Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) (6 page)

Miss Hakkandottir didn’t know exactly what the plan was, but she suspected it was larger than bringing the pompous British Empire to its knees. She sometimes wondered if it was the Guild Master’s intent to control every single government in the world. A foolish thought, for who could exert such power? Even Alexander the Great had failed to accomplish it.

Though the Guild Master was small and lean, Miss Hakkandottir feared him. For his mind could outpace hers a hundred times over. And though his face was pleasant, behind those glasses his eyes were ice. Rarely did he express anything resembling an emotion. Many years before, when she’d been captain of a Chinese pirate ship, she’d first been summoned to his Hong Kong lair. It had stunned her to discover that this nondescript white man was at the heart of a massive criminal organization that ran half of China and nearly all of the opium trade. Even then he had an aura of power.

She knew nothing of his earlier life. He could be Danish or French or Russian. Even British. He had no accent, and she’d lost count of how many languages he spoke.

She waited. It was best not to interrupt him during his work. He wrote a final missive and spoke to a telegrapher in German. Then the Guild Master turned to her.

“Ah, Ingrid.” His tone was flat. His eyes, such a consistent dark brown that they appeared almost black, examined her. “You’ve been so helpful over the years.”

She tensed. “Am I about to be retired?”

He let out a dry chuckle. “No. I only experienced a moment of sentimentality. I apologize. I have also been disappointed by your mistakes: the sinking of the
Wyvern
under your command is a fine example.”

The loss of that ship had nearly broken her heart. The Guild Master had allowed her to name it so that it truly belonged to her, though he’d expressed some regret that she’d chosen a name that wasn’t from the Greek pantheon. How she’d loved those iron decks and perfect guns. But now it languished at the bottom of the Atlantic. All due to Modo. “I should have done better.”

“Ah, that is true. My design for the
Wyvern
was tempered by my hubris, though. I should have closed the interior compartments so that a blow to the hull would not have allowed all the lower chambers to fill.” Had he just admitted a mistake? She almost fell over. “But don’t forget, Ingrid, you lost our henchman Fuhr in the Thames and allowed our mechanical giant to be captured by the British, and you failed to retrieve the God Face in the jungle. A disturbing pattern of losses.”

She squeezed her metal hand into a fist. “Am I here to be chastised?”

“No. I seek only to remind you that you are not perfect.”

“I am aware of that.”

He nodded. “Do you have any thoughts about the disappearance of Mr. Socrates?”

“He is hiding in one of his lavish homes. Do you want me to hunt him down?” The mere thought of it made her heartbeat quicken, her bloodlust rise. How she would love to corner Alan Reeve—or Mr. Socrates, as he fancied himself
now—and skewer him right through the heart with her saber. After all, he’d been the one who’d cut off her hand. She should perhaps thank him for that, since the metal hand was her greatest gift. But she still remembered the pain of the blow during the sword fight. He would pay for that.

“You’re dreaming of revenge, aren’t you?” the Guild Master said. His eyes were measuring her again. “Don’t deny it. You get a crinkle between your eyebrows when you dream of such things. I’ve toyed with the idea of flushing him out, along with the rest of the Association. We shall remove the members of the Association from the board one by one. But at this point, I don’t want to take any resources away from Project Hades and the myrmidons.”

She’d heard him mention this project several times and she knew that the bodies arriving daily at the island were part of it. She also knew that
myrmidon
meant “warrior”; she’d asked Dr. Hyde for the definition. She was growing tired of having to know every single Greek myth. If only she understood the grand plan behind it all.

“What is it you want me to do?” she asked.

“There’ve been interesting developments in France. Our search for more—how shall I put it?—flesh is progressing at a satisfactory rate.”

“And why do you mention this?”

He paused, deep in thought. She knew better than to ask another question at this point.

“I was going to send you there,” he said a second later, “but I have reconsidered. Lime is progressing nicely, and you and your airship skills are needed here. Our assembly of the myrmidons is of the utmost importance.”

“You want me to transport bodies?”

“Yes. An airship is faster than boats. I have ordered you a larger airship, though construction will not be finished for three months. We’ll make do with our older airships. Soon we’ll have more than enough material.”

“Is this a demotion?” she asked, then quickly added, “Sir.”

He smiled. “No. You enjoy being in the air and your efforts will help the Hades project come to … well … to life.” Another dry chuckle.

“If these are your orders, then I will follow them. But there is little challenge to transporting the dead. Would you prefer I bring them back alive? That would be simple enough. I would need only a dozen or so Guild soldiers. And irons.”

“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.

M
odo 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.