Island of Doom

by Arthur Slade

  “Ah, Ingrid, that is an intriguing idea, but far too time consuming. And I need the extra soldiers here. You may head southwest now—there are materials in New Zealand. I shall contact you en route if your orders change.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then she left him and made her way to the airship tower near the dock. The Hera could make the journey to New Zealand in four days. She commanded her pilot to start the engines and her crew to load supplies. The sooner she was in the air, the better she would feel.

  8

  Operating on Instinct

  Modo sat at a table in the open-air section of Le Grand’s café, wondering if his shivering was from the breeze or nervousness. Octavia seemed aloof this morning, though they had shared the occasional word about the weather or how different Paris was from London. She’d said she didn’t like the smell of the city and he’d said it was no worse than the Thames. They’d said little since.

  Their fellow diners were all engaged in animated conversations. Modo was pleased to find that he understood most of the French he overheard. He noticed too that everyone was very fashionable; he’d never seen such an array of ladies’ hats in England. Everything in Paris was remarkably stylish, from the people to their fiacre carriages; even the tables of the café were a fancy wrought iron topped with glass.

  He searched the crowd for Colette, expecting her to appear at any moment. He’d decided to shift into what he called the Knight face, the one that she’d seen before, so she’d be able to recognize him.

  “I like the Doctor face better,” Octavia suddenly said.

  “Better than what?”

  “Than this one,” she said. “It was more sophisticated.”

  “Well, I’m sorry that I don’t look sophisticated enough for your taste.”

  “No, it’s me who is sorry, husband.” She didn’t seem to be sorry. He could only presume it was the impending arrival of Colette that was responsible for her change in mood. It had been a good journey here. She’d even exclaimed how beautiful Paris was when they first stepped off the train from the port of Le Havre. But since they’d woken this morning she’d been nitpicking. In all his years of education, why hadn’t he thought to ask Mrs. Finchley to explain the female mind?

  They continued to wait in silence. At a quarter to one Octavia began tapping her teaspoon on the table.

  “Must you do that?” Modo asked.

  “Ah, sorry, husband. I forgot how jangled your nerves are.”

  “I am not jangled!”

  But he was and he knew it. Had Colette given up on waiting here for him? He’d traveled as quickly as possible after receiving the letter. Of course, she had probably assumed he’d be traveling from England, not Canada.

  “Your French mistress is late,” Octavia noted.

  “She’s not my mistress, Tavia.”

  “Well, you certainly were in a hurry to cross the Atlantic to see her.”

  “You know why I—”

  “Modo, I thought you would be alone,” a young woman’s voice interrupted him.

  Modo and Octavia turned to see Colette standing behind them. She was thinner, wearing a black hat and dress, as if on her way to a funeral. She held a tan briefcase. A colored ribbon tied back her hair, but her eyes had dark circles under them and her cheeks looked sunken. “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Milkweed,” she said, her accent clipping the consonants coldly.

  “Yes,” Octavia agreed with mock geniality, “a most welcome pleasure.”

  “And it is wonderful to see you, Modo.” She grabbed Modo’s shoulder with a firm grip, and her voice softened. “It has been far too long since I last set eyes on you.”

  “It has?” Modo said. “I mean, it’s wonderful to see you.”

  “Are the two of you married again?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Octavia answered.

  “Only for show,” Modo added. “Please join us.”

  Colette walked around them and sat down, waving over a waiter to order coffee. “I’ve not had fish for eleven months now,” she said, laughing. It was, of course, a reference to what she and Modo had been eating on the Ictíneo when last they’d met. “Strictly beef and chicken.”

  “You could do with adding a few pounds,” Octavia said, feigning concern.

  “I appreciate your suggestion,” Colette replied, dusting a few crumbs off the table, “but I like to stay lean and hungry.” She was as beautiful as Modo remembered, and yet she’d lost more than weight—a certain vibrancy, perhaps? Her air of invincibility?

  “I avoid fish,” Modo admitted, giving her his full attention.

  Colette leaned toward him. “Let us get to the matter at hand, shall we? The French secret service is looking for others who are like you, Modo. It is a top priority.”

  Octavia set her cup of coffee down right between them with a clatter and said, “Who would be leading that search? You?”

  “I—uh—am a member of the team.”

  “So this could just be an elaborate trap to capture Modo.”

  “It’s exactly that,” Colette said, narrowing her eyes to slits. “With a snap of my fingers armed agents will sweep down and surround us. They’ll haul you, Miss Milkweed, off to jail, cotton stuffed in your snide mouth, and drag Modo to our interrogation rooms on Rue de la Mercy.” She lifted her hand and snapped her fingers, drawing the attention of a nearby waiter. She waved him away, laughing bitterly at his confusion. “I do not expect to gain your trust, Miss Weed de la Milk. But I do hope that Modo will remember our previous, shall we say, adventures and the pact we made.”

  “And what sort of pact was that?” Octavia glared at Modo.

  “Umm …” He looked to the sky and cleared his throat. He scoured his brain for the answer. Octavia was often vexing, but Colette’s presence made him doubly vexed. He could barely think straight. “Did we swear to help each other survive?”

  “Yes, you remember!” Colette said. “Good. Good. It was not an oath I took lightly. I come not as an agent for my country, Modo, but as a friend to you. I owe you.”

  Owe me? For what? Modo was confused. Couldn’t she meet his eyes for longer than a few seconds at a time?

  “Your parents are living in the country; I’ve been able to ascertain that much.”

  Modo’s heart sped up and this disturbed him. It was important to keep his emotions in check. “Please tell me what you know.”

  “I’ve done a great amount of research, Modo. I discovered accounts of your birth. I even interviewed a witness.”

  “A witness to my birth?” Modo asked, flabbergasted. “A relative?” Maybe he had an aunt. Or even a grandmother.

  “No, not a relative. A midwife. Her name was Marie.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She … uh … verified that you were born. And that you were … well … she was affected by your appearance.”

  Just as you were, Modo thought.

  “How can you be certain she was describing Modo’s birth?” Octavia asked.

  “I am certain—unless there is more than one child with Modo’s unusual abilities. How old are you, Modo?”

  “My age? I can’t be certain. I’m sixteen, at least.”

  “No, Modo. You’re fifteen. Your birthday is November 1, 1858.”

  “You’re only fifteen!” Octavia exclaimed. “I thought you were older than me.”

  “I’m wiser,” Modo snapped. Then he couldn’t help himself: he smiled broadly. He had an actual birth date! He’d never once celebrated his birthday. “May I interview this midwife? Was she a friend of my parents? What other information does she have?”

  Colette sucked in her lips for a moment and stared into her coffee cup. “I’m afraid interviewing her will be impossible: she’s dead. Drowned in the Seine.” Modo sat back, dazed, but Colette went on. “And a librarian who was a great aid to me in my research also died, after falling off the roof of the library. One wonders how he got there. And finally, a Father Mauger, who was the records master for Notre Dame
de Paris, is also dead.”

  “Death certainly likes to follow you around,” Octavia said.

  “Who committed these murders?” Modo asked.

  “Two foreign agents, Lime and Typhon. I know for certain they killed the priest. I can only assume they murdered the others. The leader, Lime, spoke English.”

  “They were British?” Modo asked.

  “Well, Lime spoke with an Irish lilt. He seemed somewhat mad: spouting poetry and such, even as I pointed my pistol at him.”

  “That sounds Irish to me,” Octavia said.

  Colette set down her cup and tapped a finger several times on the table. “I am certain that they were members of the Clockwork Guild.”

  “How did you come to that conclusion?” Octavia asked.

  “Instinct.”

  “Instinct? Are we to trust your flighty instinct?”

  Colette wagged her finger. “Only one of you was invited, my dear. And I have learned to trust my instincts. Furthermore, the methods of these killers were more than brutal; one of the hallmarks of the Clockwork Guild.”

  “What exactly were they searching for?” Modo asked.

  “Information about you, my friend. They’ve retrieved your submission forms from Father Mauger.”

  “My what?” Modo said.

  “The Notre Dame submission forms from 1858,” Colette replied.

  “Which are?” Octavia said.

  “Forms that parents sign giving their children up to Notre Dame. Most just abandon their offspring on the steps, but there are a few who want to officially hand the child over to the church. These papers may have contained valuable information. Shortly after your birth, Modo, your parents changed their names and left Nanterre. The question is for where? And what are their new names?”

  “What was my—their last name?”

  “It was Hébert. They were potters.”

  Modo paused. Potters! His parents made cookware? How … how normal. He had pictured his father as a doctor or a military officer, something impressive. But a simple potter?

  “Well,” Octavia said, “since these enemy agents have all the information, are we stuck just twiddling our thumbs?”

  “No. There are other French agents besides me who are working on this case. They have put together an index of names and occupations of residents in the villages surrounding Paris. There’s a high probability that Modo’s parents’ new names are on that list.”

  “Why don’t you just go take a look at their list, then?” Octavia asked.

  Colette let out a long sigh, and for a moment, Modo thought he saw her eyes become moist. She straightened her shoulders and set her jaw. “I have been discharged from the agency.”

  Octavia shot Modo a glance.

  “But why?” Modo asked, averting his eyes from his colleague. She was too quick to jump to conclusions.

  “They considered the Ictíneo assignment a failure,” Colette admitted, “and no one would believe me about the underwater city of New Barcelona. We don’t have submarines capable of diving to that depth. They even insinuated that I was imagining the Clockwork Guild. And they … well … let us just say I was not always the best agent after that. They no longer trusted me.”

  “They are wise men,” Octavia said.

  Colette stood up, as if to leave. Modo stood up too, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Please sit. Octavia, despite her demeanor, wants to get to the bottom of this as much as I. Don’t you, Tavia?” He shot her a glance and she gave him a grim nod. “How do we get this information from your former comrades?” Modo asked.

  “That’s where your spectacular talents come in.” Colette’s voice was suddenly energized again, the vitality that Modo remembered returning to her face. She placed her briefcase on the table. “I would like you to assume another persona, break into a building, and steal the information.”

  “Whose persona?” Modo asked.

  “And which building?” Octavia added.

  “The Deuxième Bureau, our spy agency. And the person I want you to impersonate is Directeur Bélanger, the agency’s head.”

  Modo met Colette’s eyes. She was clearly enjoying the shock on their faces.

  9

  A Slight Skip of the Heart

  Colette gave directions to the fiacre driver, then allowed Modo to hold the carriage door for both her and Octavia. The folding roof was open, letting in the warm September sun. As they sat on the cushioned bench, a luxury Colette was extremely thankful for, she pointed out a few of the sights, hoping that her descriptions weren’t too forced. He is here! He is right here across from me!

  The moment she’d seen Modo there had been a slight skip to her heartbeat. He was wearing the face she’d known on the Ictíneo, but something about it had changed, or her memory of it was different. She was also surprised that she had difficulty meeting his eyes. She remembered them with utmost clarity. Once, in jest, she had called them soulful, but it was a word she would use again, this time with sincerity. In Paris. She’d been waiting for him for so long, checking at Le Hôtel Grand every day. As the weeks passed she’d begun to believe her letter had not been delivered.

  She had imagined his arrival often, with anticipation and a little fear. What if she broke down again? But, mercifully, that hadn’t happened. And now it was as though no time had passed, even though it had been almost a year since their last meeting.

  “Enough of this tourist talk,” Octavia said. “We need to get to the meat of our visit to your fair country.”

  “What a … pleasant way of putting it,” Colette whispered. “Then let us get to the meat.” Colette remembered well Octavia’s protectiveness of Modo, or rather, her possessiveness—that was a better word. “We are nearly at the bureau.”

  The carriage turned down the Rue de la Mercy and she thumped brusquely on the side of the car. The driver stopped in front of a tall iron fence. Beyond it was a structure Colette knew all too well. From the outside it appeared to be an ordinary seven-story rectangular building; the architects had taken pains to make it look exactly like a textile factory. In reality it was the very heart of French espionage; from here the bureau’s tentacles ran throughout Europe and across the oceans.

  Inside those walls Colette had spent far too many hours sifting through paper, searching for clues, taking orders from oafs whose minds worked at half the speed of hers.

  “This is the building you will enter, Modo.” She spoke quietly so the driver wouldn’t overhear. “It is the Deuxième Bureau de l’État-major Général, or in English, since I know Octavia doesn’t understand our beautiful language, it means ‘Second Bureau of the General Staff.’ It is the center of our military intelligence.”

  “Hmmph.” Octavia gave a dramatic sniff. “It’s rather plain.”

  “That is the point.” Colette spoke slowly, as though explaining something to a child. “Did you expect a big sign saying French Spies Inside?”

  Colette was pleased to hear Modo chuckle. Octavia looked out the window. Colette opened her briefcase and pulled out her dossier. “I have a photograph of Directeur Bélanger, though it is ten years old, so you’ll have to age yourself appropriately.”

  Modo examined the photo. “I assume you also have his height, a description of the type of clothing he typically wears, jewelry, his manner of carrying himself, and his personal habits.”

  “It is all listed in great detail.”

  “And, while I am Mr. Bélanger, would you like me to reinstate you to your position?” Modo asked, cheekily.

  Though Colette enjoyed that he could be so flippant at such a time, she could not imagine working for the agency again. “I am done with them. I do hope your French has improved.”

  “It is adequate. But there are many other more worrisome and unpredictable matters. For example, Bélanger would know most everyone in that building. Whom do I acknowledge? Which individuals are his close colleagues? There are too many relationships to understand, faces to know on sight. Normally I spend weeks memorizin
g the interactions of my targets.”

  “Monsieur Bélanger is—how do you English say?—gruff. He ignores everyone—his wife, his agents. He even kept le président waiting for several hours once.”

  “He sounds typically French to me,” Octavia said.

  Colette continued. “Your mission will be less complicated if you enter the building at night. Most of the staff are finished by early evening. You’ll stride right in and take the papers and return to us with a canary-eating grin on your face. Did I say that right?”

  Modo smiled. “Yes, you did!” That face, Colette thought, that face was so handsome and yet she knew what lay beneath it. No, she reminded herself, the beautiful face was the mask.

  She managed to return the smile as she handed him the dossier. “First we’ll go to a tailor,” she said.

  “Well,” Modo said, “with the two of you picking my clothes I should be the sharpest dresser in all of Paris.”

  10

  The Root of All Evil

  It was perhaps the most boring week Mr. Socrates had endured. He’d spent nearly every waking moment in his office ferreting through information brought to him by Cook and Footman in the hope of gleaning some telling detail about the Clockwork Guild’s location. Mrs. Finchley would bring him tea and meals, clearing the plates without him even noticing. Tharpa would cajole him into a short constitutional to clear his mind. Data gathering was something Mr. Socrates had always abhorred during his life in the military, but it was a necessary evil of his job. From data came conclusions and from conclusions came action.

  A few months earlier he’d have had his team of trusted “ferrets,” as he called the clerks who worked for him, sift through the newspapers and documents. Instead, he was reading shipping records, passenger lists, market trends, even patents. He wanted to know the prices of metals and the places where they were being bought. Fools often said that money was the root of all evil, but Mr. Socrates knew better. It was metals. If there was anything that drove the vital mechanizations of war it was metal. First for swords. Then cannons. And finally iron-hulled ships.