The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel

by Philippa Ballantine

  It was this bizarre sense of duty that had nagged at him when, following another hard day of training—training for what, still a mystery—Shillingworth approached him with the envelope bearing the seal of the Ministry.

  Orders. From Sound. Bearing that day’s date.

  The words he had read could have been penned only moments before Bruce had received them:

  Agent Campbell:

  You and Agent Hill must infiltrate Central London Aeroport’s warehouse and retrieve Wellington Books’ motorcar. It should be kept with other unclaimed luggage (their airship docked back in April 1896) and, I imagine, will be unguarded considering the amount of time it has been there. Do keep in mind that “unguarded” may not equate to “unwatched” so therefore exercise the highest of cautionary tactics. Avoid Department interaction at all costs, and return with the motorcar to Whiterock. I know what I am asking of you is of the highest risk, but I also know what the two of you can accomplish together.

  Good Luck,

  Doctor Sound

  Now, here they were on a fool’s errand into the darkness of London, where the unclaimed luggage depot’s warehouse stood. The night watch casually walking about seemed hardly the kind of opposition Bruce was accustomed to dealing with.

  “So now we are chauffeurs, are we?” Bruce grumbled. “Fetching the car for the lord of the manor, eh?”

  Brandon looked over his shoulder. He appeared to be shocked about something or other. “Did you bother to read the report accompanying the orders?”

  It hadn’t been that long since he and Brandon were in the field together, watching one another’s back. “When, in all the time we have worked together, have you ever known me to read a report from beginning to end?”

  “Books modified the car. It’s a bloody armoury.”

  “Wait—Books weaponised a motorcar?”

  Brandon shrugged. “According to the report. And we need it.”

  From the satchel hanging at his side, Brandon produced a monocular and pressed it against his eye. From the details he imparted to Bruce, the device must have possessed some Starlight technology.

  “A single door to the east and then we have two barn doors on the west side. I would imagine they would have the car there, close to the doors.”

  “If they didn’t receive any other motorcars or contraptions similar over the past four months.”

  Brandon nodded. “Closer to five. Bloody thing is probably buried in there.”

  “What about the Department? Any sign of them blokes?”

  He swept the monocular to either side of the warehouse. “Just the night watch. I think once this man’s turned the corner, we can make for the door.”

  Bruce removed from his back the long rectangular suitcase and set it at his feet. “Give me a bit of light, will ya, mate?”

  Glancing to either side of them, Brandon produced an illuminati, cracked it against the street underfoot, and held the glowing stick over Bruce and his case. Bruce gently flipped the latches back and revealed six dismantled components of a Lee-Metford-Tesla rifle.

  “That’s a Mark II,” Brandon whispered, his eyes appearing larger in the glow of the illuminati.

  “That it is, mate,” Bruce said as he assembled the rifle. “Not many of these were made, but with those street urchins working an assembly line, and a little bit of love, we got this one working.” As much as he disliked the drills and training of the past few months, there was the begrudging fact that his “rusty” skills were perhaps sharper than ever. With a final click of the transformer sliding into its housing and the reassuring feel of the rifle’s full magazine locking in tight, Bruce hefted the rifle, getting a feel for its weight. “Our toffy archivist was sporting quite the arsenal back at Whiterock. It was as if he had been preparing for something.”

  Just before he buried the illuminati, Bruce caught Brandon’s quizzical, concerned look. “Preparing for something? What do you mean by that?”

  Much as he liked Brandon, sometimes the Canadian could be a bit thick. “Oh, come off it, mate, a complete and utter tosser like Books, and he’s stockpiling enough firepower to supply both the Ministry and the Department? You don’t think that’s a bit strange?”

  Brandon looked him over. “Honestly, there have been a lot of things I have seen of late I’d describe as particularly strange.”

  He opened his mouth, ready to fire back a retort, but thought better of it. He closed his mouth with a soft snap, puckered his lips, and nodded. “Fair enough, mate.”

  “We’re right as rain with you getting me out of South America, but Doctor Sound reinstating you as a field agent; I am still not sure what to think of that. Bit of a kick to the bullocks, if you ask me, but it is what the doctor ordered, now isn’t it?” Brandon dropped the monocular back into his satchel. “Get ready to move. We should have an opportunity coming up.”

  Bruce’s stomach growled softly. “You wouldn’t happen to have a steak pie in there perchance?”

  Brandon held up the saddlebag’s flap and peered in. “I have illuminati sticks, a few sticks of dynamite—must make sure not to mix the two up—an ’87 with a small box of ammunition . . . no. Not a meat pie of any kind here.”

  “Maybe my luck isn’t what it used to be in the field,” Bruce grumbled, his stomach echoing the sentiment in its own way.

  “Think positive, and your luck will change,” his partner urged. “Are you ready?”

  Bruce’s thumb flipped the switch on the mini-generator atop the Mark II. He wasn’t sure where the sentiment came from, but it had to be said. “Don’t worry, Brandon. I’m not gonna let you down.”

  Once the guard disappeared from view, Bruce took point in a sprint across the landing field to where the warehouses stood. Brandon crouched behind him and started to work on the lock.

  “Taking your sweet time, Hill?” Bruce whispered over the various clicks and scrapes coming from the door.

  “Never you mind,” Brandon returned. “I have this well under—Oh bugger!”

  Bruce could see a form materializing through the evening fog. “Care to get it a bit more under control there?”

  “Al—most—” The sharp clack of a lock sounded in Bruce’s ears. “We’re in.”

  “Celebrate inside,” Bruce growled as he pushed Brandon into the warehouse.

  When the door shut, both men flanked either side of the hatch. Brandon, now armed with one of his long knives, positioned himself across from Bruce. As they waited, Bruce dared to look around him. There were plenty of suitcases, glimpses into the various lives of people who either forgot about their personal belongings, or simply couldn’t be bothered to collect their things after a transcontinental or transatlantic voyage. Then there were those people who would simply choose to disappear, either during the voyage or afterwards, not always to end a life but in some circumstances to start a new one.

  His attention flicked back to the door. The footsteps were just audible from the other side. Considering the girth of the night watchman, Bruce was surprised he had not heard the man sooner. They both waited as the steps came up to the door. For a moment, there was no movement. Bruce’s grip tightened on the Mark II as the doorknob jiggled. Once. Twice. Then after a moment, the footsteps resumed and eventually disappeared in the distance.

  “All right then,” Brandon said, sheathing his knife, “let’s hope luck is on our side.”

  “Start on the opposite end,” Bruce said, taking an illuminati from Brandon and cracking it to life. “I’ll work my way down here.”

  Suitcases. Towers of wooden crates, some marked “FRAGILE.” The pale light of the illuminati threw shadows in all directions, making it hard for Bruce to keep an eye out for any movement. He paused by one suitcase and checked the tag:

  Rabarts, Daniel

  Flight 5, RMS Olympia

  Destination: London, England


  17 April 1896

  At least he was in the right warehouse, if things were sorted by the year and time of travel. He had not gone far before he came up to a long pallet with what appeared to be a carriage concealed underneath a long tarp. He followed the edge of the tarp along its length until his hand found a baggage tag, at what he assumed to be the front of the vehicle.

  Seemed as if Campbell’s luck was also on a path of redemption:

  Lawrence, Wellington Reginald

  Flight 11, USAA Atlantic Angel

  Destination: London, England

  15 April 1896

  Bruce whistled twice for Brandon. He watched the glare from his partner’s illuminati bob and weave through the makeshift labyrinth of luggage until he emerged from behind a pillar of crates.

  “Looks like this is it, mate. Help me throw back the tarp.”

  Dust and debris scratched and blinded him as the sheet snapped and furled. When it finally slipped away, both men turned their illuminati on the automobile.

  “That,” Brandon began, his eyes moving from beginning to end point of the vehicle, “is a thing of beauty.”

  “And it belongs to Wellington Books,” Bruce grumbled. “What a bloody waste!”

  Brandon rounded on him, finally demanding, “What is your issue with our archivist?”

  Bruce went to answer but as he had done before with his partner, his mouth closed with no words. He took in a deep breath and shrugged his massive shoulders. “You know how sometimes you meet someone and you just don’t like them?”

  “No,” Brandon answered, “I don’t know that feeling. I need a good reason to not like someone.”

  Bruce gave a quick shrug. “He got the better of me in a scuffle once.”

  That appeared to catch him by surprise. “Really? When?”

  Bruce was about to tell him about the incident at Ministry headquarters when his throat seized. It had been during his brief time as assistant director, during his time in the back of the Duke of Sussex’s pocket. It had been right before Brandon informed the Ministry of Agent Pujari’s death.

  “Look,” Bruce said, shaking his head. Now Brandon’s opposition was just grating. Why couldn’t he just go back to the way he had been before all this? “The man just ain’t right. I got a suspicion about him.”

  “So you have insinuated. Are you sure it is nothing to do with Agent Braun at all?” By the glimmer of the illuminati Brandon looked an awful lot like he was grinning.

  “No bloody chance! I just don’t trust him. It’s always the quiet ones that we have to watch that much closer, eh what?”

  “Then, keeping that in mind”—Brandon turned on his heel and looked over the car—“I’ll drive. I would hate for you to bring upon his wrath if you were to scratch the car.”

  “Funny, mate,” Bruce said, looking around them. “Funny.” He could just see the barn doors ahead, several stacks of luggage between them and the door. “Before you settle in behind the wheel, maybe you’ll want to help me clear the way?”

  With a grunt, Bruce and Brandon began the arduous and somewhat tedious effort ahead of them, filling their hands with either a set of luggage or a crate. The path would have taken less time to clear had it not been for the occasional check for the night watch.

  “I have known cricket matches that have taken less time than this,” Bruce grumbled, picking up two suitcases.

  “This would be less of a chore,” Brandon said, lifting two bags of his own and hefting them off to one side, “if you did a considerable less amount of bellyaching.”

  “I like bellyaching,” he quipped, pushing a large—but thankfully, light—crate further into the shadows. “Ladies find it endearing.”

  “Perhaps that is why,” his partner said, returning to the remaining few bags, “I’m finding it working on my last nerve.”

  Bruce dusted off his hands and nodded as he went over to another crate. He gave it a slight push, and it moved with ease. “Good to know you are all man under that gentlemanly exterior.”

  A laugh came from his partner. First one from him since they had set off. “Well, I don’t know about gentlemanly. There was this one woman, I remember in Colombia—my Scheherazade. She was anything but proper for a gentleman’s company.”

  Bruce managed to slide the crate—the application of one hand more than enough effort—out of the way when he stopped in mid-step. “That isn’t right.”

  “Oh, she was a lovely lady, even considering her profession . . .”

  “No, Brandon, that’s not what I mean,” he said, still staring at the crate. “We’ve been lucky on missions before, right?”

  Another laugh. It would have made Bruce feel hopeful about their relationship on the mend if it were not for the sudden tightness in his stomach growing.

  “We have seen some close scrapes together, my friend.” Brandon was now beside him, giving the Australian’s shoulder a playful punch. “I remember that time in the Americas with that lunatic and his flying covered wag—”

  “And we were lucky. We’ve always been lucky. It felt like we were riding with the angels.”

  Brandon’s head inclined slightly. “I suppose so, yes.”

  “I’m not feeling that right now,” Bruce said, shouldering the Mark II. “Are you?”

  Bruce stepped back and took aim on the crate he had just moved. Two shots thundered throughout the warehouse.

  “Dammit, Bruce!” Brandon shouted before the echo ceased around them. “Have you lost your mind? The watch—”

  “Are not here. And not because we’re lucky,” he said, slipping the rifle over his shoulder while getting a good grip on the crate.

  With two of its corners now blown free, opening the crate was simply a matter of a few hard tugs from Bruce. When its panel finally tore away, Brandon could now get a full view of what had been bothering his partner.

  “Because all this has been arranged,” Bruce said, motioning to the empty space within the crate.

  Brandon scrambled over to the barn doors while Bruce worked his way deeper into the warehouse. As he had dared to consider, the cargo located in the back of the warehouse was far sturdier. Even with his shoulder and back into it, moving any of this luggage was not going to happen. It would be easier moving Ayers Rock.

  “We’ve got what looks like a line of Department agents,” Brandon said as he peeked through the split between the barn doors, “and two armoured vehicles taking position in front of the doors.”

  “So we have a number of choices, I’m seeing,” Bruce began, returning to the car. “The first one: we surrender.”

  “Rather not, cheers very much,” Brandon stated, joining Bruce.

  “Second choice: we barge through those doors and give them a right reminder of why the Ministry is not to be tangled with.”

  Brandon wagged a finger at Bruce. “That would be against the doctor’s orders. Avoid Department interaction at all costs.”

  “Which brings me to our third option.” Bruce held out a hand. “Give me the dynamite you got there, Brandon.”

  There was a sense of relief on seeing the Canadian’s smile. His smile widened with each nod of his head. “Are we giving these ruffians a Vancouver?”

  “That would be too nice,” Bruce scoffed, taking the five sticks and heading back into the darkness. “I was thinking more of a Bruges.”

  “Bruges?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Just start the car, and be ready.”

  Roughly four rows of crates and luggage would be between them and what he hoped would be an exit. Based on how much time he would need to position himself for the blast, Bruce measured the fuse, gave himself and extra inch for luck, and then cut. The fuse, designed by Axelrod and Blackwell, immediately lit itself once it was trimmed to Bruce’s desired time. He placed the bundle at the spot he believed would give maximum powe
r in the direction he wanted, and then walked back to the car. Books’ treasure was now shuddering gently as Brandon picked up the front half of the tarp and Bruce the latter. Both of them covered themselves and the car and waited. As the seconds seemed to creep by, Bruce took the Mark II and released the safety on the generator.

  “Now just a moment,” Brandon chided. “I don’t remember a Lee-Metford-Tesla of any kind being within reach when we were in Bruges.”

  “Just a variation on a theme, mate,” Bruce said over the building whine of the rifle’s generator.

  Brandon let out a little sigh, then asked, “How long did you make the fuse for?”

  “I thought I made it for five minutes.”

  “Well”—he shrugged—“you know how hard it is to guess these things accurately, and how time feels when you’re waiting for something.”

  “Oh yeah,” Bruce said, his mouth bending into a wry grin. He glanced in the backseat. “Looks like their luggage is back there too.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll appreciate that.”

  “Yeah.” Bruce nodded. “I remember once having my luggage lost. Spent five days in Hong Kong in the same suit. I swear, my undergarments could have probably found their way back to Sydney by themselves by the time my luggage was found!”

  Brandon chuckled. He gave a slow nod, then let out a long breath as he checked his pocket watch. The nod turned into a shake of his head. “Bruce, are you certain you made that fuse for five—”

  The concussive force rocked the car up and forwards slightly. Bruce pushed back the tarp and shouldered the Mark II. A wave of blue-white erupted from the bell of the rifle, ripping through a teetering wall of wooden boxes and unclaimed luggage. He worked the bolt action once just as the barn doors pulled back to reveal a line of men and women backlit by two massive armoured vehicles.