M, King's Bodyguard

by Niall Leonard

  * * *

  —

  At seven sharp I started the briefing; Steinhauer stood at the back of the room, relaxed, attentive, and somehow making himself so inconspicuous my team barely noticed him. Now the weekend was over, I told my men, we could begin a proper sweep of the clubs and premises that had been closed over the weekend, assuring them we’d have the villains in cuffs or coffins by the end of the day. The men seemed heartened by my certainty, and oddly so did I. No one asked after Lovegrove or the other officers who were at that moment staking out Remington’s lodgings, and I offered no explanation. Only those who needed to know about the vigil did.

  “Johnson, Connolly?”

  “Still tracking down the fan, sir,” said Johnson.

  “Any progress let me know immediately. And those of you with contacts among the demi-monde—have a quiet word. It seems our man Akushku can’t go long without female company. Nothing exotic or specialised, which is a pity for our purposes, but there we go. You have his description, pass it along.”

  I saw Steinhauer raise a curious eyebrow, wondering where this tasty tidbit had come from. But my men knew better than to ask.

  “Finally, some of you are already acquainted with our guest, Herr Gustav Steinhauer, bodyguard to His Imperial Majesty the Kaiser.” Steinhauer acknowledged the curious looks and friendly nods with his usual short bow. “Herr Steinhauer has kindly offered to assist on this case. He’ll be working with me, but I hope all of you will offer him the warm welcome and full co-operation due to a brother officer.

  “That’s all until tonight. Get to work, and Godspeed.”

  In a matter of moments the room was clear except for myself and Steinhauer. “Gustav,” I said. “Have you met Colonel Rachkovskii?”

  “Head of the Okhrana? Long ago. He may not remember me.”

  “If you met him, he’ll remember you. He pretends to be a buffoon, but Rachkovskii forgets nothing. I plan to ask him if Akushku is indeed one of his agents.”

  “To his face? And you expect him to tell you the truth?”

  “I expect it to be an interesting conversation.”

  How did Shakespeare put it? Those friends thou hast, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel. I would keep my friend Gustav close—the better to keep an eye on him.

  * * *

  —

  The great gilded hall of the Criterion, with its massive pillars and stained glass, always seemed to me more like a cathedral than a restaurant. There were few worshippers present—it was just before ten—so it was easy to spot the grey-haired Colonel seated alone in one corner, perusing a French newspaper. As the waiter led us over to him, the Russian noticed our approach, laid his paper aside and rose to offer his hand. Slight of build, he was shorter even than Steinhauer, but his piercing grey eyes missed little.

  “Chief Superintendent Melville!” He beamed. “So good to see you again. I am just arrived yesterday from Paris—I was about to come and pay you my respects.” That was bunkum, I knew very well—he’d been in the city a week. But Rachkovskii was always saying such things, even when he knew his listener was certain he was lying. The purpose of such an approach baffled me; telling lies continuously and keeping them all consistent must call for enormous effort.

  “Welcome back to London, Colonel,” I said. “You’ve met Herr Inspector Gustav Steinhauer, I believe?” The two men shook hands, Steinhauer with his customary half bow and heel click.

  As we settled back down in our seats a waiter offered us menus.

  “We’re not eating, thank you. Just two coffees.”

  “So it is true, then?” Rachkovskii smirked.

  “So what’s true?”

  “That a previously unknown terrorist is abroad in London. One who calls himself Akushku. And that your men tried to intercept him, and failed.” So much for my efforts to keep the matter sub rosa. I should have known Rachkovskii would have his own informants.

  “My men did not fail, Colonel,” I said. “I did.”

  “To be precise, we did,” said Steinhauer.

  “Presumably, he means to strike at the royal funeral,” said the Russian, and sighed theatrically. “Well, I hate to say I told you so, but…your British approach is utterly unsuited to the threat these anarchists pose. Every day the disease of nihilism infects more of Europe’s populace, and the only remedy is amputation. We are the surgeons—we must cut off the infected limb, and burn it.” This was a favourite topic of his; the idea of tolerating dissent was utterly alien to him. “I know what you will say,” Rachkovskii went on. “Permitting free speech lets you easily spot troublemakers and separate the dreamers and the doers. But when you give these terrorists and murderers a platform, you make doers of dreamers. You have sown the dragon’s teeth, and now…” He glanced at Steinhauer. “Since you have brought along our young friend here, I take it the assassin’s target is the Kaiser himself?”

  “That is what our sources have suggested,” I said.

  “And of course that too could be misinformation,” said Rachkovskii. “Leopold of Belgium is equally hated by these anarchists. And then there is Franz Ferdinand, of Austria. Or have you considered, the target might even be your new King, Edward? Oh, I know you think he is too beloved of his people to be in any danger, but the more popular the ruler, the more these fanatics despise them, precisely because the people love them.”

  I liked Rachkovskii, but not enough to sit and listen to a lecture. “One way of better identifying the assassin’s target,” I said, “would be to know who sent him.”

  “Sent him?” Rachkovskii chuckled. “Do I need to explain to you the principles of anarchy? Nobody sent him.”

  There was a lull in the conversation as the waiter served us coffee, and we fell silent, like a family that had just had a row over dinner.

  “Except if the man we seek is no anarchist at all, but an agent provocateur employed by a foreign government,” I continued, when the coast was clear. Rachkovskii frowned at this, as if trying to take it in.

  “Your sources told you this? Tell me, would this source of yours, by any chance, be another anarchist, who hopes you will drop your guard? Chief Superintendent, you and I both know that agents provocateurs are a waste of time. Your own people end up spying on each other or, worse still, the agent manufactures conspiracies from thin air, simply to justify his wages. Provocateurs!” He snorted. “I never use them.” That was a whopper, but I let it pass. “If this anarchist you seek was in fact working for us—and I take it that is what you and young Herr Steinhauer are implying—I would recall him, and tell him to stop wasting your time. Alas, he is not.”

  “But he is Russian?” asked Steinhauer.

  The Colonel did not look at him, but stirred sugar into his coffee. “I am sorry, but my information about this Akushku is no more reliable than yours. In fact—and I admit I have no evidence for this, merely an instinct—I suspect he is French. Perhaps you should speak to the Sûreté. Though might I suggest”—he smiled at me as he nodded at Gustav—“that if you do, you leave Herr Steinhauer behind?”

  * * *

  —

  As we made our way back to Scotland Yard in a hansom, we did not discuss Rachkovskii’s last barb. No need: we both knew what he was getting at. Thirty years earlier Germany and France had fought a war, a very short one; the Germans had utterly routed the French, the Emperor Napoleon III had fled, and the citizens of Paris had risen in a revolt that came to a predictably bloody end. To rub salt into French wounds, Germany had annexed the border territory of Alsace-Lorraine, with its wealth of coal-mines and steelworks. The war had been a national humiliation for France, one which her people—particularly her military—had neither forgotten nor forgiven.

  “Will you talk to the Sûreté?” asked Steinhauer.

  “I might. But I’m pretty sure Rachkovskii is giving us the runaround. All that nonsense about n
ot using agents provocateurs—he has more of them than regular officers.”

  “This is common knowledge. So why lie to our faces like that?”

  “Because it amuses him to project an air of intrigue.” I sighed. “The Colonel is like a bad actor’s version of a secret policeman. Perhaps he thinks it will make us underestimate him.”

  “Do you believe anything he told us?”

  We were just passing the Crimean War Memorial at the corner of Regent Street and Pall Mall, the figure of Honour spreading her wings over three British Guardsmen. Even when the Russians were not openly at war with Britain, I reflected, they were never wholly at peace with us either.

  “There are other ways using an agent provocateur can go wrong,” I told Steinhauer. “If he’s one of your trained officers, it takes a while for him to get accepted. If he’s ever exposed he’s dead. He has to immerse himself in the world of the men he is targeting, prove to them he’s more committed to the cause than any of them. That can mean taking part in the very outrages he was hired to prevent. You end up funding terrorist atrocities with public money.”

  “Awkward indeed, if the press ever got wind of it,” said Steinhauer.

  “Awkward indeed. And it can get worse.”

  “How could it get worse?”

  “The most effective undercover agents are those who immerse themselves completely. They live in poverty, starve themselves, live and breathe and preach anarchy. They become more radical than the radicals they’re infiltrating. And sometimes they forget who they really are and how they got there. The British call it going native.”

  “You think”—Steinhauer looked genuinely disturbed—“that this is what has happened with Akushku? That he is a Russian agent who has turned his coat and joined the anarchist cause?”

  The hansom wheeled right into Cockspur Street, the cabbie bawling out some hapless pedestrian who’d crossed his path.

  “If a skilled agent provocateur, acting on behalf of a foreign power, is caught by the police, he surrenders,” I said. “He might put up a token resistance, perhaps, to maintain his cover. But once in custody, he reveals himself, co-operates and waits for his handler to vouch for him.

  “That first night you and I went after Akushku he tried to kill both of us, and nearly succeeded. No one is coming to vouch for him, and he’d hang even if they did. No, Akushku has gone rogue all right. He is a trained assassin, and he means to kill your Kaiser.”

  13

  We had barely descended from our hansom opposite Scotland Yard when another pulled up behind us to disgorge Johnson and Connolly. Johnson hurried over, pulling his notebook from his pocket, while Connolly fished for the fare.

  “Sir,” said Johnson, passing me his notebook. “Five customers purchased that same fan at Marshall and Snelgrove.”

  I skimmed the list of names; the final entry caught my eye. This might call for some diplomacy. “Good work. Find Jenkins and Baum, and the four of you call at those first four addresses. Ask if the fan is still in their possession.”

  “Sir.”

  “And if they say yes, ask to see it. Don’t just take their word for it. The last name on there, I’ll handle.”

  “Sir.”

  With the hint of a sideways glance at Steinhauer, Johnson went indoors. “This is about the fan you took from Miss Minetti’s lodgings?” asked Steinhauer. “I had wondered why you thought it significant.”

  “It might not be,” I said.

  “May I ask, what is the last name on that list?”

  “You can come with me, Gustav. I’ll introduce you.”

  * * *

  —

  Berkeley Square seemed somehow sunnier than the rest of the city; it was as if London’s common fug did not dare pollute this idyll, a tree-lined private garden surrounded by elegant town houses. Even the birds among the bare winter branches seemed to sing more tunefully. The hansom dropped Steinhauer and me outside Number 40, halfway up the western side of the square, and we ascended the broad granite steps to the massive front door painted shining black. There was a tradesman’s entrance a little farther along, through the railings and down an iron staircase to the basement, but I was not here to talk to the servants. I gave the bell-pull a sharp tug, stood back with Steinhauer at my shoulder and waited. I had heard no bell ringing inside the vast house and started to wonder if the thing was working. Even our reflections in the mirror-like paint of the front door seemed diminished somehow, as if we had climbed a beanstalk to the castle of a foul-tempered giant. But after a minute, there was a hefty clank and rattle, and the door swung silently open to reveal a tall, strikingly handsome young footman in impeccable livery. He eyed us with an expression that was neither welcoming, deferential nor particularly intelligent.

  “Chief Superintendent Melville of Scotland Yard, and Herr Inspector Steinhauer, a servant of His Imperial Majesty the Kaiser, to see Lord Diamond,” I said.

  “Do you have an appointment?” The footman’s voice was as fine as his features, but his perfect diction sounded slightly contrived. I suspected the boy had been chosen for his looks rather than his gravitas.

  “We do not,” I said, “but he’ll see us all the same.” I held up my warrant card and gave him a warning look—the one that silently promised a nightmare of disruption and indignity and toxic gossip if he chose to defy us. The young footman got the message and stepped back to allow myself and Steinhauer to enter. I heard sharp footsteps farther up the hall, approaching with urgency, as if someone senior to this skivvy had smelled trouble and was coming to head it off. Sure enough here came a man who must have been Diamond’s head butler—my age and almost my size, but with a stiff military bearing, a mane of snow-white hair over a deeply lined face and watery blue eyes under bushy white eyebrows. He paused a few paces away, and the footman hurried to his side and whispered his report. The butler listened, nodded calmly and turned to us with frost in his glare.

  “May I tell His Lordship the nature of your business here, sir?”

  “No need,” said I. “I’ll tell him myself.”

  “His Lordship is currently reading.”

  “Good. Then he can spare us half an hour. Let him know we’re here, there’s a good man.”

  The butler blinked as if I’d slapped him. Of course he had meant that we were to wait for His Lordship for as long as His Lordship fancied, but I would be damned if I was going to put up with that sort of nonsense. I held out my calling card, and the butler accepted it, sealing his defeat. But he still managed to add a good dollop of contempt to his invitation. “If you gentlemen would care to wait in the morning-room…”

  The morning-room did not live up to its name; it was gloomy, with heavy green velvet drapes so bulky they blocked the light from the windows even when they were open. The walls were lined with pressed flowers and plants set in dark frames—lilies, roses, ferns and grasses laid out in starched, lifeless arrangements. It was the sort of decor one might associate with a particularly old-fashioned maiden aunt.

  “It is like the Botanic Gardens in here,” observed Steinhauer, sotto voce.

  “Melville? What in God’s name do you want?”

  Diamond, swaggering into the room in his shirtsleeves, was all indignation. I’d half expected him not to recognise me, or to pretend not to recognise me; I might be a servant of the King, but I was still a servant, and a gentleman such as Diamond would never acknowledge the existence of servants if he could help it. Now he had been forced to abandon that rule and was making up for it by addressing me like a beater who’d turned up drunk for a grouse drive.

  “My Lord,” I said, “thank you for seeing us. We have some questions we would like to put to you.”

  Diamond was tall, pale and wet-lipped, with receding fair hair and eyebrows so blond and thin they were barely there. At thirty-one—I’d checked his entry in Burke’s Peerage—he was half the K
ing’s age, but today as before his dress aped that of Edward, down to the lowest button of his waistcoat left undone. Edward needed to make room for his ever-expanding paunch; on Diamond’s scrawny frame it was a silly affectation.

  “And who’s this?” Diamond was staring at Steinhauer as if he were a vagrant who had followed me in off the street. Even when I’d made the introductions, his attitude did not thaw. “Steinhauer? Not one of our Jewish brethren, are you?”

  “No, sir. I do not share that honour.”

  “No. Didn’t think the Kaiser allowed those creatures on his staff, thank God. So what is it you want, Melville? I’ve got no time to waste, even if you have.”

  I dug Minetti’s fan out from inside my coat and opened it. Diamond glanced at it with little interest. “Have you seen this fan before, my Lord?” I said.

  “Why on earth would I have any use for a fan?”

  “So you haven’t? Seen it before?”

  “I might have done,” he snapped. “Many ladies have fans. They’re not items in which I take a particular interest.”

  “This fan was purchased at Marshall and Snelgrove, the department store, five weeks ago. And the sales ledger names you, my Lord, as the buyer.”

  “Really.” It wasn’t even a question; Diamond already seemed bored with the whole business. “And because some shop-girl writes my name in a book, I get a visit from the police?”

  “Are you saying you don’t shop at that particular store, my Lord?”

  “Well, I do, as it happens, but rarely in the ladies’ department.”

  “Why doesn’t His Lordship take another look?” I suggested, in a tone designed to make clear it was not a suggestion. Diamond hesitated, then licking his thin lips reached out and took the fan from me. He peered more closely at it and flipped it over, his pale face starting to colour.

  “Well, actually…I might have bought one like this, as a gift. I buy a lot of gifts at Christmas. It’s pretty enough.”