Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) (8 page)

“I know you find this hard to believe, but I trust her, Tavia,” Modo said as he patted Octavia’s hand. “She may have been a French agent, but her word is good as gold, that is one thing I learned on the
Ictíneo
. And I need this information.
We
need it. I believe Mr. Socrates would agree with me.”

“There is no time like the present,” Colette said. A light flashed to life inside the carriage and Modo was momentarily blinded by it. She’d shone what looked like a pocket lucifer directly at him.

“You have a battery-powered lamp?” Modo asked. “I didn’t think the French were so advanced.”

“Oh,
la petite lumière?
It is an old technology. The English are not the only ones with batteries.” She peered at his face. “It continues to amaze me how much you look like Bélanger. Now, you remember the map I drew for you?”

“I’ve memorized it.”

“Then you will recall that the office you want is in the center of the fifth floor? And that it belongs to Lucien Quint?”

“Yes, of course I do. You need not repeat the instructions,” he snapped. Perhaps he
was
getting nervous. “I have the plan in here,” he said softly, tapping his skull. “You have prepared me well.” He paused. “Both of you.”

“Then we shall begin,” Colette said. She knocked three times on the ceiling of the fiacre and the driver drove up to the front gates and stopped. Modo opened the door and stepped down onto the street.

“Sois agressif!”
Colette whispered. “Remember to be gruff. Not your usual polite self.”

“Indeed I shall,” he replied gruffly, then smiled.

“Take great care,” Octavia said. “Don’t go running around like a bull in a china shop.”

“The two of you are acting like mothers,” he hissed, then turned away before either could get another word in. Truth was, he’d be happy to be out of the wagon, away from them.

He strode to the front gate. Behind him, he heard the fiacre pull away.

“Arrêtez-vous!”
the guard commanded.

“Arrêtez-vous, Monsieur,”
Modo said, correcting him.

“Mot de passe,”
the guard said.

“Ashenden!” Modo barked, for Colette had given him the password. The name had no meaning that he could discern, though he found it odd that they used a British surname.

The man nodded and said in French, “Welcome back, sir.”

Modo, pleased his appearance had fooled a guard, didn’t give the man another glance. He carried on to the main entrance, passing a second guard station. Two hounds growled and their master pulled back on the leashes. “Shut those hogs up,” Modo spat in French, then opened the door to the Deuxième Bureau.

He marched smartly down a brightly lit hallway. Of course the French would have electric lights; they liked showing off the latest advances. Modo found this new type of lighting to be garish, not nearly as warm and natural as gaslight. He tried to set aside his worries that the brightness would make it easier to spot any mistakes he’d made in his transformation.

How many papers about England, about Queen Victoria, about Mr. Socrates, about Modo himself would be filed in this very building? If he had hours to spend he could uncover a lifetime of secrets. But there was only one secret that Modo wanted to uncover tonight.

He encountered another agent, who saluted, but Modo just stomped by. A guard at the door to the stairwell also saluted, but Modo didn’t even look at him, giving the air of a man in a hurry. He burst into Bélanger’s office and closed the door, then immediately exited out the office’s back door and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor.

Room 5498 was exactly where Colette’s map had indicated it would be. He opened the door and charged in, just as he imagined Bélanger would do. This was a mistake, as he banged his knee on a desk. He cursed and flicked the brass switch for the light. It flickered to life. This room was smaller and bursting at the seams with perfectly piled papers, folders, and files.

He went to the desk Colette had told him about and discovered that the file drawer had been locked. It took him more than a minute to pick the lock with two small pins he had in his vest pocket. He chastised himself for not practicing enough recently. The lock eventually clicked and he pulled open the drawer; all the papers inside had been neatly placed in labeled folders. Ah, the bureaucrats were good at this sort of thing.

He found a thick file marked
Subject Modo: 24601
and began to read its contents. At first there was very little of interest or import, only conjecture on his whereabouts. Someone had seen him in India. India! He laughed. He’d never
been to Tharpa’s homeland. Then he went back to the drawer and thumbed through several more files, stopping at one marked
Ictíneo/Brunet/Modo
. He opened it and skimmed the pages until his eyes found this: “Agent Brunet insisted that an agent with the code name ‘Modo’ was able to change his shape and his facial features. Her description led Investigator Quint (47b321) to doubt her sanity, but after several tests by doctors she was certified as sane. Quint searched records in England …”

He folded up the page and stuffed it into his pocket. Perhaps there was something else in the file, but it would take days to read through it all. He was here for one file only.

He noticed an envelope had been clipped to the back of the file. Curious, he opened it. Inside were several pages, including a handwritten note in French: “Copies of pages 1 through 8 appear under
Brunet
,
Colette: 15901
. It is important detail for file
Modo: 24601
. Agent Brunet complains of nightmares and is easily excited. Her discovery of the
Ictíneo
was exemplary, but the loss of the
Vendetta
leads us to conclude that ultimately she failed in her mission. She complains of dizziness and lack of sleep, and when interviewed by the physician she blames this on seeing the face of the English agent Modo, a face she describes as being ‘gargoyle ugly.’ She has mental fatigue compounded by physical exhaustion, and an extended stay in a sanatorium is recommended. When Brunet is released again, she should be put on light duty only.”

Mental fatigue? Blames this on the face of the English agent Modo? Gargoyle ugly?
So seeing his face
had
marked her. The deaths of hundreds of her comrades, the weeks spent as a prisoner on the
Ictíneo
, the fight for their lives: these were all
hardships, but none were listed as contributing to her illness. It was seeing
his
face. His true and ugly self.
That
was what had broken her. He skipped ahead where three sentences had been underlined:

Brunet has become extremely delusional and is no longer in full control of her faculties. She was sent to Laroque Sanatorium for three months, but the stay did not improve her condition. She was declared unfit for duty and released from employment on July 7
.

She’d spent time in a sanatorium! He’d seen the inside of Bedlam, London’s most infamous home for the deranged. The people there had been totally cracked. This information threw everything into question. Had anything Colette said so far been the truth? Were his parents actually alive? Was he even French? No, that part was true. Mr. Socrates had confirmed it. And the French agents were looking for his family, so there had to be something to it.

Why was she helping him? Out of pity? Did she feel she owed him?

He put the documents in his jacket pocket. He stole several other papers that he hoped would contain something about his parents. He began to comb through the remaining papers, madly hoping to find his parents’ current residence.

The door swung open and a man walked in. “Directeur Bélanger!” the agent exclaimed in French. “I didn’t expect to see you in the office this evening.”

Modo closed the file drawer with a bang, keeping his voice gruff. “Since when do I report to you?”

Colette had described Quint as thin and pale, and this man fit that description, though the electric lighting made
everyone look pale. “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

“No, Quint. Nothing.” Modo kept his sentences short. The more French he spoke, the greater the chance of a gaffe. The agent would know Bélanger’s voice well, but Modo had discovered that people would believe their eyes before they’d believe their ears.

“I understand, sir. May I have a few seconds of your time?”

“I’m extremely busy.”

“I just need to ask you about the Modo case. I’ve made great headway on the location of his family. And I have an important request.”

“What’s that?”

“I would like Colette Brunet to be arrested.”

“Brunet? Why?”

“Because, sir, she has betrayed her former position. I have proof she has been continuing to research Modo, even after her removal from the Bureau. She has recently been associating with foreign spies.”

Modo stood up. “How do you know this?”

“For the past few weeks I’ve had her followed.”

“Under whose orders?”

“You gave me full rights, sir. Remember?
Do what is necessary
were your exact words.”

“Quint! Don’t be impertinent!”

“I apologize. But I must tell you that these spies she has been dealing with are British.”

“British? Have you proof?”

“Yes, sir.” He paused, a glimmer of a smile crossing his face. “You are the proof.”

Modo stiffened. How could the man have guessed? “I don’t follow.”

The agent reached into his coat and removed a pistol from his pocket in a swift, well-rehearsed motion. “I am not Quint. My dear directeur may have hundreds under his command, but he would recognize me. I can’t believe you are here, that you have come to us.”

“Put away that gun! What madness is this?”

“I’ve been doing much of the fieldwork on your case for eight months now. I’ve interviewed Brunet. I’ve read the reports of your ingenious robbery of the French Embassy in London. Do you think I’d miss the connections? But never did I imagine that you’d walk right into my office.”

“Put down that gun at once. You are mistaken!”

“Am I? Then tell me my name.” Colette hadn’t mentioned any other agents.

“Put away the gun, you fool!”

“Modo, enough of this,” the man said calmly, this time in English. “I am impressed. You do look very much like Bélanger, except shorter. I was handpicked and trained by him. He comes from southern France and has a Meridional accent. Oh, and Quint retired three weeks ago; I inherited his office.”

Modo sat down and shrugged in a friendly manner. “You’ve caught me. Congratulations. What is your name?”

“Philip Laroche. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am—how do you English say?—an admirer of your work.”

“So what do you intend to do with me?”

“Ah, you’ll know soon enough. For now, we have a room where I would like to take you for questioning. It’s a quiet place on the lower floor of the building. I’d like to inquire
about so many things. This Clockwork Guild, were they just a figment of Brunet’s imagination? And the Association de la Permanence that controls you. And this Mr. Socrates. So much to review. You’ll be detained for some time, but your favorite meals will be served. We aren’t barbarians. It will be a pleasant and polite series of conversations, I promise.” He waved his pistol. “Now please stand up or I’ll shoot you.”

I
n her thirty-seven years Miss Hakkandottir had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies, and now she was carrying load after load of cadavers to the island. She had been at it for weeks. There were three more coffins resting in the car of the airship
Hera
as she floated across the Pacific. This last batch had been from New Zealand, brought to her by desperate prospectors who had yet to find a vein of gold. Another hanged man, his neck stretched too long. Someone who’d died in a mine by suffocation, the body in pristine condition; a particularly happy find. And a man who’d ingested poison after losing all his money in a card game. He was an odd shade of yellow.

Designed by Dr. Hyde, the ice coffins showcased his trademark ingenuity. Despite the humidity and warmth of
the Pacific, the ice melted slowly so the bodies stayed cold, in the same state they had been not hours before their deaths.

Miss Hakkandottir’s orders had been to keep the coffins closed, but curiosity got the better of her and she opened them one by one to gaze down on the faces of the dead. Hardened, muscular men who had lived tough lives. The combination of gases and cold kept them looking as though they could snap their eyes open at any moment. She mused about what she’d look like when she was dead and shrugged it off. Death was not something she dwelled upon.
Fearlessness is better than a faint heart
, her father had told her many times. The hour of her death had been written long ago; she could not prevent it.

It was an important but boring task to transport the dead back to Atticus. She had brought a total of one hundred and seven bodies to the catacombs of the Clockwork Guild’s lair. There was something sacred about the job. She laughed. Sacred? When had she ever been concerned with spiritual matters?

The trip took three days. She did love being airborne. From here she could look to the northwest, where the giant shipyards on the coast of China were building three new steam-powered Guild battleships: the
Hydra
, the
Gorgon
, and the
Medusa
. They would be larger and more powerful than the
Wyvern
, her last battleship. No navy would be able to stand in their way. Each ship would be accompanied by a fleet of steam-powered Triton boats. Any and all nations would tremble at the sight of this armada.

She had no desire to be the captain of a seafaring vessel—if
she was to be captain of anything it would be in the air. No nation—not England, not Germany, and not France—had an airship with as much weaponry and speed as the
Hera
. With enough coal and food she could strike London and vanish into the night before they even knew who had dealt the blow She imagined having a hundred airships at her command. No. A thousand! The stunned world would be in awe of her.