The Ghost Rebellion (6 page)

It had only been three weeks since his last mission, and it hadn’t been an easy one by any stretch. Wales might have a reputation for being a little dull, but retrieving the wedding ring of Owain, the Lady of the Fountain, sounded easier than it had actually been. He and Brandon Hill had spent a lot of time running through the wilds of Wales chased by someone he was fairly sure had been some kind of grey lady. Usually Bruce liked ladies, but not when they wanted to rip his flesh from his bones.

Three weeks at headquarters, though, was threatening to make Bruce go mad with boredom. At first he’d hit the training fields with other agents recuperating from assignments. Weeks of shooting, boxing, and becoming familiar with new technology had finally become dull. Even that bloody karate nonsense that Agent Killian had brought back with her from Japan had ceased to be interesting. When yesterday he walked by the library and seriously considered picking up something to read, Bruce knew this was a sign that the walls of Whiterock were closing in. He had to get out or risk starting a brawl in the dining room just for fun.

“
Well,” Bruce muttered to himself just before taking a sip of his coffee and leaning back in his chair, “I suppose I did make a bit of a cock-up of the Queen’s Jubilee.”

He grinned. That operation was, indeed, the best of times. In fact, it was operations like the Diamond Jubilee that reminded him exactly why he joined the Ministry. The clean-up, the investigations, and the reconstruction of the Ministry that followed had kept all of them busy. Most veteran agents were training new junior agents in the field who would take the places of the ones killed during Phantom Protocol. The missions were becoming less dangerous, or at least less dangerous than the Diamond Jubilee. Bruce stared out the window into the gloomy Yorkshire weather. He always hated the dull calm following a successful assignment in the field.

“
Bruce!” a familiar voice called out his name from behind him.

He knew who it was without turning, but did so anyway. Standing in the door of the conservatory, giving him a cheery wave, was Agent Brandon D. Hill. He had with him a bowl of what looked like almonds. Brandon loved almonds, pecans, and all sorts of nuts.
You are what you eat,
Bruce thought with a smirk.

They really were a mismatched pair, but somehow the two of them in the field created pure magic. During the Ministry’s reconstruction, Bruce and Brandon had to part ways for a few months in order to take greenhorns out into the field to get mud on their boots. Scenario training and drills were all very well, but there were things that happened on missions that could not be trained for. Field work sometimes demanded improvisation. That wasn’t taught. It was simply experienced.

The mission in Wales had been just the two of them, and that was a welcome change.

Bruce took his boots off the table. “Morning, Brandon, how’d you sleep?”

Capital, he will probably say,
Bruce thought.
He loves it here at Whiterock.
 

“
Oh, capital! I love it here at Whiterock!” Brandon said, taking a seat by Bruce. His breath reeked of almonds. “Such a delightful change from Miggins Antiquities. So serene, and what magnificent landscape views.”

“
Country life isn’t for the likes of you and me, mate,” Bruce stated. He polished off his coffee and set it on the small table between them. “Books’ homestead is posh and all, but too much time here would drive me batty. Don’t you think there’s a reason he doesn’t live here himself?”

“
Well, Hebden Bridge is quaint enough. Far from the madding crowd, as it were.” Brandon took in a deep breath and exhaled with delight. “And fresh country air. Good for the bowel movements.”

Bruce frowned at his partner. “Come again, Hill?”

“
Bowel movements. Why do you think spas and sanitariums are located far outside a city?” Brandon clicked his tongue as he set his snack next to Bruce’s empty cup. “All that smog and soot in the air. Mark my words, those toxins will be the death of the Empire!”

He knew he would regret asking, but Bruce believed the best way to make a connection with a partner was to understand what was on his mind and how he deduced matters. With Brandon, though, that could be a true descent into madness. He braced himself. “And what exactly does this have to do with bowel movements?”

“
Damn it, man, you should really indulge more in reading the science page of the
London News
.” Brandon waved his hands madly between his stomach and crotch. “Your bowels are incredibly sensitive to not just what you eat, but your demeanour, your diet, and—yes—the excitements in the very air. As wonderful as London is, all its pollutants aggravate your bowels, causing the toxins
in your body
to back up.” He was now making fists and slowly wringing them over his stomach. If it were anyone else, Bruce would have told him to stuff it and let him enjoy the silence. But this was Brandon. He wanted to know where he was headed with this fresh slice of insanity. “All that waste backs up and weighs—you—down. But here? In the country?” And he inhaled again, threatening to suck all of the crisp, clean air around them. Bruce hoped he would, as the lack of oxygen would make them both fall to the vapours. “The excitements are pure. You are refreshed. You are relaxed. Ergo...”

“
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 health.”

“
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.”