The Diamond Conspiracy: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (10 page)

The dusty remains of Rockhampton soon behind him Bruce Campbell was now wrestling with what he had never dreamed of doing again. There were a few connections he could contact but the next few days he wouldn’t call luxurious. He had to get out of Australia, do a quick drop by in South America, and then get back to Pommyland.

It was time to come to the Ministry’s rescue.

In Which Wellington Books Is Asked to Descend into Maelstrom’s Flames

W
ellington stepped out of the cottage and tried not to cast his eyes longingly at the manor house looming in the distance. It still looked just as warm and inviting as it had moments ago. His eyes looked around their safe house, noting barrels of fuel for the internal heating system close by the rear entrance, perhaps the
only
convenience this shack offered. If the approaching Department operatives were the extraction team, then thankfully they would not need to “make do” as they had been doing since their escape from the
Atlantic A
ngel
.

Over the sound of the pounding surf, he could just hear his own feet sliding through the thick, emerald-green grass underfoot. Perhaps while waiting for travel details to be sorted and—with the inclusion of the Ministry Seven—clearance granted, Eliza might enjoy the moment’s rest, even enjoy this lovely vista with him.

Behind the Department agents, the English Channel stretched wide and open. They must have a transport of some kind over the rise, ready to take them back home. As details in the man’s suit became more prevalent, Wellington made
certain that his hands were visible to the approaching Department operatives. These were allies, that much was certain; but, there was no reason why both he and Eliza shouldn’t be careful. Field meetings like this one were always tense.

“A lovely day,” Wellington announced, as protocol dictated. “Bit windy for my taste.”

“Perhaps,” the man in the signature tweed of the Department of Imperial Inconveniences replied, “but excellent weather if you want to fly a kite.”

Wellington halted and slowly lowered his hands. With confirmation made, he looked behind the contact to see five others, all wearing the signature Department fashion, following a healthy distance behind him. They were positioned at least two hundred paces apart, as if covering as much ground as five people could. Wellington forced his smile wider as he saw the two women and three men come to a halt while their leader continued to approach.
It’s the tweed,
Wellington assured himself as the man tipped a black bowler in his direction.
I’ve always been unsettled by the Department’s choice of tweed pattern.

“The Ministry was expecting you in London, and when you all were nowhere to be found and the
Angel
was missing one of their aeroflyers, we were called in. We’ve been visiting every safe house in the network. Good thing we lot enjoy travel,” the agent said, a jovial lilt in his voice. “How are you holding up, old man?”

Wellington felt his smile tighten. He particularly didn’t care for the “old man” moniker, but chose to continue the pleasantries. “Considering the scenery and the conditions we find ourselves in, none the worse for wear.”

He nodded in approval. “Excellent choice, Normandy. Lovely time to come. Name’s Cavenaugh. Samuel Cavenaugh.”

“Wellington Books, Chief Archivist.”

The main raised an eyebrow at that. “Really?” He took a step back from Wellington as he said over his shoulder, “It’s the archivist.”

The Department agents now slowly crept back, widening their spread across the open field. Wellington kept his focus on Cavenaugh, the earlier tingle in the back of his brain kicking harder now.

“What happened up there, old man?” he asked.

“An emergency of a personal nature,” Wellington replied. “We will need to get back to London quickly.”

“How many in your party?”

“Enough that we are going to need more than a small boat to get us back to Her Majesty’s shores.”

“Blimey!” Cavenaugh laughed. Wellington did not feel inspired to join in. “Travelling with a small entourage, are you?”

“No need to fret. In light of this emergency, we all had to be light on our feet.” Wellington motioned to Cavenaugh. “Much like you all, I’m sure, when you received the call about us?”

“Light on our feet?” he chuckled. “That we were, old man. That we were.”

He really wished Cavenaugh would stop calling him that.

“So you were about to tell me,” the Department agent continued, pulling out a pad, flipping it open as he touched the tip of his pen to his tongue, “how many are coming back with us?”

His mind was ready with the answer, a full account of who was awaiting for safe and secure passage from Normandy. That answer never was given voice. He suddenly felt very vulnerable. “Well, there is just myself, Agent Braun . . . and her maid. We were returning from the Americas when we received an alarm from her.”

“Just you, the colonial, and the maid,” he muttered. “No one else?”

Wellington knotted his brow. “Should there be?”

Seconds ticked away between them in the quiet, save for the odd call of seagulls and the waves breaking on shore.

“All seems to be in order then,” he said, returning the pad into his pocket. “Time to come in from the cold then, Books?”

Cavenaugh held out his hand. Wellington knew he should take it, but the tingle in the back of his skull was now something akin to a migraine.

Oh, this is silly,
he thought to himself. “Thank you, sir,” Wellington finally replied as he willed his hand to reach up.

The bullet split Cavenaugh’s forehead in a blink, sending tiny rivulets of blood in every direction from the point of impact. Wellington turned to see Eliza holding the Webley-Maxim Mark II in one hand while cradling in her other arm a
Samson-Enfield Mark III. She fired off a second shot, and Wellington saw one of the remaining five Department agents fall. The other four were scattering, producing what he could only assume were sidearms.

“Eliza, what in the bloody hell—?”

“Stuff it, Books,” Eliza said, tossing him the Mark III. “If it moves”—she jammed into his coat pocket what he knew were spare shells—“make it stop.”

Wellington hefted the weight of the Mark III, Alice’s unmistakably, as Eliza fired off another round, downing another Department agent. He looked back at the house, then looked at the rolling valley overlooking their position.

On this side of caution,
he thought as he shouldered the weapon and fired both barrels on the fuel by the cottage.

The explosion wrapped itself around that corner of the château, creating a wall of thick, heavy smoke that cast a dark shadow in the direction of the valley. If he had the best of conditions, the smoke would have drifted straight across to hide the field from sight. A wall of smoke heading into the valley, however, could make even the most seasoned of snipers uncomfortable.

“We have three making a run for it,” Eliza called over to him. She then dropped to one knee and fired. “As I said, we have
two
making a run for it.”

“Just to remind you,” he said, taking a defensive position at her side, “gunning down the field auxiliary does not reflect well on agent evaluations, you know this, yes?”

“Duly noted, Agent Books.” She looked back in the direction of the accompanying brush and trees further inland. She adjusted the settings on her pistol’s scope and added, “We can’t let any of them leave these shores. Are you with me, Books?”

Wellington cracked open the Mark III and replaced the spent shells with fresh ones. “Without fail, Miss Braun.”

He had just snapped shut his sidearm when Eliza yanked him down. Something cut the air above him, followed only scant seconds later by the crack of a gunshot. Eliza looked at him and signalled silently,
Two, ahead, bearing to the left.
Wellington nodded, fixed his grip on the Mark III, and joined Eliza in a slow belly crawl through the grass. Only a few feet
later, Eliza tapped Wellington on the shoulder and motioned for him to break off and flank their intended target.

He kept himself as low as possible, suddenly becoming aware of just how out of practice he had become in stealth tactics. He paused, and shifted himself onto his back. A new tactic was needed.

His shoulder slipped back and forth in his jacket; and once that arm was free, Wellington shimmied the rest of himself out of the garment. Quietly, carefully, Wellington cracked open the Mark III, draped the dark coat over the exposed barrels, and then rose the coat upwards. He paused, then lifted the coat up a hint more.

The gunshot shattered the surrounding serenity, but the intended kill shot was immediately matched by another. Wellington sat up to see Eliza holding out her Webley-Maxim as her target fell.

He had just removed his coat from the shotgun when he heard something snap behind him.

Wellington immediately rolled to his left, flicking the Mark III shut with a quick movement of his wrist. “Down!” No sooner had he finished the solitary word than he was on his knees, firing the first of the shotgun’s barrels. The Department agent spun on one foot and fell hard to the ground.

He slinked over to where the agent had landed and trained his weapon on her. “If you please, discard your sidearm, thank you very much.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed on him. “You’ve cocked this one up, mate. You have no idea.”

“No, perhaps I do not, but I do know how the Department works, so let’s talk about that. Snipers?”

The woman winced, glancing at her shoulder wound. “One. On the rise.” She gave a dry laugh. “Nice tactic with the smoke screen.”

“We have our moments, Miss Braun and I.”

Her name must have worked as a means of summoning, as a rustling from behind him grew. Eliza emerged from between the tall grass. She looked between the two of them. “So what do you know?”

“I suppose I should be asking you that, shouldn’t I?”

“Later, Welly,” she replied.

“We have a sniper in the rise. Probably has eyes on the cottage, and our smoke screen is on its last.”

“We’re not going to make it back to the cottage. Not at present.”

“Surrendering,” the Department agent chimed in. “Have you considered that?”

Eliza answered with a quick jab from her pistol’s butt into the woman’s injured shoulder. “I suggest you keep your mouth shut. I don’t take too kindly to being double-crossed by my own government.”

“This is not a betrayal of government,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “This is our job.”

“We are fully aware of your Department’s job,” Wellington interjected. He looked at the Webley-Maxim in Eliza’s hand. “How are the compressors?”

She glanced down at the gun, adjusted one of its dials, and said, “It’s still in the green.”

Wellington glanced through the tall grass at the rise looking over the cottage, then back to the wounded Department agent. He tossed her his kerchief. “That’s for the shoulder. Apply pressure as best you can. Now then, off you go. Start walking.”

“Start walking?” the Department agent asked.

“To the rise. Call off your sniper.”

Eliza grabbed his arm. “Wellington?”

“Up,” Wellington ordered. “Now.”

The woman groaned slightly as she pulled herself up to her feet. She looked over into the direction of the few modest trees in the distance, grimaced as she attempted to support her injured shoulder, and then started to slowly walk towards the grove.

“Wellington,” Eliza seethed, “I swear, if you believe—”

“Reroute your pressure to Barrel Three,” he whispered to Eliza, motioning to the gun. “Push it to critical. It should give your bullet a good amount of extra range.”

“That’s going to completely burn out the internal compressors, making this Webley-Maxim Mark II just a Webley with a lot of fancy decorations.”

“I know,” he bit back. “So you will have one shot. Don’t be at home to Mr. Cock-up, all right then?”

Eliza went to retort but then froze. Her bright blue eyes gleamed for a moment, just before she turned her attention to her sidearm. As she continued to flip switches and turn dials, the pistol’s lights flickered from green to yellow while its top barrel indicator switched to a blinking red. Once Eliza gave him a nod, they began following the Department agent from a distance.

“Leighter?” the agent called out. “Leighter? Come on out. I think we’re—”

Her head exploded, the impact of the bullet resembling a dull thud accented by a crack of a whip. On the sound of the actual gunshot, Eliza rose up on one knee, bracing for the recoil. The Department agent had not even hit the ground before Eliza took her one shot. White smoke devoured her, only to spit her out seconds later from the incredible pressure built up inside the gun. Sparks were now flying from the various wires and piping on the outside of her Mark II while steam slinked out from the top barrel as a serpent of pearlescent smoke.

Eliza hoisted herself up. “Target down,” she stated, her eyes still looking in the direction of the rise.

Wellington, still low to the ground, did not quite share in his partner’s confidence. “And your confirmation of this is . . . ?”

“I’m still alive.” Eliza looked down at Wellington. “The Department isn’t going to issue a musket for their agents, now are they?”

Her logic never ceased to amaze or educate him. “Fair enough.”

The heavy smoke from the burning barrels was now nothing more than a haze marring the pristine beauty of the French coast. It had served its purpose, but the smoke could attract attention. As this was a matter involving the Department, they were now counting the seconds. It was borrowed time with an extremely deadly interest rate they now spent. Wellington took the lead with Alice’s shotgun shouldered and at the ready. Eliza cast away the ruined Mark II, filling each of her hands with her pounamu pistols.