Empire of Ruins (11 page)

“Be the song,” Mrs. Finchley said quietly. “Feel its rhythm.”

The circular path of the mazurka meant that he occasionally
found himself next to Octavia for a few moments. Sometimes he danced close enough to actually say a few private words.

“You look absolutely first class,” he said on one of these occasions as he hooked his right arm through hers and they twirled around each other.

“I know,” she replied with a coy smile. “No seasickness on the Indian Ocean, my dear cousin?”

“Not even a smidgen. Bring on the Pacific!”

She spun away, dancing with an officer in a fancy white coat with golden buttons. By the man’s insignia, Modo could see he was a lowly captain’s clerk! But he was a good six inches taller than Modo.

The dance soon brought Modo and Octavia together again. “You’re looking rather handsome, yourself,” she said as she moved away. “Keeping in mind, of course, that you aren’t really yourself at all.”

The mazurka didn’t bring them together again, to his great frustration. The orchestra finished and the dancers all bowed to one another. When he looked up, Octavia was already with another officer, a lieutenant this time. Mrs. Finchley had been asked to dance by the grizzled captain, so Modo found himself standing alone as the orchestra struck up a painfully peppy polka. He was not feeling the least bit peppy.

Modo threw himself down in a lounge chair. What exactly had Octavia meant by her last comment? Had it been a mistake to use the Doctor’s face with her? After all, she really knew him so much better by his Knight face, another from his repertoire. Maybe every time she saw this new face she was reminded of how he could change. She had to get
to know him all over again. Was that why she seemed so distant?

But surely she could see it wasn’t his fault. This was how he’d been born.

Already the Horn of Africa was sinking behind the ship. It was certainly warmer this far south, but he still shivered. A waiter brought him a soothing cup of tea and he drank it. They did have good tea on the
Rome
!

Modo wanted to go back to his cabin and read, but Octavia would probably accuse him of sulking. So to pass the time he watched the other passengers. He rehearsed their names and occupations. Then he matched all the men with their wives. Except for the priest, of course. These were the elite of British society. He wondered if any other members of the Permanent Association were on board. For all he knew, everyone on the ship was an agent of Mr. Socrates. Modo laughed nervously. Wouldn’t that be something?

And what about enemy agents? With that in mind, he surveyed the seated passengers.

The priest would be a reasonable guess, as his collar would make him seem trustworthy, but the man was at least sixty and had a friendly manner when Modo chatted with him. He certainly enjoyed talking about birds. No, it would be too obvious to dress up like a priest. A doctor, now, that might be a good disguise. Unless someone suddenly became ill—then you’d have to prove you
were
a doctor.

Mr. Carpenter was sitting alone, but very near Mr. Socrates, who was in conversation with the ship’s captain. He leaned slightly toward the two men as though listening in. Modo ran through his memory of the past month on the
ship. He’d seen the man many times and he was usually alone. He’d been sketching out on the deck, so he was some sort of an artist. Modo had never heard him speak. The fact that he was alone might indicate he was a solitary agent.

Mr. Carpenter glanced at Modo, their eyes meeting for a moment; then he nodded and went back to looking out at the ocean. After a few minutes Mr. Carpenter stood and walked down the deck toward the cabins.

Modo waited several seconds, then followed him. He didn’t know if he was responding to gut instinct or just looking for an excuse to leave the dance.

Mr. Socrates had told him never to put too much stock in gut instinct. “The gut is not the part of the human body that thinks,” he’d explained numerous times. And yet, Modo found himself following the mysterious man.

He watched as Carpenter entered his cabin and closed the door. Modo approached it quietly and stood outside, listening. All was quiet. Then he heard a click like a hammer being cocked on a pistol.

V
isser crouched next to his cabin door, a loaded, cocked pistol in his right hand. He waited. The young agent, Anthony Reid, had followed him: a bad sign. If he was indeed Modo, then he could assume any face and was immensely strong. His hits at the cricket games proved his strength, but Visser had seen no sign of his transformative abilities. He wasn’t even sure what he should be looking for.

What could the young man know about him? Nothing. Visser had left no clues about his real reasons for being on the ship. So how had one of his enemies ended up on the other side of the door?

In his mind he quickly ran through various possible outcomes of the situation: if there was conflict and Visser shot the agent, he would be easily captured and put up on charges.

Perhaps before it got that far, in the certain confusion, he could swim from the ship to the African coast.

No, no. A gun was too noisy in any case; it might be heard above the orchestra. And besides, he hated swimming.

He’d tinkered with the falcons, but wasn’t sure whether they were wound properly. Contact poison on a knife would do the job, but he hadn’t prepared any poison—and what would he do with the body? He glanced over his shoulder to measure the porthole. It was far too small to push the corpse through. The cabin was a completely inconvenient place to murder anyone. Of course, Visser thought, he could murder him quietly now, then throw him overboard late in the night. He always had garrote wire in his pocket; he’d used it many times before.

Why are you crouching here like a child?
he scolded himself.
Why not just get to the root of the problem?
He went to his bed and placed the gun under the pillow, removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, hoping it would make him look more American. Then he opened the door and pretended to be startled at the sight of the agent.

“Why, good evening, sir.”

“G-good evening,” the young man said, straightening up, as though he’d been listening at the keyhole. “I was just getting some fresh air and paused here for the view. Lovely night for a ball, I must say.”

“Yes, it is,” Visser replied. The agent was taller than he, his shoulders wider. No matter. The garrote would work, so long as he got in proper position behind him. He’d taken down men twice his size. “I must admit I became bored. I’m not so much for waltzing.”

“Neither am I, I’m sorry to say. Are you an American?” the young man asked. “You have an accent.”

“Guilty as charged.” Visser searched the man’s skin for clues of a facial transformation—stretch marks, wrinkles, anything that would point to his being Modo. But he seemed completely normal. Handsome, even. “I moved there with my family when I was a boy.”

“Lovely country.”

“Yes, it is.” Visser had lost count of how many inane conversations he’d had with enemy agents in his lifetime. Next they would be talking about cricket scores.

The young man extended his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Anthony Reid.”

“Howdy, Anthony. I am Albert Carpenter.” Was the “howdy” too much? The young man didn’t react.

They shook hands; Visser found the man’s grip firm.

“Carpenter, is it? Do I also hear a pinch of Dutch in your accent?”

Visser was stunned. He thought he’d eliminated any sign of his accent. “Good ears, my man. I do indeed have the slightest accent,” he said. “Left over from my youth. My father’s last name was Kistemaaker. Quite the mouthful, isn’t it? Ha! It means ‘cabinetmaker.’ He believed it would be easier to fit in with the neighbors if he changed our surname to its American equivalent.” It was always good to have a story. He’d used the name Carpenter before.

“Wise father. May I ask about your scars?”

“Scars?” Visser replied.

“Yes, on your left forearm. I apologize if I’m being too forward. I’m a doctor and am curious about such things. I don’t recognize the scar pattern.”

The man was observant! Visser glanced at the lines on his forearm, some new and pink, others old and white. Most
were the result of training the falcons. The birds weren’t always considerate enough to land on the leather guards.

“There’s a mighty interesting story behind them, my friend.” He paused, opening his cabin door wider. “Would you like a whiskey? It’s a tradition when telling this tale.”

“Whiskey? How kind, but I should return to the ball. I’m supposed to be attending to my father.”

“Ah, your father wouldn’t deny you a drink with a new friend, would he? I insist, Mr. Reid.”

The young man smiled. “Well, one, to ‘wet the whistle,’ as they say. That’s very kind of you.”

Visser gestured, letting his guest enter the cabin first, then stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

M
odo sat at the small table across from Mr. Carpenter, the Indian Ocean visible out the porthole. He scanned the room: a bed directly behind the man, a closed portmanteau on the floor next to it, several books on the shelves. Everything was neat and tidy. A sketchbook sat open on the table; so he
was
an artist.

Agreeing to the drink, Modo was quickly realizing, had been foolish. Carpenter had closed the door, though at least it wasn’t locked. The orchestra music would block any sounds of struggle. He was confident he could handle the smallish man if it came to fisticuffs, but there was something agile about the way he moved. He looked older than he’d first appeared, and by the gaslight Modo could now see there were more scars, on his cheek. One drew a white line down the side of his neck. Carpenter had blinked hard when asked about the scars on his arm, a sign that the question both surprised and bothered him.

“It’s Jameson whiskey—Irish but good,” Carpenter said as he half-filled two tumblers and set one in front of Modo.

“It certainly is.” Modo placed his hand around the glass but didn’t take a sip. “You had a story to share about your scars. Were you in the military?”

“Gosh, no,” Carpenter said. “Not tough enough for that sort of life. I did work on a ranch as a cowhand when I was younger. I was wretched at that, too. Cut myself with thorny fence, I did.”

“Thorny fence? I’m not familiar with it.”

“A wire fence with barbs that keeps the cattle in. It’s tricky to unwind, and we were attaching it to mules to drag it across a coulee. It wrapped around my arm.”

“How unfortunate.” Modo heard something ticking. He hadn’t seen a clock.

“They fired me the next day,” Carpenter continued. “Just one of many reasons I wasn’t cut out to be a cowhand. I couldn’t ride a horse worth a tinker’s damn. All for the good. I went to college and became an illustrator. I illustrate for small papers.” He pushed the sketchbook toward Modo and flipped the pages. Modo recognized scenes from the ship, recent drawings.

It had been a well-told, perhaps well-rehearsed story, Modo thought. There were even illustrations to prove he was an artist. But there was also a steely determination in the man’s eyes. They didn’t waver, as though he was watching to see if Modo believed him.

“Now that I look at them more closely, your scars remind me of talon scars.” Modo was remembering Octavia’s description of the falconer in Westminster Abbey.

“Talons?”

“Yes, from falcons. There are still a few falconers in England; not everyone has those horrible pigeons.” The ticking was coming from the portmanteau.

“Curious,” Carpenter said, “the only falcons I ever saw were on the ranch in Wyoming. Please drink up, Mr. Reid.”

Modo brought the glass to his lips. The man was watching him intently, too intently. The whiskey was likely poisoned!

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but I just remembered that whiskey disagrees with my stomach. Thank you, in any case. I believe I should return to the ball.”