Operation_Endgame

by Pip Ballantine

  Filippo frowned as he filled his own glass with wine. "I’m afraid my knowledge of Norse Mythology is a bit foggy. I did not pursue history while at university."

  Campbell threw back his head and laughed, his bright teeth almost blinding in the afternoon sun. "Yeah, yeah, Norse Mythology. That’s a good one, mate. Guess what I studied at uni?"

  This lummox attended university? Standards must be quite low in Australia. "I cannot imagine."

  "Boxing." Campbell pressed his right fingers into his left palm, and a soft cascade of pops followed. He repeated the other side. "My teachers considered me a natural. I even earned me a few Golden Gloves in Oz and Pommyland."

  "Well done."

  "I’m pretty proud of it. And the best part?" he said spreading his arms wide with a quick flick, before resting his hands on opposite corners of their small table. Filippo could not deny the lummox provided an imposing figure. "It’s a skill I get to apply to my chosen profession. Quite handy, right?"

  Such a lout could not intimidate him. Filippo glanced up and down the street. None of his guards or attendants were in sight.

  There was, however, a police officer strolling down the cobblestones. He licked his lips and considered a foolhardy idea. All he needed was a moment’s distraction, enough to get away while Campbell dealt with local law enforcement.

  "Now that would be quite the thing to explain to your boss," Campbell said, back to considering the wine in his glass. "I’m sure he, she, or however you lot run things at the House of Usher, will be curious why you involved a copper. Especially when they hear my own story and see my credentials."

  "All false, I have no doubt," Filippo said with a curl of his lip.

  "To your eye, sure, but to a bloke wearing out his plates of meat, I bet he will have us all down at the constable’s station for a nice little chit-chat, one even nicer than this one. How you going to explain why the police officers in this fair town all know about Ragnarök." Campbell picked up the bottle and made ready to top off his own glass. "Now, when he walks by, I suggest you give a good laugh, like we’re mates having a grand ol’ time, eh?"

  The policeman got closer, his stroll without care. He even stopped to chat with the local florist for a moment. He was new. Filippo did not recognise him. While he did have allies in the police department, Holmes was adamant that any Usher associates involved with Operation Ragnarök were personally approved by him. Recruits could talk, then questions would happen.

  "Ragnarök," he said, turning back to Campbell. "A name heard by chance, or perhaps scribbled on a scrap of paper. Your information is obviously circumstantial. Innocuous, at best."

  Campbell held the bottle over his glass and gave him a wry smile. "Can you afford to take that chance, mate?"

  Filippo watched as Bruce began tipping the bottle, the wine slipping out and filling his glass. The footsteps of the young police officer were now right next to him.

  His laughter prompted Campbell to join him in the mirth. Filippo stole a quick glance at the police officer whose smile widened at the sight of two friends enjoying a laugh over what looked like excellent wine. Still chuckling, Campbell went to pour the remains of the bottle into Filippo’s glass, but he waved his hand and shook his head at the gesture.

  Bruce sighed. "So, you were going to tell me about your little caper."

  Taking a deep breath, he followed it with a drink of wine. "In my time with the House of Usher, through my own ascent to the Board, I've been involved in many operations, but nothing on the scale of Ragnarök."

  "Well, good for you," Campbell said, unimpressed.

  "Ragnarök is not an operation you can chalk up as yet another scheme from the House. This operation is massive. Even I do not know all of its working parts, save for the fact that its success relies solely on the Italian operations that I, as my may have deduced, am in charge of. The only one who understands this operation to the last detail is our new Chairman.”

  "Chairman?" Campbell said, rolling the wine glass in his fingers. "Thought the Lord of the Manor was in charge of you lot?"

  "We were, but the House fell under..." Filippo cleared his throat and shrugged. "... new management. This is his brainchild, his grand scheme to return the House of Usher to its rightful seat of power."

  "Quite the undertaking. So if you can’t tell me all about Ragnarök, why don’t you give me the humble contribution from you all here in Italy."

  Filippo fidgeted in his chair. He had to find a way out of this. If his part in Holmes’ plan were to falter, that would mean he faced the same fate as Mr Bear. After Brother Streeper’s report on what happened in Russia, Bear had been swiftly and bloodily replaced.

  "Where is my darling Virginia?" came the shrill, frantic voice from the street.

  Filippo turned to see the man emerging from the combination of mechanised and pedestrian traffic. He was tall, lanky, and dressed in a fine tailored suit. He looked like an English tourist, one of many that Italy suffered from the British Empire; only this one, instead of brandishing a phrase book he held a gun. It was not modified in any fashion—just a simple Bulldog. He aimed it at Filippo.

  The shot made him jump, but it was the sparks against the sidearm that made him blink. On seeing Campbell, large as he was, move from their table to this pale tourist still shaking his hand where the gun had once been, Filippo considered himself twice as lucky. Had he tried for his cane, the Ministry agent would have been on top of him.

  Instead, Agent Campbell was on top of the stranger, tackling him as something cut through the air and shattered a planter tucked by one of the wrought iron support beams of their café.

  Snatching up his walking stick, he calmly began his exit.

  "Bugger me," Campbell swore from behind him.

  That was Filippo’s cue to sprint.

  In his mad dash for the kitchen, he dodged and shoved aside various kitchen staff. Filippo shouldered through the back door, slamming into the opposite wall of the alleyway. Salt and pepper hair blinded him for a moment, but combing back the veil with his fingers, he pushed hard against the wall, launching himself down the alley and into the street. He knew this Assisi intimately, an advantage he intended to exploit. Filippo barrelled his way into a boutique, slipped behind the desk and into the back room, where another door led to another alleyway. He looked to his left, then back the opposite way, then once again to his left. Foot traffic, a few cars, but no sign of that Ministry agent.

  Keep moving, his instincts screamed. Keep moving.

  The heat encouraged a more leisurely, slow pace to the village, but Filippo sprinted through the streets, tossing others who were oblivious to get out of his way. One man grabbed him, earning a quick, hard kiss from Filippo’s walking stick against the skull. The crowd parted from him as if his assault on the stranger had been a stone dropped into a millpond, the ripples expanding from the point of entry. Filippo’s escape was unhindered from the time being as he ran for a sweet shop just across the street. His entrance was so forceful, the door’s window shattered. Again, over the calamity of the customers and shop owners, he ran behind the counter, burst through the back door, turned a corner, and stopped, his fine shoes scuffling against the stones underfoot.

  Where did this dead end come from?

  Filippo turned to see a gentleman, also in a hurry, round the corner. He, too, shuffled to a halt.

  "I say," this stranger said with a gasp, "you put on a right good chase."

  His grip tightened on his walking stick.

  The man held up a wallet. Filippo recognised it immediately. "You dropped this. In the…uh…." He took another breath, and shook his head. “That boutique. My Lord, but you are fast. Did you participate in those new goodwill games a few years back? The Olympics?”

  He took a few timid steps closer. One more, then leaned from where he stood and snatched it out of the man’s hand.

  "You’re welcome," the stranger said, wiggling his fingers as he shot Filippo a disgusted look. "Should be fortunate
that you didn't take my hand with it."

  A quick peek into the wallet revealed all his money present. Perhaps he was a tourist, and an honest one at that. The accent was not quite British, but of a dialect he could not place. He scratched his dark beard as he removed his hat and fanned himself. Whatever offence he might have given, must have passed as the stranger smiled at Filippo. Quite friendly, all of a sudden. His dark eyes looked up and back down the alleyway. The stranger appeared genuinely concerned for him.

  Confirmation of this came quickly after the thought. "You all right then?"

  "Yes, yes, I’m fine."

  "You don’t sound it."

  "I am." Filippo fished into his wallet and produced a few notes. "For your trouble, sigñor. You are most honest."

  "Ta," he said. His round cheeks glowed with delight on receiving the gift. "That is mighty kind of you. I say, you lot here in Italy are quite nice and all."

  He nodded. He went to leave, but the stranger placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  "And your food? Dear Lord, your food, oh how I will miss your food."

  "A tourist then?" Filippo asked.

  "In a manner of speaking."

  The hand that was on Filippo’s shoulder bent back, and a Remington-Elliot slipped into the stranger’s hand as he stepped clear.

  "Now I suggest you drop the walking stick and come with me," he stated, the dark eyes no longer friendly.

  "You’re with the Ministry?"

  "Brandon D Hill, at your service." He glanced at Filippo’s cane. "Please, don’t make me ask twice about the stick."

  For a fleeting moment, Filippo considered lashing out. It would be a gamble, more so for this one than for the Campbell chap. This one wasn’t the bruiser the Australian was. This agent was cunning, perhaps more dangerous. If Campbell was a great gorilla, this one was something akin to a leopard.

  "A gentleman's agreement?" Filippo implored. "The stick is quite expensive—one of a kind."

  "The walking stick? Or the sword inside it?" He winked. "Got one at home just like it."

  He ground his teeth until they hurt, then released the stick, allowing it to fall with a clatter.

  "Excellent. Now, slowly, you’re going to stay in front of me, and we’re going to meet with my mate, Bruce," Hill said, stepping back to grant Filippo a bit of space.

  "Charming fellow."

  "That’s one word for him. Off we go then."

  Filippo had only taken a single step when he heard something cut through the air and slap against Hill. The agent lurched forward, his free hand snapping to the nape of his neck. He tugged at something, and pulled free a small, dark dart, no more the length of a finger.

  Looking from the dart to Filippo, Hill’s dark gaze was now glassy, distant. "Stings a bit," he managed before crumpling to the ground.

  Gathering up his walking stick, Filippo prepared to resume his mad dash through Assisi, but froze on seeing the woman at the corner. Where had she come from?

  "Mr Badger?" she asked, her eyes as black as the hair pulled back in a tight bun from her striking face. Lips rich and dark as the blood going cold in him twitched back into a pleasant smile. "Wonderful to finally meet you."

  "What—?" was the only word coming to him in his rising state of panic.

  "We have no time," she said, taking him by the wrist and pulling him towards her. "The Ministry is on to you. We must go, and we must go now."

  "I don’t—"

  "We go. Now."

  With another tug on his arm, Filippo stumbled forward. No longer running, the head of Usher’s Italian operations walked towards what he could only imagine would be a safe haven alongside his unexpected saviour, Signorina Sophia del Morte.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wherein Our Agents of Derring-Do Track a Monster

  "I fear I am not very Turkish looking," Wellington grumbled to his reflection.

  As promised Aydin had sent up a collection of local clothing, and out of that pile Eliza had chosen loose grey trousers for Wellington to wear. These salvar were worn by both men and women in the Ottoman Empire. Over that she had layered a shirt, pale green vest, and a dark blue robe. Then on his head she placed a scarlet fez, which she draped with a thin white scarf. Glancing down at the long socks she’d pulled over the salvar, he wondered that even with all this, he still couldn’t pass as a local.

  In this disguise, he was just a pale Englishman wearing pyjamas several sizes too large.

  "I haven't finished yet," she said, resting her hand on his shoulder, "but do remember the more daring of Her Majesty’s subjects are perusing the bazaar tonight. They often put on local clothing and try to blend in with the locals.”

  "The so called ‘exotic’ is a worldwide fascination, I suppose," he muttered. Hearing himself, Wellington wondered if he was growing curmudgeonly the longer he worked in the field. Granted, he hadn’t been in the field that long—maybe he was just getting long in the tooth. "I watched one soldier too many lose themselves in such places, so forgive me if I sound..."

  "Like a grumpy old man?" Eliza chuckled. "Well, remember that even life in London is far from a storybook fantasy. Think of all the Seven have faced. The Empire has its fair share of iniquity, too. The only reason its citizens seek it in such far-flung places is that here it's exotic."

  Wellington had to agree. "And less likely people you play bridge with seeing you."

  Eliza stood back and eyed him. "Indeed, now I think we both need a little more in the way of beards."

  He blinked. "Beg your pardon?"

  Eliza had a polished mahogany case that Wellington had seen in their apartments in Hebden Bridge, but never seen what was in it. His eyes widened when she opened the lid. Doing so, activated a sequence that unfurled a three-mirror array, turning the small case into a portable vanity. The inside of it turned out to be full of a make-up array that would have made a stage actor jealous. Alongside multitudinous sticks of makeup mimicking many skin tones, were several beards of varying hair colours, and a selection of rubberised noses. No wonder that case was so damn heavy, Wellington thought, she's got a whole theatrical company in there.

  After much consideration of the contents, Eliza beckoned him over, then opened the lid of a narrow tin to reveal a thick and curly black beard. "I think this one will suit you quite well."

  After examining it for a moment, Wellington pressed the opposite tips of the beard into his sideburns as Eliza worked to secure the rest of it under his chin and around his lips.

  When finished his new fashion mostly swallowed up his face.

  Eliza tapped another tin. "I have a handsome light brown one for me, but I need to give you a little something more."

  Wellington shuffled his feet wondering how much further his lover might go down this particular avenue.

  Picking up one of the finely carved noses with a Roman curve to it, she held it before him. "Do you know, Welly, changing one’s nose completely alters the whole face."

  At least she wasn’t coming at him with a knife. "I would suppose it does..."

  Using a small paintbrush, she applied some rubber glue to the inside of his new nose.

  He took her hand. "Now this will come off?"

  Pursing her lips together, she didn't even bother answering. "You’re hopeless, darling."

  After she pressed on, just like that, he had a new nose. It was strange, particularly when he took a breath through it; but when he examined himself in the mirror, he could hardly recognise the reflection. Only his hazel eyes were familiar.

  Wellington stroked the construction carefully with one hand. "Always contemplated growing a beard this long, now I will know how it looks if I do, but the nose I suppose I can’t manage."

  Eliza nodded, but then gasped on looking at the adhesive. "Think you could get used to it, then?” She held up the tiny vial in her hand. “Wrong kind of glue. I don’t think it will come off now?"

  “What?” he squeaked.

  Her chuckle betrayed the prank at
his expense. With a wink, she turned to her own reflection and set about applying her own beard and nose combination. From the matching tin she had a well-trimmed brown beard that also covered much of her face. Within a few minutes, his lover would be as unrecognisable as he was.

  The thought crossed his mind that if Jekyll killed them tonight, they would give the local constabulary quite the mystery when unwrapping them. The authorities would have a devil of a time working out what had happened, but that was too dour of a proclamation for him to share with her.

  A knock came at the door. Eliza gave Wellington a nod as she finished up her application.

  Picking up his Remington-Elliot, the compressors hissed to life as he crossed to the door. "Yes?" he asked, standing to one side of it.

  Henrietta’s voice filtered through the door. "Mr Books? Just wanted to be certain you were heading to bed."

  He opened the door a crack to give her preview of what lay within. She gasped, before letting out a long breath and a chuckle as he let her into their room. Once he shut the door, Henrietta spoke in a hushed voice. "That is an exceptional disguise. Well done." Wellington noted she’d dressed in the clothing of a Turkish lady, with a green salvar, blue robe and a simple scarf draped over her head.

  "You look prepared too." He gestured to his face. "But I can’t take credit for my own appearance, this is Eliza’s art."

  Henrietta raised one eyebrow in appreciation.

  "Give me a moment," Eliza said from the cover of her portable vanity, "and if you need anything, I will gladly assist."

  Wellington stroked his new, larger beard. "I believe she has missed her calling."

  "I’ve always considered myself a thespian at heart," she offered, turning back to finish her work. "However, my performance is more directed towards seeing another sunrise as opposed to favourable reviews from critics."

  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.