The Secret Generations (15 page)

At last, clutching the ash plant he carried, Charles began to cross the causeway, walking steadily, timing himself; then, more slowly up the hill, and into the square where lights were just starting to be lit. A woman, dressed in crow black, her head and shoulders covered by a shawl, hurried from the small general shop, and three men lounged near a bar entrance. Nobody appeared to be interested in this tall stranger – though, later, his description was certainly circulated to the police and military.

It was exactly five minutes to seven when he turned the corner of the narrow street where SNAKE lived
– at the far end – in the three-roomed cottage known as Farnagh.

He could see it in the gathering gloom, and slowed as another figure approached on the far side of the road.

Charles did not look straight at the man, but took in the slightly limping gait, the fact of his size – tall and broad –and that he walked with his head lowered, the peak of his cap pulled down as though to avoid anyone seeing his features. The man walked steadily, unhurried, the halting clip of his boots on the broken pavement dying away as he headed back towards the square.

A few minutes later, Charles was knocking on the door of Farnagh, three quick raps, ready to give the first passwords:
‘Can you tell me the way to O’Malley’s Farm? I’m sorry to trouble you.’

But nobody answered the door even though a light burned clearly in the front room.

He rapped again, and, as his stick struck the door, so it swung open, and he saw that the latch had been shattered. Charles felt the horror before he laid eyes on it.

Their informant had been a large man, heavy and fat. Now he looked like some grotesque deflated blimp that had been filled with blood and offal, then punctured unsuspectingly.

The little front room, once neatly ordered, had become an abattoir. Blood decorated walls and floor, soaked curtains, and flung hideous patterns over pictures. The victim – the informer – lay hacked and split, in the centre of the room, his entrails spilling onto the carpet, his blood, still warm, dripping from the table. The instrument of this wild orgy of death, a large, sharp-bladed axe, had been tossed to one side, knocking over a small table so that the blade now lay half across a picture-frame containing a bloodied sepia photograph of a young woman who had probably been the victim’s daughter.

Charles retched once, then was violently sick.

It was not until he was half-way back along the street that three thoughts crossed his mind. First, as a stranger he would obviously be suspect; second, the frenzy of killing had not long taken place; third, the figure he had passed in the street was clad in a long coat, and he wondered what state that man’s clothing would be in. If he were the killer, then whatever he wore under the coat must now be drenched with blood.

In fact, the body was not found for twenty-four hours; and, by then, Charles was well away on the return journey to England. Only later did Quinn tell him that two strangers had been reported in the area of Rosscarbery that evening: one was undoubtedly himself, the other matched the description of the man he had glimpsed near the informant
’s house. A week later the remains of burned clothing were found near the Rosscarbery hill. The killing remained unsolved, though one report, seen by Charles almost a year after, was of the opinion that, from half-charred buttons retrieved from the burned clothes, it was possible the murderer was German.

For several months, Charles suffered nightmares, seeing again the mutilated corpse and hearing the dripping blood. Hardly a week passed but he recalled the figure with a slight limp clumping towards him on the opposite side of the narrow street.

Chapter Nine

Winter slowly drifted away. By mid-April the blossom was showing, trees began to lose their bare skeletal look, taking on a fine filigree of green, the true herald of spring.

Mildred Railton was only just showing her condition, but Charles already felt concern. The whole thought of Mildred carrying another child at her age nagged at the back of his mind.

By the end of April he was spending much more time in MO5’s room, high and tucked away in the War Office itself. He was there on the afternoon of 3 May, when Vernon Kell returned from a meeting at the Admiralty. He looked worried, and spoke even before closing the door. ‘Charles, the King’s ill.’

‘
Ill? Too much wine? He’s only just got back from gallivanting around Biarritz.’

‘
Don’t joke,’ Kell snapped. ‘I gather it’s serious.’ Before he could continue, the private telephone rang.

‘
Could you possibly get away, now, and come to Eccleston Square?’ Giles asked quietly at the other end of the line.

Vernon Kell found Giles Railton in the Hide, a huge map spread out, with the opposing forces of Hannibal and Scipio arranged for him to study the tactics and dispositions of the battle of Zama.

‘You’ve heard the news?’ Giles did not look up from the model soldiers.

‘
The King?’

‘
Yes. It’ll be public knowledge soon enough…’

‘
How bad is it really?’ Kell asked.

‘
Very. It appears that he was not well while abroad. The Cabinet are on permanent standby. King Teddy’s dying, and you must consider what this could mean in the long view of European politics. I cannot deny my own concern. Europe is in turmoil, and nobody seems to realize the underlying seriousness. Even the workers are restless – more than restless in other countries – and before we know it, their grievances will spread to here.’

The two men talked for almost three hours, and Kell left with a number of serious subjects for discussion with Charles and Quinn.

Giles had met his nephew, John, that morning, and they had certainly spoken of the gravity of the situation, though John was more interested in talking about his wife, Sara. ‘I find it incredible, Uncle Giles. When The General died, she hated the very idea of the country on any permanent basis. Yet it’s taken her only a few weeks – weeks, mark you – to settle down.’

Giles said that the speed with which Sara had adjusted was not unusual.
‘It was the same with your mother, John. That house has an odd effect on women.’

Privately, he had his own thoughts about Sara. Redhill Manor and the estate had become a new lover and husband for her. Time would see how things turned out, and time was sifting away for the King.

*

Two days later, in the evening of 5 May, the whole country knew. King Edward VII was gravely ill.

At Buckingham Palace, the Queen sent for the King’s faithful companion and mistress, Mrs Keppel; but he continued to work, even on that last day, between fainting fits, having oxygen administered.

On the afternoon of 6 May King Edward lost consciousness. Crowds began to gather, silently, in front of the Palace.

Just after midnight, there came a great knocking at the door of the South Audley Street house.

Mildred awoke, agitated, asking what was wrong, and a maid
appeared a few minutes later, saying there was a young gentleman for Mr Railton.

Sprogitt stood, uncomfortably, in the hall.
‘Sir,’ he all but whispered. ‘His Majesty passed away about a quarter of an hour ago. Captain Kell says would you please come to the office right away. He feels His Majesty’s death is a matter for the country’s internal security.’

Charles nodded. The Uncle of Europe was gone, at the age of sixty-nine years. Charles did not realize this was truly the end of an era. His work was soon to begin in earnest.

*

The information brought back by
‘The Fisherman’ was well-presented, but without much to interest Steinhauer – except for one name. Railton. He had heard it before, yet could not quite put his finger on it. The name had come in from ‘The Fisherman’ via the Irish contact called O’Connell, who had boasted of a private informer – ‘…name of Railton’ – closely connected with the English military in Ireland.

Steinhauer was still working out of the Wilhelmstrasse, and his new masters had a few of their people also in the Foreign Ministry, though the bulk of their operations were centred in a house on Courbierrestrasse, in the Western part of the city, to which they all referred as Number 8. There was one old school-fellow of Steinhauer
’s – an army captain, von Schurer, at the Wilhelmstrasse. He could trust von Schurer, and it was to him that Gustav Steinhauer went on the day after ‘The Fisherman’s’ return.

He was greeted with a look of surprise.
‘I did not expect to see you here, Gustav.’ Von Schurer was a tall, very handsome, man, a shade of the dandy and thought of as a devil with the ladies. Only his intimates knew his particular sweet tooth for young boys. ‘Did you not get Major Nicolai’s message?’ Nicolai had been appointed overall Commander of Intelligence, with the rank of Major, only a few weeks before.

Steinhauer had not even looked on his desk.
‘Nobody’s said anything to me, old friend.’

‘
Well, he wants you over at Number 8 immediately.’ Hermann von Schurer sounded as though he should have delivered the line with a stamp of the foot.

‘
Oh, well he’ll have to wait. I’m tired.’

‘
All that wine, and beautiful women spies,’ von Schurer pouted archly.

‘
I don’t think I’ve ever met a beautiful woman spy in my life.’

‘
Well, Steinhauer, get over to Number 8, they’ve got a really lovely one there. Working hard with the gallant Major.’

‘
Yes,’ Steinhauer feigned weariness, ‘I suppose I’d better go and see what they want.’

At Number 8, Steinhauer was told that Major Nicolai had been asking for him all morning. It
’s the bad communications, Steinhauer said blandly.

The officer who had spoken to him shrugged, as if to say this was none of his business, and at that moment one of the doors opened. Nicolai himself came out escorting a dazzling, slim, fair-haired girl.
‘Ah, Steinhauer,’ he smiled, oddly jovial. ‘Meet one of the ladies we are training here.’ He mentioned no name but the girl blushed when Steinhauer kissed her hand. Nicolai looked at her, smiled, and said he would see her later. I’ll wager you will, Steinhauer thought, bowing to the young woman as she left with another officer.

‘
And where did you find that little peach?’ Steinhauer had never been intimidated by the military.

Nicolai gave a frosty smile.
‘She fell off the tree and right into our laps. If there is ever trouble with England, she can be of great help.’

‘
Trouble with England?’ Steinhauer’s heart missed a beat. For a second he thought they must be on to his own special agent. ‘God forbid trouble with England.’

‘
Their King is dying,’ said Nicolai, as though that explained the whole thing.

‘
Ah.’

‘
As for that girl, I might need your help there, but I asked you to come over to discuss reorganization.’

‘
Since you people took over there’s been nothing but reorganization. Walter, why can’t you stick to pure Military Intelligence? It would make life so much easier.’

Nicolai actually sighed,
‘That is what I want.’ He dropped into his chair. ‘I agree, but the High Command do not. I’m sorry, Gustav, but I’ve got unpleasant news for you.’

‘
Go on.’

‘
The various people you’ve carefully spread around England – watching the docks and so on…’

Steinhauer nodded.

‘Well, I have been instructed to tell you that they are now to pass into naval control. You are required to see Captain Rebeur-Paschwitz and give him all the information – the way you communicate, the number of agents, codes and the like.’

‘
Why the hell…?’

‘
Because, in their wisdom, the High Command sees those agents as naval agents. Their targets are dockyards, the Royal Navy,’ a shrug, ‘that kind of thing. So, they are out of your hands. If you’re short of work, I can give you some.’

*

Thursday 19 May was the day on which, as all the newspapers bore witness, the earth was due to pass through the tail of Halley’s Comet. Astrologers, and prophets of doom, saw the event as one of importance. Halley’s Comet was the harbinger of disaster; though the only previous, proven, link was with the Norman Conquest, which was a blessing in disguise, and never the tyranny represented by Anglo-Saxon propaganda.

It is unlikely that the thunderstorm, during the night of 18 and 19 May, had anything to do with the Comet. It was restricted to the London area, and pouring rain followed throughout the morning of the 19th.

The body of King Edward VII lay in State within the Great Hall of Westminster, and the rain failed to affect the five mile line of his former subjects paying their last respects to their sovereign.

But Vernon Kell, Charles Railton, Patrick Quinn, and some
of his men – mostly invisible, mingling with the crowds – were nowhere near Westminster Hall that morning.

They had dodged the pouring rain, placing themselves, early, at Victoria Station. Quinn and his shadows had been actively on duty in that area almost since the night of the King
’s death; for it was at Victoria that the Royalty of Europe, and their entourages, had begun to arrive for the funeral.

Plans were made, in MO5
’s room at the War Office, during the hours which followed Sprogitt’s midnight call upon Charles. Quinn was already there, though champing to get away as he was required at the Palace itself. He had things to say, though, and was going to say them now:
‘
We’re going to see the largest gathering of foreign leaders in London, in living memory,’ he predicted. ‘It’ll be bigger than that for her late Majesty’s funeral, you can count on it. My feeling, gentlemen, is that you should watch – with my men’s help if you so desire – for possible infiltration by intelligence officers.’

So, before most folk in the suburbs of London even knew that their monarch was dead, the plans were already partially laid.

Now, Kell, Charles Railton, and the Branch officers were at Victoria Station, on the morning of 19 May, awaiting the arrival of the Kaiser Wilhelm and his party.

The new King George V, formerly the Duke of York, paced the platform, surrounded by his staff, seemingly anxious to meet his German cousin, the Kaiser. The purple carpet had been rolled out, and a set of matching steps stood nearby, to give the German Emperor easy access from train to platform.

The Kaiser had already arrived in the Thames estuary aboard the German royal yacht, the
Hohenzollern
, under escort of four Royal Navy destroyers. He would make the journey into the centre of the capital by train, just as the other crowned, and uncrowned, heads of Europe – and the world – had been doing all week.

From their vantage point, in one of the main station offices, high above the spread of platforms, Quinn, Kell and Railton waited and watched, field-glasses at the ready; while an orderly, trained in shorthand, stood patiently by, to take down every
comment made by the three officers.

The train appeared, gliding over the last few hundred feet of track, with steam shut off to reduce the noise.

The figure, with the familiar curled and spiked moustaches, quietly descended to be greeted by his cousin. They kissed on both cheeks, and the platform suddenly came alive with the Kaiser’s party.

The trio of officers barely glanced at the Kaiser. They were more interested in the officers following in the wake of
‘The Bane of Europe’, as his dead uncle had once called him.

As various faces clicked into memory, either from previous knowledge, or well-studied photographs, one or other of the three men spoke names. In turn, the names were noted by the orderly: a litany of diplomats, advi
sers, military and naval attachés, ADCs.

Quite suddenly, as the last carriages were due to leave, and only lesser dignitaries waited, Quinn let out a gasp,
‘Vernon! Look! To the right of the German Military Attaché. See him?’

‘
What’s that particular ferret doing with the royal party, I wonder?’ Kell also recognized the face and put a name to it.

*

‘Captain Rebeur-Paschwitz,’ he told Giles Railton later that afternoon. The pair walked in Regent’s Park. ‘Remember him? Rebeur-Paschwitz?’

Giles stumped along, lips tight, as though he would like to swallow them.
‘Last time we saw him here was during Jacky Fisher’s days at the Admiralty. He’s most certainly Naval Intelligence. What think you, Vernon?’

‘
Swine among pearls. He has no place at this particular event. Grand Admirals yes; but German Intelligence, no!’