Sandherr accepted the phonograph and passed it along to one of his men. “If Verne is a traitor, we shall interrogate him ourselves, and inform you of the results.”
MacLean advanced on Sandherr and stared him down. “You listen to me,” she waved an index finger in his face, “that pathetic excuse of a man stole something that belongs to the Crown, and he did it in the hopes of besmirching my agency’s stellar reputation on the world stage.
“If you impede me from doing my job and recovering the transmitter, I shall return the favor in kind and let the entire world know just how badly you people screwed up. And I will keep letting them know this until there is so much opprobrium for your government that people everywhere will henceforth choose to refer to their lunch bread as freedom baguettes.”
Sandherr flinched, swallowed hard, and then nodded and stepped out of MacLean’s way.
THE CASE OF THE YELLOW SUBMARINE
Wells cursed the fates, Verne, and especially MacLean, as he navigated his way through the ramshackle shipping docks at the edge of town, along the coast of the Seine. He tried to shake the fog from his head, breathing deeply of the early morning air which smelled of fish and rot and a hint of sulfur.
Wells had managed two hours of sleep before he'd been roused by a messenger. MacLean summoned him to an urgent meeting, but instead of the British embassy, the coachman brought him all the way out here. Wells winced as the river mud splattered his expensive shoes and the bottom of his trousers.
The coachman held the door open and motioned for Wells to step inside a wooden warehouse on the water’s edge. It extended a dozen yards into the river, partially covering a pier.
Inside, Wells discovered that a submersible the size of a stagecoach was docked at the pier. Its hull was painted bright yellow. A dozen workers milled around it, welding and tinkering, and causing a loud racket unwelcome by Wells’s sleep-deprived brain. MacLean was engaged in an animated discussion with Alfred Nobel, the agency’s official armourer. Nobel was valued for his scientific genius and trusted implicitly, despite being a foreigner in the most British of clandestine services.
A few steps away from the Ministra and the armourer stood Arthur Conan Doyle, Pierre Curie, and Maria Sklodowska. All of them looked like they needed rest as much as Wells did, but at least they were drinking coffee. They had somehow procured oversized ceramic mugs that looked almost like steins, not the tiny, dainty porcelain cups favored by the Parisian bakeries. Doyle was kind enough to have one ready and filled for his friend.
Wells gratefully accepted the mug and drank. The coffee was lukewarm and bitter, and just what he needed. “Why are we here?” he asked.
“I think we’re about to find out.” Doyle nodded at MacLean and Nobel, who were making their way toward the group.
“Good morning,” said MacLean. Wells was almost certain that she hadn’t slept at all, but she didn’t show it. MacLean looked as sharp and intimidating as ever.
MacLean nodded toward the table by the wall that housed a small breakfast spread and Nobel headed over to get her a cup. “We know where the transmitter is. Verne accepted an extra-large bribe in exchange for lending it to an Austrian neurologist named Sigmund Freud.”
“The transmitter is in Vienna?” Curie nearly spilled his drink.
Wells knew that the relationship between France and the Austro-Hungarian Empire was already strained, and such a development would only make things more difficult for everyone involved.
MacLean fixed the French agent with a withering gaze until he got the hint that the Ministra didn’t appreciate being interrupted. “Verne is an opportunist, but he isn’t a fool,” she said. “He didn’t let the transmitter leave the country. Well, not precisely. Freud wanted to conduct some experiment that requires the alien technology inside the transmitter, so Verne set up a secure base on a small island off the coast of Normandy, where his loyalists are present to keep an eye on both Freud and the transmitter.”
Nobel returned and handed MacLean a cup of tea. She was too properly British to consider ingesting any other caffeinated drink in a civilized setting.
She smiled at the armourer and took a sip, the liquid white with an abundance of milk and sugar. “I want the transmitter retrieved and placed back atop the tower by the time the World’s Fair opens to the public, and I want this handled quietly. Since the four of you are already aware of the particulars of this case, I would prefer to have you undertake this mission instead of me reading in additional staff.
“Mr. Doyle, Mr. Wells, you have your orders.” MacLean looked at Curie. “Agent Curie, you are on loan to us, courtesy of Coloner Sandherr, who’s succeeded Verne as the director of the Deuxième Bureau. Understood?”
“What is to happen to Verne?” asked Curie.
“Our governments have jointly decided it was best to avoid a scandal. He will retire from public service and live out the rest of his life quietly.” She winced. “Writing adventure books.”
MacLean turned her attention to Sklodowska. “Young lady, you’re under no obligation to help us whatsoever. Even so, you have proven to be a valuable asset, and I would be glad to have your participation, should you choose to volunteer it.”
The two women studied each other briefly. “I don’t relish leaving matters unfinished,” said Sklodowska. “I’m in.”
“You shall travel to the îles Saint-Marcouf via submarine,” said MacLean. “It is both expeditious and furtive. The submersible has been loaded with food, maps, and supplies. If you leave now, you will arrive at the shores of île du Large before sunrise tomorrow.”
“This beauty is an experimental model. It can navigate the Seine’s shallow waters and move fast for its size,” said Nobel. “Up to twenty kilometers per hour!”
Everyone turned and looked at the little submarine.
“Why is it yellow?” asked Wells.
Nobel coughed then adjusted his jacket. “The original design had the unfortunate tendency to power down and to sink. The bright exterior makes it easier to find and dredge out from the bottom of the river, you see. But don’t worry; I’m almost certain we’ve since worked all those issues out.”
“This is a mistake,” Wells said suddenly.
“I assure you, this vessel is shipshape,” retorted Nobel.
“Not that,” said Wells. “The secrecy, the lies… This summit was supposed to be about fostering the cooperation between the world’s clandestine services. Yet here we are, with limited resources and time, and only because we wish to preserve face.” He looked MacLean straight in the eye. “If we can’t bring ourselves to work with the others on something like this, what chance do we have in uniting against the real threats, in the future?”
Everyone waited for the famous MacLean temper to well up, to explode, but she frowned and took a long, deliberate sip of her tea.
“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Wells,” she finally said, “but you have your orders.”
“I was hoping it would somehow turn out to be bigger on the inside,” said Wells.
The cabin of the submarine was cramped and uncomfortable. It could barely seat the four of them. The agents suffered through a twenty-hour journey, north via the river Seine and then due west in the deeper waters of the English Channel.
Wells managed several catnaps, but he was sore and achy, and eager to disembark. He looked over at Sklodowska, who appeared even less comfortable, shifting in her hard-backed seat.
“Not the glamorous life of a secret agent you imagined, is it?” said Wells.
“I respect what you do,” said Sklodowska, “but I don’t romanticize it. I have no interest in being a field agent. I just want a job at the Ministry lab.”
“Why do you want to work for the Crown, anyway? You aren’t British.” Wells crossed his hands behind his neck, stretching the arm muscles.
“Aren’t you the ones always claiming to work for the benefit of the entire world?” countered Sklodowska. “It’s quite simple, really. I’m a scientist. Your minist
ry has access to the best cutting-edge science out there, so that’s where I belong.”
“You seem to be doing fine on your own,” said Wells, pointing at the suitcase housing the Googol Glasses machine.
“I’ve grown adept at reverse-engineering otherworldly tech,” said Sklodowska. “Can you imagine how different our world would be today if aliens, and time travelers, and inter-dimensional beings hadn’t begun showing up with increasing frequency around the time Victoria was crowned queen?
“We could have been great on our own, could have ushered in the age of copper and steam, and sparked the second industrial revolution. I could have studied physics, or chemistry, or engineering, and truly created something original. Instead, we’re all reduced to fighting over scraps of somebody else’s contraptions. Scavenging parts to put together a gadget like this,” she pointed to the suitcase, “is pretty much all a scientist can aspire to these days. There’s little sense in trying to invent something new when you know with absolute certainty that there already exist versions of the same technology so advanced, they’re practically indistinguishable from magic.”
Wells thought it over, trying to imagine the world without the technological wonders. A world without the Ministry. A smaller world. Would an alternate version of him amount to anything in such a place? He didn’t much like the idea.
“We should be right here,” Doyle pointed at the two dots on the map, well off the coast of Europe. He spread the map out as wide as the tiny cabin would allow while Curie piloted the miniature vessel.
“Well, we aren’t,” said Curie. “There’s nothing around but water and more water. You must be reading the map wrong.”
“I’ll have you know that I’m a master navigator,” said Doyle. “Perhaps if you were to keep a steadier hand on the ship wheel—”
“Boys, boys,” Sklodowska interjected before the argument could escalate. “There is no reason to assign blame. Not when the three of you and your spy games are clearly responsible for me being cooped up in this underwater dinghy with stale air and limited toilet facilities. I’m going to take out my frustration on somebody, and you better hope we reach Verne’s men before that happens, or my options will be limited to the persons present.” She smiled sweetly at her traveling companions.
Curie gripped the wheel tighter. “Just keep looking,” he told Doyle.
“I am looking. It’s not like we can pull over and ask for directions,” said Doyle, but he redoubled his efforts.
By the time the yellow submarine emerged at the shore of île du Large, it was almost dawn.
A number of small boats were grounded on the beach. A larger steamship was anchored in deep water, between île du Large and île de Terre, the smaller of the two Malcouf islands.
A circular fort dominated the center of the island. A moat was dug around it, carving out most of the island grounds in an uneven hexagon. Only patches of rocky beach and some areas of wild grass, beaten down by the strong winds and growing almost parallel to the soil, remained on the outside. The high stone walls surrounding the area on the inside of the moat and the towering fort above them made the structure look like a medieval castle.
“Why do they need a moat on an island surrounded by leagues of ocean water?” asked Sklodowska.
“It must be peer pressure,” said Curie. “Every self-respecting villain has to have a moat these days. I was on a mission in Belgium once, where the moat was filled with sharks which had Gatling guns grafted onto their heads.”
“How did you get past that?” asked Wells.
“We threw some meat scraps into the water, causing a feeding frenzy, which resulted in a shooting frenzy. Gatling sharks are a terribly inefficient security system.”
The agents docked the submarine at a raggedy wooden pier which extended from the shore, connecting to the road that led to the only egress point of the fort. There was nowhere to hide the bright-yellow submersible anyway. They’d have to rely on speed and the element of surprise to accomplish their mission. The four of them disembarked and headed up toward the fort entrance just as the first glimpse of the rising sun painted the Eastern horizon in brighter hues.
“Halt!” A single sentry posted in the guard tower inside the gate rubbed his eyes and peered into the night, trying to decipher the identities of the four strangers who had somehow appeared on the uninhabited island.
“It’s me, Pierre,” said Curie. “Verne sent us.”
The sentry climbed down from his perch above the wall and opened a metal peep hole in the gate. He held up a dim lantern, producing just enough light to make out Curie’s facial features.
“What’s the password?” asked the sentry.
Wells and Doyle exchanged a glance. The treacherous Verne mentioned nothing about a password, and they knew it would be impossible to guess. Agency protocols required each pass code to be at least eight characters long, and contain both letters and numbers.
“Philippe? Philippe Pétain?” said Curie. “Don’t you recognize me? We were on the Ivory Coast mission together.”
“Sure, sure,” said Pétain, “Yet, the regulations—”
“Of course,” Curie interjected smoothly. “But I can’t very well say the password in front of my subordinates.” He pointed at the rest of the group. “They haven’t got the clearance. Let us in. It’s nasty and cold out here.”
Wells winced, expecting the sentry to demand that Curie whisper the password to him through the peephole. But there must’ve been a reason this henchman was assigned to overnight duty guarding a gate on an uninhabited island, and Curie seemed to know it. After a few seconds’ wait, the door opened and the four agents were admitted inside.
Pétain held the door open as the four of them piled into the guard tower. Pétain followed them in and his eyes grew wide when he recognized the British agents.
Before the sentry had a chance to react, Curie moved closer, and pressed a long, thin dagger against the man’s throat. “Screaming would be very bad for your health, friend. Do yourself a favor and hear me out, all right?”
Pétain turned pale, but didn’t shout. He nodded very carefully, making sure the blade didn’t pierce his skin.
“Verne is no longer in charge, and everyone involved in this mess will be in serious trouble, likely kicked out of the Bureau and possibly arrested.” Curie paused, allowing his captive a moment to process the news.
“I was just following orders,” said Pétain.
“That’s what every one of them is going to say,” said Wells. “An excuse that defeated bad guys have fallen back on with remarkable consistency, throughout history. Do you think the judge will not have heard it before?”
Pétain said nothing. He chewed his lip and strained to keep away from the sharp edge of the blade.
“Help us now, and we’ll put in a good word,” said Curie.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Pétain.
Curie withdrew the blade and nodded to Sklodowska, who put on her Googol Glasses. “Where is the transmitter?”
“Inside.” Pétain pointed toward the round building at the center of the island. “Freud has it hooked up to some sort of strange contraption he built. It’s ready to go; they were just waiting for the last of the children to arrive.”
“Children?” Wells leaned in, fists clenched.
“Freud said he won’t hurt them!” Pétain raised his palms.
“He’s experimenting on children? What sort of an experiment? What is Freud doing here?” Wells was ready to punch the sniveling guard. Doyle put his hand firmly on Wells’s shoulder to hold him back.
“All I know is that Freud claims his machine can turn people into super-soldiers. He needed the alien tech in the transmitter to help make it work, and he brought in a half dozen young children because he said his invention doesn’t work on the brain chemistry of adults.” Pétain spoke rapidly, and kept a wary eye on Wells.
“Where are they?” Wells growled.
“Everybody but me is inside the f
ort,” said Pétain.
Doyle produced a sheet of paper and a pencil. “Draw us a map.”
The agents left the hapless guard tied up in the tower. He may have switched his allegiance based on the news they shared, but he hadn’t earned their trust.
Armed with Pétain’s crude schematic of the fort, the four of them slipped into the large circular structure. Designed as the barracks for the French troops in the early 1800s, the building was capable of housing up to 500 people. There were plenty of rooms on the ground level as well as a staircase leading to several more underground. Everyone must have been still asleep – the agents traversed the empty hall and followed Pétain’s directions to the room which housed Freud’s lab.
The machine inside was enormous. Brass tubes connected a mish-mash of large gear blocks, powered alternatively by steam, electrical current, and energies so obviously foreign to this world that Wells felt the twinges of a headache developing each time he would spend more than a moment or two staring at those components.
There was a round metal platform placed in the center of the lab two steps above floor level. A rifle-like barrel was suspended at an angle above the platform, aimed squarely at its center. And attached to the oblong module that connected the barrel to all the other parts spread across the room was the transmitter.
“This is spectacular,” said Sklodowska. She raced around the room, studying the components and touching the tubes that connected them, her irises wide.
“What does this monstrosity do?” asked Doyle.
“I have no idea,” said Sklodowska as she crouched to examine an array of dials built into one of the panels, “but the way it melds human and otherworldly technologies is more advanced than anything I have ever seen.”
Curie shrugged. “You’ve seen one mad scientist’s lair, you’ve seen them all.”
H. G. Wells, Secret Agent Page 5