Chapter 15 Masquerade Ball
Edward Hamilton and Lady Elizabeth swept down the corridor in the late night hours with the suitably suited Chief of Staff Robinson. In Hamilton's hand was a wax-sealed invitation. Both wore half-gold masquerade masks. They passed portraits of past kings and queens and statues of mythological creatures such as centaurs and winged horses.
"Robinson, I do so enjoy the king's late-night parties. I wonder what top-secret location he has planned for us this time," said Lady Elizabeth coyly.
Robinson leaned in conspiratorially. "My lady," he whispered.
"There are still so many hidden corridors and secret rooms in this palace that even you have yet to discover."
Hamilton squeezed Lady Elizabeth's hand at the playful suspense. Robinson guided them to the tall, ornately carved oak grandfather clock against the wall. He grasped the handles of the old brass pendulum bob swinging within the clock case, clicking the mechanism into action.
With a dull snap, the clock face swung open, exposing the narrow, damp wooden spiral staircase descending into a disorienting darkness. Without hesitation, they wound their way down. Murky blue light filtered through cracks in the hinged door at the base of the stairs, beckoning the trio to the faint hum of the music.
Hamilton laughed. "You've done it again, Robinson. This almost beats the stool compartment entrance at the last Soiree."
"Wait till you see the next gathering," Robinson replied.
"This will seem like child play."
Lady Elizabeth pushed open the door, revealing the masquerade ball in full swing. A burlesque dancer moved sensually on a stage against a backdrop of multicolored lights swirling around her feathered costume. Cigarette smoke curled upwards, carrying with it the aroma of perfume and spiced scents from the buffet spread. The sultry jazz music filled her ears, drawing her into the mix.
There were servers in Wehrmacht Nazi uniforms navigating through the crowd, carrying trays laden with champagne flutes and BB Royal Reserve bitter ale.
Revelers laughed freely, their masquerade masks and dominatrix leather disguising any pretense of propriety.
The king himself held court at the end of the room, away from the throng of people in attendance.
"The king truly outdoes himself every time without fail," said Hamilton in astonishment.
Robinson grinned. "Consider this merely an amuse-bouche. We have many dishes here for your delight."
Robinson referred to a table laid with tray upon tray of cocaine, where Roland Blackwell, the head of Mi6, and the Prime Minister, Aurelia Ironheart, were snorting up the delicacies next to an ice swan centerpiece.
Hamilton spied over. "Ah, there's Roland and Aurelia. Shall we join them in the tasting, my dear?"
"Let us go play," Lady Elizabeth said.
"Please enjoy the party, Sir, My Lady," Robinson said, gesturing towards the bountiful spread.
Hamilton offered his arm to Lady Elizabeth, and they slipped through the gala, champagne flutes in hand, heading straight for the table where Roland and Aurelia were.
Under the distorted parade of lights on the dance floor, Robinson noticed a wolf circling the chicken coup—literally. The distinctive slight curl of those lips from afar was unmistakable. Magister Gulag entered cane in hand, wearing a wolf-style mask, sauntering into the middle of the party, helping himself to a flute of champagne. He savored the soft bubbles as they tickled his throat.
Robinson brushed across the room to the king, who was reclining in an extravagant throne-like chair with gold inlays. A blonde woman sat on his knee, laughing, while the King held up an English £10 note with his profile on it.
"Your Majesty," Robinson interrupted.
"What is it, Robinson? Do you ever give me a moment's piece?"
The king reluctantly removed his wandering hand from the woman's curves, taking the banknote out of her line of sight. She pouted when he slipped the note into his pocket. The king gave her a charming smile.
"Which profile do you prefer, my dear—the front or the backside?"
The woman gave a flirtatious chuckle, eyeing up the bulge in the king's trousers.
"I'll have to examine both...closely," she replied in a sultry voice.
"Then you shall have a private viewing later," the king said with a wink.
"Robinson, you have my full attention. How is the evening going? Is everyone enjoying themselves?"
"Everything is going swimmingly, Your Highness," Robinson replied.
"It is indeed one of your best parties. May I point out that you have white power under your nose, Your Majesty?"
The woman brushed beneath the king's nose, chuckling softly as the powder drifted to the floor.
Robinson leaned into the king's ear.
"Your Majesty. I believe we have an uninvited guest this evening."
"Do not spoil my party with your petty troubles, Robinson. Deal with the matter yourself, discreetly."
Roland Blackwell and Prime Minister Aurelia Ironheart approached the king's side. The king abruptly nudged the blonde woman from his lap.
"I shall see to you later, my filly," he said dismissively.
"Mr. Blackwell, Prime Minister. I trust the festivities are to your liking?"
"It's been a wonderful evening. We have been particularly impressed with the spread," said the Prime Minister.
"Can we discuss some private matters, Your Highness?" Blackwell intoned.
"Thank you; go make sure everyone's drinks are full," the king said, barely glancing at Robinson.
With a dejected look, Robinson, sensing that he was no longer needed, bowed his head and retreated, disappearing into the crowd. Robinson watched, his eyes fixated on Gulag from behind the glass swan showpiece.
Blackwell and the Prime Minister drew the King into conversation, tackling various trade negotiations and private matters.
In the meantime, a nondescript white van with window cleaner ladders mounted on its roof lurched into position behind a row of drooping willow trees that bordered the grand facade of Buckingham Palace.
Gulag had his wolf face hidden in the shadow of his black dinner jacket, speaking into the concealed microphone:
"Are you in range?" His voice crackled through the intercom, electronic interference peppered the signal.
Inside the van, Uncle and Victor Petrov monitored the scene with Lo Chen. They sat in front of a bank of screens, streaming CCTV feeds from the masquerade party. Wires ran across the floor, and equipment beeped.
"We are in range," Uncle replied crisply.
"The transmitters are showing a clear signal."
Petrov gave a gruff chuckle. "Like a fox circling an unwary hare, we close in on our prey."
Their eyes remained on the screens, watching Gulag stroll casually among unsuspecting partygoers toward his royal target.
"We are going to have a slight delay; an idiot is approaching; can you see him?" Gulag said.
Petrov munched gregariously on a meatball sub.
"We have confirmed optics," Petrov joked.
"We can see Robinson on our screens now."
Uncle was drinking a Starbucks black coffee, disgusted at the Russian's eating habits.
"Gulag, remove him now; be quick about it."
"How exactly did you gain entry without an invitation? I do the guest lists here!" Robinson demanded.
"You're meant to be overseeing the launch at the facility."
Gulag spun on his heels to face Robinson, extracting a blood-red envelope trimmed with gold leaf from the inner pocket of his tailored jacket, waving it mockingly in Robinson's face.
"I have an invitation from His Royal Highness, of course."
Robinson examined the gold seal skeptically. Gulag gave him a cool smile.
"Did you not know, Robinson? My influence is rising. You should be wary of yours waning."
"You're always trying to take over, again and again, Gulag. Do you think you can just sweep in here and steal my job?"
Gulag's smile turned to a snarl, like a pitbull looking at a Jack Russell on a Sunday walk.
"I seek no man's place. I come only to offer knowledge and counsel that the king lacks."
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He tried to brush past Robinson, but Robinson grabbed his arm firmly.
"Tread carefully. Your games may amuse the king for now, but they will not amuse me," Robinson warned.
With a practiced motion, Gulag removed Robinson's hand from his arm. His eyes were turning like concrete.
"You overstep yourself, Robinson. Perhaps you've forgotten who the king favors now. One word from me and the Bloodies could make a midnight visit to your home, dragging you out of bed still in your nightclothes while you still wet yourself.”
"Don't threaten me. Remember what I told you? Once you have used up all your worth, you will be dropped like a stone in the Thames; you are not the first person who has tried to undermine my position."
"Speaking of uses, Robinson, why don't you go and see to the buffet table? it's looking a bit empty. Excuse me, I have to go to the grown-up's table."
Gulag threaded his way through the masquerade of costumed revelers in the king's direction.
He withdrew from within the folds of his jacket an exquisite wooden box, its lid inlaid with intricate mosaic patterns. The king looked up, recognizing him at once through his wolf mask.
"Magister, come and join us."
Robinson watched helplessly from the sidelines, curious as to what Gulag was up to. Gulag smiled enigmatically. Politely acknowledging Blackwell and the Prime Minister.
"Your Majesty, I come bearing a small gift as a token of our newly forged alliance."
The king raised an eyebrow inquisitively.
"Oh? And what might that be?"
Gulag presented the wooden box like he was giving a present to a child.
"A gesture from myself and all your engineers at the compound, Your Highness."
The king unveiled the box to reveal a slick black tablet.
"What does it do? It's a bit of a strange gift."
"Let me show you."
With a swipe of his hand, Gulag triggered the display, illustrating a map of the English coastline with several icon markers indicating the submarine bases in the Royal Fleet's strongholds. It also included a sub-menu for ships and other vessels already out in operation.
"With this device, you can deploy any vessel within your fleet with a simple command. There is no need to travel to any of your bases in person. You can just take the middle man out and start your missions autonomously if the mood suits you."
"Let me have a look at the thing," the king asked, intrigued.
Gulag passed it over. "The user interface has been designed in the style of an iPhone. You should find the layout quite user-friendly. Why don't you have a play-around? Your Highness."
The king scrolled through the various menus and maps, which displayed icons for different types of submarines, ranging from missile submarines, attack submarines, and surveillance submarines, among others. He could even see his ship's operations across the world.
"Furthermore, you can even customize the missions," said Gulag.
"Select a target, choose your weapons, and instantaneously your subs will be underway."
Gulag tapped a few icons for him on the screen, deploying simulated submarines on the map for demonstration purposes.
"Ingenious!" the king exclaimed, his eyes lighting up as he scrolled through the menus.
"This will make managing my navy vastly more efficient."
Robinson slipped between Blackwell and the Prime Minister, realizing he had not reviewed or signed off on this technology before Gulag had presented it to the king.
"Your Highness, I must advise you to be careful. Gulag."
"Shut up, Robinson; you always spoil the fun out of everything. I don't remember you ever bringing me such nice presents."
"It is but a humble gift," Gulag said.
"I thought it would be appropriate for you to launch the first deployment. With a single push of a button. Your submarines can be dispatched to anywhere in the world, their canisters unleashing Ferox 13 upon your enemies."
The king stroked the tech pad lovingly, fascinated by its potential.
Robinson could see his position slipping away, comprehending that Gulag's tech had given the king exactly what he craved most: control.
"Your Majesty, a speech would be most fitting to celebrate this historic moment. The whole room should hear of your glory directly from their king!" Gulag said slyly.
"An inspiring idea, Gulag! I shall announce our launch now."
Inside the van, Uncle smiled. "Very good, Gulag. Here comes the money shot."
Petrov wiped the meatball dressing from his mouth. Lo Chen readied the equipment to capture the king's incriminating speech on video. In an instant, the mood shifted as the king motioned for the music and dancing to stop. The burlesque dancer froze mid-turn, lights dimming to a single spotlight on the king, with the gimped-up Prime Minster and Roland Blackwell on either side.
They looked like a dance troupe on Broadway. Partygoers turned curiously toward the king, sensing something monumental was about to happen.
"Friends and benefactors," the king bellowed.
"Tonight we celebrate a momentous occasion: the maiden deployment of our submarine fleet carrying the Ferox 13 virus. It will truly be a worldwide disaster."
Gulag stood back, observing from the shadows with a satisfied smile next to Robinson, who had been demoted to the role of a glorified party organizer, much to Gulag's amusement.
"I must extend to the Prime Minister and her Conservative Party my deepest gratitude for supporting this vital operation. And of course, I must thank Roland Blackwell of MI6 for his efforts behind the scenes on the logistical side of things."
Blackwell beamed with pride, and Prime Minister Aurelia Ironheart inclined her head behind her gimp mask.
"It is my privilege to serve the Crown, Your Majesty."
A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd, mainly Conservative Party members and government officials, envisioning the gold rush coming their way.
"Once the antidote has been administered, each of you will be generously compensated for your respective roles in helping spread Ferox 13 to our enemies."
Scattered applause broke out as Gold members eyed each other eagerly. Inside the van, Uncle shook his head in amusement.
"What a fool the king is, spreading his secrets so freely; he thinks he can fuck China."
"Truly, one cannot buy such entertainment. The great ruler played like a fiddle; wait until President Pushkin has this on-home video," Petrov chuckled.
They laughed and laughed and laughed as the King spoke. His Majesty was completely oblivious to how easily he was being manipulated. The king rose to his feet, clutching the black tech pad. An air of expectant suspense gripped the room, revelers looked at one another, anticipating the launch.
Lady Elizabeth felt a thrill of nervous excitement. She shouted above the hullabaloo.
"We want a countdown!"
The idea caught on like wildfire, with partygoers taking up the call and chanting.
"Five! Four! Three!" in rising excitement.
The king's eyes lit up with a fierce triumph when he punched the launch icon. This was the moment he had envisioned for so long—a chance to spread chaos under his reign.
Lady Elizabeth yelled, "Two!"
And the crowd followed suit, voices overlapping.
"One!"
His thumb hovered over the screen. He could almost taste the salty sea air, picturing submarines slicing through the waves, ready to unleash havoc. With a victorious flourish, the king pressed the icon with a dramatic "Zero!"
The king threw his head back and laughed, overcome with giddy delight, as those gathered cheered and clapped.
Gulag pulled a camera from his jacket and snapped a shot of the king doubled over in gleeful laughter, his finger still pressed triumphantly on the launch button. Instantly, the map flared up, with simulated blue dots racing out to sea. The thunderous applause of revelers cheered, champagne corks popped. The burlesque dancer struck a pose with spotlights swirling.
The king guzzled from the bottle.
"Let the celebrations continue!"
As the music and dancing resumed in full fervor, Gulag allowed himself a thin smile. The blackmail material he had gathered tonight would keep the king—and all his conspirators—firmly under his control for years to come, if he wanted to.
The king may have launched his viral attack, but in truth, Gulag had won the real victory this evening. He melted back into the festivities, already planning his next move.
On the northern coast of Great Britain, the complex communications systems sprang to life upon receiving the launch codes from Buckingham Palace. Secure encrypted channels on secret frequencies established contact, blocking outside interference through sophisticated shielding techniques. Automatically, the electrical and hydraulic connections separated the submarines from their moorings.
The ballast tanks flooded, and the submarines began to sink slowly, enveloped in the undersea blackness.
The sound started as a beep. Then came a deep, rumbling rumble, like the crashing of a distant waterfall. Submarines were about to embark on their voyage from the docks, which was a gateway to the North Sea.
All watched from the control room transfixed. Black hulls slipped beneath the waters. The ballast tanks were then blasted dry, and then the vessels rose in unison to the surface.
"All submarines are clear of the berths," the lookout reported.
"Very well," said the first officer. "Commence movement."
Then there was movement, their yellow lights fading into the undersea twilight. One by one, the submarines began their steady course, accelerating away between the rocky bottoms of the cliffs.
"Submarine 16, are you all good on there?" the first officer asked over the signal.
"We are indeed," Asp replied.
"Just sit tight; you will be there in no time."
"Over and out." Asp's voice was cut out.
Each submarine changed direction and speed according to the navigational data programmed into their systems, launching forth solitary journeys to distant parts of the globe with Ferox 13 as its payload.
From their vantage point nestled behind the trees. Lo Chen slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The van lurched forward.
Petrov laughed, almost beside himself, when they sped away with the incriminating footage stored on their hard drives.
"Stage one is complete," Petrov said.
"With this recording, we have the king and all his cronies by the balls."
"These novices think they have spawned disorder," Uncle said.
"It is us that has the advantage!"
His words were matter-of-fact. The masquerade party continued with the king sitting in his chair with the blonde groupie, who had sat back on his knee.
"Would you like to see the king's bedroom?"
The blonde cooed like a contented dove.
"And what would your wife say about that?"
The king slowly caressed her knee, his fingers trailing along her bare skin toward the slit of her gown.
"Do not worry about her. The old bag is on a tour of Cape Town to inspect some diamonds."
He scooped up the filly in his arms, with the guards opening the door for him, and he left the party with her giggling in his ear.
Robinson approached Gulag at a buffet table, his frowning brow wreathed in suspicion.
"What have you done? I did not commission you to do any of this charade this evening."
Gulag was picking at a side of smoked salmon.
"Robinson, this was just the first stage. You must learn to understand that I have been promoted to deal with the Royal family's most important affairs and operations from now on.
"And exactly when was this decreed again, Gulag?"
"When I pointed out to him that your value is more on the level of mid-management, an errand boy if you will, you're a loyal one, I give you that, Robinson."
Gulag felt a piece of salmon tailbone stuck between his teeth.
"Anyway, you have organized a great party. Can you talk to the kitchen staff? Get them to check for any loose bones in the food. It does not look good to our guests."
Gulag walked away to enjoy the rest of his evening. Robinson sensed Gulag's manipulation but couldn't prove it at this point in time.