by Jeff Dawson
‘Don’t mind if I do, ma’am.’
She poked and rattled at the decanters and glasses.
‘Talisker, isn’t it? Neat?’
‘How did you…?’
And then the penny dropped.
Finch smiled and took the tumbler. She poured one for herself.
‘Chin-chin,’ she said and they clinked glasses.
They sat opposite each other, a small coffee table between them.
‘Surprised?’ she asked.
‘A little.’
‘A Grand Dowager. What better entrée into the corridors of power?’
‘I can see the logic.’
‘Born in England, raised in America, and with a home in both, a foot in either camp… I say, do you have a cigarette?’
He pulled out his Navy Cut, lit one for her – which she inserted into an ebony holder – then one for himself.
‘I’m old enough to have worked for the Union intelligence services in the Civil War… to have eavesdropped on the French during Napoleon III’s little Mexican adventure. You’ve met “M”, of course.’
‘“M”?’
‘Mr Melville.’
Finch nodded.
‘Believe it or not, I trained the little whippersnapper. And, trust me, he’s every bit a ruthless as you think – more so. If he knew, for example, that you’d held on to that letter…’
‘How did…?’
‘Captain Finch – Doctor Finch – I know everything.’
She gestured towards the door. They didn’t have much time.
‘I know your history – South Africa… then that business with the Bolsheviks in London…’
‘None of it was through choice.’
‘Choice has nothing to do with this, Captain. You were not selected without good reason.’
Finch sipped his whisky. Not a day had gone by without reflection on his lot. Back in ’99 he had been a small-town doctor, one whose sense of duty saw him volunteer for Boer War service in the brand new Royal Army Medical Corps. Until that night, in Cape Town, on leave from the battlefields, when he found himself – entirely unwittingly – embroiled in a case of espionage; ensnared in the machinations of military intelligence.
Last October, having forsworn such activity and long settled back into civilian life in England, trouble had sought him out again, this time on the home front. His involvement had placed him at the mercy of the so-called powers that be, a hostage to their whims. He was now, like it or not, an official MO3 operative.
‘So what is it this time?’ he asked.
Lady Brunswick lifted her lorgnette glasses and looked him up and down, her tone unsympathetic.
‘Sarcasm will get you nowhere, Captain. Need I remind you that a typed order for your “termination” still sits in M’s filing cabinet. It awaits but a signature.’
She uttered it in the perfunctory manner of a bored employer discussing a contract. Finch, head bowed, studied his cigarette. He said nothing.
‘It’s the Germans,’ she then added.
‘Germans?’
‘More specifically the German–Americans.’
She cleared her throat.
‘You’re a reader of newspapers.’
‘When they’re available.’
‘Then you’ll be aware there’s a movement growing in New York City, indeed across the United States, something neither Britain nor our allies in Washington like very much – what you might call an appeal to “isolationism”, an “America First” movement.’
‘I’d seen something to that effect. I hadn’t appreciated the gravity.’
‘Well, that movement… it’s building momentum… coalescing. It’s found an outlet in a new political group, the American National Party, and it’s capitalizing on disaffected working-class voters, especially of the German–American variety, tired of the White House and its new-found imperial ambitions.’
Finch signalled his understanding.
‘Don’t underestimate the United States. Britannia may rule the waves for the moment but America is fast becoming a crucial player, a new 20th-century Power… alongside, in the East, I might add, the Japanese.’
Finch tugged at his collar.
‘Discomfort is a giveaway, Captain Finch,’ she tutted. ‘For you to succeed, you have to be at ease in your new skin.’
He sat up straight, like an admonished schoolboy.
‘Lady Brunswick, I’ve never underestimated the Americans.’
‘And so we shouldn’t. Since the Spanish–American War, the USA has been expanding, particularly in the Pacific – the Philippines, Guam, annexing Hawaii. As you know, it’s now taken over construction of the Panama Canal. If you’ll forgive them their frightful habit of assassinating their Presidents…’
She turned wistful.
‘Poor Bill McKinley. It’s clear his successor, Teddy Roosevelt, now that he’s won an election in his own right, has further international designs, even though he’s making it all sound so bloody reasonable.’
‘You mean, “Speak softly and carry a big stick”? His famous words.’
‘Indeed… In fact, he’s about to position himself as peace-broker between Russia and Japan in that nasty little war they’ve been conducting in Manchuria.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
She tapped her nose.
‘Privileged information.’
Finch swirled his glass and studied his drink.
‘So, a conservative – nationalist party – one operating within the democratic structure? Hardly earth-shattering. Pales compared with some of the stuff going on in Europe.’
She leaned in.
‘Listen carefully, Captain. In Europe a war is coming. We all know it. But the last thing we need is for the US to be neutral. Worse, to get in bed with the Germans – which is what we believe to be the ulterior motive of the American National Party. There’s a growing German–American antipathy towards the Entente Cordiale, and it’s that blasted party that’s stoking it.’
She opened her handbag and lay a black-and-white photograph on the table. It was of a square-faced, stern-looking man, craggy of features, with slicked-back dark hair.
‘Senator Abel Schultz,’ she said. ‘The National Party’s leader, a man with big political ambitions. It is in Britain’s interest – our allies’ interest… the American establishment’s interest – for his movement to be taken down. The best way to do that is to cut the head off the snake…’
She waved the photograph before tucking it away again.
‘This snake.’
Finch spluttered incredulity.
‘You mean by bumping him off?’
‘Please, a little sophistication. That would be too obvious. Plus the last thing we want on our hands is a martyr. It would be counterproductive. No, the surest trick is by embarrassing him… by pulling the rug from underneath. And the best way to do that is by exposing any illegitimate funding that may be flowing into Schultz’s coffers.’
She smiled to herself.
‘If there’s one thing Americans care about, it’s money.’
‘The way you’re talking, I’m sensing an urgency.’
She exhaled smoke.
‘Very perceptive, Captain. Senator Schultz – that ambition of his I mentioned? It’s no secret he sees himself one day with his feet under the desk in the Oval Office.’
Finch pulled a face.
‘He couldn’t win a Presidential election. Could he?’
‘Probably not, not yet. He simply doesn’t have the numbers. The Democrats and Republicans should have Capitol Hill locked for the foreseeable future. At least we’re hoping they do. Though politics is anything but predictable. Third parties have upset the apple cart in recent memory.’
‘Plus, the next election’s still way off. What, three years?’
‘Quite, Captain. Conventional analysis had always suggested Schultz would show his hand next spring. And, even then, popping up only as a sideshow.’
‘So wh
at’s changed?’
She sighed.
‘Word is he could declare himself as soon as next week, a surprise announcement. Ridiculously early as you suggest, but with a chance to steal a march on the opposition, well before the mainstream party machinery clicks into gear… You know, grab the spotlight for himself.’
‘But if he stands no chance of winning…?’
‘Think about it, Captain. A prolonged election campaign – hustings, primaries, mid-terms; conventions, caucuses, town hall meetings… National publicity for his cause, months and months of public discussion on America’s priorities and sympathies? It can still do us enormous political damage. We simply can’t let this man carry on.’
There came a wry smile.
‘Which is where you come in, Captain Finch.’
‘Me?’
‘America can’t have its security services snooping around, sabotaging its own. Toppling Schultz needs an outsider, a spy – you.’
‘How on earth am I—?’
‘I can tell you no more. All will become clear. Plus, you owe us…’
She studied him, her tone cold again.
‘And, as an interloper—’
She didn’t need to spell it out but did so anyway.
‘—you’re completely expendable.’
The silence hung. She removed her cigarette from its holder and ground it out in the ashtray.
‘If anything goes wrong, you will be disavowed. Here…’
It was a small stack of business cards. On them were printed the name ‘Bradley Collins’ and a company, ‘British Nitrate’.
‘My apologies, we should have got them to you sooner. But you did well at dinner.’
He tucked them inside his jacket.
‘And you’ll need this.’
It was a small red book, cloth-bound, not much bigger than a cigarette packet.
‘A pocket Bible?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
He flipped through. It was full of columns of numbers and letters, like a schoolboy’s logarithm tables.
‘A codebook?’
She nodded.
‘The instructions within are self-explanatory. You are to cable your movements to an office in Washington DC within each 24-hour period. The office is located inside the British Embassy, staffed by Military Operations, Section 3.’
She raised her spectacles and looked him in the eye.
‘I remind you, it is to us you are responsible, MO3 – not the National Bureau of Criminal Identification, their chief security agency – though the Americans will do the best they can for you and brief you further on arrival.’
Beyond the doors there was a sudden excited shout, a commotion.
‘You are to use a different telegraph office each time and never a telephone. Operators listen in. Fail to do so and you will be assumed dead. Do you understand?’
He indicated that he did. She drained her glass and beamed. The old Lady Brunswick had returned.
‘Thank you, Mr Collins.’
She extended her hand for him to ease her up.
‘An iceberg,’ one of the women was yelping. ‘See! Come quick!’
Finch helped Lady Brunswick on with her sable coat. She took his arm and he escorted her outside. The others were already leaning on the rail, glasses still in hand. From second class and steerage, the lower observation decks were filling too, passengers craning excitedly for a glimpse at this natural marvel.
From the bridge, someone swung a spotlight. There, in the distance, shone a great big hunk of white.
Finch took his place next to Captain Smith.
‘New York, Mr Collins,’ he said. ‘You’ll like it. It’s a great city.’
Chapter 5
The red Ford Model B cruised past the Bohemian and Polish tracts which, just like the Old World, fringed the greater German territory. The car skirted the imposing Germania Bank building, then turned onto Second Avenue, past the Ottendorfer Library and the Deutsche Poliklinik, down Avenue B, the ‘German Broadway’, with its part-covered sidewalk – past the workshops and the stores; past the beer halls and the oyster saloons and the lazy drift of daytime pianola.
In Tompkins Square the car pulled over. The huge Amerindian unfolded himself from behind the wheel and stepped down to open the door for his master.
A cry went up.
‘Mr Muller! Look, it’s Mr Muller!’
Manfred Muller smoothed down his grey silk suit and straightened his tie. He smiled and waved. He was late 30s, of average height, but in good physical shape, with a tanned face, bright blue eyes and a scar running down his left cheek – ‘handsome enough for respectability,’ as a female reporter from the Evening Post had written (in a clipping framed in his office), ‘rugged enough to convey menace.’
It was the local youths who recognized him – the clean-cut, vigorous types you found in the shooting club gymnasium. Not the grime-faced urchins and ragged ne’er-do-wells of the other ethnic quarters. Then others stopped – ordinary folk going about their daily business – shopping, walking, talking.
An excited, middle-aged woman bustled out from Maier’s grocery store, a basket of carrots and spring greenery dangling from her elbow.
‘Mr Muller,’ she cooed. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Muller…’
A friend joined her.
‘…for all that you’ve done for us.’
Muller palmed away their salutations with a gesture of modesty, shot his gold cufflinks and reflexively touched the strap on his Cartier watch.
Behind him, his lawyer, Bernie Krank, climbed awkwardly out of the vehicle, his pink baby face accentuated by Muller’s contrasting virility. He answered on his boss’s behalf, and with a certain camp snideness to go with it.
‘Mr Muller is happy to do all he can to help,’ he boomed, his plummy round vowels operatically resonant.
Muller stepped over to a florist’s wagon and purchased the biggest bunch of gladioli available, generously overpaying in the process, then walked through the gate into the park. There were barely any young children on the rows of swings, he noted… barely any children at all. No mothers, no nannies.
At the milk house, the men waiting for their daily fresh ration stopped queuing and drifted over. Some, noticeably, but not all.
Krank huffed and puffed to keep up. He dabbed his brow with a silk handkerchief.
‘The League youths will take their names,’ he assured his master, nodding to the loyal corner-boys.
There were 20… 30 men now, removing their baggy caps in respect. One of them shuffled up, nervously, not sure if he was at liberty to speak.
‘Just wanna say, Mr Muller, sir, me an’ the boys… We wanna thank you… Y’know, for lookin’ out for us.’
Muller smiled and shook his hand, calfskin glove still in place.
‘Well, we’re hoping for some good news very soon.’
A roughly hewn stone had been laid in the middle of the park, a memorial to those who had died on the General Slocum. It was temporary, Krank reminded onlookers, at such volume that no one might miss it. A permanent marker was being carved, thanks again to the generosity of Mr Muller. They laid the flowers and bowed their heads.
‘Who’d-a thunk? Nine months already,’ sighed an older man. ‘God bless ’em all. God bless you, sir. Gott mit uns.’
The black-framed portraits in the windows watched on.
‘Gott mit uns,’ repeated Muller.
As Muller returned to the sidewalk, more well-wishers appeared, some wishing their wellness (though none would admit it) with a hint of fear. A mother pressed a toddler into Muller’s arms – all golden curls and whirling arms – which he kissed on the forehead and handed back strategically, before the long string of drool touched his sleeve. All the while the Amerindian loitered by the car, not willing to let his perceived freakishness cause alarm.
‘Please come, Herr Muller,’ urged a waistcoated café owner in a thick Swabian accent, as he stepped out of his shop in a crisp white apr
on, clips on his sleeves. He had pomaded hair, a lush moustache and bowed in deference, gesturing to his shop door.
He tugged at Muller’s forearm with too much familiarity, at which Krank gave a nod and members of the St Mark’s Youth League closed in. Muller stayed them. The man simply wanted him to come inside.
‘It will be my pleasure, Herr Egeler,’ he said.
Krank pointed to his watch, but Muller nodded for them to follow regardless. The door jangled. The patrons put down their drinks, their newspapers, and stood, awestruck. Muller doffed his homburg.
Egeler ushered Muller and Krank into the back room where a private table was set with a red-and-white check tablecloth. He bade a waiter fetch Mr Muller a steaming hot schwarzer Kaffee, ‘just the way Herr Muller likes it’. He then pressed a thick envelope into Muller’s hand.
Like an Atlantic City croupier, Muller indicated that he never touched the money personally. He would rather it be proffered to his lawyer.
‘Herr Muller… the problem,’ the man said, lowering his voice. ‘The one with, you know… the other gentleman.’
He looked sideways furtively.
‘It has…’ he whispered, ‘gone away.’
Krank hissed a catty laugh.
‘I think it’s fair to say the other gentleman has gone away.’
There was a sudden, panicked expression on Egeler’s face, as if he only now fully comprehended the enormity of the transaction; the Faustian pact that had been struck.
‘Business is doing very well. I thank you,’ he added, suddenly hollow.
The coffee arrived. Muller sipped politely. The envelope disappeared inside Krank’s jacket.
‘A pleasure doing business with you.’
The waiter returned with a cake box done up in pink wrapping paper and a big red bow.
‘Please… for your lady friend,’ said Egeler and presented it to Muller.
Muller passed it theatrically to Krank. The café owner instantly regretted his use of words… the implication. He flustered.
‘Sorry, Herr Muller, what I meant was…’
Muller smiled.
‘It’s okay, Herman. I know what you meant. I’ll see that she gets it.’
There was an American National Party poster in the shop window. On his way out, Muller noticed it. He turned.