The Ghost Rebellion Read online

  “Your bowels are relaxed. And you’re lighter because of it.” Bruce rubbed the centre of his forehead, trying to fight the desire to ask; but he was one for giving into those. “Where do you pick up these sort of ideas, Hill?”

  “You’re a fine man to have in a brawl, Campbell,” Brandon said, clapping his hand on the man’s massive shoulder, “but you really should broaden your horizons and read a bit. That recent mission of mine, just after that brouhaha with the Jubilee...”

  “The one that took you to Vancouver with the greenhorn?”

  “With Junior Agent Mallory, a fine lad, very eager...” Brandon shrugged. “Talked a bit much, for my liking.” Bruce shook his head at that, but Brandon didn’t notice. “While I was over there, some chap from the United States—Kellogg, that was his name—was giving a series of presentations on wellness and overall health. Revolutionary, this Doctor Kellogg. Fantastic breathing exercises, mealtime marches….” He tapped the small bowl of almonds as he said, “And encouraging more nuts in your diet. Lovely source of protein.”

  “So’s a good cut of steak, mate,” Bruce returned with a wink.

  Brandon shook his head emphatically. “Doctor Kellogg believes cutting back on meats is best. More vegetables, and yoghurt. Best after an enema. Yoghurt, you see, replaces any intestinal flora lost during the procedure, creating what he describes as a squeaky-clean intestine.”

  “You lost me at ‘enema,’ mate.”

  Brandon took up a few almonds and popped them into his mouth. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, Doctor Sound wants to see us.”

  Bruce gave a start. “What?”

  “That’s why I came down here to begin with.” He crunched a few more nuts before adding, “I think he has a mission for us.”

  “Just us?”

  “Mmm,” Brandon replied with a nod.

  “Then why the bloody hell are you on about with enemas and squeaky-clean intestines when the Fat Man’s waitin’ on us?” he asked, scrambling to his feet.

  Brandon held his hands out, exasperated. “You asked me.”

  Dammit, Brandon was right.

  “Well, come on,” Bruce said with a huff, motioning to the corridor at their back. “Let’s not keep the man any longer.”

  Brandon’s face fell a bit. Knowing him as he did, Bruce suspected that his partner in the field had more to say about the brilliant and enema-centric Doctor Kellogg. Finishing the mouthful of nuts before rising to his own feet and cupping the small snack bowl in his hand, Brandon joined Bruce in the walk to the Director’s Office. Unlike their previous headquarters at Miggins Antiquities, there was no lift to speak of. Everything was accessed by either stairs or a dumbwaiter, which meant Bruce and Brandon had their fair share of stairs to climb. Brandon loved it, but Bruce appreciated modern conveniences and wished that someone would have fronted the funds to install auto-lifts. From the looks of Whiterock, that toff Books could afford it.

  They entered a small office where the Ministry’s formidable secretary, Cassandra Shillingworth, dutifully reproduced the day’s roster, recent reports, or relevant titbits the good Doctor would need in order to get through the day. The Hansen Writing Ball had apparently survived the mad dash from London, or it had been replaced with a band new one. Bruce snorted, thinking, They won’t install a proper lift here, but they will give ol’ Cassandra whatever she desires?

  When Cassandra’s cold gaze locked with his own, Bruce remembered why the woman’s requests were never taken lightly.

  Those riveting blue eyes softened a bit when Brandon stepped from around him. “Oh, Brandon, shall I tell Doctor Sound you’re ready to see him?”

  “That would be lovely, Cassie, yes,” Brandon said cheerily.

  Shillingworth rose from her chair and disappeared through the solitary door.

  “Cassie?” Bruce asked.

  Brandon shrugged. “That’s what some people call her, from what I understand.”

  “Cassie?” Bruce asked again, completely dumbstruck.

  “Delightful girl,” he remarked, popping a few more almonds into his mouth. “Quite keen with a blade as well.”

  This time, Bruce gave a light snort. “Right handy with a stiletto, is she?”

  “Rather,” he said, smiling warmly as he turned his eyes to the door, “but what that lady can do with a Bowie knife is nothing less than exquisite.”

  Bruce guffawed, but stopped as he noted the calm expression on his partner’s face.

  “You didn’t see her at the Diamond Jubilee,” Brandon continued, his gaze distant and dream-like. “A neat bit of knife work as I’ve ever seen, not bad with a rifle either.”

  He was about to question Brandon—since he had apparently missed quite a bit in London—when the door opened, causing him to jump slightly.

  “Gentlemen, Doctor Sound will see you now,” Shillingworth said.

  “Excellent,” Brandon said with a smile.

  Bruce took in a deep breath, a feeble attempt at best to clear his mind, which immediately scattered on casting a glance at Shillingworth.

  “Agent Campbell?” she asked him, her voice low and soft.

  “Yes, thank you...” and clearing his throat, he added, “Have a lovely day, Miss Shillingworth.”

  Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock...

  Any other time, that bloody clock of Sound’s would work under his skin. After the brush with his extraordinary and terrifying secretary though, Bruce found the rhythm calming. He looked over to where the Fat Man usually sat, but the chair behind the grand desk was empty.

  “Gentlemen,” the portly man proclaimed from the opposite side of the room.

  Bruce and Brandon turned around to find their director, Doctor Basil Sound, standing in front of a grand map covering the entire wall of his office. It made sense that there would be such a map; Bruce had heard this had been the classroom once in Wellington Books’ younger years. All the tools for a posh education expected from a privileged pommy like him were lying about.

  That survival instinct of Bruce’s suddenly whispered to him. At first Bruce couldn’t understand why, until he noticed Doctor Sound placing a marker on Calais. It was one of those team markers cut into a silhouette of two agents standing next to one another. It snapped against the wall with a dull, metallic snap.

  Whiterock, for all its fancy dressings and demeanour, really did not need much done to it to become ready for the Ministry’s use. In fact, it served as a training facility and base of strategic operations far more aptly than Miggins Antiquities. They most certainly would not have been able to run drills with new recruits down by the Thames.

  “Campbell.” Bruce started at hearing his name. Sound, fortunately, was looking at Brandon when he acknowledged his partner, “Hill, so happy to have you back at Whiterock in one piece.”

  “None the worse for wear, sir,” Brandon replied cheerily before snapping a salute, though that wasn’t Ministry protocol at all. “And this Hebden Bridge air does help clear one’s mind when returning from the field.”

  “Yes, quite,” Doctor Sound said, placing the rake back into its holder before motioning to three chairs by a grand window overlooking the grounds. “Please, join me for a brandy.”

  “A brandy?” Bruce said, surprised and a little impressed. “At this hour of the morning?”

  “Believe me, Agent Campbell, you will need a sturdy libation on hearing the mission I have for you lads.” He turned back to the decanter and poured three glasses, two-fingers’ worth. “I refuse to allow my agents to drink alone.” He then offered up in a toast, “To your health, and continued success.”

  They touched glasses, and Bruce took a healthy sip as he watched Sound take his seat across from them.

  “Gentlemen, we are, as I’m sure you know, in a very delicate state of reconstruction.” Sound swirled his brandy around in the glass. “Following the Diamond Jubilee, we have been trying to restore order to the crown, but it would appear that Jekyll’s foul serum took a severe toll on Her Majesty’s h
ealth.”

  “You’re saying the Queen Mum is ill?” Brandon asked, straightening up as if struck by lightning. How his partner still managed to hold onto an affection for the old bird even after the Jubilee remained a mystery to Bruce.

  “Quite.” Doctor Sound’s gaze shifted to the view of the grounds. “In the months following the events in London, the queen has aged dramatically.” He then took a deep breath and large gulp of the brandy. “The royal physicians have informed me, if we do not produce a serum that can counteract Jekyll’s, the queen will be dead within a month.”

  “Crikey,” Bruce whispered, “a month?”

  “Yes, quite troubling.” Doctor Sound pursed his lips as he stared off into the horizon. “This is why I am turning to you gentlemen.”

  “We are at Her Majesty’s service,” Brandon stated, setting his bowl of almonds alongside the brandy decanter.

  Sound smiled at the agent’s enthusiasm. “The physicians have identified key elements in the queen’s bloodstream that Jekyll must have administered, and we know where we can collect what is needed for a counteragent. Something to keep the queen alive, possibly cure her.”

  Bruce tapped a finger against his snifter. “With all this good fortune, I’m waiting for the bad news that is sure to follow.”

  “What we need,” Sound began, his eyes going first to Brandon and then to Bruce, “is located in the forests outside of Grójec.”

  Bruce sank back into his seat. “Tell me you’re having a go at us, Director.”

  “Grójec?” whispered Brandon.

  “I’m afraid not, Agent Campbell,” the director said, taking another sip of his brandy.

  Bruce reached across Brandon, flipped the stopper off the decanter, and lifted it by its neck. “Switch to gin. I’m taking the bloody bottle.”

  “Manners, Campbell!” snapped Brandon. “This is for the empire, after all!”

  Bruce stopped pouring. “Grójec, Brandon. We’re being sent to Grójec in January.”

  “To save Her Majesty and preserve the empire,” Brandon replied with pride.

  His eyes narrowed. “You haven’t a sodding clue where Grójec is, do you?”

  Brandon went to answer, paused, and went to answer again. He then looked over to Doctor Sound. “Director, I hate to seem ignorant, seeing as I’m the one who usually reads the field reports and retains mission details, but I am afraid I don’t—”

  “The Russian Empire,” Doctor Sound stated. “Near Warsaw and the Vistula.”

  Brandon’s smile faded as did the colour from his face. “Russia?”

  Even though his heart was sinking, Bruce leaned over to his partner. “Let me top you off there, mate.”

  “Gentlemen,” Doctor Sound set his snifter on the small end table and rose from his chair. “I know this may seem a lot to ask of you...”

  “You are sending us in middle of winter into the Russian Empire. With all due respect, director”— Bruce downed a huge gulp of brandy— “get stuffed.”

  “Now see here, Campbell—” snapped Sound.

  “No, I think Bruce is absolutely right in this moment,” barked Brandon, clinking his glass with Bruce’s. “Get bent, ya’ toff.”

  Bruce expected this sort of reaction. At least, from him. Brandon? Maybe, but perhaps not until he was into his second snifter.

  The director considered the both of them carefully, but he pressed on. Bruce steadied himself as Doctor Sound approached the map and took the rake up in his hand.

  “The plan is thus—you will rendezvous with agents of Section P in Danzig.” Going to the map he slapped down a marker labelled “Campbell/Hill” on the German city. “They will see you into the town of Toruń where a contact will get you safely across the Russian border. Don’t ask how, they have their own methods, and I trust them.”

  “But of course,” Bruce said, toasting Sound with his glass. “Who needs logistics, I say.”

  “Your objective is to obtain a Firebird feather. We have confirmation that there is a factory somewhere in the vicinity of Grójec. Once obtained, you will need to signal us for extraction.” He moved their marker to a small city closer to where the German and Russian empires met. “Based on the terrain and location, Łódź would be the logical choice. You will have two days to reach the extraction team once a signal is sent.”

  Bruce’s glass froze in mid-journey to his lips. “Two days,” he asked, “across three days’ worth of Russian territory?”

  “Again, your ingenuity will out,” Sound offered with a smile Bruce interpreted as a smirk.

  “Oh, this mission is getting more and more promising as we go,” Bruce seethed.

  Leaning forward Brandon took the crystal bottle out of Bruce’s grasp, refilling his glass. “Worst Case Scenario—not too much of a stretch as we are heading into the Russian Empire in winter—what if we can’t find these Firebird feathers, or they are not readily available? What then?”

  “Then the fate of the empire,” Sound stated, his voice distant and dark, “remains uncertain.”

  “Right then, no pressure, just the fate of the monarchy and the British Empire hanging in the balance, another day on the farm, eh wot? Cheers.” The Canadian gulped back a generous swallow of the brandy.

  “Lads, I know what I am asking of you appears difficult, but I know you can handle it.” Sound returned to his own chair before the two agents. Bruce knew the Fat Man was well within reach of a right hook, but he was concentrating on holding his glass. Apparently, the drink was beginning to take hold.

  The beautiful thing about brandy when drunk like beer—it worked quickly. He glanced over at another decanter. “I take it that is scotch?”

  Sound glanced at the crystal bottle, nodded, and removed its stopper. He took in a deep whiff of the dram. “Fifty years old. Usually reserved for my counterparts abroad and visiting dignitaries.”

  “I have no doubt,” Bruce said, taking the bottle out of Sound’s hands, “but today it is the select drink of Agents Bruce Campbell and Brandon D. Hill, Saviours of the Empire.”

  “Dear Lord,” Brandon muttered as he tipped the brandy decanter upside-down, draining it of its final drops, “we’re all done for.”

  Interlude

  Wherein a Charming City Hides a Spider

  There was no place more beautiful or irritating in the whole world than Bruges, Agent Beth Case thought as she was paddled through the historic canals of the ancient city by a glum gondolier. Everywhere around her were tourists, carrying parasols, rifling through maps, and making cooing noises over their quaint surroundings. The sky, even overcast as it was, served as the perfect backdrop to the breath-taking gothic architecture all around them. If there was a lack of sunshine, it was more than made up by the people of Bruges, smiling and welcoming to a fault.

  Meanwhile Beth sat in the back of the boat, keeping her arms wrapped around herself, as they passed under little arched stone bridges, the scowl on her face deepening.

  The Ministry had sent her orders once Phantom Protocol was lifted, to ferret out any agents still in deep cover, and such had been her life for the last four months tromping around Europe. The fate of eight agents still remained uncertain. Her objective: Bring these brave agents in from the cold.

  As she stared miserably around herself, she considered how she might have been back in London, enjoying a proper high tea, if only she could tell the director his brave agents—all eight of them—were dead. Unfortunately, Beth would then have to tell him how she knew that. This was where her plan became complicated. How did she know these agents were dead?

  She had done it, and it had been easy. They had trusted her, and that had been their mistake.

  It was hard to calculate how much longer she would have to linger in this godforsaken sewer before she could return to London and give a reasonable story as to why she’d been unsuccessful in finding the underground agents. Beth thought longingly of the airship port only a few miles outside Bruges, which had to be drier and better appointed th
an this particular conveyance.

  The canal boat finally reached the dock, and Beth joined the tourists clambering off. She bought some fresh chips from little friterie by the canal, adorning the delicacy with a touch of aoli. Then, holding the paper cone close to warm her hands, she popped a few into her mouth and relished the treat’s saltiness. The chips would have been a reminder of home had she been able to top them with malt vinegar. When in Rome, or in Bruges, she lamented as she joined the flow of tourists towards the Grote Markt.

  The town square was a vast cobbled space, surrounded by pointed-roofed brick buildings gleaming with water. It bustled with far too much life even in the chill of winter. Many a meeting of vapid and dull tourists was conducted here, and the spot was positively rabid with little horse carts.

  And these locals were so bloody cheerful.

  Then there was the plethora of little tables and chairs set out for French, English, and even Americans to sit about drinking coffee and show how urbane they were. On the other side of the Markt, local vendors had set out fresh produce and handmade trinkets to bilk the tourists with. The Belfry of Bruges loomed over them all, with the grey-towered Provincial Court and Post Office finishing off the officious, dull nature of the place. In front of the court were two statutes of some Flemish heroes. One was a butcher, the other was a weaver.

  “Typical,” Beth muttered to herself. “Even their heroes are dull.”