“Thank you for agreeing to meet me here, gentlemen,” said Wells.
De Maupassant stepped forward. “Monsieur Curie was very insistent,” he said. Despite being the youngest of the three, he was clearly the group’s leader. “In fact, I do not mind the excursion at all. This is presently my favorite spot in all of Paris.”
“It is?” Gounod asked incredulously.
“The base of this structure remains the one place where I can still enjoy the view of my favorite city without seeing the giddy, ridiculous tower dominating its skyline like a gigantic black smokestack.”
Wells recognized that, although they were a mere nuisance at this stage, these people stood a real chance of influencing the public opinion. Perhaps influencing it enough to pressure the French government into scrapping the tower after Eiffel’s license ran out, in twenty years. This wouldn’t do; Wells’s superiors managed quite a coup, installing the world’s most powerful communication device right in the heart of Paris, and they wouldn’t have it jeopardized, not even two decades down the road. Wells was determined to set things right in time for the security summit.
“Your opprobrium for Mr. Eiffel’s design is as well-known as it is eloquent.” Wells waved at the enormous metal structure above them. “Truly, I admire how rapidly your committee has been gaining support at the highest levels of government. However, I cannot allow this propaganda campaign against the tower to continue. My superiors at the Ministry have tasked me with ensuring that nothing at all interferes with our plans.”
“You dare summon us here and threaten us, in broad daylight?” William-Adolphe Bouguereau glared at the much younger Englishman from under his bushy gray eyebrows.
“Heavens, no,” Wells told the painter. “Why antagonize someone when telling them the truth will accomplish the task?”
“The truth?” Charles-Francois Gounod, the composer, cocked his head.
“The nature of this structure,” said Curie. “It isn’t merely an architectural fancy.”
“This enormous edifice was created to serve as what’s called an antenna,” said Wells. “A brand new technology developed by Dr. Heinrich Hertz in recent years, to transmit sound across great distances.”
The five men looked up, to where the tip of the tower reached for the cloudless sky. A tiny dot of a dirigible was the only other object visible against the azure heavens.
Gounod was the first to break the spell. “I have it on good authority that the British spymasters have been using devices similar to what you’re describing for years.”
“This is true, even if we don’t like to advertise it,” said Wells. “But those are scavenged scraps, bits of science recovered from crashed spaceships and stalled time machines. Tools we are able to make use of without fully understanding their nature. But this,” Wells pointed at the metal structure above him, “this is different. The epitome of modern thought, of human science—”
“Of bad taste,” de Maupassant cut him off. “Newfangled technologies are all well and good, but why must you build this Aunt-Enna monstrosity in Paris?”
“Atop the Eiffel Tower is a very special transmitter device,” said Wells. “It allows us to monitor the skies and acts as an early warning system in case of an invasion from space.”
“There are only a handful of focal points on our entire planet where such a device could be properly installed,” added Curie. “Paris was, by far, the most logical choice.”
“Giant antennae, alien invaders… This is all very incredible and difficult to believe,” said Bouguereau.
“There are things out there that, until recently, were undreamt of in our philosophy.” Wells spoke earnestly, maintaining eye contact with the Parisians. “Every government in the world is scrambling for ways to anticipate these new dangers and protect their citizens. This structure represents an unprecedented level of cooperation between numerous governments, coming together in recognition of the fact that guarding against outside threats is more important than their petty political squabbles. Surely this noble idea trumps matters of personal taste?”
The men stared upward again. The dirigible was hovering level with the topmost deck of the tower.
“The danger is real, if not very well known to the public,” said Curie. “To me, tolerating one ugly structure is preferable to the idea of Martian tripods marching down the Champs-Élysées.”
“Suppose it’s true,” said de Maupassant. “Suppose we accept this conspiracy theory of shadow treaties and space invaders. But then… why tell us?”
“We want to recruit you, of course.” Wells smiled. “The Ministry has a history of working with writers and artists, men and women who possess the imagination and the open mind to accept the changing realities of our world.” Two birds with one stone, thought Wells. The creative types really did make the best agents, and recruiting these three would effectively put an end to the vocal resistance to the project he was supervising.
“I’m a loyal French citizen, young man,” said Bouguereau. “I’ve no intention of joining Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
“You’d be working for us,” said Curie. “France has its own secret agency. The Deuxième Bureau may cooperate warmly with our friends from across the Channel, but rest assured that we’re in charge on our own soil.”
“I was far from convinced by your words,” said Gounod. “But I’m rapidly becoming swayed by current events.”
“How do you mean?” asked Wells.
“Whether or not you told us the truth, there’s something up at the top that is worth stealing.” Gounod pointed upward. “The Eiffel Tower is being robbed.”
The dirigible had moored itself just under the tip of the tower with dozens of grappling hooks clutching at the metal beams. From the ground, Wells could make out tiny figures climbing across the ropes.
“They must be after the transmitter,” shouted Wells. “Come on!”
He sprinted for the stairs. Curie followed, leaving the three Parisians behind.
Wells climbed the steep cast iron stairs of the tower as fast as he could, but he knew he would never make it to the top in time. With a structural height of over a thousand feet, the Eiffel Tower was the world’s tallest man-made structure. Since the lifts were not yet operational, Wells estimated it would take him at least ten or twelve minutes to ascend that distance, even if he somehow managed to maintain his pace all the way up.
He heard the distant popping sounds of a firefight; the attackers must have engaged the security detail. Wells wondered if the guards would have the presence of mind to fire at the balloons keeping the dirigible afloat. A single well-placed shot might ignite the highly flammable hydrogen inside and bring the airship crashing down onto the Champs de Mars.
In less than a minute the popping gunfire had ceased. Wells had no illusions as to which side had won; there were two guards facing off against at least half a dozen intruders. He concentrated on his breathing and climbed the stairs.
It took just over fifteen minutes for Wells to reach the top deck of the tower, but it felt like forever. His chest was on fire, his calf muscles flared in terrible pain with each step taken. Wells brushed the sweaty strands of hair out of his eyes and looked around.
The two guards lay sprawled on the metal floor. Suspended seven feet above the observation deck floor, the iron cage which housed the transmitter was wide open, both of its heavy locks cut off. The transmitter itself was gone.
The crew cut the ropes holding the dirigible to the tower. The airship was rapidly picking up speed as it headed west toward the Seine. It was still close enough for Wells to momentarily lock eyes with one of the crew. The man stared back from the aft of the airship, most of his face covered by a mask.
Wells dove toward one of the guards and wrestled the revolver out of the loosened grip of the unconscious man’s hand. He waited several seconds, until the airship was far enough for the impending explosion not to damage the tower. Then he raised the weapon and fired twice at the easy target of t
he enormous gray balloon keeping the dirigible afloat. He flinched, bracing himself for the shock wave.
Nothing happened.
Wells fired four more times, emptying the cylinder, but the explosion never came. Wells thought that the thieves either figured out a way to inflate the balloon with a gas far less flammable than hydrogen, or they somehow built the dirigible’s envelope out of bulletproof gasbags.
His legs finally gave out and Wells slid to the floor. He closed his eyes and tried to regain control of his breathing as he waited for Curie, who had fallen behind, to suffer his way up the stairs.
When the French agent finally arrived, Wells recounted the events of the last few minutes. Curie studied the unconscious guards and panted as he listened to his British counterpart.
Wells stared at the World’s Fair grounds below. Finally, he turned to Curie and said: “Sue Ann MacLean is going to kill me.”
“You’re mad,” said Doyle. “The greatest security breach in the Ministry’s history and you want me to sweep it under the rug, to hide the entire incident from London? MacLean would have both our heads on the plate.”
Arthur Conan Doyle was the senior Ministry agent, who recently arrived in Paris for the World Security summit. The clandestine services of all the major world powers sent their representatives to celebrate the success of the joint effort of the Eiffel Tower project and to discuss the possibility of putting the enmity and mistrust that existed between them aside for the benefit of humanity. The heist could not have happened at a worse time.
“Please, Arthur. You know I didn’t get assigned to babysitting an architect for two years merely because I drew a short straw. MacLean was punishing me because the mission to Russia didn’t work out the way she had intended. And now that the tower is complete and the transmitter was about to go live, I had hoped to get out of Paris and go somewhere interesting for a change. No offense, Pierre,” Wells said to Curie, who was frowning into his drink. “I just know MacLean will somehow blame me for what happened, and that will put an end to my career at the Ministry once and for all.
“Please, let me work with the French and the others at the summit. Together we will find the culprits and recover the transmitter expeditiously. All I ask for is a couple of days. If I fail, I shall accept full responsibility and fall on the sword.”
Doyle sipped his scotch. “So you think you can solve this mystery, do you?” he asked Wells.
“Yes, with the help of all the agencies. The greatest collection of agents and spies in human history is in Paris now, thanks to the summit. What chance do the hapless robbers have against our combined resources?”
Doyle got up and began pacing back and forth across the small room. “The guards were hit by some sort of a stun weapon,” he said. “The attackers were well-trained and efficient operatives who knew about the transmitter, knew how to disconnect it properly, and possessed extraordinary technology. The only organizations I can think of capable of pulling off this heist are the clandestine ministries themselves. The same people you wish to rely upon to help solve this case.”
“But why?” asked Curie. “Why would any of them sabotage a project that benefits us all?”
“I don’t know,” said Doyle. “But if any other group capable of a heist of this magnitude existed anywhere in the world, surely we’d be aware of them. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”
Wells seized on the hypothesis. “Could one of them have allied itself with an outside power, planning exactly the sort of invasion the Eiffel Tower was created to detect? If so, it’s all the more reason to collect additional data before reporting any sort of conclusions to London. This is too important to get it wrong.”
Doyle continued to pace, the scotch stirring in his glass, small bits of it splashing onto the rug.
“Very well,” he said. “I will give you a little time before I report to Ministra MacLean. The summit opens in a few short hours. I have a plan that will allow us to investigate the transmitter heist, and spy on the rival agencies at the same time.” Doyle put down the drink and reached for his hat. “Come. We must see a young scientist about her invention.”
Each country in Europe, and many beyond, built wondrous exhibits in order to put their best foot forward at the World’s Fair. And even though the fair was not yet open to the public, the fairgrounds bustled with activity. National delegations, construction crews, and anyone with some sort of a connection that could gain them early access alternated between putting the finishing touches on their own exhibits and exploring the expositions of others.
The major world powers spared no expense to build grandiose halls and display national treasures and the latest technologies to wow the attendees. As the host country, France put up the largest exhibit consisting of numerous halls. Wells, Doyle, and Curie walked through the French section, passing the grandiose Hall of Machines and a smaller building heavily guarded by grim, well-armed men. It was the temporary home of the Imperial Diamond – the largest brilliant in the world.
Having cut through the French section and walked farther away from the center of the fairgrounds, they entered into a patchwork of much smaller exhibits set up by the less influential nations. Doyle led them toward a diminutive structure which bore a red coat of arms depicting a crowned white eagle with golden talons and beak.
“Which country is this?” asked Wells.
“Poland,” said Doyle.
“Poland?” said Curie. “Half of it is annexed by the Austro-Hungarians and the other half occupied by the Russians. How is it that they even have their own booth?”
“It’s politics,” said Doyle. “There are many Poles who don’t accept the dissolution of the Congress Poland in 1865, and work toward autonomy or even independence. The French aren’t overly friendly with the Russians at the moment, and so they found it convenient to allow these nationalists their own exhibit.”
The agents were shown inside and escorted into a cramped room in the back. They didn’t have to wait long; shortly after they settled into their chairs, a petite blonde woman with blue eyes walked in, carrying a medium-sized suitcase.
The men got up from their seats, and Curie rushed forward and tried to help with her luggage, almost knocking over his chair. The woman waved off the help. She nodded politely to Doyle.
“Gentlemen, meet Maria Sklodowska, an up-and-coming inventor and physicist,” said Doyle.
The men introduced themselves. Curie, usually cool and collected, stammered and almost mispronounced his own name.
“Miss Sklodowska and I spoke earlier and she has agreed to help us. She invented a device that will be extremely useful at the summit,” said Doyle. “Would you please show them?”
“Remember our deal, Mr. Doyle,” said Sklodowska. “I lend you the use of my invention and you get me a position at the science department of the Ministry of Preternatural Affairs.”
“You have my word,” said Doyle. “Given your splendid mind, it is a wonder MacLean hasn’t recruited you already,”
Sklodowska opened the suitcase and retrieved a package wrapped in several layers of cloth. She carefully unfolded the bundle and produced a pair of extra-thick glasses attached by a thin copper wire to a gadget encased in a polished chrome box the size of a notebook.
She proudly held out the contraption, glasses in one hand and the gadget in another. “This machine can analyze heart rate, speech patterns, perspiration, and dozens of other metrics from any person I observe through the attached lenses. The computational engine within studies this information faster than a human being ever could. It’s capable of making ten raised to the power of a hundred calculations per day, which is why I named the technology Googol Glasses. I refer to the device as the truth detector, for the benefit of the mathematically challenged.”
“You mean to tell us that you are able to determine whether someone’s lying by merely glancing at them through this contraption?” asked Wells.
“
It takes a few moments to establish a baseline, but yes. It can determine one’s sincerity with amazing accuracy,” said Sklodowska.
“Of all the wondrous inventions and mighty weapons of the modern age, this may be the most dangerous I’ve seen yet,” said Doyle. “The princes and magnates of today will not accept lightly the existence of a scientific method for determining their probity.”
“You’re right, of course,” said Curie. “But it certainly serves our immediate needs. We shall interview the members of each agency and see if we can catch any of the clandestine bastards in their lies.” Curie paused. “A lie detector. I think I like the sound of that better.”
“I think not,” said Sklodowska. “It has been my experience that anyone worth examining articulates many more lies than truths. You search for the needle in a haystack, not for the hay surrounding the needle.”
“The truth detector it is, then,” said Wells. “To be frank, I don’t care if you call it Suzie, so long as it helps us recover the transmitter.”
After a brief strategy session, the men left the Poland booth.
“What was that, in there?” Wells asked Curie. “I’ve never seen you so skittish around women before.”
“I’ve never met such a brilliant woman,” said Curie. “And she’s incredibly beautiful, too.” Curie walked in the sort of a happy trance that can only be inflicted by Cupid’s arrow. “Do you think she might agree to have dinner with me, after this heist business is over and dealt with?”
The envoys from the world’s top clandestine agencies listened intently as Wells and Curie recounted the events of that morning. A dozen men and women were seated around a long conference table, with the two young agents speaking from the front of the room. Sklodowska was introduced as a secretary who suffered from astigmatism. She sat inconspicuously in the corner, observing the gathering through her lenses and meddling with the device they were attached to.
H. G. Wells, Secret Agent Page 3