Iris Cockatoo · A companion story

The Last Cable

He hurried. He tried not to look like he was hurrying. The corridor was quiet, and his quick steps and heavy breathing may arouse suspicion. But how could he not hurry? He was furious. The cable office worked earlier. Now, when he needed it, the cable office had accomplished exactly what he feared it would.

Nothing.

He had waited. Asked. Observed.

So much improvisation. This shouldn’t be necessary. Everything was on track. He had successfully assembled the package containing everything she would need to know. He had successfully confirmed his meeting with Voss. He had successfully boarded the Carinthia. And yet none of was going according to plan.

Too much improvisation. Too much exposure. Now a steward was involved. Now he was sure he was being observed. Now risk was spread. He was beginning to sweat through his jacket. He had to remind himself that a composed envoy invited no suspicion.

Sneaking into a room was never part of the plan. Men like Alaric Voss can do things like that. Étienne Moreau was nothing like Alaric Voss. A meeting. The delivery. Facilitate understanding. That’s what he was there for. And now? Would any of it happen? He was sure he was being followed.

You don’t simply enter another person’s room on an ocean liner without incident. But that’s exactly what he attempted. To his knowledge, the package still rested precisely where he had placed it. Wrapped in plain brown paper. Utterly ordinary. Years of correspondence. A philosophy rewritten. The final thoughts of a great man. A man great enough to realize when his actions had veered from the path of greatness. It had crossed half the world with as much protection as he could offer. Now it was stranded in a Queens Grill suite aboard an ocean liner. Waiting. In a remarkable moment he had decided to remove a picture of the 1912 expedition from the packet, and place it elsewhere in the room. Maybe he had done enough. Maybe he was worrying too much.

No. He wasn’t worrying too much.

He knew who had moved first. Of course he had moved first. They had spent years realizing he was always one step ahead. And now the opportunity they had spent those same years preparing might vanish somewhere between Southampton and the Mediterranean if she didn’t find it in time.

Finally, Moreau reached his cabin, unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it again before the latch had fully settled. He loosened his collar only after the cabin door had latched behind him. The humid Mediterranean crossing had already robbed his cream linen suit of the sharpness it possessed that morning, though one would have needed to know him well to notice. Moreau certainly did.

Only then did he exhale.

He would try the cable office one more time tonight. Moreau removed a cable form from the writing desk. Even if the telegraph office couldn't send it now, it no longer mattered, he simply needed to think. Writing imposed order.

He uncapped his fountain pen. For a long moment the page remained blank.

Then—

NO MEETING WITH VOSS.

He paused. Crossed out nothing. Continued.

GOT PACKAGE INTO COCKATOO ROOM.

His handwriting became smaller. Faster. He looked once toward the door. Silence. One line remained.

LION ROCK IN QUESTION.

He set the pen down. Not because the message was finished. Because it wasn’t. Nothing about this was finished. The package belonged with Iris now. Even if the Voss meeting failed…if they had judged correctly… then perhaps the daughter would see what the father had finally seen. Perhaps.

A metallic click interrupted the thought. Barely audible. The sound did not come from the hallway. It came from inside the lock.

Moreau looked toward the door.

Another click.

Someone wasn’t knocking. Someone was opening it.

His jacket slipped from the chair as he turned. He never noticed.

His hand swept across the cable form before he had consciously decided to move. The page tore once. Then again. Again. Small strips fluttered across the writing desk.

The door handle turned. Two men entered. Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

Moreau stood and tried to shove the strips of the torn cable form under the desk ledger. The thinner man noticed. His eyes followed the movement. Then returned to Moreau. Cold. Professional.

The thicker man closed the door quietly behind them.

No raised voices. No threats. No accusations. Only certainty. Moreau understood. Not the manner. The timing. This wasn’t an attempt to win an argument aboard the Carinthia. This was meant to prevent anyone else from hearing it.

Moreau shifted his weight.

Perhaps he could still—

The first sensation was not pain. It was cold. An impossible, concentrated cold beneath his ribs. His body refused to understand it.

Then warmth. Far too much warmth. His knees weakened. The room tilted gently to one side.

The package…

Cockatoo…

Please let—

The carpet met him before he realized he was falling.

His vision narrowed. The edges of the room dissolved into shadow. One absurd thought remained. He had forgotten to blot the ink.

Darkness gathered patiently. His final hope no longer counted on a meeting with Alaric Voss. It belonged to a woman who had no idea she was about to inherit her father’s last unanswered question.