The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Philippa Ballantine

  “Those are your travel papers and legends.” He then presented them with a thinner envelope. “The maid and children are in second class. I managed to procure a single compartment for the two of you.” He shrugged. “My apologies, but all the suites have been taken by the delegation.”

  “Believe me,” Wellington said, “our priority is safe passage, not comfort.”

  “When next you see me, I’ll be dressed as a porter. New clothes are in your compartment. Marius believes the children and maid should be fine in their own disguises, and then we will find something more appropriate for them in Berlin.”

  “Excellent,” Eliza said. “Will we rendezvous with Marius at any time?”

  “In Berlin, yes, but not until then.” Rutger tipped his hat to them both. “Now, off you go. I will see you once we are under way.”

  Eliza gave Wellington a quick wink and wandered further down the platform to where she could effectively slip tickets to Alice and the children. His eyes roamed over the various travellers, eventually stopping on the only collection of people that had their own line of security keeping journalists at a considerable distance. Aristocrats were, Wellington had already observed, rather self-involved at the best of times. Put a group of them together like this, and soon enough there was the inevitable clash of personalities and arrogance. He caught sight of Marius standing on the platform, clipboard in hand, and a fleet of Portoporters at his back. It seemed very little against the ranks of German aristocrats who massed before him, though, complaining at the top of their lungs, or getting their servants to do it.

  “So far so good,” Eliza whispered into Wellington’s ear on her return. “Between what we have planned on reaching Berlin’s Travel Centre, we should easily slip into the entourage without fail.”

  “The Travel Centre?”

  “Yes,” Eliza said, leading him towards the second-class compartments. “On account of its central location, the Germans constructed an aeroport around their largest railway station. It is now a major hub, and should be busy enough for us to easily make ourselves part of the group without much bother.”

  He slipped his hand around hers and gave it a squeeze. “Excellent.”

  Her grin was off-kilter. “Now all we need is to make it to Berlin.”

  Once in the cabin, Eliza shut the door and let the blinds down while Wellington pulled down the suitcase in the above luggage rack. He heard a tearing of paper, and Eliza was unfolding their travel papers.

  The train gave an abrupt jerk and started off, sending Eliza into his arms.

  “Thank the stars for those quick reflexes of yours, Wellington Books,” she murmured softly. “Or should I refer to you as Your Baronship?”

  Wellington blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  She returned to her feet and handed him his legend. “Baron Viktor Bommburst, and I am your darling wife, Willomina. We owe our fortunes in life to munitions and military defence.” Eliza chuckled. “Bit of a ribbing from Marius, methinks. The children are travelling as a class of gifted youngsters, and Alice is our maid.”

  “Darling,” Wellington blurted, “I know absolutely no German!”

  “Don’t worry,” she assured him, “I will teach you a few key phrases if we find ourselves cornered.”

  When a knock came at the door, Eliza pulled out one of her pistols quick as a flash. Wellington peeked out the corner of the blind, before giving Eliza a nod, then opening the door.

  “Your Grace,” Rutger said with a smile as he entered their tight compartment brandishing a bucket of ice, a bottle of Riesling, and two glasses. “You seem to have been fortunate not to have any other passengers join you.”

  Now under the guise of a porter, Rutger slipped the bucket into a large ring by one of the windows. He then handed Wellington and Eliza empty glasses as he proceeded to open the bottle of wine.

  Eliza raised a single eyebrow. “Dare I ask?”

  “Presently, delegates are enjoying a delightful soirée on the observation deck. I thought Marius should not be the only agent enjoying the odd glass or two of wine, so I decided to liberate a bit of the bounty of our fine country for you and your partner here.” Easing the cork out of the bottle, he poured them each a glass. “I can vouch for the label.”

  “Have you tried it before?” Wellington asked.

  “This is my family’s vineyard,” he replied with a grin. As he filled Eliza’s glass, he added, “However, whatever vines I attempted to cultivate and grow withered and died. My father suggested service to His Majesty, and that is how I found myself in Section P.”

  Once Wellington’s glass was full, Rutger replaced the bottle back into the bucket. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to tend to the other passengers. Easiest way to get up front, check on the children.”

  Wellington took a sip of the wine as he locked the door. Rutger had every right to be proud of his family’s vintage.

  He looked outside his window, seeing the countryside passing by in a blur. They just needed to stay alive for five hours. “Your friend Marius has pulled off a miracle,” he said, adjusting his cravat and feeling just a little less tension in his shoulders.

  Eliza let out a sigh, taking a long sip before resting her wine-glass on a small pullout table. “I will agree with you once we see the Cliffs of Dover and are on the ground in England safely. We will be cutting it close, but should make the rendezvous.” She shot him a sad smile. “It is going to be hard to avoid going to Miggins.”

  Wellington suddenly realised he was pining for his Archives again, and couldn’t help but break out into a cold sweat when he thought of the Department fools rifling through it—or worse, attempting to dismantle what remained of his analytical engine. His valise, hopefully within the Ares at the London Aeroport, contained the heart and soul of his computation device, but what was still hidden beneath Miggins Antiquities remained the true treasure trove of the Ministry.

  “We will manage,” she said gently, snapping him out of his worry.

  Eliza took his hand and squeezed it, and despite all the troubles around him, he couldn’t stop himself. Setting down his own glass of wine, he leaned over and kissed her, the smell of her skin and the taste of her lips overcoming him like fine brandy. Every moment that could have offered them a touch of the delicious intimacy he enjoyed on the Angel had been sacrificed out of fatigue and stress, and they still had very little at present, yet as their kiss deepened he was very glad that the door had a lock on it.

  The swaying of the train and the closeness of the cabin made it just more erotic, and before Wellington knew it, he was sitting on the cushioned bench with Eliza straddling him. He became suddenly aware of the curves that were underneath her jacket and shirt.

  “I knew, while the tweed is dire, you liked this look on me,” she managed to gasp before kissing him again, working free the ascot around her neck. How he had missed this side of Eliza. “I hope you don’t mind my allowing you to enjoy me in it fully.”

  She tore open her waistcoat, revealing her Ministry-issue corset. With the disappearance of the ascot, the curves of her breasts were in full display.

  “I intend,” he said, placing light kisses on both of them, eliciting soft moans from her, “to enjoy you fully out of this dangerously appealing look, as well.”

  Eliza pulled him closer, her legs tightening around his hips. They had been on the run for what seemed like a lifetime, and it had been so long since they had enjoyed one another, since he had felt her fingers against his skin.

  The train was suddenly moving slower, the rocking becoming more and more subtle. Three hard thumps made her jump a little, but Wellington growled out. “It’s just the changing of tracks. We’re heading onto a spur line, to get to the aeroport—”

  “Travel Centre,” she panted.

  “Whatever the bloody thing is called,” he hissed before pulling her neck closer to graze his teet
h and tongue against it. Wellington assured her, “Chances are this route is rarely used so they have to stop to switch tracks manually. We’re perfectly fine. We will be under way in just a moment.” He tugged at her Department jacket. “Now please, for the love of God, let me ravish you!”

  Her coat was proving difficult in removing as her whole body was tense. He wondered how relaxed she would feel if they were ever closer, skin on skin. It was amazing how one simple touch of her hand could lead him to such rash thoughts so quickly. She was quite as dangerous as the weapons she preferred.

  Then came a loud knocking at the door.

  They both froze and looked at each other, their raw, blind desire lifting as the three knocks sounded again.

  “Bloody hell,” Wellington seethed.

  “Yes, this is hell,” Eliza returned as she sprang away, picking up her jacket from the floor. “A train compartment with no water basin in sight. Maybe I should use some of the ice in that bucket, drop a few cubes down my cleavage.” She laughed drily. “So much for this,” she said, discarding the ruined vest. “Have you seen my cravat?”

  He held it up as the knocking occurred yet again.

  “I can only imagine what Alice and the children are up to,” Wellington said, feeling a hot flush on his cheeks as he went to the door.

  He pulled the blind to one side to catch a glimpse of Rutger. He appeared to be alone.

  “I think we’re about to find out,” he said, opening the door. “Rutger’s returned.” He turned to the Section P agent, apparently short of breath.

  “We seem to have a problem . . .” he panted.

  “Has Liam stolen another wallet?” Wellington asked.

  Rutger never answered as he slumped, then pitched forwards. When Wellington caught him, the long knife sticking out of his back revealed itself.

  “Now let’s jus’ take things nice and slow,” came a voice from above him.

  Wellington looked up to see two men pointing Remmington-Elliots at him. Compressors were all in the green. One man appeared as someone’s bad attempt to squeeze a gorilla into a suit while the second looked as if he could be knocked aside with a thought.

  “I know you, Miss Eliza D. Braun,” the larger agent remarked. “It’s been—what?”

  “Four years.”

  Wellington looked over his shoulder at Eliza, as he had never before heard such venom in her voice. Her eyes had never seemed more cold and hard as they did in that moment.

  “Yeah. Nasty business, that.” He gave a shrug. “Then again, this is our speciality, ain’t it? Nasty business.”

  “You dolt!” snapped Wellington. “You just killed a German national! What in God’s name—”

  “Listen up, mate,” the hulk said, pointing his pistol into Wellington’s face. “I got orders to bring you in and sod the rest, but I can jus’ as easily tell the toffs upstairs that you put up a right fight.”

  “Easy there, Malcolm,” the smaller Department agent warned. “We got orders.”

  “I don’ like the way this prick’s talking to me, Georgie.”

  “You’ll like what I have to say even less,” Eliza suddenly piped up.

  “Go on, bitch.” And now Malcolm’s gun was on Eliza. Wellington felt a heat rise under his skin. “Give me a reason to defend myself. Please.”

  “Let’s all just keep our wits about us, yes?” Georgie asked. “We’ll just get ourselves all cosy for a train trip to Berlin, see a bit of the countryside, yes?”

  That was when Wellington realised the train was still not moving.

  “Now why don’t you just get up slowly?” Georgie motioned for Wellington to stand. “No need to do anything heroic.”

  The train suddenly lurched forwards, sending Georgie into Malcolm, and Eliza into Wellington. Unlike the tweed-wearing gorilla, Wellington managed to prevent himself from toppling over. His foot braced against the passenger seat, keeping him upright as he caught Eliza. As the Department agents fell over each other, Eliza grabbed Malcolm’s thick wrist, the one connected to the hand holding the gun, and drove her forearm up into his elbow. The man’s arm bent in a most unnatural way with a sickening crunch. A heartbeat later, the man’s yell filled both compartment and corridor. Georgie was scrambling to get back on his feet, his pistol drawing a bead on Eliza. Wellington pushed off the bench, launching himself as he did when making a try on the rugby pitch. He collided into the diminutive Department agent, knocking him out of their compartment and into the corridor. Wellington forced Georgie’s wrist into the corridor’s windowsill, then a second time; on the third time, something fell in between them. Attempting to cover the dropped pistol with his body while keeping hold of the agent seemed simple enough in his mind. In the waking world, the archivist apparently needed to be a part-time circus performer—preferably, a contortionist—for this to work.

  Something snapped from behind him, and Malcolm’s screaming muffled slightly. He smiled at Eliza’s strike, but the smile disappeared on feeling a blow from Georgie’s elbow against his skull, rattling his senses soundly. The Department agent began wriggling out of his grasp. Another punch to his head caused Wellington to release him.

  Dammit.

  He took in a gasp of air and glanced over at Eliza, who was bringing the wine bottle about for what looked like a backhand blow to Malcolm. When the bottle came around, it remained intact. Wellington did not think Malcolm’s jaw could say the same.

  “Eliza!”

  Her eyes wild, Eliza looked up to Wellington then caught a glance of Georgie heading towards the rear of the train. First class.

  “He doesn’t leave this train unless it’s moving!” she said, her grasp still tight on the blood-stained bottle.

  The train, now travelling at its top speed, rattled underneath Eliza and Wellington as they made their way through the remainder of second class. On the gangway between the final second-class car and the initial first-class car, Wellington could see the Department agent fighting to keep his balance as they rattled along.

  Eliza chucked the bottle into the night. “Welly, hang on to my belt,” she said, opening the gangway’s small gate.

  “What in God’s name—”

  “I need to send a message to Marius!” she shouted over her shoulder, drawing one of her pistols. “Now hold on to my damn belt!”

  They were not travelling at the blinding speed of a hypersteam, but there was hardly any comfort to be found as the night folded around Eliza. He could see her pounamu pistol drawing aim on something at the rear of the train. The shot sounded like a bullwhip’s crack and then Wellington caught the glare of something small exploding. She pulled her arm in and then gave Wellington a nod.

  Back on the iron landing, Eliza nodded. “Right then, let’s go get Georgie.”

  First class was quiet. No one outside their cabins, perhaps on account of the gathering Rutger had mentioned. Wellington and Eliza had made it to a division between first-class accommodations and a dining car before catching up with the Department agent.

  “Eliza,” Wellington said, “he’s too far ahead. At this rate, he’ll reach the delegation and—” His imagination filled in the rest. “Oh, dear Lord . . .”

  “That won’t happen,” Eliza chuckled as light from the door ahead of Georgie made the Department agent stop in his tracks. “Marius got my message.”

  Georgie looked back at Wellington and Eliza, then back to Marius. His hands suddenly shot upward as he was saying something. Perhaps he was identifying himself as Department and, on pointing frantically back at the two of them, warning Marius of rogue agents out to do harm to the imperial delegation.

  Marius’ sudden punch must have come totally unexpected.

  Georgie stumbled back into one of the tables, and then scrambled back behind the dining furniture as Marius advanced on him. From Marius’ vantage point, he had Georgie cornered.

 
From Marius’ vantage however, he could not see the knife that Georgie drew from an ankle sheath.

  Damn.

  Wellington burst through the doors at the moment Georgie attacked. Marius caught the man’s wrist on descent, but the ferocity of the lunge sent both men stumbling back through the doors from where Marius came. They both hit the next car, remaining locked in the struggle for the knife. The train lurched, giving Georgie a moment’s advantage, and he pushed. The blade now quivered just over Marius’ throat as the Section P agent found himself bent backwards over the gangway’s iron railing.

  “Get down,” a voice commanded behind him.

  Wellington did not question Eliza, but simply did as told.

  A gunshot roared in the empty dining car, and Eliza’s bullet pierced the glass window between her and Georgie, knocking him off balance and sending him down to the gangway. Marius pulled himself upright and winced. That must have been hell on the man’s back.

  “Excellent shot, Eliza,” Wellington said, pulling himself up.

  Eliza holstered her pistol and shook her head. “I’m growing fond of shooting Department agents. This will not serve well for future inter-departmental operations.”

  “I would say,” Wellington agreed.

  Turning back to Marius, still on the gangway, Eliza said, “Four, von Hoff! You owe me—”

  The jest ceased abruptly as Georgie leapt, only this time the attack’s momentum sent both men over the junction.

  “Marius!” Eliza screamed, pushing Wellington aside and running to the gangway.

  Wellington ran to the window of the dining car, trying to peer out behind them. He ran for the junction between cars, joining Eliza at the rail. Her eyes were frantically searching in the darkness. For what, Wellington didn’t know, but he looked into the inky black, interrupted only by the soft lights of the train.

  “He’s gone,” Eliza finally whispered. “Marius is gone.”

  INTERLUDE

  In Which an Illusion Falters