by Arthur Slade
“Mmm. Perhaps I’ve trained you too well. Please have a seat.”
She chose the end of the bed, nearly plopping herself down on Modo’s feet.
Modo was searching for something clever to say when another person came through the door: Mrs. Finchley, in a long gray dress. “Oh, is it an official meeting?” she asked. “Would you like tea?”
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Finchley,” Mr. Socrates said. “Please return to your duties.”
“Actually, Mrs. Finchley,” Modo said, “would you kindly telegram the gendarmes or whatever it is they call their constables here? My room is becoming rather crowded with vagrants.”
She gave him a smile on her way out. “I shall send an urgent message.”
“Where’s the letter from?” Octavia asked.
“France,” Modo replied. “I don’t know anyone in France.”
“There is that French spy.” Octavia brushed a hand through her hair. “What was the little viper’s name? Coquette? I mean, Colette Brunet?”
“Impossible,” Modo said.
The penmanship had neither a masculine nor feminine appearance and it contained no flourishes, no hint of personality, as though the person had intended to mask his or her personal style. But the last two sets of numbers had the same number of characters as Colette Brunet’s name. He recognized that immediately—her name had come to mind often recently. Perhaps because of the French spoken in Quebec. If it was her name, deciphering the message would be relatively easy: each number likely corresponded to a letter in the alphabet. He just needed to know one of the words. Two would make it even easier.
“Octavia is correct,” Mr. Socrates said. “Use your faculties, Modo. I did not spend countless hours training you for nothing. Decipher the letter.”
“Now?” His heartbeat sped up. Nervousness? No, something else. Colette had written to him. To him. Colette, who had fought alongside him on the submarine Ictíneo. She had been brave and feisty and—he could not lie to himself—bewitchingly beautiful. But when their battles were done, their enemy vanquished, and his defenses down, she had asked to see his face—his real face. They had been adrift at sea; they might never see land again. When he took off his makeshift mask, she had paled and turned away in disgust from the sight of him, then asked him to cover his face. He had relived that moment far too many times. He was stronger now, but it would always hurt.
“Translate immediately,” Mr. Socrates commanded.
Modo grabbed a pen and paper from his desk. If C equaled 10, then O would be—he counted—22. He wrote out the alphabet. A = 8; B = 9; etc. It was Colette! But when he went to decipher her last name, it was not Brunet, but Csvofu. What could that mean? Ah, it came to him. Every word had its own code. Instead of A equaling 8, it was 9 this time. Guessing that the pattern repeated itself, he was able to decipher the first word of the letter: 20-22-11-22: Modo. He began to write it out, calculating rapidly, his mind so focused on the task that he forgot the peering eyes of Mr. Socrates. He didn’t even notice Octavia turning up the gas lamp. Soon the words were coming to him almost as quickly as reading regular text. As he deciphered he felt astonished.
Modo:
You will be surprised to hear from me, but the situation warrants this communication. I have been well since we met and I often think of you. Perhaps, I could say, it is an obsession. I cannot rid my memory of your face and of my failure to match your inner strength. But my regrets should be of no great matter to you. The important thing is that I have found your parents in France, though I do not know their exact location. You were born in the village of Nanterre, a short distance from Paris. I assume this information will be a revelation to you. I also have dire tidings: your parents are in great danger and I cannot protect them alone. Come to me. The moment you receive this missive you must depart. I shall be in Le Hôtel Grand at noon every day for the next fortnight, or longer, if necessary. I shall wait for you with eagerness.
Your bonne chance friend,
Colette Brunet
“Well, what does it say?” Mr. Socrates asked. “Tell us, Modo.”
Modo looked Mr. Socrates directly in the eye. So much in those few sentences. He tried to find the most important point and surprised himself when he said, very simply, “If her words are true, then I am French.”
“You were born in France, yes,” Mr. Socrates agreed gruffly. “I brought you back to England when you were no more than a year old. I rescued you from a curio cage in a traveling oddity show.”
Modo sat stunned. He had known about the curio cage, but had always assumed he had been found in England. Anytime he asked about his parents, Mr. Socrates had one reply: “That is not necessary information.” Modo had long given up on knowing about them.
In one breath he regained control of his emotions. “Then I was born in Nanterre,” he said. And if that one piece of information was correct, then the remainder of the letter was most likely also correct. Colette had somehow, for some reason, located his parents and they were being pursued by enemies. There was far too much to consider; Modo felt as though the constellations in the heavens had suddenly begun spinning in several directions at once. He took another calming breath.
“You’re French?” Octavia said. “That explains so much.”
“It’s no laughing matter!” Modo retorted.
“You’re British now,” Mr. Socrates asserted. “If not by birth, then by education.”
“My parents are alive.”
“I always assumed so,” Mr. Socrates said defensively. “Remember, Modo, that they abandoned you. Enough of this piecemeal information. Read us the letter.”
Modo sat up straighter and put his feet on the floor. He cleared his throat and read, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. When he was done, Octavia was the first to comment: “I’m most curious about the bonne chance friendship. She was a shyster.”
“She was not,” Modo said.
“The question remains,” Mr. Socrates said, “as to whether or not she actually wrote the letter. It may have been forged by another agent or agency.”
Modo lowered the paper. “But it sounds like her, the way she speaks.”
“Cadence and personality can be easily mimicked,” Mr. Socrates reminded him. “You of all people should know that. You make your living as a mimic.”
“I like to consider myself more than just a mimic,” he shot back. “Besides, she said ‘bonne chance friend.’ ”
“Is that what she called herself?” Mr. Socrates asked. “Bonne chance is a common enough French expression.”
“No. It’s what she said to me before …”
“Before what?” Octavia asked.
He remembered the event clearly. He and Colette had thought they were going to die in a metal pod many fathoms below the surface of the Atlantic.
“Before she kissed me. For good luck,” he added quickly.
Mr. Socrates smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes becoming more pronounced. Then he let out a rattling laugh. “You forgot to add that little detail to your report. It seems you have learned more about life than I was aware of.”
“It was inconsequential,” Modo insisted. He glanced at Octavia. Her face was as serene as a doll’s, but he thought he saw a glint of anger in her eyes. She already knew he’d kissed Colette. He had assumed she had forgiven him long ago. Or maybe he was dreaming, and her reaction was only wishful thinking on his part. Perhaps it didn’t matter to her at all.
“So, we have established a likelihood that it’s Colette Brunet who wrote the letter,” Mr. Socrates said. “Why would she look for your parents?”
Modo shrugged. An obsession, she had said. With him. Consumed by her guilt, it seemed. Was she seeking forgiveness for turning away from him?
“The French government obviously knows that you exist, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said. “She certainly would have told them. They could be seeking your family, perhaps in the hope that you have brothers or sisters who share your abilities.”
&nb
sp; “Or, more likely, it’s the Clockwork Guild who wants my blood,” Modo said. He felt a chill. He had meant to say bloodline, but somehow blood rang more true.
He had rarely thought of his mother and father; they were only formless shadows who had abandoned him—the uncaring parents in so many of the fairy tales he’d read. In any case, he’d had Mr. Socrates and Mrs. Finchley to care for him.
Despite that, these two people were being pursued by the agents of an evil guild. He had seen what unspeakable things the Clockwork Guild had done to poor street children to create a weapon to destroy England’s Parliament buildings. If they did indeed find his parents, would they be any less cruel?
“Yes,” Mr. Socrates said, breaking Modo’s reverie. “The Guild could very well be in pursuit. I hadn’t properly considered the possibility of your having siblings. I’m sure I would have received reports—I paid a great sum of money for the information that brought you to me.”
“You paid for me?”
“Uh, no,” Mr. Socrates said. “I paid for information that led to you.” Then he paused. “That isn’t quite true. I did indeed purchase you from the owners of the curio carriage.”
Modo spoke slowly, deliberately, so as not to allow his voice to crack. “How much did you pay?”
“That’s immaterial, Modo. If I hadn’t paid for you, you’d still be in that caravan or in some cabinet of curiosities, or perhaps you’d be dead.”
Modo was getting dizzy. He felt behind him for the headboard, just to touch something solid. It was all too much to take in. A sibling—a brother or sister as ugly as him? Or perhaps not cursed by this affliction at all?
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mr. Socrates said.
“You do?” Modo himself had no idea what he was thinking.
“You can’t go to France,” Mr. Socrates said matter-of-factly. “You’re too valuable. I’ll send orders to my agents there.”
Valuable? Modo thought. So the old man didn’t hate him. “You have French agents?”
“Of course. It’s a smaller organization, but the Association can still infiltrate where it needs to.”
“I understand, sir,” Modo said, even though he wasn’t certain he believed him.
Mr. Socrates took the letter from Modo’s hands and, leaning heavily on his walking stick, made to leave the room. He turned in the doorway. “We will discuss this further tomorrow.”
Octavia followed him and seemed to leave in a huff.
Modo stared at the wall, unable to move.
French. He was French!
2
The French Connection
Colette Brunet could not imagine a church more spectacular than Notre Dame de Paris, but she padded quickly alongside it without a glance or a moment’s pause to admire the way the moonlight reflected off the stained-glass windows. She had dressed as a young man, pulling her dark hair back and up under a sweeper’s cap, and created a bruise around her eye with purple makeup to distract any onlookers from noticing her unusual eyes. Few Parisians had Japanese blood. Her hand was on the pistol inside her long dark jacket as she followed the limping movements of her target: Father Alphonse Mauger. The priest was striding at a surprisingly fast clip, considering his chubbiness. He looked furtively over his shoulder. Twice she had to throw herself out of his line of sight.
She believed Father Mauger was working with the Clockwork Guild, an organization she had only learned about nine months earlier while hunting for a foreign submarine. That mission on the Atlantic had been amazing and eye-opening, but it had cost her much more than she could have imagined possible. She had stood on the ship Vendetta as it was pulled down into the Atlantic. Now, she felt the same horrible sensation as her career was sinking. No longer was she first among les espions—the French secret agents at the Deuxième Bureau. The agency had picked her brain about her mission in the Atlantic and become fascinated by Modo, salivating at the thought of an agent who could change his shape. Every bit of information she had given up felt like a betrayal of Modo, but if she hadn’t shared it she would have betrayed her country.
Then the bureaucrats—desk sitters!—who’d been jealous of her quick ascent in the ranks pulled out their knives. They cast doubt on her stories of an underwater city. They pointed out her divided loyalties; she was, after all, ainoko, half Japanese and half French. They whispered lies and scribbled lies until those lies had acquired the ring of truth.
Then one day, two burly gendarmes came to her desk, grabbed her by the shoulders, escorted her to the front gates of the bureau, and tossed her to the curb. She was warned that if she betrayed any secrets of her country she would be imprisoned, tortured, and shot.
Father Mauger entered the cathedral. If she was correct, he was carrying the original documents that revealed the last known location of Modo’s parents; the Catholic Church was even more enamored of paperwork than the Deuxième Bureau. She couldn’t think of Modo without a shudder, not of fear or revulsion—though his horrid appearance had haunted her for these many months—but a shudder at her own failure. She had not been strong enough to face his face. Fate had given her a chance to forge a true friendship with a fellow agent, a man more amazing than any she had ever met, and she had turned away. How spineless!
Her former employers had sent agents to England who were desperately searching for Modo and any relatives he may have had. She had been on the team up until the moment of her dismissal. She’d decided to take on the task herself, sifting through hospital files and copies of birth records for any mention of a “freak” child, reading nearly every outlandish article in every newspaper published in England: reports about boys in India with three eyes; Siamese twins; a girl with four arms. Colette found no mention of a shape-changing child.
It wasn’t until she visited the Bibliothèque Nationale that her first break came. There she had struck up a relationship with a librarian who had a particular and somewhat distasteful interest in phénomènes de cirque—circus freaks. He had dropped a massive collection of clippings and diaries onto her desk. She sifted through it to discover an account of a monstrously malformed boy from Nanterre who had been mentioned in Le Temps in 1858. It was the right year, assuming Modo was near her age. The article made her reconsider her assumption that Modo had been born in England. After all, the British were known to scour the world for spies. Could Modo have been born in France? Mon Dieu!
She discovered a transcript of an interview with a midwife who had helped deliver “a demon straight from hell but born of woman’s flesh,” so she pursued the midwife to Nanterre. The woman’s name was Marie. She had three teeth and had taken to drink in her later years. Her harrowing account of the birth made Colette cringe; the midwife had actually screamed at the sight of the monstre petite as it was pulled into the world. Colette left that meeting with a possible last name for Modo’s parents: Hébert.
The next day the midwife had died, drowned in the Seine. Colette would’ve thought it an accident, except a week later the librarian from Bibliothèque Nationale fell from the roof of the library to his death. The Deuxième Bureau rarely resorted to such crude methods. She suspected another organization was on the same path, might even have someone on her trail. It was the British, perhaps. Or the Russians.
She made discreet inquiries and followed the trail of rumors, until she discovered that a family of potters named Hébert had once lived in Nanterre. No one had seen them for years. She learned that they indeed had had a child who was believed to have been abandoned, though no one had ever set eyes on the infant. Perhaps it had been left at Notre Dame; this was a common occurrence, since many believed their cast-off children would have the best chance of a future if left at the greatest church in the land.
And so, a week earlier, she had visited the church, but Mauger, the archivist, had not allowed her so much as a peek at his records. This surprised her, since she’d had little trouble getting similar information from other churches. So she waited outside the church for him to leave, then followed
him through the streets of Paris. After several hours of surveillance she had spotted him meeting with a white-haired man. She’d read their lips from a distance and was only able to decipher the date they planned to meet again: this very day.
The priest appeared anxious as he entered the great doors of Notre Dame, stopping in the doorway to look about with feigned nonchalance. Colette waited behind a statue until he entered, then sped through the doors. Hiding behind columns, she crept down the nave of the church. The moonlight shone through the massive stained-glass windows, splashing colors across the marble floor. She trailed Mauger into the Chapel Sacrament and outside again as he crossed the short distance to the stone archives building.
She couldn’t follow him directly inside; the building was too small. She hunted around the periphery for another entrance, thankful that the priests didn’t keep guard dogs. Who would want to steal church records? The only other door she found was secured by a large, ancient lock.
Seeing a darkened window on the second floor, she climbed spiderlike up the side of the building, gripping the rough edges of the stone. Her arms and legs were strong; every morning she performed a vigorous exercise regimen designed by her late father. She grabbed the windowsill and it broke off, pieces of stone clattering to the ground. She would’ve fallen if not for a firm grasp on the protruding and solid nose of a gargoyle. “Merci,” she said, smiling at it.
She found a more secure piece of sill on her second attempt. The window opened easily and she slipped in, stepping onto wood that creaked. As her eyes adjusted she saw that she was standing on a desk, musty volumes stacked beside her. She lowered herself to the floor, crept across the room, and opened the door a crack.
Light. Two figures, one of them Mauger, were visible at the bottom of a set of stairs, their voices distant mumbles. Colette opened the door enough to slip through and peer over the railing. She was surprised to hear them speaking English.