The Secret Generations (5 page)

It was public knowledge, in diplomatic circles, that he now chaired a sub-comm
ittee on Intelligence reorganization for the CID, but few took that very seriously.

Some imagined he woul
d have been happier at a university, possibly a Chair in History, failing to see that his passion was confined to military history, the study of strategy and tactics – hence his private preoccupation for ‘…playing soldiers in the Hide…’ surrounded by maps, books and hundreds of lead replicas. This obsession came from childhood, and natural competition with his elder brother.

To Giles, even in the last years, brother William had been godlike and, possibly, the only living being from whom he kept no secrets. William had known it all, the anxiety shared, the deep
– sometimes dark – secrets passed, like dangerous magic words, between them: including the doubts concerning Empire and future, which had so plagued Giles during the middle period of his life.

If the truth were known, Giles had found himself becoming involved in political ideas which disturbed him considerably. He worried about Asquith
’s government, and their plans of reform – particularly concerning the Irish question and Home Rule. Yet the largest portion of guilt concerned his family. Paradoxically he held his family and its history in highest esteem; yet he also found himself querying the whole matter of privilege, and the injustice of rank.

The study of military histor
y had long since become a relaxation, for the true vocation of his life was the way in which his country could be provided with essential information for trade, foreign diplomacy, and the military. Giles Railton was as single minded, and dedicated to the black secret arts, as The General had been to the true science of war.

Knowing what they did, his sons Andrew and Malcolm, and his daughter Marie, tended to make allowances for their father
’s somewhat odd way of life.

Andrew could not escape contact with his father
’s arcane calling, for he had spent the past two years at the Admiralty as Flag Officer to the Director of the Naval Intelligence Division – the DID.

Marie, and her French diplomat husband, were more deeply involved, and
there had been much private discussion over Christmas, at Redhill Manor, and again after the funeral.

Malcolm, however, refused to be drawn, though his recently-taken Irish wife, Bridget, was becoming more pliable. Giles wanted to use her as a most particular investment in secrecy.

Now, after talking to Vernon Kell about Charles’ recruitment to MO5, Giles had things to do which might assist Marie, and the work in which she was privately involved in Paris.

Putting on his greatcoat, he stood in the hall for a moment as his one manservant, Robertson, hovered in the background.

‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back,’ he told the man. ‘Tell Cook to leave something cold for me. You can all go to bed. I’ll let myself in,’ and he went out into the freezing night, not even looking back.

First, he took a cab to Trafalgar Square and walked through to the Strand. Out of habit he paused for a moment or two after turning corners, and constantly crossed and recrossed the road, looking for any familiar shape or figure who might be following.

Only when he was certain that he was alone did he double back towards Charing Cross, making for a narrow alleyway which housed, among other things, a small newspaper and tobacconist’s shop. Here, Giles Railton was known as Mr Harding – a gentleman, the owner considered, who liked a little fling now and again; for he paid handsomely for one room above the shop, reached via a street door, the keys of which were in Mr Harding’s keeping.

Inside the street door, stairs mounted to a minute landing, and another door which led to a tidy room containing two stuffed chairs, a bed and a table. No pictures, books or papers, for Giles wanted nothing to distract those who met him in this place.

He drew the heavy curtains, before lighting the gas mantles and the small fire; for the room was almost as cold as the street outside. Only the most astute observer in the street would note the small gap left between the curtains.

The girl had been given her instructions, sent directly by hand from Redhill Manor to an address in Putney, then forwarded by two separate carriers. The time limit was between seven and ten in the evening. If Mr Harding
’s light was not on, she was to come back at fifteen-minute intervals until ten. After that she would try again on the following night.

In her late twenties, the girl was dressed fashionably, though inexpensively. If anyone was interested, she looked like a lady
’s maid on her day off, or travelling, for she carried a small ‘Argyle’ cowhide bag, as well as her handbag in which lay a French identity card, and the equivalent of two hundred pounds in French francs, as well as a little extra English money. She was known as Monique.

She knocked on the street door
– a quick tattoo of three – and once in the room, Giles helped remove her coat, then waited as she made herself comfortable in one of the stuffed chairs.

‘
It’s really quite simple this time,’ he began. ‘I should warn you that the people concerned are related to me. However, you must put that to one side, do a thorough job, and always give me the truth, however unpalatable.’ He then proceeded to give Monique the address of Marcel and Marie Grenot – his own daughter and son-in-law.

‘
I’m only to observe?’ She had no trace of an accent: not surprising as she originally came from Warwick. Hers was an old army family, and she spoke French fluently.

He nodded.
‘Observe, and report to me. You will also protect. You’re clear about communications?’

She said it had all worked well enough during her last duty in Paris. This time she would try to get very close.

Giles looked pleased. It was important, he told her. ‘All the same, I need to know everything. The French authorities can become difficult, even with their friends, when it comes to spies.’

There was still more to say, but finally Giles handed her the tickets for the night boat to Calais, and a third class to Paris. Both tickets were one way.

*

Returning to Eccleston Square by a different route, Giles thought of the last time he had spoken to his daughter Marie about the work she was doing
– Christmas afternoon, in The General’s study, with the frost white over the rose garden, and the light going. Her husband, Marcel, had sat in a leather chair and berated the apathy of his own country.

‘
They say “Why should Germany bother us? They will not fight again, and they certainly will never draw the English. After all, the Royal families are related.”’ He had an almost theatrical French accent. ‘The senior politicians of my country are like deaf mutes. They nod and smile, and appear to understand. In fact they have little comprehension.’ He shrugged. ‘Mind you, our generals are also ill-equipped for any modern war.’

Giles said that war was probably remote, but thought one should be aware of possible enemies.
‘It’s the same here,’ his voice betraying fatigue. ‘Politicians, like the people, of this country, are more occupied with preserving the status quo; the military live on past battlefields, and plan old campaigns. Neither learn from history.’

After a short silence, Marcel gave his wife a sidelong glance.
‘Marie is doing all she can. As you have instructed.’

Giles smiled, as wintry as the weather outside, asking if his daughter was still keeping up the pretence of a liaison with the Germa
n Military Attaché.

There was no humour when Marcel growled that there were doubts about the
pretence
of the liaison.

‘
Hypocrites!’ Marie became angry. ‘I love my husband, and nobody else. France is my adopted country, and I’m also still British.’ Suddenly she grinned, ‘Anyway, he’s not the Military Attaché; he’s the Attaché’s assistant.’

‘
Klaus von Hirsch,’ Marcel spoke without enthusiasm, ‘has an unfortunate reputation with the ladies.’

‘
Which, as my father has pointed out, makes him all the more vulnerable.’ She said the German Military Attaché’s assistant in Paris talked a great deal once you had his confidence.

‘
And you have that confidence?’ Giles made no exceptions, treating his daughter as he would any other agent.

‘
Enough to be within months of getting details of the German battle plan – should they ever need to use it’

‘
Which plan?’

‘
Oh, you know some of it – the Graf von Schlieffen’s famous plan. I’ll have the whole thing for you in time.’

Giles suggested that von Schlieffen
’s plan was almost certainly out of date, the Kaiser’s Chief of General Staff having retired some three years ago, plagued by ill health. His successor – the able General Moltke – would doubtless have his own new battle order and plan.

‘
I would not be too certain, Marie could be as stubborn as her father. ‘Von Schlieffen is still held in great awe. The General Staff of the High Command still report to him. Klaus as good as told me Moltke dare not make changes – and the plan certainly concerns France and Belgium. So, I continue? Yes?’

Giles nodded.
‘You go on as before. Get as much of the battle plan and order as you can.
Any
way you can.’

As he thought back on these things now, while returning home from briefing Monique, Giles Railton realized he had no compunction about allowing his daughter to form what
could be an immoral alliance with the German officer.

He was not a squeamish man. Some years ago, in the late 1880s, he had garotted one of his oldest friends on discovering that he had passed information to Irish agitators. He did not think twice about it, and lost no sleep after the act. Later he had a recurring dream in which he was carefully pulling the wings off exotic butterflies. He still had the dream occasionally, but never associated it with the act he had performed, of his own volition, for his country.

It was well past ten o’clock when he got back to Eccleston Square, and the house was in darkness. He ate and retired to the Hide, selecting a large-scale map of the field of Crécy from the case which housed his comprehensive collection. He had drawn the map himself – as with all the others – now he pulled out several trays of finely detailed lead soldiers: the troops of Edward III and the Black Prince; archers, foot soldiers, cavalry, baggage waggons and accoutrements, together with the larger forces of Genoese archers, the men of Bohemia and Alencon, Blois and Lorraine, with the armies of Philip VI.

Setting the English army back behind Abbeville, Giles started to study the moves which had occurred in the late August of 1346. He was a firm believer in the theory that one learns from the follies and wisdoms of the past, but, as he moved the blocks of fighting men around the map, part of his mind dwelt on his daughter-in-law, Bridget, who, with Malcolm, would now be well on her way back to Ireland. He hoped that, in spite of Malcolm
’s lack of interest, Bridget – now a Railton in Giles’ eyes – would see where her loyalties lay.

*

As his train finally pulled into the Lehrte Railway Station, Gustav Steinhauer recalled the Kaiser’s particular orders to him, on that day just before Christmas 1908.

The Kaiser had discovered the officers of the Army High Command were anxious to take over all matters concerned with intelligence, including the handling of agents already placed by the Foreign Ministry into other European countries. They were planning to effect this take-over within the next two to three years.

The Kaiser had confided in Steinhauer that his great worry was the way in which this would affect matters of intelligence – particularly over the question of sea power.

‘
I realize that you are in a position to contact our spies already buried on foreign soil, Steinhauer,’ he said, ‘but these men and women will come under military control when the High Command gets its way. What I .need is my own man, and I see
you
as my man. Am I correct?’

‘
Of course, Majesty.’

‘
Good. Then you will report certain matters to me, and to me alone. When the military establish themselves as the Fatherland’s spymasters, you will co-operate with them. But you will not betray this one confidence to them. You will place your own agent – a man who is well trained, knows about naval matters, is familiar with sabotage and the other skills of spies – in England. You will control him. You will not betray him to those who will be your new masters.’

‘
Yes, Majesty.’

‘
You would be able to do this, and mislead your military spymasters?’ The Kaiser frowned, looking directly into Steinhauer’s eyes.

‘
Of course, Majesty. They’ll never be able to find, or identify, him.’

‘
Good,’ the Kaiser gave a short nod. ‘Very good indeed. Now, to this man, who will live as a ghost, you will select him; train him; send him out; and report the full facts to me alone. You understand?’

Steinhauer understo
od. He interviewed eleven possibilities, all of whom turned out to be flawed. Then the petty officer, Hans-Helmut Ulhurt, came to his notice – the ideal choice. A man with all the right credentials, but a man who would have to be not only trained but also tamed. A man who required discipline.