Angels in the Gloom (7 page)

He had never even considered Patrick Hannassey. He had thought of him only as the cleverest and most dedicated fighter for Catholic Ireland’s freedom from British rule. Now he had to face the possibility—in fact the probability—that he was wrong.

Detta s father!

She was looking at him, her odd eyebrow raised in bitter irony. “You didn’t know about that paper, did you.” It was a statement. “You thought it was all inevitable.”

“Given the political tides,” he said very quietly, “the alliances between Austria, Germany, and Russia—and ours with France and Belgium—yes, I thought there was no way to avoid it.”

“You aren’t asking me if I’m sure about it,” she pointed out.

“Would you say it if you weren’t?”

She avoided his gaze. “No. Is there a point where madness becomes so common we think it’s sanity?”

“I don’t know.” She was not going to say any more. He would not play the game of trying to make her. “Would you like to dance?” he asked. He wanted to forget about talking for a while. He simply wanted to hold her in his arms, feel the ease and grace of her movement, smell the perfume of her hair, and above all pretend for a few minutes that they were on the same side.

“Dance?” she asked, her voice rising. “Perhaps you do understand magic after all! What’s the difference between looking for a supernatural answer, and simply running away, Matthew?”

“Timing,” he answered. “At the moment I’m just running away.”

“Yes,” she agreed, laughter touching her eyes again, but only with self-mockery. “Yes, I’ll dance. What better is there to do?”

The following morning Matthew arrived at his office in a mood of optimism. This was dashed the moment he encountered Hoskins standing in the corridor, his thin face twisted with anxiety.

For a moment Matthew thought of avoiding asking him what was wrong, and simply going on to his own door, but he quickly resigned himself to reality. All bad news had to be faced.

“Good morning, Hoskins. What is it?”

“Morning, Reavley. Just another ship gone,” Hoskins replied miserably. “U-boats got it. It was carrying food and munitions. All hands lost.” Hoskins stood motionless apart from the slight tic in his left eyelid. “That’s the fourth this month.”

“I know,” Matthew said quietly. He could think of nothing else to say. There was no comfort to offer, and nothing to salvage.

“Shearing wants to see you,” Hoskins added. “I’d go there first, if I were you.”

Matthew acknowledged the message, left his coat in his office, and glanced at his desk to see if there were any overnight messages of urgency. There was nothing that Shearing needed to know, just the usual reports from his men in the eastern United States. Progress was slow.

He crossed the corridor and, after a brief knock, went into Shearing’s office.

Shearing looked up from his desk. There were hollows around his eyes, accentuating how dark they were. “What’s your progress with the Hannassey woman?” he asked.

There was a sour irony to the situation. Shearing knew of John and Alys Reavley’s deaths and Matthew’s belief that there was a conspiracy behind it, but because of John Reavley’s warning, Matthew had not told even his own superior in the Intelligence Services.

“Well?” Shearing barked.

Matthew could not tell him that Detta had in one wild explosion of anger let slip her knowledge of the Peacemakers conspiracy. It pounded in his mind as if it could drive out all other thoughts, and he composed his expression with difficulty. One realization flooded out every other. Surely Hannassey had to be the Peacemaker? It was someone who trusted Detta with his life. It could not be Shearing.

He cleared his throat. He was still standing more or less to attention in front of the desk. “I told her about the smoke bombs in the ships’ holds, sir,” he replied. “And that we have almost traced the money. We just need to turn one of their agents and we’ll be able to close it down.”

“I see. And how do you propose to convince her that you have done that?” Shearing’s expression was skeptical, his lips tightly compressed.

“With the information, and an appropriate dead body,” Matthew replied.

Shearing nodded very slowly, his eyes not leaving Matthew’s face. “Good. When?”

“Another week at the very least. I have to give it long enough to be believable.”

“I suppose you know we lost another ship last night? All hands.” Yes, sir.

“When did you last hear anything from Shanley Corcoran?”

“Two days ago,” Matthew replied. For just over a year now he had been the link between the Secret Intelligence Service in London and the Scientific Establishment in Cambridge where they were developing an underwater guidance system that would mean that torpedoes and depth charges would no longer randomly hit their targets but would strike every time. It would revolutionize the war at sea. Whoever had such a device would be lethal. No skill or speed would enable an enemy to escape, once they were found. The endless cat-and-mouse games that now meant a skilled and daring commander could outwit pursuit would avail nothing. Judgment of speed, direction, even depth, would be irrelevant. Every missile would strike.

And of course if the Germans were to have such a weapon, the U-boats now reaping such a terrible harvest would become unstoppable. Britain would be brought to its knees in weeks. The supplies of food and munitions would dry up. There would be no navy to take reinforcements to France, or even to evacuate the wounded, and in the end not even to rescue what remained of the army, beaten because it had no guns, no food, no shells, no medicine, no new men.

Shearing was waiting for an answer.

Matthew smiled a little as he gave it. “They are very close to completing it, sir. He said within a week.”

Shearing’s eyes were wide. “He’s certain?”

“Yes, sir.”

Shearing eased back a little in his chair. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow. “Thank God,” he breathed.

“Then if we don’t have any more lunatic action like the Santa Ysabel massacre, and Pancho Villa doesn’t lose his wits and storm over the Rio Grande, we just might make it. For God’s sake, be careful! Whatever you do, don’t jeopardize the code!”

“No, sir.”

Shearing made a small, dismissive gesture, and returned his attention to the papers on his desk.

* * *

In Marchmont Street in a discreet residential area near the heart of London, the man known as the Peacemaker stood in the upstairs sitting room facing his visitor. He hated war with a passion that consumed every other wish or hunger within him. He had seen the human misery of the Boer War in Africa at the turn of the century, the death and destruction, the concentration camps for civilians, even women and children. He had sworn then that whatever it cost he would do everything within his very considerable power to see that such a thing never happened again.

The passion of the man opposite was quite different. He was Irish, and the freedom of his country and its independence from Britain dominated every other emotion he felt, and justified all acts that served its end. But they could use each other, and both knew it.

The subject under discussion was money, which the Irishman was going to use to continue his bribery of union officials in Pittsburgh and in the East Coast docks of America to sabotage the munitions destined for the Allies.

“No more than five thousand,” the Peacemaker said flatly.

“Six,” the other man answered. He was unimpressive to look at, the kind of man no one would notice in a crowd, average in height and build, nondescript of coloring and ordinary of feature. He was capable of a score of appearances depending upon his stance and expression, and the clothes he wore. That was part of his genius. He came and went as he chose, and no one remembered him. Another gift was his almost flawless memory.

The Peacemaker replied with a single word. “Why?” He did not like the Irishman, nor did he trust him, and lately he had become too demanding. Unless he proved himself more valuable than he had so far, he would have to be disposed of. And since he had a great deal of knowledge, that disposal must be final.

“You want to stop the American munitions reaching England safely?” the Irishman asked, almost without inflection. He had no accent; he had deliberately eradicated the soft music of his native burr. It was part of his anonymity, and he had learned never to let it slip.

In contrast to him, the Peacemaker was highly memorable, a man whose dynamic appearance and extraordinary character no one forgot.

“And keep your very considerable interest in Mexico?” the Irishman continued. “It takes money.”

The Peacemaker had a strong suspicion that many of the guns in question, as well as the ammunition for them, were going to end up in Ireland, but just at the moment that was less important. “I do,” he answered. “It is in both our interests.”

“Then I need six thousand,” the Irishman told him. His face was expressionless, as if he were afraid of letting any fear or need show itself, anything at all that could be used against him. “For the moment,” he added. “We have to have men on all the ships, and they are taking a considerable risk planting smoke bombs in the holds. If they get caught they’ll likely be shot. I can’t rely on anyone doing that for love, or hate. We need at the least to guarantee that their families will be taken care of.”

The Peacemaker did not argue. He must handle this with exactly the right mixture of skepticism and generosity. Their goals were different, just how different he did not yet wish the other man to appreciate. He knew that his aim was a free and independent Ireland, and a touch of revenge thrown in would add to the savor.

The Peacemaker’s purpose was an Anglo-German Empire that would lay peace not only on warring Europe, but upon the entire world, such as the British Empire had across Africa, India, Burma, the Far East, and the islands of the sea. This would be greater. It would end the strife that had torn apart the cradle of Western civilization for the last thousand years. Europe and Russia would belong to Germany; Africa was to be divided. The rest, including the United States of America, would be Britain’s. They would have the best of the art and science and the richest culture in the world. There would be safety, prosperity, and the values of free exchange, law, medicine, and literacy for everyone. The price would be obedience. That was a fact in the nature of men and of nations. Those who did not obey willingly would have to be forced, for the sake of the vast majority whose lives would be enriched and who would be more than willing, eager to grasp such moral and social wealth.

Naturally, Ireland was included, and would have no more independence than it did now. It was by nature and geography part of the British Isles. But of course he would say nothing of this to the man opposite him.

“Very well,” he agreed reluctantly. “Make sure every penny is used well.”

“I don’t waste money,” the Irishman answered him. There was no emotion in his voice; only looking at the steady, pale steel-blue eyes did the Peacemaker see the chill in him. He knew better than ever to underestimate an enemy, or a friend.

The Peacemaker went over to his desk and withdrew the banker’s draft. He had had it made for six thousand, because he knew that was what he would have to settle for. He had made his calculations in advance.

“Some of that is for Mexico,” he said as he handed it over. The Irishman would never know if he had had two drafts there, one for each amount.

The Irishman took the paper and put it in his inside pocket. “What about the naval war?” he asked. “I’ve heard whispers about this project in the Establishment in Cambridge. Are they on the brink of inventing something that will defeat the German navy?”

The Peacemaker smiled; he knew it was a cold, thin gesture. “I will inform you of that if it should become necessary for you to know,” he answered. He was startled, uncomfortably so, that the Irishman had even heard of it. He obviously had sources the Peacemaker was unaware of. Was that his purpose in asking, to let him know that? Looking at his smooth, blank face now with its prominent bones and relentless eyes, he judged that it was.

“So it is true,” the Irishman said.

“Or it is not true,” the Peacemaker replied. “Or I do not know.”

The Irishman smiled mirthlessly. “Or that is what you wish me to think.”

“Just so. Travel safely.”

When he was gone, the Peacemaker stood alone. The Irishman was a good tool—highly intelligent, resourceful, and in his dedication incorruptible. No money, personal power, luxury, or office, no threat to his life or liberty would deter him from his course.

On the other hand he was ruthless, manipulative, and devious. He was impossible to control, which the Peacemaker both admired and recognized as dangerous. The time was fast approaching when disposing of the Irishman would become a matter of urgency.

Half an hour later the post arrived with several letters and the usual bills. One envelope had a Swiss stamp on it, and he tore it open eagerly. There were several pages written in close script, in English, although the use of words was highly idiosyncratic, as of one who translated literally from another language before committing it to paper.

At a glance it seemed ordinary enough, the account of daily life of an elderly man in a small village at least a hundred miles from any battlefront. Fellow villagers were mentioned by Christian name only, most of them Italian or French. It was full of gossip, opinions, local quarrels over small matters of insult, jealousy, rivals in love.