The Unknown Spy (11 page)

“An island.” Devoy frowned. “Do they have bridges or boats?”

“There’s no bridge to Ireland, sir, but there are boats and …” Danny was going to mention the existence of airplanes, but he remembered how the Wilsons people had reacted to the mention of television and thought better of it.

“Wonderful,” Devoy said. “I imagine it will be possible to steal one of these boats, or to bribe the ferryman.”

“You could do that,” Danny said, “but you could always just pay the fare.”

“Pay the fare,” Devoy said suspiciously. “You mean they would demand a terrible forfeit, perhaps a hold over your very soul?”

“Er, no,” Danny said, “usually a few coins—well, banknotes, really.”

“It’s almost too easy,” Devoy said. “It might be a trap.”

“I don’t think so,” Danny said, thinking of the huge ships that crossed the Irish Sea every day carrying cars and trucks.

“We’ll see,” Devoy said. “It is a good thing that Morne has moved—in cold climates it usually covers its movements by creating snowy conditions, so look for snowstorms, or snow lying where it is normally rare.”

Danny shook his head. They laughed when he
described a television set, yet they talked about a secret kingdom that moved from country to country without blinking an eye.

“You’ll need local currency,” Devoy said. “I gave Fairman some gold and asked him to change it for money from the Upper World.”

A suitcase had stood unnoticed by the door. Devoy brought it over and opened it. Danny gulped. It was full of bundles of different bills—euros, dollars, pounds. There must have been tens of thousands in each currency.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, no,” Danny said quickly, “I think it’ll be just enough.”

“Good,” Devoy said. “Now we have to talk about infiltration. You will be traveling in with Fairman. The problem is, where to take you?”

“If we go as far as my house,” Danny heard himself saying, “we can use that as a base and operate from there.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Devoy said, “but what about your parents?”

Does he know that the people I live with are agents? Danny thought.

“We’ll say we’re going on a study tour,” Danny said. “They’ll swallow that.”

“If you’re sure,” Devoy said. “Now, for the next few days we’ll be working on your new identities. In the meantime, are there any questions?”

“What does the Treaty Stone look like?” Vandra said.

“And how do we find it?” Dixie said.

“And steal it and carry it?” Danny said.

“Your questions are reasonable and I wish I could answer them, but the truth is I can’t. The Stone is held in Morne, we know that for sure, and it will be protected. As to the rest, you’ll have to find out by yourselves. Master Brunholm will give you all the information we have on Morne. Now. Go back to the Roosts and get a good night’s sleep. From this moment on you are on alert for the crossing into the Upper World. The crossing is difficult at the moment, after the Seraphim incursion, and Fairman will not give us much notice when he decides to go.”

The cadets were tired when they left the apothecary, but there was to be no rest. They got back to the Roosts at ten o’clock to find Toxique sitting on his bed moaning about blood and death and, down at the far end of the boys’ Roosts, Smyck and Exspectre with satisfied grins on their faces.

“What happened?” Danny asked.

“Smyck,” Les said with a moan. “He found out about Toxique and the family punishment and everything. He’s threatening to tell Toxique’s dad about the failed assassination attempt and blame it on Toxique. And to make it worse, Toxique’s dad is coming to Wilsons tomorrow!”

“How did he find out?” Dixie said.

“It was my fault,” Les said. “I left the beetles in my locker and forgot to lock it. Smyck took them and hid one under my bed. I was trying to make Toxique feel better about everything and Smyck heard it all!”

Danny swung around and looked at Smyck, who grinned and gave him a sarcastic thumbs-up. Danny strode toward him.

“Listen, Smyck,” he said, “this is no joke. If Toxique’s dad thinks he tried to assassinate someone and failed, then Toxique is in serious danger.”

“Yeah, sure,” Smyck said. “Toxiques, always going on about blood and death and stuff like that. I bet nothing will happen to him. Whoever heard of a family killing their own son?”

“Whoever heard of a family of assassins either?” Danny said. “You don’t know what they might do.”

“In that case,” Smyck said, putting his face close to Danny’s, “you’d better mind your manners, Caulfield, because the least squeak from all of you and I’m straight up to Toxique’s old man to tell him how useless his son is.”

“If you do that …,” Danny said, his fists clenched.

Smyck threw his head back and laughed. Danny knew he would have to be watched very carefully the following day.

After Danny got into bed he whispered across to Les.

“Les, we’ve got preparation for this mission tomorrow. Can you trail Smyck?”

“Course I can. Might mean missing a few classes, but I don’t mind that!”

T
he following morning both Roosts were late for class. Blackpitt must have slept in, for he didn’t wake them until half an hour later than usual. There was a chorus of displeasure directed at the unseen announcer, and he was snappish back.

“It’s your responsibility to get up, my little chickens. I’m doing you a favor by calling you at all.”

Danny and Les rushed off to Ravensdale for breakfast, snatching up cold toast and dried-out pieces of bacon, realizing with dread that their first class that morning was with Exshaw, who had been known to use lethal force against latecomers.

As the other students darted off to class, Blackpitt directed the mission team to Brunholm’s quarters. There were startled and suspicious looks from the other students, who hadn’t known about a mission. Les whispered a quick “Good luck” to his friends and took off at a run, dragging Toxique behind him by the hand.

Danny and Dixie climbed the stairs to Brunholm’s quarters. They were in one of the oldest parts of the building. None of the dimly lit corridors were straight; mysterious doorways opened onto passages leading off to the side, disappearing into darkness. There were portraits of solemn men and women in black cloaks on the walls, some wearing masks or holding the edge of their cloak across their face to conceal their identity. As Danny and Dixie approached Brunholm’s office, Danny noticed certificates on the wall, all belonging to Brunholm. A place known as the Institute of Advanced Surveillance was “pleased to note” that Brunholm had acquired a “distinction in miniature cameraship.” There were awards for Advanced Concealment of Weapons and Intermediate Poisoncraft.

“Nice bunch of awards,” Dixie said with a sniff as the passage grew darker, lit now only by flickering candles at great distances from each other. Finally they came to a
door covered in quilted green leather. Above the door was a brass nameplate reading
MARCUS BRUNHOLM, BRACS, TENS
. Danny raised his hand to knock but the door swung open before he touched it.

“Very impressive,” Dixie said. “It even creaked. I imagine we’re supposed to be spooked out.”

But Brunholm’s parlor was spooky enough without ghostly creaking doors, Danny knew. He had sneaked into it with Les once before, and he recognized with a shiver the little jail cell where the siren Vicky had been held as part of one of Brunholm’s schemes. The blowpipe and poison darts she had used were still on the wall, though now in a locked glass case.

“Kind of feels like Brunholm in here,” Dixie said.

“I know what you mean,” Danny agreed. The furnishings were dark and ornate with lots of velvets and leather. There were paintings of sickly-looking flowers and a smell of strong cologne.

“It’s the kind of a room that if it was a person you wouldn’t trust it, if you know what I’m saying,” Dixie commented. Danny often couldn’t follow Dixie’s thought processes, but this time he nodded.

“ ’Scuse me,” Dixie said, patting her stomach. “That’s what comes of bolting breakfast.”

Danny hadn’t heard the first sound, but it came again, a low moan.

“That wasn’t me this time.” Dixie looked around. “Where is Brunholm, anyway?”

Danny led the way to the corridor of teachers’ bedrooms. Each shabby brown door had a nameplate.

“They all sleep here?” Dixie said.

“So they can keep an eye on each other, I expect,” Danny said. “Here it is.…” They heard the moan from behind a door with M
R
. M. B
RUNHOLM
written on it. Danny knocked tentatively, then harder. The moaning got louder.

“We’d better go in,” Danny said.

“Be careful …,” Dixie warned as Danny opened the door and put his head inside.

“Master Brun—” he began. In a tenth of a second his mind took in the scene. The floral wallpaper, the pink spread and the fluffy pillows plumped up on the bed. The cushioned headboard with a terrified Brunholm spread-eagled against it, frozen to the spot, his eyes fixed on something on the dressing table, the moaning coming from a mouth that he seemed unable or unwilling to open. Danny’s gaze rested on the dressing table and the device that sat there, a silver machine about the size of a man’s head with a horizontal bow on top, two silvery antennae springing from it. Instantly the antennae twitched and the whole apparatus swung toward him. He pulled his head back and slammed the door just as something struck it with terrible power.

Danny gasped, his heart racing. “What is that?”

Dixie was absently fingering what looked like the point of an arrow that had pierced the door from the other side. “By the look of this,” she said, “it’s a Crossbow of Exquisite Sensitivity.”

Danny stared at her. “It’s a what?”

“An automatic crossbow with a hair trigger. You set it
up and activate it. Once it detects the slightest movement from a target it fires a bolt at the source.”

“That’s why Brunholm was moaning,” Danny said. “He didn’t even dare open his mouth to call out.”

“He’s a dead man,” Dixie said with an air of finality—and not much in the way of regret.

“We can’t let him be killed by that thing,” Danny said. “We need him for the mission.”

“Is that all you need him for, Danny?” Dixie said, giving him a level look. Danny didn’t meet her eyes. Brunholm was completely without scruples, sly and selfish. All the attributes you needed to be a truly successful spy. Part of Danny, the part he didn’t like to acknowledge, had a sneaking admiration for Brunholm. And every time Brunholm betrayed somebody or let them down, Danny learned something.

“How many arrows does it have?” Danny asked.

“Lots,” Dixie said. “Lots and lots.”

“And how quickly does it move?”

“No you don’t,” Dixie said. “I’m not acting as a decoy for Brunholm.”

“We need him, Dixie, whether you like it or not,” Danny said, “and he will be grateful.”

“Sure,” Dixie said sarcastically, “he’s always grateful and really nice about things.”

F
ive minutes later Dixie pushed the door open and stood stock-still on the threshold. The crossbow’s antennae twitched as though suspicious. Dixie winked at it. Almost
faster than the eye could see, the crossbow whirled and fired an arrow straight at her. Dixie disappeared and reappeared beside a leopard-skin dressing gown on a stand at the other side of the room just as the arrow struck and stood quivering in the doorframe.

“Every time she moves, you move,” Danny shouted to the quivering Brunholm. Danny could see the interior of the room by looking at its reflection in the dressing-table mirror.

Dixie moved her hand and disappeared. The crossbow turned and fired, and Brunholm threw himself to the floor and edged a few desperate inches forward. Dixie’s next move got him to the shelter of the bed, where he was able to crawl six feet without being detected by the crossbow. But in the meantime the machine appeared to have worked out what Dixie was doing. As she shuffled again and Brunholm gained a few more feet, the crossbow moved with incredible speed, so fast that Danny had to wait until Dixie had reappeared by the dressing table to see if she’d been hit or not. The next time she disappeared without moving at all, yet the crossbow was able to discharge a shot, as though it had read her mind. Brunholm was almost at the door. Dixie and Danny had agreed that her last reappearance would be at the wardrobe close to the door.

“Okay,” Danny said to Brunholm, “one … two …” As he completed his countdown a thought flashed through his head. As the word
three
left his mouth, Danny grabbed a chair from the corridor and flung it into the air directly between the wardrobe and the crossbow. Three
things happened very quickly: Dixie disappeared, Brunholm flung himself across the threshold, and the crossbow swung around and fired an arrow straight at the wardrobe where Dixie was about to appear!

Danny saw the next events as though they were happening in slow motion—Dixie appearing at the wardrobe, the arrow cleaving the air, its tip glittering. For a moment he thought all was lost, that the chair would fall too quickly. Dixie’s mouth made an O as she realized what was happening; then the arrow struck the chair in one leg, carrying it away and slamming it against the wall. Quick as a flash Dixie disappeared and reappeared beside Danny, her breathing fast and shallow.

“It read my mind!” she gasped. “It knew where I was going to appear and it aimed for there!”

“Look at my chair,” Brunholm growled. “Best Chinese lacquerwork on that chair.”

“Don’t say it,” Danny murmured to Dixie. “Don’t say it!”

Without a backward glance Brunholm strode toward the parlor, where he threw himself down in an armchair and, despite its being early, poured himself a large brandy from a decanter on the table.

“Did you see anyone in the corridor when you came up?” he demanded. They shook their heads. “Must have sneaked up on me when I was asleep. Damn cunning individual. I haven’t seen a Crossbow of Exquisite Sensitivity in years. Blackpitt!” he shouted.

“Yes, Master Brunholm,” the announcer said sweetly, “you called?”

“Get McGuinness up here at once,” he said, “and inform Master Devoy that there’s been another assassination attempt.”