“Sir, with respect—”
“Weren’t you supposed to be in attendance upon His Majesty the King?”
“I returned with his permission, to prepare for the funeral.”
“You said yourself, DCI Quinn has that well in hand. You have your orders. Send a few stout constables to round up these anarchists—half a dozen if you’re worried about it—and return to Osborne House. Thank you.”
By way of dismissal he pretended to busy himself anew with his papers while I stood there fuming, resisting the urge to bend and sweep papers, inkwell, blotter and all off his desk. But it was useless to object; Anderson was the sort of man who took the protests of his inferiors as proof of his firm leadership. My faith in Miss Minetti was based on instinct and experience, and it would be fruitless to try to explain that to someone with neither. I would have to slink back to Osborne House, though the King might well wonder why I had returned.
In fact, it occurred to me now, he almost certainly would.
* * *
—
Prince Albert—His Majesty King Edward, rather; I was still getting used to that—had never liked Osborne House and had usually spent his visits here hunting foxes or blasting pheasants out of the sky; but with the Court in mourning, now was not the time for noisy sports. All the same, horses and men need exercise, and I walked into the stable yard just as Edward, the Kaiser and their retinues were about to go out riding. Steinhauer was among the Imperial company and acknowledged me with a nod that conveyed a shrewd curiosity. By contrast His Majesty was oblivious to my arrival, at that moment lost in conversation with another rider—the younger daughter of the Earl Cadogan, seated sidesaddle facing him. A young lady in fine looks, with russet locks peeping out from under her riding hat, she seemed to be stifling a smile at the King’s remarks, her comely face quite pink.
“You want to feel the beast between your thighs,” Edward was saying quietly as I approached. “Less call for the whip. Unless you like that sort of thing, do you?”
The man’s incorrigible, I thought. I cleared my throat. Edward turned, scowling, but only until he saw who had interrupted him.
“Melville! Back again, old man? Did you forget something?”
I would catch hell from Anderson. But, as my old super used to say, it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission.
Back in the tack room, well out of earshot of the Kaiser and his retinue, I outlined the problem to His Majesty. I could hear the horses outside snorting and stamping impatiently and knew the German contingent was in much the same mood.
“This Akushku character, you say he’s Romanian?”
“He claims to be, but he’s been heard speaking Russian. We don’t know enough about him yet to be certain either way. His friends, on the other hand, we know all too well.”
“I’m surprised at you, Melville. I thought you were on first-name terms with all these European desperadoes.”
“You flatter me, Your Majesty. I’ll make this man’s acquaintance properly when we have him under lock and key.”
But the King did have a point. I had contacts among every anarchist club in London, shared weekly reports with my colleagues on the Continent, read countless radical newspapers—tedious dross though most of them were—and knew nihilist factions and fashions better than most nihilists did. But I had never heard of this Iosif Dalca, this Akushku; he seemed to have come from nowhere, like a character in Greek legend sprung from clay, and that fact alone made me uneasy.
“And you believe this woman?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
I liked her too. As I had gone through her story over and over again, probing for details, Miss Minetti had relaxed a little and gained in confidence; I’d glimpsed in her wit and spirit and even a mischief that reminded me of my first wife, Kate, God rest her soul. But that detail would not have impressed Anderson.
“But your superior Mr. Anderson does not?” said Edward. I made no reply.
Now we had come to the nub of it: the King certainly had the authority to overrule my boss, if he chose to. His mother had drummed into Prince Albert that he was never to abuse the powers of the Crown; but this was King Edward.
“Tell me what you have in mind.” The King plucked a twig from his riding-jacket and tossed it into the fire.
“To put together a squad of Special Branch officers and local constables. To raid the anarchists’ hideout, tonight, in force.”
“And take them alive?”
“That would be my preference, but…” I shrugged.
Edward stared into the blazing logs in the hearth. I’d hoped for a simple nod, but sensed I was not going to get one.
“It is vital,” said the King at last, “that not a word of this affair should come to the ears of the Kaiser.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I conceded. “But with an operation on this scale…”
“My nephew is the most courageous of men,” Edward continued, “but he considers himself divinely appointed to rule Germany, and for the sake of his nation he will not take any unnecessary risks.”
I wasn’t planning to ask him along, I nearly said. But I held my tongue. Gone, it seemed, was the easy-going Prince who chafed at ceremony; in his place was a king—cautious, closed and circumspect. I wasn’t sure if I approved of the transformation.
“If the Kaiser were to learn that an attempt had been planned on his life, here in England,” the King continued, “he might feel unable to attend the funeral. And that would be…damnably awkward.” That was understating it. For the Kaiser to miss the late Queen’s funeral would be a diplomatic disaster, a public humiliation for the royal houses of Britain and Germany both.
But then the public assassination of the Kaiser was hardly a viable alternative.
“When we apprehend these men, Your Majesty, we will eliminate the threat,” I said.
“The immediate threat, perhaps. If word gets out that it was even attempted…” I waited patiently to hear Edward’s proposal for an alternative course of action, praying inwardly that he actually had one. “This man Steinhauer,” said the King. “The Kaiser’s bodyguard. What do you make of him?”
“I’m sure he’s a very capable young man,” I said, wondering where this was going. “He would not have reached such a position otherwise.”
“Discreet, do you think?”
“His first duty will always be to his Emperor,” I replied, carefully.
“Hm. I’m sure you don’t tell me the half of what you get up to, Melville.”
“His Majesty always knows as much as he needs to.”
“Well, the Kaiser does not need to know about this. I want you and Steinhauer to handle this matter yourselves, with the utmost discretion.”
I was momentarily lost for words. True, with just Steinhauer I could move quickly, with the element of surprise on my side, but I would much rather have had the element of a dozen armed and experienced men on my side. Noticing my reluctance, the King smiled blithely. “Come on, old man, you’re the equal of twenty anarchists. Young Steinhauer can go along to hold your coat.”
“Your Majesty.” I nodded. How could I argue? I had asked for new orders and received them, and now I had to damned well carry them out. On the bright side, if I failed, I would probably not be around to face the music.
As we emerged into the courtyard where the Kaiser’s party waited, in their heavy coats and spurred riding boots, the jewelled knot of courtiers surrounding the Emperor unravelled. Steinhauer had already dismounted, sensing intrigue in the air and hoping to sniff out its nature. You’ll know soon enough, lad, I thought. Edward, as relaxed as if he’d been discussing a grouse drive with his ghillie, beamed as he approached his nephew and launched into an anecdote. While all there focused on him I drew Steinhauer aside.
“Something has come up in London, Herr Steinhauer, and the King has as
ked that you and I deal with it ourselves. Could you spare me twenty-four hours?”
“I am sure that can be arranged,” said Steinhauer without hesitation.
“I must warn you, our mission may be dangerous.”
The young German merely grinned. “If I stay here, Herr Melville, I am in danger of dying of boredom.”
5
We had barely entered our compartment before the stationmaster’s whistle blew loud and shrill, and the London train jolted into movement. Steinhauer stowed his suitcase in the luggage net overhead while I reached for the window blind, scanning the platform quickly before I drew it down. It was more out of habit than concern: I didn’t expect any dubious characters to be observing us, and I saw none. As I took my seat, Steinhauer produced from inside his coat a flat silver case and opened it to reveal a row of fine, plump cigars. He offered the case to me, but I shook my head.
“You’re sure?” asked Steinhauer. “Cuban Imperadores. The very finest. Not easy to obtain.”
“Perhaps this evening, after dinner.”
He snapped the case shut and tucked it away again. “I shall wait until then. A fine cigar is best enjoyed in good company.”
“You sound like a connoisseur.”
“I used to sell cigars, when I lived in Chicago.”
“And how did you rise from Chicago tobacconist to bodyguard to His Imperial Majesty? If you’ll forgive me being so forward.”
“Please. I was in my store one day, behind the counter, when two Pinkerton detectives came in and asked if they could use my premises for surveillance. I was intrigued and asked about their line of business. Very soon I realised it was not my destiny to sell cigars. I returned to Germany and joined the Imperial Navy. From there”—he shrugged—“it was largely a matter of luck.”
“And do the skills of a cigar seller lend themselves to intelligence?”
“It sounds unlikely, I know, but you were once a baker, were you not?”
“You’ve done your homework, Herr Steinhauer.” I wasn’t surprised he knew that detail; the profiles in British newspapers that insisted I was “Europe’s most feared policeman” seldom failed to mention my humble origins, in tones of wonderment I always found vaguely irritating.
“I have made a study of your career, Herr Melville,” said Steinhauer. “And—forgive me if I sound obsequious—I feel privileged to be accompanying you.”
“Hm. I hope you’ll feel the same way tomorrow.”
“I presume we are not going to London to take in the sights?”
“Sadly, no. And since we’re going to be working together, perhaps we should drop the formalities. My colleagues generally call me William.”
“My colleagues in the Imperial Court never call me Gustav. But I should be honoured if you did.”
“Well, Gustav, our business concerns three visitors from the Continent. And they’re not here to take in the sights either. Their leader calls himself Akushku.” Steinhauer frowned, searching his memory and seemingly drawing a blank.
“Should I have heard of this man?”
“Probably not. I hadn’t. He’s currently lying low in the East End of London with two friends. We believe them to be the Serbian nihilist Bozidar and a Bulgarian called Averbukh. Have you heard of them?”
“I have. And this sort of sport I am used to. But why do you need me, William? Is Scotland Yard so short of men?”
“My informant says they plan to attack the royal funeral,” I said. “And their target is your Emperor, Wilhelm.”
Steinhauer’s impertinent grin froze on his face as he saw how he had been railroaded. “Now I understand why you did not brief me properly before we boarded this train. I should have reported this to my master, immediately.”
“His Majesty King Edward has asked that you and I handle this matter ourselves, as discreetly as possible. If your master needs to know, perhaps you can tell him when the job is done.”
“If my master needs to know?”
“The thing about being a royal bodyguard, Gustav—the job is to protect not just the royal person, but his or her peace of mind. If I deal with a threat, without His Majesty ever even learning there was one, well—that’s when I have done my job properly.” Which was all true enough, though I’d only thought up that argument as we’d arrived at the station.
“And yet I notice you sought orders from your King,” objected Steinhauer. But he seemed as much amused as indignant, as if I had hoodwinked him into an evening’s folk-dancing. “And now you want me to help you to arrest these men, and to keep the operation secret? What if your press should hear of it?”
“Let me worry about that.”
“That is most obliging of you, William, but your Emperor will not have you shot for keeping him in the dark. How will you stop the newspapers reporting? I thought there was no censorship of the press here.”
“There isn’t. But I doubt there will be any arrests to report. Akushku and his friends are likely to be armed, and they won’t come quietly.”
“Better and better. I have brought no weapons, apart from my natural charm.”
“I’ll find you something,” I said. “And I don’t want to sound too pessimistic, but have you made a will?”
“If you don’t want to sound pessimistic, William, you need to try harder.”
I laughed. “It’s a precaution, is all. I have pen and paper here,” I said, unbuckling my Gladstone. “And maybe a letter to your loved ones as well. We won’t be in Paddington for another hour and a half.”
* * *
—
By the time I showed Steinhauer into the offices of Special Branch it was nearly eight, and the place was almost deserted. I much preferred it that way; office hours brought a thousand pointless interruptions and a million interminable meetings, the purpose of which ever eluded me. Patrick Quinn handled most of that nonsense, thank God, and let me get on with the real business of confounding the Queen’s enemies and keeping her peace. No, damn it, the King’s enemies and his peace.
“None of these offices have names, or even numbers,” remarked Steinhauer.
“Ah sure, we’ll get round to it one of these days,” I replied. But we wouldn’t, as long as I was in charge. Those who needed to know their way around the Special Branch offices already did.
The door to my own office was as anonymous as all the others; unlocking it I let Gustav precede me. I noticed him quickly and covertly scan the room, but there was little to see, apart from the row of speaking-tubes and a pair of pistols mounted on a display on the mantelpiece. It was as poky as every other office on that floor, and my small desk bore only a blotter and two trays for correspondence, currently empty. I detest those knick-knacks and gewgaws that clutter some men’s workplaces; I might work long hours, but I don’t need photographs to remind me what my family looks like. Unlocking the third drawer down on the left I drew out a cloth bundle and passed it over to Steinhauer. When he unwrapped it, his eyes lit up in delight.
“A Colt! Excellent.” Deftly he flicked the revolver open, checked it was clean, oiled and unloaded, snapped it shut again, spun the chamber and tested the action of the hammer and trigger.
“I thought you might appreciate that, after your years in America.” From the same drawer I dug out a box of bullets and slid it across the desk. “And you might need a few of these.”
While Steinhauer loaded the Colt and slipped extra shells into his pockets, I crossed to the hat-stand where several black scarves hung.
“Here you go, Gustav.”
“I am warm enough, thank you.” He slid the revolver too into the pocket of his coat.
“It’s not to stop you catching a chill—it’s to stop you catching a bullet. We need to cover up that shirtfront of yours.” Steinhauer looked down at the spotless white triangle on his chest where starched linen met waistcoat. Was he not aware o
f what a splendid target it would make on a dark night like this? When he saw what I meant, he snatched the scarf from my hand.
“Very good,” I said as he tucked the ends under his jacket. “And mind you don’t fire the Colt from inside your pocket. The hammer—”
“Might catch on the lining. Please, William, this is not my first safari.”
“Let’s hope we bag some game.” I tugged my pocket watch from my fob and looked at it. “But our quarry won’t be at home for a while yet. What do you say to some dinner?”
* * *
—
“Another bottle of the ’98, sir? Or a glass of port?”
“Not for me. Gustav?”
“Thank you, no.”
I drew deeply on the cigar Steinhauer had just lit for me and watched him light up his own, working away with a long match. He had declined the sommelier’s offer of a spirit lamp—it would be sacrilege, the young German insisted, to taint such fine tobacco. As a purely amateur smoker I knew little about cigars, but I knew this one was exceptional, just as Steinhauer had advertised. The two of us sat back in a cloud of perfumed smoke savouring the moment as the silent waiters cleared our empty plates. Neither of us spoke until they’d moved off; Gustav seemed to know as well as I that waiters are a fine source of intelligence, gleaned from well-lubricated diners who ignore their existence.
“The last time I had a cigar this good,” I said, “it was a J.C. Newman from Chicago.”
“They do make excellent cigars,” said Steinhauer. I waited for him to set me straight—Newman cigars came from Cleveland—but he did not. Interesting, I thought. Any cigar salesman worth his salt would have known that; his background story needed work. Or perhaps he was just being polite in not correcting me. I decided to have some fun probing the limits of his politeness.
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