British Secret Service Headquarters, Whitehall, London, 1862
"If you ask me, the old man is not right in his mind. Haunted houses! Ghosts! Might as well be chasing the Guy!" A deep male voice boomed right outside the office door. Fogg stopped his absent-minded twirling of the cylinder of his revolver and spun Chatsworth's desk chair around to face that direction. He didn't recognize the voice. Undoubtedly a new man. From what Rebecca had told him, there'd been a fifty percent turnover of Service personnel since his father's death and the Service largely fielded amateurs these days. A pity, but it should make Rebecca shine like a faceted ruby amongst common gray pebbles – not that Chatsworth paid any attention.
A second voice responded, a higher pitched male. "Best be quiet, Chips. Here's his office."
"He's not in it. I just saw him upstairs. What say we take a peek in there? See if he really does keep a shrunken head in his desk drawer?
"No, no. Too bloody wicked, that. He may be peculiar, but he's the old man now. I don't spy on my own. But you do what seems right to you, Chippy."
No more than two men, Fogg guessed, from the footsteps that tapped down the hall. If this Chips should open the office door, he'd best be ready with an excuse for his presence. He returned the revolver to its holster, quickly buttoned his jacket; and -- schooling his face to a sneer -- sat upright behind the heavy desk, at full command ready. But the footsteps continued down the hall, and the voices became muted with distance. "I served regular Army in the Crimea and even with our hairy-scary nabob, this is easy …"
Quiet stole back into the office followed by the diminutive sounds of a calm London mid-morning in the Service's Whitehall headquarters: the patter of rain on the window behind Chatsworth's desk, the tiny creaks of the swiveled chair responding to Fogg's shifting weight, and the asynchronous ticking of the clocks that surrounded the map of Europe on the west wall. Five of the six clocks said Fogg had been waiting for Chatsworth for half an hour. The sixth declared the time as 4:22, as it had since Fogg's arrival. Chatsworth wouldn't have forgotten to wind it. The squit was far too fussy about such minutiae. Perhaps a lackey had neglected his duties.
Fogg pulled out the revolver again. Releasing the cylinder latch, he re-checked to make sure each chamber contained a bullet, even pulling one out to admire the shine of its brass before clicking it back in. He didn't believe in resting the hammer on an empty chamber. One never knew when the round might come in handy, and pistols were damned dangerous anyway. The revolver's barrel gleamed in the light from the window behind him, and he let his fingertips explore the delicate curls of the incised scrollwork. Beautiful, a work of art.
Holstering it again, Fogg shrugged the weight into its rightful place under his arm. Although he'd just bought the piece, it felt like an old friend, as familiar as his cousin's face, or a cup of tea. It had been a good choice. He'd tried three handguns at Galmer & Sons before deciding on this one. It had pulled neither right or left when he'd fired a few test rounds on Galmer's shooting range. All had dead-centered the target in a group so tight the holes overlapped. And best of all, the revolver was at least four ounces lighter than any other six-shot revolver he owned. It was an assassin's weapon, easily hidden, intended to deal death.
#Chatsworth is upstairs, hmm? How inconvenient,# he grumbled to himself. This little task had already taken longer than he'd budgeted and he still had to drop off his letters at Edwards' office and make sure the man understood the proper timing of the deliveries. After Edwards, lunch at the Club and bit of cards, then a quick pop back to the gunsmith's to pick up the fifty loads they'd promised him by the end of the day. Although he'd need only one bullet to kill his man, he liked a safe margin. And he'd have no time for gunsmiths in Berlin.
Spending part of his last day in London lounging in Chatsworth's office wouldn't have been Fogg's first choice, but he schooled himself to patience. Chatty would arrive soon enough. And as Rebecca felt obligated to follow the bloke's commands, he was the best bet to keep her in England. Fogg had never understood Rebecca's acquiescence to Chatsworth's dominion. Usually she was a better judge of character.
Rotating the desk chair, he looked out the window. He'd always liked the window in this office, but not for this dismal view of a brick wall. When the room had been his father's, Sir Boniface had arranged his desk and chair squarely before the window and had always sat with his back to it, letting the light shine from behind him. Even on common days like today, when rain and fog made London an insufferable misery, it had cast a nimbus that gave Sir Boniface an unearthly glow hard to look into. He'd often seen his father at this desk with that daylight halo, his thick white hair glistening and his long fingers holding a pen or a piece of paper. It had been like gazing at God.
Even though this was Chatsworth's chair now, his father had sat on its worn pads far longer and had sculpted an imprint into the leather and horsehair. Fogg could feel the rounded ridges and troughs where his own ass and thighs wouldn't fit, as well as the shallower channels Chatsworth molded daily. To sit here felt strange, dishonest.
It was not a very comfortable chair, at least not for Fogg. He did not envy Chatsworth its ownership.
Fogg thought he heard more voices and footsteps approaching. Yes, that was Chatsworth deriding a clerk in that cultured accent of his -- Jones or Johns, or something of that ilk -- for a sloppy copying job. Good. He'd enter his office in a moment and Fogg could initiate their little melodrama. It was a good time to light the cigar.
From his waistcoat pocket he withdrew a corona and a small tin of lucifers. He lit the cigar and quickly puffed it to life. Not the best way to appreciate a fine cigar, but it was only a prop after all. Then unbuttoning his black jacket, he arranged his long frame in a slack and insolent pose, and leaning against a chair arm, he permitted the butt of his pistol to distort the jacket line just enough that if Chatsworth looked, he would know it was there. The new black wool ensemble moved easily to accommodate his changed posture, and today its dull black finish suited him – grimly dark, even opaque. He hiked his feet to the desk and drew on the cigar again. A soft white cloud of aromatic smoke surrounded him.
In the corridor Chatsworth continued to harangue his subordinate on the need for care in preparing official Service records. #How like Chatsworth to care more for penmanship than headquarters security,# Fogg reflected. No one knew Fogg was here. Using the tunnel under the Navy building, he'd invaded Service headquarters completely undetected. And apparently no one knew of the tunnel either. Its brick walls and floor had been covered with an unmarred velvety green carpet of mold. In Fogg's time only two or three top Service operatives and Sir Boniface had known of that tunnel. Now not even Chatsworth seemed to know.
Perhaps his father had inferred Chatsworth's true nature after all if he'd declined to trust him in so little a thing. Fogg knew him only too well. He'd partnered Chatsworth exactly once, and that had ended in death and disaster. Chatsworth had been new to the Service then, and Fogg had hesitated to ruin his career. He should have. He damned well should have and told his father the truth when they returned to Whitehall. But other issues had lain between father and son -- issues whose names were otherwise Erasmus and Rebecca -- and he'd told his father nothing. He'd let Chatsworth report his lies without contradiction.
When one thought about it, death pervaded the world. In London's rookeries dozens, even hundreds, died every day – men, women, children. No one cared. What was one meaningless death compared to all those? Even if it had been Duke Longwood's heir, and even if the fellow's only crime had been smuggling cigars, not the munitions Chatsworth said they'd find.
After Chatsworth had finished criticizing Jones at great length, the hall door opened a few inches and some final words leaked through. "... and speak to Flitcraft about additional work, Johns. Your output simply must pick up if you hope to maintain a position here in the Service." Ah, Johns then, not Jones, and not long for the rolls, one supposed.
The retreating tap of feet followed an inaudible response from the hall. The door swung open the rest of the way.
On their mission Chatsworth had exhibited hair-trigger reflexes, tending to shoot first and question whomever survived, which was how the duke's son had died. Sitting behind this desk, Chatsworth had apparently lost his edginess. He stood in his doorway a long, unsafe moment as he assessed first that his office was occupied and then that the occupant was Phileas Fogg. While Chatsworth's face worked from surprise to anger, Fogg tapped the ash off his cigar into the desk's heavy crystal ashtray.
Chatsworth seemed too outraged to move. Fogg didn't have all day. He pointed his cigar at the puffy chest and declared in a mild tone, "Bang, you're dead."
That did it. The rude waggery broke Chatsworth's trance. He strode to his desk, and rounding it, stood over Fogg and shoved his offending feet off the desktop. Fogg let them hit the Persian carpet with a thump. Looking up at his chair's rightful occupant, he relaxed his lips into an amused smile.
If he were Chatsworth's secretary Flitcraft, he'd be posting storm warnings for the rest of the staff about now. The bugger looked near hurricane force. Chatsworth's high collar points gouged into cheeks that were puffing up for a good blow . . . or a pout.
Chatsworth bent over Fogg, resting his hands on the chair's arms, undoubtedly trying to look intimidating. He creaked slightly as he bent, a small noise clearly audible at such close range. Fogg realized he'd been hearing the same wisp of a sound since Chatsworth had stepped into the room and it puzzled him for a moment. Something in it spoke to him of females and their underpinnings and heated nights in boudoirs with whalebone stays coming untied under his hands …
By God, Chatsworth was wearing a girdle! The vain pig! And he wasn't even wearing a fashionable coat, just that same dull-as-mud double-breasted thing he wore every day. One hardly needed a figure at all to wear such a boring piece.
Fogg couldn't keep his face straight and grinned broadly. Chatsworth, on the other hand, had curled his lips in a reasonable imitation of a vehement snarl and demanded, "What is the meaning of this intrusion, Fogg? I can have guards here in a …"
Fogg took a drag on his cigar then slowly and carefully exhaled the smoke into Chatsworth's face. "No, you don't want to do that, Chatty. In fact, may I suggest you close the door?"
At twenty-three Chatsworth had started losing his hair. At forty-two he sported a long swathe of skin from brow to crown. Canny subordinates observed his band of bald for an indication of his emotional state, as it colored more easily than his face. When Fogg had blown smoke in his face, the shade shifted to an interesting mauve and he drew back sharply, coughing hard. Eventually sounds emerged. "I'll thank you not to call me 'Chatty,' Fogg."
"No thanks required ... Chatty." Fogg returned the cigar to the ashtray and arose with a quick, springing movement, forcing Chatsworth to choose among stepping back, being knocked over or initiating fisticuffs by shoving Fogg back. Chatsworth chose to step back, his first concession of power. Fogg decided this was going rather well. Every time he fractured Chatsworth's control of the situation, the next bit of power became easier to acquire. By the time he left, he'd have Chatsworth licking his boots – except he'd worn shoes today. It made a nice image though.
Using his greater height to advantage, Fogg leaned into the plump bureaucrat, trying to make him step back once more. He let the butt of his revolver press into Chatsworth's chest, although he was uncertain whether the man could feel it through the girdle. He could feel Chatsworth's holstered gun and the points of the girdle's whalebone stays. Through the fog of cigar he detected the sharp aroma of Chatsworth's morning coffee and the cologne he'd used, apparently with generous abandon. Fogg brought his face so close to the full moon visage that he could see the black specks dotting the irises of Chatsworth's small brown eyes. He was so close he could have kissed Chatsworth's thin lips with no effort at all; he considered doing just that – to rattle Chatsworth's nerves – but his stomach protested such ill usage. "I've come to collect on an old promise, Chatty. You'd do yourself a kindness by closing the door. I don't think you'll want Johns or Flitcraft to hear what I'm going to say." Chatsworth stepped back. Another concession of power. Every little bit helped.
Although Chatsworth was many things – conniving and ambitious sprang immediately to mind –stupid wasn't amongst them. He had a good memory too, especially for unpaid obligations, his or anyone else's. He had that sort of mind, tallying things, counting, measuring. Chatsworth stood a long moment looking up into Fogg's eyes. Fogg saw the yardstick in them, measuring the height of his threat, the width of his intentions. Through Chatsworth's sweet cologne and the cigar's narcotic cloud, Fogg smelled the familiar acridity of fear.
Fogg deliberately bent over, picked up the cigar and took another pull, blowing it out with drawn-out and exaggerated care, but not in Chatsworth's face. He didn't want to give the man another coughing fit. He needed him fit to talk.
Seeming not to realize he'd already begun his downward slide, Chatsworth still fought for supremacy. "What makes you think you have the right to collect anything from me, Fogg? You forfeited that when you left the Service. I'm the Queen's man now. And you? You're nothing."
Ah, good, Chatsworth had remembered their little disaster and was trying to hide behind Her Majesty's skirts. How Chatty-like. It wouldn't do him any good. He was lucky Fogg had a need for him.
"Oh, I have the right, Chatty. I'll always have the right to collect on this particular promise. You should know -- you're the one that made it. Now please, close the door and let's talk." Chatsworth's third concession seemed close as the imitation snarl had disappeared to be replaced by a sweaty and anxiously tight upper lip. "The door, if you please?" Fogg asked again and waved with his cigar in that general direction.
Fogg had left this matter of the promise for so long, Chatsworth undoubtedly thought he was safe from exposure, that Fogg didn't care or had forgotten. He'd certainly felt safe enough to taunt Fogg from his lofty position as head of the Secret Service. Fogg hadn't forgotten. It was more lack of interest … and the observation that Chatsworth discounted Rebecca's considerable skills, severely under-using her, which made Fogg quite happy. Since Rebecca did not care to be ignored, Chatty would eventually drive her out of the Service.
Chatsworth made a noise somewhere between clearing his throat and a growl. He went to his cold gray marble fireplace. Unfortunately, now that Fogg had noticed the girdle's creaking, he couldn't stop hearing it. When Chatsworth lifted his arm to lean on the mantle, it made a most alarming (but quiet) crack and drew Fogg's attention from the next words. "I have no secrets from my staff, Fogg, and I don't fancy being behind a closed door with you. Talk. I haven't got all day."
"Are you sure, Chatty?" With a shrug and a tug, Fogg rearranged the hang of his holster then casually pulled at the lapels of his jacket, dragging the fabric tight over the butt of the gun. He turned to look for the chair and said as he sat down again behind the desk, "It's been quite some time since I've seen your father. How #is# he these days? Recovered somewhat from his apoplexy, I trust? I haven't seen Sir Reginald since ..."
Fogg was still looking away from Chatsworth, arranging his coattails and adjusting the line of his black trousers. He heard the snap of Chatsworth's footsteps followed by the hall door slamming shut. Fogg repressed a smile: third concession won. Nearly there. He looked up. Chatsworth stood leaning on the door, his back to it, his hands behind him. "I always knew you were a selfish bastard, Fogg, but I thought you at least had the principles of a gentleman."
Fogg graced him with a surprised look. "Oh, I do have them, Chatty. When I kill, it's always for a reason."
"That was an accident, Fogg!" The color of Chatsworth's face now matched his bald spot and the mauve tint clashed horribly with the red neck cloth he'd chosen for the day. Fogg sincerely hoped he hadn't inherited his father's susceptibility to apoplectic attacks. It looked like one might be in the offing, and he had a use for the slime … and no desire to publish his presence in Chatsworth's office to the rest of the building just yet.
He permitted himself to contemplate Chatsworth's possible reaction when in a few weeks Edwards delivered his letter. Now #that# should prove to be a first-rate opportunity for a seizure. Perhaps he ought to ask Edwards to deliver it in the company of a physician? No, he'd just tell him to leave before Chatty opened it – spare Edwards the trauma of a medical emergency.
He'd best give Chatsworth a moment or two to calm himself. From the desk stand – a largish firedrake rendered in brass, a flame of amber spewing from its mouth -- Fogg pulled up a pen. He tested the pen's point on his thumb. Nearly dry. Chatsworth must use a great deal of ink in his day-to-day work. Only a tiny spot of blue was transferred to his thumb, unfortunately right into the prick he'd made a few days ago while dining with the Baron. Fogg put the pen down and rubbed his fingers together. The ink smeared slightly.
He picked up the cigar again and drew. It had begun to make Fogg a bit light-headed. It had been years since he'd permitted himself the pleasure.
The small delay had not calmed Chatsworth. Making snuffling, throaty noises loud enough that Fogg no longer heard his girdle creak, he paced from the desk to the fireplace and back. He glanced at Fogg now and again to observe how his tormentor amused himself.
"Of course, it was an accident, Chatty. An unfortunate accident. Didn't I say so at the time? And attributing it to his partner in crime -- I must say that was a stroke of genius on your part. He didn't mind it at all, being dead himself. And wasn't it lucky I'd killed him, hmmm, Chatsworth? We brought in a pair of dead men and neither of them told any tales about cigars. And you did promise me that favor so prettily. 'Anything you want, Fogg,' I believe you said. 'Just ask.'" He paused. "You know, I believe I never wrote up a proper report on that mission."
Fogg swiveled the office chair, the master of all Chatsworth's office, master of Chatsworth for that matter. He wondered if he'd frightened Chatty enough to make him piss his trousers. Surely the girdle would make that a chancy situation. Reaching into his waistcoat, he pulled out another cigar and offered it to Chatsworth. "Oh, I'm sorry, Chatty. Forgive my manners, would you like a cigar?"
Chatsworth had a sick sneer painted on his face, an ugly un-amused rictus not echoed by his panic-filled eyes. He looked away from Fogg. Although he still stood, his legs seemed a bit wobbly. Probably didn't want to sit in his own guest chair and concede Fogg's full ownership of his office and his soul … or more likely he didn't want to sit close to an assassin with a loaded gun. Fogg laid the unclaimed cigar on Chatsworth's desk.
If, after whipping a vicious dog, one pets it, the dog will lick one's hand in gratitude. Fogg stood up. "Why don't you sit down, Chatty?" he said gesturing at the chair he'd just vacated. "I don't want your job, you know. I have a favor to ask – actually two favors. Not difficult ones either. I don't think you'll have any problem with either of them." He managed to force a friendly tone into the words.
Chatsworth turned to look at him. His eyes regarded Fogg only for a moment. They quickly whipped away and looked at the empty chair then flicked back to Fogg. Walking over to the chair hesitantly, almost as if he feared it might roll away from him, he pulled his coattails out of the way, sat down and folded his hands on his desk. The hands worked together, stroking each other. He ignored the cigar.
Fogg went over to the six clocks on the wall that surrounded the map of Europe. He pointed to the clock labeled "Berlin," one of the five that had been ticking so busily since his arrival. "Is Berlin three and half hours ahead of London? I should have thought it rather less."
"It is less. Johns didn't set that clock right." Chatsworth did not look at Fogg. His color had begun to fade toward a normal pink.
"How many agents do you have there now? Does the Service still keep an entire cell on that station?"
"Fogg, you know that's classified information." His eyes met Fogg's. "Two cells. We have two cells in the Germanies now. Four British agents all told, another eight locals."
#Hmm,# Fogg thought, #that many? Seems rather a lot. Father had only one man.# "Well, here is the first favor. I'm bound for Berlin on an errand for an old friend. I need a free rein and no interference from your agents." He waited. Since he'd demanded free rein, Chatsworth could fathom what the errand might be. But the man was a rattled, quivering mess. "I'm not going to take the bit in my mouth and run wild, Chatsworth. I serve Her Majesty's interests. I just want to avoid misunderstandings." To serve Her Majesty's cousin, the Baron, could be said to serve her interests. Fogg only half lied.
Chatsworth's disgruntled expression would have soured milk. "Just what do you propose I do, telegraph them to ignore the Aurora? To pretend she's invisible? That would be rather a pretty trick." It wouldn't be that Chatty disliked the notion of a royal intrigue, he would just resent exclusion from the inner circle. No matter. The Baron was to handle that, to make sure there were no Royal complications.
"I'm not taking the Aurora to Germany; I'm taking the train. You'll think of something. You're keen that way. It's one thing I've always admired about you, Chatty." Ah, that sweetened the bugger's temper, even if such lies did leave a foul taste in the mouth. He needed another pull on that cigar. Unfortunately, it had gone out in Chatsworth's ashtray, its usefulness as a prop at an end.
Fogg made his face contort into a friendly smile again, and Chatsworth seemed comforted by what he saw. "What's the other favor, Fogg? Something tells me it involves your cousin. Do you want her released on holiday for a month or two?"
Chatsworth was guessing. "No, Chatty. I'd like you to keep her busy in England for a month. I'd prefer you'd just assign her home office work for the while; but if necessary, you have my permission to use more rigorous measures. A short incarceration perhaps -- use your imagination. Just keep her off the Continent. By the way, she's not to know I've gone to Berlin."
"Rigorous measures? Not to know?" Chatsworth's surprised expression was well worth the price of admission, such as it had been. His voice squeaked a bit too, and the girdle chose that moment to creak. Creaky girdle, squeaky voice. Ruining Chatsworth's day had turned out to be a most amusing interlude for Fogg. It almost balanced all the cuts and affronts Chatsworth had offered since he'd left the Service. Almost.
"Within gentlemanly bounds, of course. I don't have to tell you that Rebecca can defend herself if you should step outside them. And I wouldn't take it amiss if you would put a minder on her as well -- although she might. Doesn't like people watching over her. Never has."
Fogg pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. If he caught a cab, he could reach Edwards' office before lunch, leave the packet of letters with a few quick instructions and be almost back on schedule for his regular luncheon and card game at the Reform. "I should warn you that I've left instructions and a testimonial with my solicitor if Rebecca is harmed in any way. You do know Edwards, don't you? Excellent solicitor. Very thorough, very reliable. An absolute bulldog of a man."
He stopped to look at Chatsworth, who had deflated into a crumpled and silent heap. "Chatty? Do you know Edwards?" Chatsworth's chin rested on his chest and he regarded his feet. All Fogg could see was his bald spot and its fringe of frizzy ginger hair. "Chatty?"
Chatsworth's head came up. His eyes looked distinctly moist and a sick sneer tugged at his upper lip again. "I will do what you ask, Fogg. Go commit your murder. My agents won't get in your way. But if you think I'll let you keep me leashed – that I won't seek a reckoning -- you don't know the Chatsworth blood and temper." He stood up and leaned over his desk, surrounded by the unearthly light from the window behind him. "By God, you'll pay. You'll regret being alive."
That's when it happened, that damned interfering extra sense, perhaps accentuated by the narcotic effects of the cigar. Fogg's world turned red and he tasted the heat of boiling blood. A pressure wave of fear pulled the hair on his scalp straight up to the ceiling, and the air between him and Chatsworth trapped the last words and froze them, yowling and shivering for what seemed an eternity.
But it wasn't an eternity, it was barely two seconds. Shaking his head, Fogg silently cursed the Devil for playing hob with his nerves – he'd had a similar incident last night and these attacks rarely came so close together. Damn, and damn again. As he stepped over to Chatsworth's coat rack to retrieve his hat, coat and stick, he stamped the floor emphatically to remind himself of what was real and what was not.
What? Oh yes, Chatty had tried to call him out. "I'd love to have a go at it with you, Chatty, but I'm bound for Berlin tomorrow. Why don't you have your second call mine while I'm out of town and set something up for us in a few weeks?" He put on his hat and struggled into his great coat. It did not fit as well as the jacket over his holstered pistol and that was unfortunate, as Fogg had no time in his schedule for the tailor today.
His mind elsewhere, conventionalities for leave-taking came of themselves to Fogg's tongue. "I'm afraid I really must run now. It was so nice to see you again. Say hello to your father for me, will you?" He raised his stick in salute and not waiting for a reply from Chatsworth (the likelihood of one being diminishingly small) turned and walked out the door.
Outside as he pulled on his second glove, he thought of Rebecca's mission to Southwark. Turning back, he re-opened Chatsworth's door without knocking. He still sat in his chair with his head bent to rest on his arms. At the sound of the opening door, he whipped upright and passed his hand across his eyes. "Oh, Chatty," Fogg said, "is there anything we should know about this warehouse in Southwark tonight? Any intelligence at all?"
Chatsworth's thick voice informed him, "Some reports from cabbies and streetwalkers of lights at all hours. Could be anything – smugglers, white slavers, opium den. Or it could really be a haunted house. Better put some silver bullets in that pistol of yours, Fogg."
"Silver is for werewolves and vampires, Chatty. Oughtn't bother a haunt!" Fogg responded over his shoulder as he left once more.
His mission accomplished and Chatsworth under his thumb, Fogg felt no need to hide his departure. From Chatsworth's door, he turned right and headed for the main entrance, only to collide abruptly with Flitcraft who was in a rapid head-down transverse of the corridor.
Chatsworth's secretary had been carrying a tablet and the force of the collision threw it to the floor a good two feet away, face up. Recovering his balance, Flitcraft gave it immediate chase and rapidly snatched the paper up, squawking, "Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Fogg!" His voice had the discordant tonal qualities of a vulture. If Death had a voice, He would sound much like Flitcraft. That, coupled with his obsequious demeanor, had turned Fogg off from him since his first day of hire. Flitcraft and Chatsworth, on the other hand, had found themselves simply made for one another.
Whipping the tablet behind his back as if Fogg were an enemy of the Crown, Flitcraft bowed with a quick nervous jerk. Fogg afforded him a perfunctory nod of his head. What did Flitcraft think he was doing? Guarding a state secret from the Prussians? Fogg's eyes were still very good and he'd seen at least one word clearly -- "Paris."
And Fogg cared not a wit. Chatsworth spent almost as much time in Paris as he did in London, and Fogg did have to get Edwards' office by noon – it would be close enough as it was. He hurried off.
Fogg walked out the Headquarters' double doors into the cool, heavy morning. He nodded at the doorman George Redd, who nodded back, a surprised expression on his broad face. It must have been years since someone had passed George on the way out without passing him on the way in. He grinned broadly at Fogg and winked. George would remember the old times, the old ways, and the hidden entrances -- even if he didn't know just where they were. A clever man, he served Her Majesty's government well. Fogg hoped Chatsworth treated him properly.
Whitehall was nearly empty of carriages, an unusual circumstance at this time of day; doubtless the rainy morning accounted for it, although the downpour had finally stopped and things should soon pick up. An empty hack rattled down the street toward them. Fogg descended the Service building's granite steps at an undignified run. "Yo! Yo there! Pull up!"
Flitcraft rat-a-tat-tatted lightly at Chatsworth's door then turned to watch Mr. Fogg's retreating back. A few minutes ago Sir Jonathan had rung the summoning bell so many times that it had sounded rather more like a buzzer. Initially Flitcraft had suspected a crisis afoot and had immediately stashed the copy he'd been making in the hidden drawer, locked it and sprinted for Chatsworth's office, the Paris telegram clipped to his tablet. After nearly colliding with Mr. Fogg, he revised his assessment of the possible situation in the chief's office, Fogg being sufficient explanation for the chief ringing any number of times.
He knocked again. Still no response. Something told him promptitude might be the most prudent choice. Looking up and down the hall to check for observers, a habit so ingrained he couldn't shake it, Flitcraft pushed the door open. "Sir Jonathan?" The chief sat behind his desk, his back to the door and looking out the window at the brick wall across the courtyard. Flitcraft quietly closed the door behind him.
"Sir Jonathan? You summoned me, sir?"
Chatsworth made a throaty sound, coughed, sighed and swiveled around. As often true, with the window shining behind him, it was hard for Flitcraft to read his facial expression or assess the shade of the bald spot. "Take a telegram, Flits."
"Yes, sir. If I may borrow a pen, sir? I seem to have left mine behind." Chatsworth leaned forward and pulled a pen out of his fanciful dragon stand, dipped it in ink and passed it over. The task required him to bend out of the window's light. He didn't look well, Flitcraft decided, no, not at all. His eyes were puffy and the skin mottled.
"Transmit to all agents in the Germanies, at their, uh, last known location. No, this isn't an emergency -- make it normal pick-up. Flag, 'Do not acknowledge.' Message text …"
Chatsworth paused, apparently considering. He sounded weak, his sentences fading away at the end as if he ran out of breath … or hope. "Cain travels Berlin. No, no. They'd not know Fogg's code name, would they?" Another pause. For a long moment Flitcraft thought Chatsworth had forgotten he was there, then Chatsworth began again with a sigh. "I guess we'll have to send it encoded. Didn't want it give it that much weight, but there's nothing for it. Make the message text: 'Phileas Fogg travels Berlin. Do not interfere or render assistance.' Use code base orange one five. You've got a day or so to get it out." Chatsworth leaned back in his chair, his folded hands tapping his lips. His eyes had lost their focus.
"Is there anything else, sir?" Flitcraft asked. He fingered the Paris telegram. This might not be the best time to present it, since it concerned Phileas Fogg and Sir Jonathan's conference with the man seemed to have left him perturbed. One might even say, broken.
Flitcraft glanced at the wall of clocks. Damn, Delhi had stopped again. His new electromagnetic surveillance relay made that particular clock stop dead almost every day. And the Berlin piece to run fast. But the miracle of recorded sound – it was worth the risk. Tonight's transcription ought to prove very informative – Chatsworth had said Fogg was bound for Berlin and that couldn't be good.
Chatsworth had been talking. " … need someone with no connection to the Foggs, or better yet an enemy of theirs. That blasted basket of vipers must have more than a few of them. Any suggestions, Flits?"
This would be the time to present the telegram. Flitcraft pulled it out, and placed it squarely on the chief's desk. "This just came from the special observation post you ordered in Paris, sir. You might find it helpful."
Chatsworth read the telegram aloud, "Lazarus threatens Fogg. Verne bound London. Request two men to assist me Paris immediately. Hilda Burgetta von Rolt." He looked up at Flitcraft and some of his old autocratic self had returned. "What's this? Lazarus again? Wasn't von Rolt's mission to verify Verne as Fogg's catamite? You'd think even a Prussian female would have no trouble spotting that kind of perversion."
Flitcraft cleared his throat. He spoke tentatively. "I believe that Miss von Rolt's mission may not have been conveyed to her quite that way, sir." He raised his eyebrows, hoping that Sir Jonathan might grasp his unspoken meaning. He didn't. Chatsworth didn't reply aloud but his glare demanded further elucidation.
Flitcraft squirmed. "Miss von Rolt is rather young, sir. In fact, if I may say so, scarcely more than a child herself. I rather think the man who briefed her, well, he couldn't quite bring himself to be so forthright in his, uh, shall we say description of the situation …"
"Was that man you, Flits?"
The storm warnings had gone up in Chatsworth's eyes, and Flitcraft was torn between relief that his chief had apparently recovered his equilibrium and the certain knowledge that he was about to suffer for it. "Yes, sir."
The storm continued to build. "Refresh my memory. Just how did this Miss von Rolt come to be on our rolls?"
"Her mother, sir. It was a favor to her mother, the Countess von Rolt, a connection of Baron von Bresslau's, I believe." Flitcraft ducked his head. If the storm were to break, he'd just as soon not get it in the face. Nothing happened. Without raising his head, he tried to roll his eyes up enough to see Sir Jonathan's face. The view revealed that the man looked thoughtful and had gone back to tapping his lips with folded hands.
The chief straightened up. One could practically see the iron returning to his backbone. "Retrieve her. Deny her request for the two men and order an immediate recall to London. And set up an off-site rendezvous point where we can meet – her hotel ought to be adequate."
"Yes, sir!" Flitcraft hustled for the door, but stopped when he remembered the pen in his hands. He stepped back to the desk and placed it in the dragon's back.
"And, Flits?"
As he bent over the desk, Chatsworth's face had come within only a foot or two of his own. Flitcraft looked up into Chatsworth brown eyes, and tried to keep his lips from trembling. For a moment, it had looked as though he might have escaped unscathed. "Sir?" His voice squeaked a little.
"No one -- and I mean absolutely no one -- is to know of anything we've discussed. Am I clear?"
Flitcraft permitted himself a small sigh of relief. "Absolutely, sir. No one. It will not go beyond me, sir."
In the hall, he hummed a happy little tune. It was a good life he led. And today should prove very profitable. The Prussians paid well for this kind of information. He closed the door to his office and began to prepare Sir Jonathan's telegrams. He would have a busy afternoon.