautious one."
"With the new management and what I know, I have to be."
"How long were you with Usher?"
Tinsdale cleared his throat. "They recruited me while I was at university."
"University?"
"I entered at fifteen. I’ve always been talented with mathematics. Usher took care of my parents so long as I made sure the books were in order. Not a bad life, really."
"While I’m sure your story is fascinating, that’s not what brings me here."
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