by Arthur Slade
Already the Horn of Africa was sinking behind the ship. It was certainly warmer this far south, but he still shivered. A waiter brought him a soothing cup of tea and he drank it. They did have good tea on the Rome!
Modo wanted to go back to his cabin and read, but Octavia would probably accuse him of sulking. So to pass the time he watched the other passengers. He rehearsed their names and occupations. Then he matched all the men with their wives. Except for the priest, of course. These were the elite of British society. He wondered if any other members of the Permanent Association were on board. For all he knew, everyone on the ship was an agent of Mr. Socrates. Modo laughed nervously. Wouldn’t that be something?
And what about enemy agents? With that in mind, he surveyed the seated passengers.
The priest would be a reasonable guess, as his collar would make him seem trustworthy, but the man was at least sixty and had a friendly manner when Modo chatted with him. He certainly enjoyed talking about birds. No, it would be too obvious to dress up like a priest. A doctor, now, that might be a good disguise. Unless someone suddenly became ill—then you’d have to prove you were a doctor.
Mr. Carpenter was sitting alone, but very near Mr. Socrates, who was in conversation with the ship’s captain. He leaned slightly toward the two men as though listening in. Modo ran through his memory of the past month on the ship. He’d seen the man many times and he was usually alone. He’d been sketching out on the deck, so he was some sort of an artist. Modo had never heard him speak. The fact that he was alone might indicate he was a solitary agent.
Mr. Carpenter glanced at Modo, their eyes meeting for a moment; then he nodded and went back to looking out at the ocean. After a few minutes Mr. Carpenter stood and walked down the deck toward the cabins.
Modo waited several seconds, then followed him. He didn’t know if he was responding to gut instinct or just looking for an excuse to leave the dance.
Mr. Socrates had told him never to put too much stock in gut instinct. “The gut is not the part of the human body that thinks,” he’d explained numerous times. And yet, Modo found himself following the mysterious man.
He watched as Carpenter entered his cabin and closed the door. Modo approached it quietly and stood outside, listening. All was quiet. Then he heard a click like a hammer being cocked on a pistol.
Interesting Scars
Visser crouched next to his cabin door, a loaded, cocked pistol in his right hand. He waited. The young agent, Anthony Reid, had followed him: a bad sign. If he was indeed Modo, then he could assume any face and was immensely strong. His hits at the cricket games proved his strength, but Visser had seen no sign of his transformative abilities. He wasn’t even sure what he should be looking for.
What could the young man know about him? Nothing. Visser had left no clues about his real reasons for being on the ship. So how had one of his enemies ended up on the other side of the door?
In his mind he quickly ran through various possible outcomes of the situation: if there was conflict and Visser shot the agent, he would be easily captured and put up on charges.
Perhaps before it got that far, in the certain confusion, he could swim from the ship to the African coast.
No, no. A gun was too noisy in any case; it might be heard above the orchestra. And besides, he hated swimming.
He’d tinkered with the falcons, but wasn’t sure whether they were wound properly. Contact poison on a knife would do the job, but he hadn’t prepared any poison—and what would he do with the body? He glanced over his shoulder to measure the porthole. It was far too small to push the corpse through. The cabin was a completely inconvenient place to murder anyone. Of course, Visser thought, he could murder him quietly now, then throw him overboard late in the night. He always had garrote wire in his pocket; he’d used it many times before.
Why are you crouching here like a child? he scolded himself. Why not just get to the root of the problem? He went to his bed and placed the gun under the pillow, removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, hoping it would make him look more American. Then he opened the door and pretended to be startled at the sight of the agent.
“Why, good evening, sir.”
“G-good evening,” the young man said, straightening up, as though he’d been listening at the keyhole. “I was just getting some fresh air and paused here for the view. Lovely night for a ball, I must say.”
“Yes, it is,” Visser replied. The agent was taller than he, his shoulders wider. No matter. The garrote would work, so long as he got in proper position behind him. He’d taken down men twice his size. “I must admit I became bored. I’m not so much for waltzing.”
“Neither am I, I’m sorry to say. Are you an American?” the young man asked. “You have an accent.”
“Guilty as charged.” Visser searched the man’s skin for clues of a facial transformation—stretch marks, wrinkles, anything that would point to his being Modo. But he seemed completely normal. Handsome, even. “I moved there with my family when I was a boy.”
“Lovely country.”
“Yes, it is.” Visser had lost count of how many inane conversations he’d had with enemy agents in his lifetime. Next they would be talking about cricket scores.
The young man extended his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Anthony Reid.”
“Howdy, Anthony. I am Albert Carpenter.” Was the “howdy” too much? The young man didn’t react.
They shook hands; Visser found the man’s grip firm.
“Carpenter, is it? Do I also hear a pinch of Dutch in your accent?”
Visser was stunned. He thought he’d eliminated any sign of his accent. “Good ears, my man. I do indeed have the slightest accent,” he said. “Left over from my youth. My father’s last name was Kistemaaker. Quite the mouthful, isn’t it? Ha! It means ‘cabinetmaker.’ He believed it would be easier to fit in with the neighbors if he changed our surname to its American equivalent.” It was always good to have a story. He’d used the name Carpenter before.
“Wise father. May I ask about your scars?”
“Scars?” Visser replied.
“Yes, on your left forearm. I apologize if I’m being too forward. I’m a doctor and am curious about such things. I don’t recognize the scar pattern.”
The man was observant! Visser glanced at the lines on his forearm, some new and pink, others old and white. Most were the result of training the falcons. The birds weren’t always considerate enough to land on the leather guards.
“There’s a mighty interesting story behind them, my friend.” He paused, opening his cabin door wider. “Would you like a whiskey? It’s a tradition when telling this tale.”
“Whiskey? How kind, but I should return to the ball. I’m supposed to be attending to my father.”
“Ah, your father wouldn’t deny you a drink with a new friend, would he? I insist, Mr. Reid.”
The young man smiled. “Well, one, to ‘wet the whistle,’ as they say. That’s very kind of you.”
Visser gestured, letting his guest enter the cabin first, then stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
A Thorny Fence
Modo sat at the small table across from Mr. Carpenter, the Indian Ocean visible out the porthole. He scanned the room: a bed directly behind the man, a closed portmanteau on the floor next to it, several books on the shelves. Everything was neat and tidy. A sketchbook sat open on the table; so he was an artist.
Agreeing to the drink, Modo was quickly realizing, had been foolish. Carpenter had closed the door, though at least it wasn’t locked. The orchestra music would block any sounds of struggle. He was confident he could handle the smallish man if it came to fisticuffs, but there was something agile about the way he moved. He looked older than he’d first appeared, and by the gaslight Modo could now see there were more scars, on his cheek. One drew a white line down the side of his neck. Carpenter had blinked hard when asked about the scars on his arm, a sign that the question both s
urprised and bothered him.
“It’s Jameson whiskey—Irish but good,” Carpenter said as he half-filled two tumblers and set one in front of Modo.
“It certainly is.” Modo placed his hand around the glass but didn’t take a sip. “You had a story to share about your scars. Were you in the military?”
“Gosh, no,” Carpenter said. “Not tough enough for that sort of life. I did work on a ranch as a cowhand when I was younger. I was wretched at that, too. Cut myself with thorny fence, I did.”
“Thorny fence? I’m not familiar with it.”
“A wire fence with barbs that keeps the cattle in. It’s tricky to unwind, and we were attaching it to mules to drag it across a coulee. It wrapped around my arm.”
“How unfortunate.” Modo heard something ticking. He hadn’t seen a clock.
“They fired me the next day,” Carpenter continued. “Just one of many reasons I wasn’t cut out to be a cowhand. I couldn’t ride a horse worth a tinker’s damn. All for the good. I went to college and became an illustrator. I illustrate for small papers.” He pushed the sketchbook toward Modo and flipped the pages. Modo recognized scenes from the ship, recent drawings.
It had been a well-told, perhaps well-rehearsed story, Modo thought. There were even illustrations to prove he was an artist. But there was also a steely determination in the man’s eyes. They didn’t waver, as though he was watching to see if Modo believed him.
“Now that I look at them more closely, your scars remind me of talon scars.” Modo was remembering Octavia’s description of the falconer in Westminster Abbey.
“Talons?”
“Yes, from falcons. There are still a few falconers in England; not everyone has those horrible pigeons.” The ticking was coming from the portmanteau.
“Curious,” Carpenter said, “the only falcons I ever saw were on the ranch in Wyoming. Please drink up, Mr. Reid.”
Modo brought the glass to his lips. The man was watching him intently, too intently. The whiskey was likely poisoned!
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but I just remembered that whiskey disagrees with my stomach. Thank you, in any case. I believe I should return to the ball.”
The man slid back his chair and, before Modo could react, pulled a revolver from under the pillow behind him. Modo recognized it as a Galand, small enough to be easily concealed.
“I think we should continue our conversation,” Carpenter said.
Modo’s heartbeat remained steady and he didn’t blink. He even managed to smile. “I’m amenable to that,” he said. “You choose the topic.”
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
“What’s yours?”
“May I remind you I’m the one with the pistol?” Carpenter waved it nonchalantly.
Modo was hoping he’d come closer so he could swat the gun away.
“My real name is Robert Helmont.” A character from a French novel Modo had recently read. He drew pleasure from dropping literary references before the likes of Carpenter.
“Can you change your appearance, Mr. Helmont?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.” Modo hoped he didn’t look surprised.
“It’s important to me. If you can change your appearance, your shape, I won’t kill you. If you can’t do so, I will.”
“You mean don a disguise?”
“No. I mean a transformation of your actual face and body. I’ll count down from ten.” He cocked the hammer. “Ten. Nine. Eight—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Modo exclaimed. The man was counting far too quickly. Think, Modo! Think!
“Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two—”
“Wait,” Modo said. “I—I’ll do it.”
Carpenter’s eyes lit up with curiosity. Modo cast about in his memory for the right face. The Knight, perhaps?
“I’m growing impatient, Helmont.”
The perfect answer hit Modo and he nearly smiled. He began to shift and change, staring intently at his opponent. He made his nose grow longer, his face grow thinner, and his hair darken.
“Why, that’s unbelievable … it’s …” The gun began to waver, as though Carpenter was becoming weak.
Sweat was dripping down Modo’s forehead by the time he put the final touches on his new face. He’d expended so much energy that his hump was starting to protrude from his back. He ignored it.
“Why … why … you’ve become me!”
Carpenter’s eyes were wide with shock. More importantly, he’d lost his focus.
Modo moved quickly, splashing whiskey in Carpenter’s eyes and knocking the pistol toward the cabin door; then he jumped forward, aiming a fist at the man’s head, a blow intended to knock him out. Carpenter grabbed Modo’s arm and yanked, throwing him off balance. Modo struck the bed and the cabin wall beside it. In the moment it took to right himself, he saw that Carpenter had leapt to the opposite side of the cabin, dragging his portmanteau with him.
His portmanteau? Why hadn’t he gone for his gun?
Leering, Carpenter clicked open the portmanteau and a blur of flashing metal shot toward Modo’s face. He threw up his arms, bashing at the spread wings, but the talons ripped through his clothing and into his flesh. The poisoned talons! How long before the poison took effect? The falcon’s razor-sharp beak went for his eyes as it let go an ear-shattering screech.
He clamped onto its neck and threw the bird to the floor, so hard that pieces flew off and it lay still. Modo was bleeding, but he didn’t feel woozy. Perhaps he hadn’t been poisoned.
“Admirable,” the man said as he finished winding up the remaining falcons with a key. He snapped his fingers and they attacked.
Flushing Out the Enemy
Octavia saw Modo leave the ball and guilt overtook her. But she was in the middle of a long quadrille, and propriety demanded that she stay on the dance floor. Lieutenant Boddle, her dance partner, spun her around, and as she turned she glimpsed Modo halfway down the deck. He appeared to be listening at a cabin door. Then the lieutenant took her hand and spun her again. The next time they danced within sight of the walkway, Modo was gone.
The lieutenant demanded one more dance and, because she couldn’t think of an excuse, she was forced to endure another polka. The man had two lead feet. No, steel, she decided after he had twice stomped on her left foot.
When the polka was done she pressed her hand to her forehead and said, “You’ve twirled me so quickly and with such strength that I’m feeling light-headed.” He seemed to take this as a compliment. “I’m sorry, I must return to my cabin.”
She declined his offer of accompaniment and hurried down the deck. Where had Modo been standing exactly? A metallic screech released a wave of fear inside her. She knew that sound! It was coming from a cabin a few doors away. She ran to it and heard the struggle going on inside.
Yanking open the cabin door, she found a man dodging two metal falcons; the third bird was on the floor. The man’s face was unfamiliar, but he was wearing the same suit that Modo had worn. Modo had changed his face again!
A man with the same face—the real face, Octavia assumed—was on the opposite side of the cabin, waving his arms about. The falconer!
She spied a pistol on the floor. She scooped it up: a Galand. She leveled it at the falconer and shouted, “Stop your birds!”
The man regarded her calmly. He made a clicking noise in the back of his throat and one of the falcons turned in midair and darted in Octavia’s direction. She swung the pistol over and pulled the trigger, and the bullet struck the bird’s head and glanced off, sparks flying. The falcon shot past her, smacking her with a metal wing.
By the time she had her wits about her again, Modo was throwing one of the falcons through the porthole and the man was rushing at her. She raised the pistol, but he knocked her over before she could get a shot off. She rolled on the deck and aimed the gun again, just in time to see the man jump over the railing.
She ran and looked over the side of the
ship, but he had disappeared into the ocean. It was too dark to see him in the water. The falconer was gone.
Turning, she saw Modo in the doorway of the cabin, his sleeves bloody and tattered—but he was alive. The orchestra was still playing and people continued to dance. No one had noticed the battle.
Modo stumbled to her, trying to fasten the button on a shredded shirtsleeve.
“You’re wounded!” she said, taking his arm. “Good Lord, you might be poisoned.”
“If I were I’d be dead now,” he said, finally getting the button to work. “Assuming it was the same poison he used on Fred Land. Did I really see him jump ship?”
“Yes. He’s in the water, soon to be shark food, I hope. How did you flush him out?”
“With whiskey,” Modo said with a laugh. It was so odd to hear his voice coming out of a stranger’s mouth. Despite his flippancy, he was leaning over and obviously tired. She thought he might have a hunch in his back. “Let’s take a quick look through his room before anyone notices anything.”
In the cabin, Modo placed the broken clockwork falcon in the portmanteau along with the sketchbook. Octavia found a tin box with three clockwork spiders inside. She snapped it shut.
“We must inform Mr. Socrates,” she said. “He’ll want to see this.”
As they made their way to his cabin, Octavia felt that familiar exhilaration that made her love her life as a secret agent. She could have been killed at any moment during the struggle, and yet she had won again!
“My dear Modo,” she said, “I must point out to you that for the third time I have saved your life.”
“No, no, no,” he said, “I had everything under control!”
Then they began to laugh.
An Outlandish Request
Visser landed with a splash in the darkness and immediately kicked off his shoes to begin the long swim toward the coast. The decision to take to the water had been made for him. Perhaps he could have killed one of them, but taking both down at the same time would have been extremely difficult. Inevitably, he would have been captured.