Touchstone (41 page)

Chapter Fifty-Four

T
HE DIM OFFICE SEEMED TO FLASH
and sparkle: glass and screams; a small woman with blood matting her floss-blonde hair. He went very still.

“A bomb. You utter shit bastard. How long have you known?”

“I said ‘may’ we don’t ‘know’ a thing. We merely confirmed the possibility this morning. When I asked you on Saturday to look for the name Lionel Waller, it was merely a rumor we were following.”

Which meant he’d been pretty sure about it even then. Stuyvesant’s fist ached, wanting to smash into the smug black-eyed sadist; his shoulders longed to upend the heavy desk into the man’s face. In a long life of concealing his feelings, sitting in his chair without an act of violence was one of the hardest acts he’d pulled off. He deliberately pulled his cigarette case out of his breast pocket and got one going, pleased that his hands did not betray him.

“You going to tell me who this Waller is, or do I have to play Twenty fucking Questions with you?”

“I’m sure you know how these things develop. One hears a rumor, and by the time one follows it to its source, it has accrued so many dubious variations that one begins to mistrust the whole thing.”

Stuyvesant just sat and smoked and glared.

“Two weeks ago, one of my men in the Midlands submitted a report. In it, he made passing mention of a conversation in a public house with a man named Lionel Waller, who worked in the Army supply depot and had been suspected on two or three occasions of supplying stolen munitions. Nothing major, just the odd sidearm here, a handful of bullets there. We’d have arrested him, but sometimes it’s better to let these types have a bit of slack to see if one can reel in something bigger, namely, the person up the line who is interested in buying the weapons.”

Again, Stuyvesant gave no indication of agreement. Carstairs continued.

“However, this report mentioned that the man seemed particularly animated, and over the course of the evening my man received the clear impression that Waller believed he had got away with a bit of a coup. He gave no details, but two days later, the Army depot in question reported the loss of a distressing quantity of an experimental high explosive, a concentrated form of, hmm, gelignite. Easy to handle, remarkably stable, compact, its explosive force, shall we say, devastating.”

“When you say ‘compact’…?”

“Two ounces would utterly destroy this room.”

“Got to love modern science. How much is missing?”

“Twenty ounces.”

“Twenty—Jesus, are they planning on leveling Buckingham Palace or something? I hope you picked him up.”

“He is in custody, yes. He proved something of an amateur lawyer, and dragged his heels with both the civilian and military police interrogations, but yesterday I suggested that he be transferred to London. And early this morning, he talked.”

Stuyvesant glanced sharply up. He hadn’t noticed before, but beneath the pristine collar and freshly shaved face, Carstairs looked tired—not a grim exhaustion like Bennett Grey’s, but a complacent fatigue. Like a man who’d been up half the night in pursuit of a difficult, but ultimately pliable, female conquest.

“And?”

“The man who bought the explosive from Waller lives in Manchester.”

“Manchester. Where Bunsen was, on Saturday.”

“That is what brought Waller to my—”

“You swear to me you just found this out? Because if you’ve been holding back on me—”

“Mr. Stuyvesant, I finished my interrogation of Mr. Waller at four-thirty this morning. I went home to bath and change my clothes. I came here to review the files. When I confirmed the connection, I sent my secretary to bring you here. Seeing as how yesterday I experienced some difficulties in getting a response from you.”

“So what is the connection?”

“I have had Richard Bunsen under surveillance since the day after you brought him to my attention—ten days now. While in Manchester, Bunsen was seen with a man named Marcus Shiffley. Shiffley was a friend of Bunsen’s at university until he was sent down for threatening a professor. He migrated to the radical fringe, writes occasionally for the
Workers’ Weekly
and other Communist papers, and he has been questioned twice concerning acts of violence associated with industrial action—once for an epidemic of broken windows in clothing stores during a garment worker’s strike, the other for a Molotov cocktail thrown through the open door of a bank from a passing motor-cycle. In both cases, he was let go when he came up with friends who swore he was with them. Since in neither case was there more than property damage, we keep a file on him, but don’t have him under active surveillance.

“However, when he was seen with Bunsen on Saturday, I recalled mention of a man fitting his description having a drink with Mr. Waller, a month before the theft from the armory.”

“Not a very strong connection.”

“I thought it strong enough to encourage a closer look. I sent the photographs taken in Manchester on Saturday to the man who knew Waller. He confirmed that Shiffley was the man who had been in the pub with Waller, last month.”

Carstairs opened a desk drawer, pulled out a crisp new manila folder, and laid it in front of Stuyvesant.

The folder contained three items. First was a photograph showing five people in a restaurant. “This photograph was taken the middle of last week.” Facing the camera was Richard Bunsen. The two other men were strangers, though one of those Stuyvesant had seen before. Carstairs tapped the familiar figure. “That’s Shiffley. Whom, by the way, we have been unable to locate.”

“You showed me his photo the other day, with a woman.”

“That was his mistress, a known Bolshevik. The other man is Comrade Peter Markovitch, visiting from Russia. And of course Lady Laura you know.”

The last person, sitting with her back to the camera, he knew as well: That blonde head could only belong to Sarah Grey, up to her pretty neck in it. Whatever
it
was.

Shit,
he thought.
Oh, shit.

His face must have given something away, because he felt Carstairs’ eyes lock onto him. He did not look up, just turned the photo over.

The next document was a Photostat copy of a page from a surveillance log, neat handwriting giving details of time, location, and names. The man who had written it had noted only the names of Shiffley, Bunsen, and Laura Hurleigh; not of Markovitch or Sarah.

The last page was another photograph, this of two men, one in the uniform of a sergeant. “Waller?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Stuyvesant shook his head to indicate that he’d never seen them before, closed the file, and slid it across the desk.

He took a deep breath, and said, “The other woman in the photograph? You probably know that’s Sarah Grey.” No choice, really, but to drive that particular knife into his own vital parts. But judging by Carstairs’ lack of reaction, he did know.

Was it a test, Stuyvesant wondered? Did Carstairs suspect what had taken place between Stuyvesant and the young woman up in Gloucestershire? Not that anything had taken place, not exactly. Did he have a spy within Hurleigh House? Guest or servant? Or could he merely be working from the finely honed instincts of a skilled interrogator?

Not that it mattered. Stuyvesant had no choice but to say her name, when his every instinct was to tear the photograph to pieces. He drank the dregs of his cold, bitter coffee, and waited for the rest of it.

“After I had elicited the information from Mr. Waller, and confirmed the links between Waller, Shiffley, and Bunsen, I rang Downing Street and asked a question.”

“You wanted to know who suggested the private meeting at Hurleigh.”

Carstairs blinked. “Quite. And since you seem a devotee of guessing games, would you like to venture a guess on who made the suggestion?”

“I’d say the Duke of Hurleigh rang up his old buddy Baldwin on Sunday night and said that he’d just come up with a smashing idea to settle this bothersome Strike.”

“First thing Monday, in fact. But yes, it came from the Duke.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stuyvesant breathed, as the chain of events linked together in his mind. And what a pretty chain it was, to build a stranglehold on a nation: An Anarchist trained as a sapper gets his hands on some high explosive; the following day, he arranges to meet his mistress’s father, a man whose voice would be heard by the highest in the land; in the course of their casual, Sunday morning talk, the Anarchist plants a suggestion that quiet, private conversations such as the one they were having right now could do so much more good than formal meetings overseen by furious assistants and the spectacle-producing press; and finally, somehow or other, the careful Anarchist would be one of that select group, one of those voices of reason whose decisions would shape the nation’s future.

Except that what would be heard might not be gentle reason, but twenty ounces of deadly explosive that would blast a schism through society and split every faction from its neighbor. There would be no possibility of unity in a nation ruled by vicious hatred and mistrust. Anarchy would move in. Anarchy would prevail.

He dropped his head into his hands, no longer caring if Aldous Carstairs was looking on. “I should’ve stayed in New York.”

“But you did not. And now, Mr. Stuyvesant, it would appear that I require your assistance.”

“Hell’s bells. You do, don’t you?”

“We shall search the bags of the representatives and staff, of course, but it’s going to be delicate, since trust is the entire
raison d’être
for the meeting. And as I said, the explosive is quite compact; a man could carry a sufficient quantity on his person to punch a hole in a ship’s hull, much less effect an assassination.”

“Have them cancel the meeting.”

“A forum that could well avert open class warfare on British soil? Without more concrete evidence, I will not do that.”

“You’d trust me to find your explosive?”

“You have done so in the past. And frankly, I have no man at present who knows more about bombs than you.”

It was a disturbing admission—not that Carstairs didn’t have a bomb expert among his men, because why would he? But it indicated that, although he was happy enough to make use of the police to stage a raid, when it came to bombs, he so craved playing it close to his chest, that he’d risk using a stranger over bringing in colleagues from another force.

Did Carstairs have some reason not to trust them? Did he suspect a traitor in the ranks—of Scotland Yard, maybe, or Military Intelligence? Or was he just making sure this outsider stayed outside, keeping him busy beating away a cloud of smoke?

Or, did bringing Stuyvesant into his circle mean that Carstairs was playing a game with rules all his own? A game that, if those others—Intelligence, police—caught wind of, they would try to shut down. A game that could leave a stray American very badly burned.

Stuyvesant pictured himself sitting across the desk from his Scotland Yard acquaintance, the man who had inadvertently given him Carstairs in the first place, telling him how he’d spent the last week. What would the Yard man do, hearing that the mysterious (and remember: somewhat distasteful) Major Carstairs was up to no good?

First thing he’d do was ensure that Stuyvesant had no contact whatsoever with any of the principals in the case, not Carstairs, not Grey, and certainly not Richard Bunsen. And Sarah and Laura would be way off limits.

Nope, Stuyvesant thought. I didn’t come here to dangle my legs from a chair.

The thought process, from speculation to decision, took Stuyvesant no more than five seconds: something to be said for a life of having to think under pressure.

“You’re pretty sure they’ll arrest the driver tonight?” he now asked Carstairs.

“So I am told.”

“How long can they keep him?”

“More than twenty-four hours may be a problem. Unless he is injured during the course of—”

“No. Twenty-four hours is plenty to inconvenience Bunsen. I’ll see Miss Grey and possibly Miss Hurleigh tomorrow.” He thought for a minute, then shook his head. “I’ve got to be honest: I can’t say there’s more than a slim chance I’ll get taken on as replacement driver. And even if I were, the closest I’d get to the actual meeting would be when I dropped Bunsen off at the door. You’ve got to regard this as a real long shot.”

“I have the authority to cancel the meeting, if things do not go satisfactorily.”

“Just so you’re not betting the house on my being there.”

“Not just you.”

“Who—” Stuyvesant stopped. “You want Grey there.”

“Who better, to sense which man is plotting murder in his heart?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Carstairs looked, if anything, amused. “Are you telling me that you, an American agent of the Bureau of Investigation, forbid me from requiring service of one of His Majesty’s servants?”

“Yeah, I am. You’re not going to do that to him. Let him go home, he’s done enough.”

“Agent Stuyvesant, I will overlook your offensive overstepping of bounds because I have reason to be grateful for the affection the man Grey has developed for you. However, even you must see that with the life of a Prime Minister and the peace of a nation at stake, I may have to draw in all possible assistance.”

“Then pick up Bunsen now. Grill him.”

“Is that what you would do, Agent Stuyvesant?”

The question brought him up short. It was tempting, but the problems were enormous. If a bomb did exist, there was no saying who had it, or who its target might be. Better to follow the spoor they had than to go off half cocked and lose track of the explosive. Besides, much as a dark corner of him would like to see what Aldous Carstairs could do with the smooth-faced Richard Bunsen, it would be an interrogation of a very different order from the questioning of a pilfering supply sergeant. Breaking a man like Bunsen, a committed believer in a cause, was the slowest thing in the world. Frankly, he wouldn’t lay money on it, not even with Carstairs in charge.

“Yeah,” he said after a while. “Yeah, I can see the problems. But let’s not bring Grey in right away. I’ll talk to him, ask him to be ready to get on the train from Cornwall, but let me see what I can do first. I can wire him and ask him to come Saturday if I turn up zilch.”