Heathersleigh Homecoming (43 page)

 88 
North Hawsker Head

Dawn had just begun to break over the Yorkshire moors when several automobiles and a single army transport and communications truck drove the last few miles along the narrow deserted sea road between Whitby and Scarborough on the east coast of northern England. Half of those present had come from London by train, where they had met the army contingent arranged for by Colonel Forsythe at Whitby.

Immediately after the previous afternoon's meeting in his office had broken up, Churchill, Forsythe, and Whyte had coordinated plans for today's dawn raid, which was now a joint operation between the army, navy, and Secret Service, with the First Lord of the Admiralty in charge. Churchhill had put Amanda in the care of Lieutenant Langham, who had arranged for her to have a hot meal, bath, and several urgently needed hours sleep in a guesthouse while final arrangements were being concluded. He returned for her later that evening. Once they were en route she slept most of the night in private quarters aboard the train. By the time morning came, and they had eaten breakfast at the hotel in Whitby, where the force met at dawn for final briefing, she felt reasonably rested and refreshed.

A mile or so from their objective, as the road crested a small rise next to the bluff of the shoreline, Churchill ordered his driver in the lead vehicle to stop. His eagle eyes thought they had spotted something in the distance down on the water.

“Hold here just a minute, Sergeant,” he said. “I want to take a look.” He got out of the car and was joined a moment later by Lieutenant Langham. From his vantage point on the bluff, Churchill peered down onto the ocean, then sent his binoculars panning the horizon.

“What is it, sir?” asked Langham.

“A small boat,” replied the First Lord. “I would say it is carrying several people. I see no sign of ships or other activity.”

“The lighthouse appears to be sending signals too,” Langham said, looking along the bluff toward the white tower about a mile away. Two automobiles were parked in front of the house, and smoke came from the chimney. Despite the early hour, the place was already up and about its clandestine activities. “There are flashes coming from the tower on and off in bursts.”

“Obviously they are signaling something out there,” said Churchill. “A sporadic light pattern like that is not for keeping ships off the shoals. Although all I see is the little dinghy.”

“Do you suppose we're observing the method of infiltration we've been looking for?”

“We just may be, Lieutenant.”

“Do you want me to tell the others to move in, sir?”

“Not yet,” replied Churchill. “We'll maintain positions out of sight here for now until this boat is ashore. I don't want to tip off whoever this is coming in. I want them all in custody before we leave. We'll let them get inside, then make our move.”

Twenty minutes later the dinghy was docked. Churchill watched from the same vantage point as the newcomers made their way up the bluff. When they were safely inside the house, he headed back to the lead car, raising his arm to the small waiting convoy to again begin moving slowly forward.

“It is a brave thing you are doing for your country, Miss Rutherford,” Lieutenant Langham said as they sat together in the backseat riding the final mile.

“Thank you,” she replied. “That is very kind of you to say. But I don't feel brave. Actually I feel like something of a nincompoop for causing so much trouble. And right now I have to tell you I'm a little afraid. My heart is starting to pound.”

“Perfectly natural in these circumstances,” smiled the lieutenant. “To be honest, my heart is beating a little more rapidly than usual too. I think it started when the First Lord asked me back at the hotel if my pistol was loaded. Until then I don't think the danger of what we're doing had really sunk in.”

“I hope there is no shooting. I think I would be terrified.”

“We will do our best to prevent it coming to that. You know another thing I wanted to tell you,” the young lieutenant went on, “in case I don't have the chance later, is that I have always admired your father.”

“How do
you
know him?” asked Amanda, glancing over in surprise.

“My father and he served together years ago,” replied Lieutenant Langham. “He always spoke highly of him. My father followed his career even after they parted ways and said how much he admired your father years later, too, when he resigned from the House of Commons. I remember my father telling me what courage that took, to go against convention and popular wisdom and step aside right at the height of his popularity. I had the chance to meet Commander Rutherford myself before the
Dauntless
put to sea.”

“When was that?”

“Mr. Churchill sent me down to Plymouth to deliver a personal message to your father. I was also in Scapa briefly later and met your brother . . . George, I believe.”

“Yes . . . yes, that's him.”

“I found what my own father said was true. The exchanges between the commander and me were brief, but he treated me with the utmost respect.”

While Amanda was trying to think how to reply further, she felt the automobile slowing again.

“This will do fine, Sergeant,” said Churchill to the driver.

“It looks like we've arrived,” said Lieutenant Langham.

“Everyone out,” said Churchill, “but quietly.”

 89 
Unexpected Visitors to English Shores

Inside the house, Ramsay Halifax had arisen about half an hour earlier.

He had arrived at Hawsker Head late the previous night. A nicely lit fire was already ablaze as he came downstairs, thanks to Doyle McCrogher, though Ramsay found himself alone. McCrogher was at sea in his trusty vessel bringing ashore what Ramsay expected to be a single additional guest—an arrival, it might be noted, that he was not especially looking forward to seeing on the basis of the fact that he had himself made the drive north from London alone. There would be purgatory to pay from Barclay's mouth, and he was already trying to plan how to respond to the anticipated caustic barbs from the latter's tongue.

Chalmondley Beauchamp, meanwhile, was atop the lighthouse at the controls, a function in the operation of the network which he now handled almost entirely. The two or three others present were all still asleep.

Ramsay made himself a small pot of tea and had just completed his first cup in front of the fire when the door opened. The astonishment which registered on his face was instantaneous. He sat for a moment gaping at the figure who followed Hartwell Barclay inside.

“Scarlino . . . what are you doing here?” he finally exclaimed, more confused than anything. “You didn't find—”

“No, I didn't find her,” interjected Scarlino testily, showing no inclination toward conversation with Ramsay.

Behind him another stranger walked in.

“But if—”

“Forget the girl,” said Scarlino, removing his coat as the door closed. “That was just a ploy. We are here on another assignment—one
that requires, shall we say, talents of which you have proved yourself capable. The girl means nothing anymore.—Is there any coffee around here?” He glanced about, then walked in the direction of what he took for the kitchen, where a kettle of water still stood steaming on the stove.

“
We
—what we?” said Ramsay, rising from his chair. “I'm not sure I like the sound of that. What kind of talents?—Barclay,” he said, now turning to his mentor in the ways of the Fountain, “what's this all about?”

“That's what I should be asking you,” Barclay rejoined, finding a cup and pouring himself what remained in Ramsay's small pot from the table in front of the chair where he had been sitting. “
You
were supposed to have taken care of the girl by now, if you recall.”

“Unfortunately, she has continued to elude me.”

“She's not dead?”

“No, she's not dead.”

“Why not?”

“It didn't work out. What are these other two doing here?” he said, returning to the subject at hand. He gestured toward the newcomers in the kitchen, who were investigating coffee makings and scarcely paying attention to the conversation about them in the adjacent room.

Barclay took a long sip from the tea in his cup, then eyed Ramsay intently.

“It seems they have orders from Austrian and German Intelligence to assassinate the good Mr. Asquith and his colleague Churchill,” he said.

“What!” exclaimed Ramsay. “That's further than we've ever gone.”

“Perhaps,” replied Barclay. “Unfortunately, they left me little choice but to bring them to England for precisely that purpose.”

“That may be. But what the deuce does it have to do with me?”

“The most fascinating part of their scheme,” replied Barclay, the hint of a smile now revealing itself in his expression, “is that they seem to think
you
are the man to pull the trigger.”

“What! That's the most insane—”

“It seems they have been setting this whole thing up for months.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Once Matteos put you and Scarlino in touch, you were a marked man, Ramsay. They knew all about us. They infiltrated our network.”

Barclay's only consolation in the affair—for the past miserable hours in the submarine had caused him to hate Scarlino and the Prussian even more than Ramsay did—was in seeing his irritating and cocky young colleague squirm. “Seems as if we've been beaten at our own game,” he added with an ironic smile.

“How is that possible?” exclaimed Ramsay.

“The other fellow there is a high-ranking member of the Prussian Intelligence Service. They have contacts throughout Europe that make us look like amateurs. It would seem, my dear young Halifax, that we are working for them now.”

“Well, I for one have no intention of working for them!” said Ramsay irascibly.

“You have no choice, Halifax,” said Scarlino with a sinister smile as he walked in from the kitchen holding a cup of very bad and hastily assembled coffee. “We are in charge of this operation now. And its code name is Halifax Kills Churchill.”

An evil laugh now filled the room. The sound of it grated on Ramsay's ears so stridently that for a moment his hand twitched in the direction of his gun.

If he was going to kill anyone, he thought, this maniac ought to be at the top of the list!