History Keepers 1: The Storm Begins (16 page)

‘Finish your drawings,’ she instructed the architects – and her voice sounded like corrosive acid – before turning to Von Bliecke. She had a faint German accent but her English was clear and precise. ‘Captain, you are to deliver the captured agents immediately to Castle Schwarzheim.’

Jake’s ears instantly pricked up. Surely she meant Topaz, Nathan and the others. He took some comfort from the news that they must still be alive.

‘
Und Doktor Talisman Kant – ein—
’ Von Bliecke started – but was silenced by Mina.

‘English!’ she said firmly. ‘The royal language is English.’

Von Bliecke took a deep breath and continued, ‘And Doktor Kant? The rendezvous at Bassano?’ he asked.

‘You have been reassigned.
I
will rendezvous with Doktor Kant.’ Mina looked at the guards. ‘These soldiers will accompany me. Then I too will proceed to Castle Schwarzheim. That will be all.’

Von Bliecke scowled at Mina, then turned,
gathered
up his weapons, whistled for Felson and left.

Jake’s heart beat fast as he watched Von Bliecke cross the room in front of him. He desperately wanted to follow. If indeed this man was about to ‘deliver the captured agents’, he would lead him straight to the others. But he couldn’t move. Instead, he made a point of remembering all the details of the conversation:
Bassano, Doktor Talisman Kant, Castle Schwarzheim …
He repeated the names over to himself.

Just as Von Bliecke reached the door, Mina spoke again. ‘For your sake I trust there’ll be no more mistakes.’ The captain froze, his back to the room. ‘It has been four years in preparation,’ she said quietly and sharply. ‘We have just four days now until apocalypse. Failure is not an option.’

Von Bliecke nodded soberly and left the room.

Jake went pale. Of all the pronouncements he had heard since arriving in Italy, this last one was the most alarming.
Just four days now until apocalypse
, Mina had said. What apocalypse? What had been four years in preparation?

‘Stop working now!’ Mina ordered. She swept along the tables and collected all the architects’
drawings
, placing them in a giant portfolio. Then she rang a bell and twelve more red-cloaked guards filed into the room.

‘Attention!’ she shouted, and the entire group, Jake included, formed a line. ‘We leave by the Veneto Tunnel,’ she continued. ‘Make your way down to the carriages in single file.’

The other guards knew what to do: they turned on their heels and marched into the chamber where the giant borehole led down into the ground. Jake got into line and followed. Here they descended the spiral staircase into the subterranean world, their red cloaks streaming out behind them, their precise footsteps echoing around the cavernous space. As the extraordinary tunnel grew darker and hotter, its walls damp with moss, Jake wondered where it was leading. He glanced up to see the rigid silhouette of Mina Schlitz bringing up the rear.

After a long, dizzying descent they arrived at the base of the tunnel and marched through an arch towards three horse-drawn carriages, all with drivers at the ready. Two were open-topped with rows of rough benches, the third was sleek and black, decorated with the symbol of the snake around the shield.

As Jake turned to see where these carriages would be heading, his eyes widened in disbelief: he was at the end of a tunnel, perfectly round like those in the Underground back in London, and lit at intervals by gently flickering tapers, which receded into the distance, boring under the city of Venice.

One by one, the red-cloaked guards took their places on the benches of the two open carriages. Jake was the last onto his vehicle. As he climbed up, he heard a faint clang and noticed that the silver scissors had dropped out of his trouser pocket. He froze, wondering whether he should retrieve them or not. Mina Schlitz had now appeared through the archway, so Jake decided not to draw attention to himself. He took his place on the bench, accidentally sitting on his neighbour’s cloak.

‘Excuse me,’ he said without thinking. The other guard did not react; he just looked at Jake blankly, then stared ahead again.

Mina Schlitz was scanning the carriages. Jake was terrified that she might catch sight of the glint of silver on the ground, but she merely climbed into the black coach and slammed the door behind her. A moment later the drivers cracked their whips and
they
set off. The big black wheels of Mina’s carriage passed over Nathan Wylder’s scissors and the vehicles rattled off along the tunnel.

Jake gazed at the walls, made of millions upon millions of bricks. He was so awestruck by this secret thoroughfare beneath the canals of the city that for a while he forgot his troubles. Enemy forces were clearly using this highway for dark purposes, but that did not detract from the astonishing achievement.

The tunnel gradually started to ascend. Thirty minutes passed before Jake finally spied a pinprick of daylight ahead. It was another twenty before they emerged into the open air. The tunnel had come out into a wood; as they left it and crested a hill, Jake looked back to see the Venetian lagoon spread below him. He let out a sigh. Despite all his fear and anxiety, suddenly he was thrilled by the prospect of adventure.

The three vehicles headed north in the direction of Bassano.

14 U
NWELCOME
N
EWS

IT WAS A
bright, bracing morning on the Mont St Michel. Final preparations for Oceane Noire’s birthday party had been underway since dawn. It was being held in the stateroom the following evening.

Oceane Noire had been born at Versailles, in the lavish court of Louis XV. It had been a time and a place of unparalleled extravagance, and Oceane had loved every indulgent second of it: the banquets, the clothes, the luxurious baths in jasmine water and rose petals.

When the French Revolution erupted, partly due to the behaviour of people like her, Oceane was extremely irritated: it interrupted a hectic season of coming-out balls. It was rumoured that she’d given Marie Antoinette her famous line, ‘Let them eat
cake
,’ but those who knew her claimed that Oceane would never have wasted pâtisserie on people who didn’t fully appreciate it.

While most French aristocrats were fleeing across the Channel, Oceane’s parents (now retired and living in the Cap d’Antibes, but very fine agents in their day) dragged their spoiled daughter across the remainder of the century to the safety of the 1820s and the Romantic period.

It had been all downhill from then on. Now Oceane felt that her life was commonplace; she longed in vain for those days of opulence to return. So for her party, although she didn’t much relish turning forty, she decided that she would set new standards of luxury at Point Zero.

All morning an endless stream of merchants – florists, purveyors of game and, indeed, cake-makers – had been arriving from the mainland with their goods for the banquet: special linens for the tables; braces of pheasant and quail; chocolates, nougat and coffee from Paris; peonies and delphiniums for decoration.

It was only on very rare occasions that locals were allowed inside the Mount, so nearly all of them, though they affected an air of brisk efficiency, had
their
eyes peeled for anything worthy of gossip. Of course, no one knew what really went on here – that this was the headquarters of the History Keepers’ Secret Service; they had been led to believe it was a community of painters and writers. This, of course, did not lessen their appetite for tittle-tattle.

The occupants of the island had to play the part and not arouse suspicion. That morning Norland had distributed a communiqué drafted by Jupitus Cole: as locals would be present today, he said, everyone must, ‘without exception’, be attired in the fashions of the time. To this end, Signor Gondolfino had opened the costumiery at dawn and had been run off his elegantly booted feet.

In the stateroom, Oceane was overseeing the florists, her eyes as hard and sparkling as the priceless diamonds that hung from her ears. Rose Djones came in, spellbound by the magnificent decorations, and made her way across to where Oceane stood.

‘Looking very grand in here,’ she told her. ‘Will there be dancing?’

A cloud descended over Oceane’s face. ‘You’re coming, are you?’

‘Isn’t everyone invited?’

Oceane tensed. ‘There’s a strict dress code, you know.’

‘I’ve got the gown that Olympe de Gouges lent me somewhere here. I’m hoping I can squeeze into it. Amazing what you can do with a bit of invisible thread.’

‘Or, of course, you may end up looking fat and feeling stupid,’ replied Oceane helpfully.

Rose knew better than to take anything Oceane said seriously, but she couldn’t resist a little bit of fun. ‘So, fifty today? You look really great on it.’

Oceane’s expression froze in horror. ‘
Comment
?’

‘I hope I look as good as you when I hit the dreaded half century.’

‘
Quarante
,’ hissed Oceane. ‘
J’ai
quarante
ans
! Forty.’

‘Oh, well, in that case’ – Rose scrutinized her opponent’s face – ‘that makes much more sense.’

‘
A vrai dire, je suis très occupée
. I’m very busy.’ Oceane thrust her nose into the air, then swung round and demanded of the room, ‘Has anyone seen Norland? We need to finalize menus
immédiatement
!’ A servant who was in her way as she flounced out received a firm clip from her fan.

Rose left the room and made her way up the
stairs
, her mind returning to more serious thoughts. Yesterday she had received the news that her nephew had disappeared to Venice with the others. The Meslith message from Charlie had arrived late last night: Jake had stowed away on the
Campana
. Rose knew why at once. He had gone to find his parents. She was, of course, terrified for him – but also immensely proud. If she herself had still possessed the strong valour of her youth, she would have done the same.

When Rose arrived at the door to Galliana’s suite, Norland was leaving.

‘Oceane Noire is looking for you. I believe it’s urgent,’ she told him.

‘Urgent?’ Norland replied with a mischievous grin. ‘In that case, I think I might go and have a bath.’ He hooted with laughter and disappeared down the corridor.

‘Galliana? Are you there?’ Rose called through the open door.

The greyhound, who’d been having her morning nap, pricked up her ears and wagged her tail. Galliana emerged from her bedroom. ‘Rose, thank you for coming. I have Lapsang brewing.’

They sat on ottomans in Galliana’s study,
drinking
tea from bone-china cups. Rose had always loved this room. There were glass cabinets everywhere, crammed with objects assembled in the course of Galliana’s many voyages to history: collections of marble busts, jade figurines, chess pieces, Spanish fans, limestone stalactites, dinosaur fossils, butterflies and beetles, duelling swords and ancient daggers. Amidst this treasure trove Galliana sat with her back straight, her smile warm and her eyes full of wisdom.

‘You’re the only person I feel I can trust absolutely,’ she confided as she passed Rose a plate of cakes.

‘
Real
French pastries – how did I manage without them?’ Rose sized up the delicious-looking offerings. Her fingers hovered between a rum baba and a Mont Blanc, before finally settling for a millefeuille crammed with crème pâtissier. ‘Dear me, it should carry a health warning,’ she sighed as she took a huge mouthful. ‘So, what’s happened?’

‘I think there is an informer amongst us,’ stated Galliana coolly.

Rose stopped mid-swallow. Then she gulped the remainder of the cake down. ‘Carry on,’ she said seriously.

‘Firstly, I received this from Agent Wylder late last night.’ Galliana produced a Meslith message and passed it to Rose.

Rose read it out loud: ‘
Prince Zeldt alive
!’ She gasped. Galliana motioned for her to carry on reading. ‘
They knew we were coming. Possible spy …
That’s all it says? Is everyone all right?’

‘We don’t know. The message may have been cut short. We will have to wait to find out. But, Rose, if there
is
a spy, I have reason to believe that he or she may be amongst us at Point Zero.’

‘Really? Good gracious me.’ Rose reached for the rum baba to take the edge off her shock. ‘What makes you say so?’

‘As you know, any Meslith message that arrives from history is sent immediately, by tube, to my desk there.’ Galliana indicated where the cylindrical packages were deposited on her bureau. ‘Only
I
read these messages, and they remain top secret until I choose to disclose their contents. This is the communiqué I received yesterday from Charlie Chieverley,’ she continued, passing Rose another piece of parchment. ‘Look in the bottom right-hand corner.’ She produced an old magnifying glass with a tiny candle attached to its base and gave the device to Rose.

Rose inspected it. ‘Is that a fingerprint?’ she asked.

‘Certainly half a fingerprint. And it categorically is not mine.’

‘But how could anyone else have got their hands on it?’

‘I can only surmise that someone has entered my study illicitly. Only two people have access keys to all suites of the castle: myself … and Jupitus Cole.’

‘You think he’s the informer?’

‘Let’s say I would just like to eliminate him from my enquiries.’

‘As you know, Galliana, there is little love lost between Jupitus and me – but a spy? Could that really be possible? Have any other messages been marked with fingerprints?’

‘As yet, no. But that means nothing. I assume precautions would usually be taken – gloves and so on. The print on that message was probably an accident. Rose, this is what I need you to do. Tonight, during Oceane’s party, I want you to search Jupitus Cole’s chambers.’

‘Really? Good gracious … Really?’

Galliana passed Rose a key. ‘That will get you into his rooms. Firstly, you must obtain some papers
from
which we can cross-check the fingerprint. Secondly, you must seek out any evidence to link him to Zeldt, the Black Army or any other hostile organization. Understood?’