Moment of Truth (12 page)

With that, she was off and Aubrey was left bemused.

The door closed behind them, cutting off the buzz of Gallian office rearrangements with a very solid
snick
that Aubrey didn't warm to at all, but his attention was taken up by the alarming sight of a tall, bald man pointing an alarmingly large pistol at him from the other side of an elegant desk.

‘Do not move,' the bald man said in Albionish. ‘I will not hesitate to kill you on the spot if you do.'

The office was dimly lit by gaslight, even in the middle of the day, because the drapes were drawn over the single tall window. The heavy wood panelling only emphasised the closeness of the confines.

Instant obedience never came easily to Aubrey. He was too willing to question first before agreeing to go along with commands. In the case of people pointing firearms at him and telling him not to move, however, he was able to quell this natural propensity.

At his side, it was George who spoke. ‘Who are you? What's going on here?'

The bald man was sweating, Aubrey realised. His head and face shone, and was his hand trembling as it held the pistol? ‘Fitzwilliam,' he said flatly. His eyes narrowed, and Aubrey, in a moment of acute alertness, saw the man's finger tighten on the trigger – and he also sensed the magic spells that the pistol was overlaid with.

The equation was clear. If he moved, he was going to be shot, and shot by a magically enhanced weapon. If he didn't move, he was still going to be shot. When it came to choosing, he favoured action over inaction, but before he could move the man grimaced and squeezed the trigger. Immediately, something whipped past Aubrey's right ear with a deadly, low hum. The large mirror on the wall behind him shattered.

Aubrey instinctively ducked, much too late, then hunched at the shower of glass, but his mind was taken up with astonishment. Where was the report of the pistol? It hadn't made a sound at all! Aubrey saw that the bald man was as astonished as he was; the would-be assassin was shaking his head at the revolver, staring at it in disbelief. Then a large vase flung by George struck the man squarely in the chest.

He grunted and doubled over. While hammering came from the door behind them, Aubrey pawed at a side table and sent a carriage clock after George's successful vase strike and was pleased to see it collect the would-be assassin squarely on his shining skull. He screeched, then straightened and waved the pistol. ‘I will not miss this time!'

A deafening boom from the doorway interrupted the assassin's plans. He dropped the pistol, sagged in the corner, swore and tried to staunch the flow of blood that was coming from a fresh, and nasty, shoulder wound.

Aubrey whirled. Elspeth stood in the doorway with a large and smoking revolver. She kept it trained on their assailant while George stalked him warily, a brass umbrella stand in his hand. ‘Careful, George,' she said. Her voice was even and Aubrey noted how steady her hands were, holding the revolver in a manner that would draw admiring gasps from the shoutiest of military instructors.

‘He's not a menace any more.' Without taking his eyes off the bald man, George scooped up his pistol and pocketed it.

As if it were one of Ivey and Wetherall's musical comedies, a trio of armed guards arrived after events had been resolved, almost tripping over themselves in their eagerness to get through the doorway. Aubrey had a giddy moment wondering if he'd ever live to see the day when armed guards appeared in the nick of time rather than too late, then, rather than having his knees give way and his head introduced to the carpet, he sat on one of the chairs. Captain Bourdin appeared, looking both distressed and offended, and pointed a pistol at Elspeth – rather needlessly as she was the target of each of the squad members. ‘M'mselle. Please to drop your weapon.'

She looked amused. ‘I'll just engage the safety first, if you don't mind. There.'

The revolver thumped to the floor.

‘Thank you. Now, you men, see to the cultural attaché before he bleeds to death.'

Aubrey rubbed his forehead. He could feel the effects of nearly being shot starting to assert themselves. His knees were trembling. His stomach was both hollow and cavernous. His mouth was devoid of moisture. He was relieved, naturally, to have survived, and he couldn't help but feel grateful for Elspeth's timely intervention, but he could see a long, complicated explanation ahead.

‘And you're sure the weapon is ensorcelled?' Captain Bourdin asked.

The captain's office was a small, neatly arranged room toward the rear of the embassy. Through the window, Aubrey could see the cordoned-off area of the courtyard that marked the site where Major Morton and his bomb squad were. It was fifty yards away, but Aubrey wondered about the safety of their location. Or was it Gallian bravado, refusing to move away from the scene of danger?

Initially, Bourdin had been outraged at three Albionite guests assaulting the cultural attaché, but as the story emerged his attitude changed remarkably. He became, by turns, mortified, apologetic, then outraged again – but this time the outrage was directed at the would-be assassin.

While his subordinates dragged the wounded official to the infirmary for treatment and interrogation, he'd confided that he'd always suspected the cultural attaché of something or other.

‘I didn't get a chance to examine the weapon before your people took it away,' Aubrey said, ‘but it was definitely spell-ridden.'

‘A silencing spell?' George suggested.

‘When he fired, it didn't make a sound. I don't know what other spells it might have had.'
And if he hadn't missed and smashed that mirror instead, no-one outside would have been the wiser.
Aubrey shuddered. He'd been so concerned about international dangers that he'd forgotten the peril that came from simply being the son of the Prime Minister.

‘Rather incompetent assassin,' Elspeth pointed out, ‘missing the PM's son from that range. I'm glad I didn't miss him. I'd be a laughing stock.'

She looked remarkably cheerful, unfazed by the whole incident. Aubrey realised then that her breezy demeanour was an asset. She was unflappable. Such an attitude would make her a valuable field operative in a crisis. ‘I haven't had a chance to thank you,' he said.

She shrugged. ‘It was the least I could do. I led you to him, after all.'

‘It could happen to anyone,' George said. ‘Big place, this, easy to get confused.'

‘I know, but I keep thinking of how it would look on my file, losing a colleague in my first liaison officer role. I don't want a reputation for being so careless.'

Aubrey couldn't help but notice that her gaze flitted across him, not challenging directly as had been her wont. Her words were casual, but lacked her usual touch of impudence.

And was that gleam the beginning of tears in her eyes?

He cleared his throat, in a haphazard effort to distract attention from the blush that was creeping to his cheeks. ‘This man,' he said to Captain Bourdin. ‘Has he made any admissions?'

Captain Bourdin looked at Aubrey then at Elspeth and Aubrey cringed, internally, when the Gallian smiled and raised an eyebrow. ‘None so far, Fitzwilliam. But it won't be long before our cultural attaché tells us everything.'

Cultural attaché,
Aubrey thought.
You may as well tattoo ‘spy' on his forehead.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. A Gallian spy trying to shoot the son of the Albion PM. He wondered how the Holmland intelligence agencies had persuaded him to come over to their side.

‘I'm sure that our authorities will be interested in talking to him,' Elspeth said. ‘After you're done, you'll get in touch with Commander Tallis? I'm sure he'll be overjoyed to hear about this.'

Captain Bourdin frowned. ‘Overjoyed?'

‘Sorry. It's Directorate slang. It means “outraged”.'

‘We will provide a thorough and complete report, m'mselle. And I must thank you for your quick action. It would not do for the son of the Prime Minister of Albion to be hurt in the middle of the Gallian Embassy.'

‘Of course,' she said. ‘Now, do you think we can continue with our assignment? I'm a stickler for following instructions.'

Aubrey couldn't help smiling. She was nothing if not dedicated. He eyed the bag she clutched. Discreet brown leather, he wondered what other useful equipment it held besides a revolver.

Outside the office, it was still bedlam.

‘Anyone would think a war was on,' George remarked, hands in his pockets. ‘All this running about, your getting shot and whatnot.'

‘Keep that line up your sleeve, George,' Aubrey said. ‘Such levity could be useful soon.'

‘Gloomy thought, that,' George said, ‘but you may be right, old man. You may be right.'

‘Major Morton?' Aubrey called as they approached the large crater in the middle of the courtyard. It was a good three yards across and twice that long, with cobblestones scattered in all directions around it, and earth flung against the sides of the embassy buildings. The crater was surrounded by waist-high barricades and the area inside was swarming with black-clad Department operatives.

One of them straightened and squinted. He shook his head, said something to one of the other operatives that Aubrey couldn't make out, then he climbed out of the crater in the courtyard and easily vaulted the barricades. Aubrey fumbled his salute. He still wasn't used to the action and kept forgetting exactly where the brim of his Department cap was. As a result he nearly knocked himself backward, but Major Morton didn't appear to notice.

The major had abandoned his cap, and his thinning sandy hair was dishevelled in the brisk breeze that gusted about the courtyard. He was in his forties, Aubrey guessed, medium height, with shrewd eyes and a narrow nose with such tiny nostrils that it looked as if it could hardly supply enough air to keep a person alive.

‘Ah, Fitzwilliam.' His voice was dry and amused, and his salute was languid. ‘Doyle. Mattingly. I was told you were on your way. Now, any of you had any experience with compression magic?'

George and Elspeth turned to Aubrey with such perfect timing that Major Morton laughed. ‘Only one magic operative in your team, eh?' Major Morton patted the pockets of his black uniform and eventually found a pipe, which he jammed in his mouth.

Immediately, one of the other operatives called out. ‘Major Morton, sir! No flames, sir!'

Major Morton sighed and glanced over his shoulder. He took the pipe from his mouth. ‘It's empty!' He waved it in the air. ‘Good work, though, Maloney!' He turned back to find Aubrey, George and Elspeth doing their best not to look curious, and failing. ‘It's part of their job,' he explained, ‘to remind me not to strike a match when we're on the job. I forget, sometimes.'