Silence Is Golden (Storm and Silence 3)

‘Ah.’ I nodded. ‘There you are.’

‘Eh?’ The man’s scowl grew even more ferocious. ‘What’s this bastardo babbling about?’

The door opened wider, and my old friend, the officer, stepped inside, his eyes sparkling with the same cold, calculating malice. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Our friend here has been expecting us.’

I raised my chin and tried to stare down at my captor with cool composure. Considering I was tied to a chair, the staring-down part turned out to be rather difficult to accomplish.

‘Indeed I have.’

‘I wouldn’t have expected any less.’ Sketching a bow, the officer raked me with his calculating gaze. ‘Colonel Alberto Silveira, officer of the armed forces of the Empire of Brazil, at your service.’ He smiled. ‘I would not advise you to take this civility too literally.’

‘I wasn’t planning to.’

‘An intelligent young man. Very well, then. Let’s cut straight to the chase, shall we? I have had a talk with the general, and he fully agrees with my assessment of the situation. You three are rebel spies sent to spy on our troop movements, or possibly even saboteurs. And you will tell me everything about your mission objectives, what you have learned so far and what kind of sabotage you still have planned!’

I stared at the man - then looked down at myself. Tailcoat, shiny waistcoat, pocket watch, striped trousers… I had lost my bowler hat somewhere and was somewhat less than perfectly clean, but apart from that you could have plucked me straight from the streets of London.

‘Is this what a rebel spy usually looks like?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Colonel Silveira didn’t seem impressed by my argument. ‘Disguise! Bah! I do not know why a rebel might feel the need to appear like a ridiculous, fat little Englishman-’

‘Hey! Just a minute! Who are you calling fat?’

‘-but if you think you can throw me, Colonel Alberto Silveira, off the scent with a trick like that, you must be mad!’

‘I told you, we are no spies! We are travellers from England! Citizens of the British Empire! That is all!’

The colonel made a dismissive noise. ‘No Englishman would be crazy enough in his head to go into a warzone!’

‘You obviously haven’t met Rikkard Ambrose!’

‘The tall, dark one?’ Silveira took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. ‘Oh, please! He may look like a leader, but I know better. We have searched your luggage. We found his papers, and the Mohammedan’s - but of yours there is no trace!’

Small wonder, since technically, I don’t exist in trousers.

‘There is only one explanation.’

That I am a reckless crossdresser risking her neck in a bid for independence?

‘You are the head of the whole outfit! You are the chief spy, in charge of this whole operation, whose identity is so secret even his companions must not know it!’

Golly. I had no idea I am that impressive.

‘So, tell me, young man…’ The colonel took another step closer, his thin lips curling. ‘What should I call you?’

‘Linton. Mr Victor Linton.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded, thoughtfully. ‘An alias, of course?’

‘Of course.’ At least the first half.

‘It will do for now.’ The curl in his lips spread, until it had grown into a full-grown smile. It wasn’t one of the nicest smiles I had ever seen. ‘We shall have the truth out of you in due course.’

I raised my head still a little more, in defiance. ‘Oh, you will, will you?’

‘Oh yes.’ Stepping back, the colonel beckoned to the man with the bloody gloves, who in turn stepped forward, holding out a knife. The colonel took it, lovingly running his index finger along the blade. ‘Perfect,’ he whispered. Then he turned to me.

‘You see, Mr Linton, there are a myriad of ways of extracting information from prisoners. A thousand refined methods exist to cause the human body a maximum of pain. Dozens of experts have written treatises upon the subject, and infinite variations have been developed to suit any and every situation.’