Dead Men Stalking 2: Room 38 (MI7 Assassin origins)
Who could be entering the filing room at this time of night? There was no time to put the documents back in the cabinet, only to push the drawer shut and crawl through one of the gaps.
Welcome to part two of my WW1 espionage thriller short story! If you missed part one, read it here:
If you’re just jumping onboard with MI7 Assassin, there are two earlier standalone stories you can can read:
My paying subs get the hot thrill of reading MI7 Assassin the Sunday before it goes out to everyone else on Wednesday, but whenever you get your hands on it, I would really appreciate your feedback on this story! Eventually we’ll publish these origins stories as novellas and I want them to be as good as they possibly can be when we do! So if you have any suggestions, something you particularly like or don’t like, want to see more or less of, let me know in the comments below!
Dead Men Stalking 2: Room 38
Months earlier, as an MI7 intelligence agent, Stone had entered Room 38 in daylight hours – legitimately. He had needed information to rebut what The Daily Mail had termed ‘The Blockade Farce’ and The Morning Post had called ‘The Make-Believe Blockade’.
The attractive WAAC nicknamed ‘The Ice Maiden’ by MI7 agents dealt with his query. Her hair was pinned back in a severe bun and her uniform concealed her from neck to ankle, yet there was something about her that made her stand out, and gave her a circle of enthusiastic male admirers, despite her glacial manner. Standing behind the wooden counter, she studied Stone’s written request, then raised her eyes to gaze at him unsmilingly for a few nerve-wracking seconds. Then she unlocked the barred door behind her, and headed to a filing cabinet halfway down the records room. Seizing the opportunity, Stone raised the counter flap and followed her into the vast bustling office where both male and female clerks were hard at work, writing, filing and checking reports.
He swiftly took in the details of the room, noting the burglar alarm system on the windows, and nodded towards the files she was pulling out of various filing cabinets. ‘Can I give you a hand with those?’
The Ice Maiden looked at him disdainfully and wordlessly pointed to the sign which read ‘No entry to unauthorised personnel.’ He apologised profusely as he continued to memorise every aspect of her holy of holies.
‘Please return to the reception area,’ she said coldly.
He sheepishly obeyed, scanning and evaluating, especially the windows with their alarm system, as he returned to the reading room. It would be tough entering the room from his first floor office, even though it was only a climb of three storeys. The window would be the trickiest part: he had no idea how to deal with modern burglar alarms. But he knew that somewhere in those huge piles of Popular Mechanics magazines (‘Written so you can understand it’), bequeathed to him by his dead comrade Ralph Plant, there was bound to be a schematic diagram of how it worked and how the alarm could be overcome. Even so, it was still a risk. It might be simpler to seduce the Ice Maiden, he considered with the confidence of a handsome twenty-three-year old who had not yet been seriously turned down by the opposite sex.
He stood waiting on his side of the counter while the Ice Maiden sourly lowered the flap. She presented him with the files with a glacial contempt that he combatted with a cheerful wink.
He glanced at the contents list. ‘Ah. I see you haven’t included Admiral Consett’s reports?’
She looked at him blankly.
‘You know who I mean? Admiral Consett from Sweden?’
‘Of course. And the answer is no,’ she answered unhelpfully.
‘I should really see them as well if I’m going to write a defence of our blockade.’
‘Admiral Consett’s reports are SC1.’
‘What’s SC1?’
‘They require Special Clearance.’
‘Oh, well, I’ll just take these files for now. I’ll bring them back tomorrow.’
‘No, you will not. They cannot leave this room. You will read them in my presence.’
‘Oh, that’s cosy,’ he smiled flirtatiously. ‘You couldn’t read them to me, could you?’
The Ice Maiden didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she selected a key from a number hanging from her belt and locked the door to the barred wall behind her, as if to punctuate the end of the conversation.
He sat down at one of the designated tables and began reading. The files hadn’t been opened in a while and were full of dust, and he sneezed lustily. Immediately she was through the counter and upon him and snatched the top file away, to check the pages. Finding nothing untoward, she reluctantly handed it back.
He looked down at the file in his hand and back at her, one eyebrow raised in query.
She shook her head reprovingly. ‘It’s an old trick. The reader sneezes or coughs as they rip out a page from a restricted document.’ There was no apology. He had the distinct feeling she thought she’d stopped him just in time.
‘I understand. You can’t trust anyone these days.’ He grinned. ‘I bet you know all the tricks.’
There was still no response. No melting of the iceberg. Understandable, he told himself, desperate to prop up his now flagging ego, because although his khaki uniform bore the green tabs of military intelligence, he was not an officer.
He tried again. ‘I’m so sorry if I’ve offended you, Miss….?’
She gave no reply.
‘Let me make it up to you. The Bing Boys Are Here is on at the Alhambra.’
‘I’m aware of that. It is just down the road.’
‘Can I take you to see it one evening? Do say yes.’
‘No.’
He stood up and tried singing a song from it. He was regarded as a good singer, although not in the same league as his erstwhile Irish comrade Mick ‘The Mickado’ Harris, but he still had the confidence to give an impromptu performance in public.
‘If you were the only girl in the world, and I was the only boy…’ he sang softly and with what he thought was great emotion, staring meaningfully into her hazel eyes.
She kept him waiting for several excruciating seconds before saying briskly, ‘If you’ve finished with the files, will you please leave?’
So that was that. It was going to have to be that cold climb up the wall from his office to Room 38. But it would not be half as cold as the Ice Maiden.
And now, with Room 38 bathed in light and with incriminating documents in his hand, Stone was cornered.
But he was also curious. Who could be entering the filing room at this time of night? And what would their response be to seeing him there? There was no time to put the documents back in the cabinet, only to push the drawer shut and crawl on his hands and knees through one of the gaps in the line of filing cabinets. He crouched down on the far side, still clutching the documents. There was no real place to hide if whoever it was decided to inspect the whole of the record office.
He breathed slowly and thought about his options. Held up his hand in front of his face: steady as a rock. A lifetime of training kept him calm. He’d spent much of his war as a member of an elite assassin troop, a stealth trench raider who sneaked into the German trenches to capture prisoners for interrogation, and kill the rest. But even before the war, years of living on his wits as a boy, and his time in the music halls as an aerialist had taught him to channel the fear and the adrenalin. Unlike his comrades, he preferred a clear head, refusing the rum and coke rations offered to everyone before their night time raids.
The best case scenario here was that the visitors were there for their own reasons, legitimate or otherwise. Once their business was complete, they would be gone. He could probably avoid them by staying low and keeping the bulky rows of steel cabinets between him and them.
Worst case scenario was that he had somehow alerted someone to his presence, and they were going to carry out a thorough search of the place.
He heard some low muttered words, and the creak of the counter flap in the reading room being lifted.
And then a woman’s voice singing a little drunkenly, ‘If I was the only girl in the world, and you were the only boy…’ The singing broke off. ‘Thank you for a lovely, lovely evening.’
A man’s voice now took up the refrain, ‘If I was the only boy in the world, and you were the only girl.’ Then it, too, broke off. ‘Is this really such a good idea, Amanda? Are you sure you’d rather not go to a hotel?’
‘No, hotels are so sordid,’ Amanda said, and Stone suddenly recognised the voice: it was the Ice Maiden. ‘I want do it back there,’ she giggled, ‘To enjoy our dirty little secret in a room full of secrets. I want to do it in the Cage.’
Oh Amanda, you dark horse.
There was the sound of passionate kissing and fondling followed by the chink of metal as a key opened the door to the records office. Stone listened intently. They walked down the far side of the room. That’s it, stay on that side. Lots of nice big sturdy tables you can use.
‘Does it feel a little cold in here?’ the man asked. And Stone realised two things. Firstly, he glanced across and saw he had left the window open, ready for a quick exit. The cold night air was pouring into the room. But a quick exit would be impossible now. He would be unable to move without alerting them. Secondly, the lucky man to have melted the Ice Maiden’s heart was his section chief, Captain Hugh Bertie Pollard.
The stakes were higher now. This was not some drunken beau she had brought here. It was Pollard.
Pollard would shoot a masked intruder on sight. And he never missed. And there were worse options. Like a trial for treason and execution by firing squad. His plea that he was actually trying to end the war would be meaningless to his superiors.
‘So you don’t think I’m hot enough for you, Bertie?’ the Ice Maiden reproved him coquettishly.
‘You’re setting me on fire,’ said Pollard gallantly.
‘I want a night to remember when I’m filing tomorrow,’ the girl continued, slurring slightly. ‘So show me your big secret.’
There was a dull thunk and the cabinet Stone was crouched behind juddered. Christ, they’re just a few feet away. What’s wrong with using one of the tables? There were rustling sounds of clothing being unbuttoned and unfastened.
‘I want to feel dirty,’ Amanda insisted.
‘My dear, you’ve come to the right chap. Now enough chat. Drop your laundry.’