With Isabelle beside him, Arthur Stanton leaned over the bridge spanning the river that ran through the grounds of Hesperus, watching the bridge make a shivering mirror of itself in the gently lapping waters.
He should have been completely happy. The spring sunshine sparkled off the water, the trees casting broken, shifting shadows over the river. A flock of mallard ducks, the sun catching their glittering spring plumage, circled themselves with sun-flecked hoops amongst the fringes of the weeping willows. He should have been happy, but Isabelle knew he wasn’t.
‘What’s up, Arthur? You’re worried. It’s nothing to do with the wedding, is it?’
‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s Jack.’
‘Jack?’ asked Isabelle quietly.
‘There’s something wrong. Something happened in London. For the last few days he’s been as twitchy as a cat on hot bricks and I’m damned if I know why.’
Isabelle bit her lip and said nothing.
‘You know what it’s about, don’t you?’ asked Arthur.
She squeezed his hand. ‘I don’t know what happened in London. He told me he’s waiting for a letter from Bill Rackham.’
‘You’d think he was waiting for his death warrant, he’s so edgy.’
‘Don’t be mean. It’s only because you know him inside out that you’ve noticed. He was fine with everyone at dinner last night. He talked to the curate for absolutely ages about the Apostolic Succession, and he partnered Mrs Channon-Sywell at bridge without a murmur. I think he deserves a medal.’
‘Yes, but he wasn’t talking to us, was he?’ said Arthur shrewdly. ‘It’s all very well chatting up the local worthies, but they aren’t going to ask what’s eating him, are they? This all started in Claridge’s, when that ghastly chap, Craig, came and tore a strip off him. I couldn’t credit it,’ he added moodily, watching a duck up-end itself in the reeds. ‘Jack simply took it. He didn’t defend himself, he simply stood there. What’s more, he said he deserved it, which I can’t believe for one minute. I wanted to help but he wouldn’t let me. We’ve been friends for ever, and I can’t seem to do a damn thing. I know it’s to do with Arabia. I knew he’d been out East but I’d virtually forgotten about it, it was so long ago. Why shouldn’t he tell me?’
She looked at him helplessly. ‘Something happened to him there. Something he’s ashamed of.’
‘What?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I can’t tell you,’ she said eventually. She drew an arabesque on the honey-coloured stonework of the bridge with her fingertip, gazing sightlessly at the water. ‘Arthur, I wish you’d speak to him. It’d do him good to talk instead of bottling it up.’
‘Do you really think it’d be good for him?’ asked Arthur.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘In that case,’ said Arthur, ‘I’ll do just that. The worst that can happen is that he can tell me to mind my own business.’
Leaving Isabelle on the bridge, he walked swiftly back into the house.
Jack was near the front door, looking at the mid-morning post, which had been placed on the hall table. He had a large flat brown envelope in his hand and the expression on his face made Arthur catch his breath.
Arthur had a speech planned, but what he was going to say went out of his head. He looked from the envelope in his friend’s hand to his anguished face and reached out impulsively. ‘For God’s sake, what is it? Let me help.’
Jack swallowed. ‘Wait.’
It was one word, yet it brought Arthur up sharp.
Jack picked up the paperknife from the table, his fingers clumsy. He had to concentrate on holding the knife. He slit the envelope open and took out the contents. There were two photographs and a letter.
Arthur honestly thought his friend was going to collapse. Jack gave a juddering breath and clutched at the table for support.
‘It’s him,’ whispered Jack. ‘Oh, God, it’s him.’
Arthur took an appalled look at Jack’s grey face. Catching hold of his arm, he led him out of the hall and into the library. Shutting the door firmly behind them, Arthur helped Jack to a chair and knelt beside him. ‘Jack. Please trust me. Please tell me what all this is about.’
EIGHT
Jack sat in the chair and rubbed his face with his hands, his breath coming in little ragged spurts. Arthur looked anxiously round the room. There were decanters, glasses and a soda syphon on the sideboard. He quickly mixed a brandy and soda and put it into Jack’s hands. He had to close his fingers round the glass. ‘Here, let me help,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re spilling it.’
Jack drank without seeming to know what he was doing, then sat, clutching on to the empty glass. Arthur took it from him and put it on the floor. Jack still sat with cupped hands, his body racked by odd little shudders. Arthur knelt in front of him, trying to get a response, but Jack’s eyes were blank and unfocused.
‘Jack?’ said Arthur. No response. Arthur took one of the cold hands between his own and shook it. ‘Jack?’ he repeated in a firmer voice.
Jack blinked, then breathed out in a long, juddering sigh. It was like life returning. He tried to speak, but Arthur stopped him.
‘Wait a minute. Get your bearings back, old man.’ He was rewarded by a grateful look, then Jack shuddered and slumped back in his chair.
‘Where’s the letter?’ he asked at last. ‘The letter from Bill?’
Arthur picked it up from the floor and held it out to him doubtfully. ‘Are you sure you want to see it again?’
Jack nodded. ‘Open it, will you?’ He swallowed. ‘I don’t know if I can.’
Arthur glanced through the letter. ‘He’s been to the Savoy and shown them the photographs. The clerk on the desk is fairly sure that the man in the photographs – Simes – is their Mr Madison.’
Arthur took the photographs out, holding them away from Jack. They were both of the same man from two different angles, a man in prison uniform. He must have been around forty or so, grey-haired with a high-boned face and thin lips. There was an old scar on his left cheek. He looked, thought Arthur, an unforgiving, dangerous type.
‘Let me see,’ said Jack. Arthur turned the pictures towards him. Jack put the back of his hand to his mouth in a defensive gesture. ‘OK. That’s enough. It’s him.’
Arthur put the photographs face down on the floor and Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hand to his forehead and eyes closed. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked the seconds away in sonorous clunks, spacing out the silence. Outside, through the open library window, came the sound of birdsong and, from far away, the distant sound of a lawnmower. Arthur waited.
Eventually Jack raised his head and met his friend’s eyes. ‘Thanks, Arthur. I’m fine now. Thanks.’ He sat back in the chair and tried to get his cigarette case out of his pocket.
‘I don’t think you’re fine at all,’ said Arthur in real concern, watching his friend’s clumsy efforts. ‘Here, have one of mine.’ He gave a cigarette to Jack, took one himself, lit them both, then sat back on his heels.
‘I’ve been half-expecting this,’ said Jack quietly. ‘I had an awful feeling it’d turn out to be him, but it was still a rotten shock.’
‘What’s it about?’ said Arthur. ‘There’s obviously something badly wrong. You’ve been living on your nerves the past few days.’ Jack shifted uneasily. ‘Look, I know what it’s like to keep everything bottled up. It doesn’t work. Whatever it is, whatever happened, won’t you let me help?’
Jack studied his face. ‘I don’t know if you can.’
‘You could try.’ Arthur tapped his forefinger on the face-down photographs. ‘Who is he?’
Jack smoked his cigarette down to the butt, crushed it out and took a deep breath. ‘He’s had a few names. Simes, Madison, and, in Arabia during the war, he was known as Ozymandias. He was a sort of Lawrence of Arabia figure. The newspapers made a thing of him at one time. They thought he was glamorous, God help us.’
‘Ozymandias?’ Arthur repeated the word slowly. ‘Hold on,
that rings a bell. Is he a Turk?’
‘He’s German. He was an advisor to the Turks. His real name is Lothar Von Erlangen. He’s the most ruthless man I’ve ever met. Do you know Ozymandias, the poem by Shelley?’ Arthur nodded. ‘There’s a line in it, a chilling line, which sums him up. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair. That’s him. He brought despair.’
Arthur moved uneasily. ‘Isn’t that overstating it?’
Jack shuddered. ‘I didn’t think so. I don’t know if you’ll agree when you hear what happened. It was the early summer of 1915. I’d been posted to Ismailia – it was my first squadron. I suppose my first achievement was staying alive. The first few weeks could be lethal for pilots, but after that, anyone was entitled to call themselves a veteran. I’d been there for nearly three months . . .’
The wind sang in the wires of the Farman biplane as Second Lieutenant Jack Haldean, following his flight commander’s plane, flew over the tents and huts of Ismailia. He checked the direction of the wind, and brought the craft round for as good a landing as could be managed on the bumpy sandy ground. It had been a quiet patrol, with no sign of any Turkish craft. There had been no sign of anything, apart from dun-coloured sand and scrub, rimmed in the distance by the glittering line of the Mediterranean. The two aircraft taxied to the hangers. Jack switched off the engine, hearing the sounds of the airfield once more as the propeller spun to a standstill.
The heat, as always, once the rush of air from the plane had stopped, seemed to flare up like opening an oven door. Jack unbuttoned his jacket, took off his leather helmet and goggles, stuffed them in the pocket beside his seat and, replacing the helmet with an Australian bush hat, climbed out of the cockpit and jumped lightly to the ground.
The hat had cost him three bottles of beer from a cavalryman in Port Said. The Flying Corps, young and irregular, was indulgent in the matter of uniform, especially in Ismailia, so far away from top brass and spit-and-polish, and Jack’s bush hat had set something of a new fashion.
His flight commander, Captain Sykes, was standing by his machine in front of the entrance to the hanger, talking to the chief fitter, McAvoy. He looked round as Jack strolled up. ‘Any problems?’ he asked.
‘Not really, but the left wing’s flying a bit low,’ he added with a look at McAvoy. ‘Can you see to it?’
McAvoy pursed his lips. ‘It’ll be this afternoon before we can do anything, sir.’ He pointed into the green canvas gloom of the hanger. ‘I’ve just been telling Captain Sykes that we’ve got a bit of a job on with this new plane that’s arrived.’
Jack followed Sykes and McAvoy into the hanger, blinking as his eyes adjusted from the blinding sun of the airstrip. Four of the fitters were working on a two-seater aircraft with staggered wings and two machine guns in the forward cockpit. ‘My word,’ he said, helping himself to a glass of lime juice from the jug on the packing case near the door. ‘What is it?’ He looked admiringly at the aircraft. ‘A B.E.2c?’
Captain Sykes grinned. ‘Don’t get excited, Jack. It’s not for us. McAvoy tells me a delivery pilot flew it in from Cairo this morning. Apparently there’s something special on the cards.’
McAvoy nodded and drew a bit closer. ‘That’s right, sir. There was a passenger with him, a Major Craig.’ Sykes glanced over his shoulder to check they couldn’t be overheard. ‘He’s not one of ours. Some sort of army type. He didn’t like flying. He was very offhand with the delivery pilot and downright rude to a couple of my lads. Anyway, we’ve been asked to fit extra fuel tanks. Major Craig’s off on a trip somewhere. I don’t know where he’s planning to go, but it’s a long way, that’s for sure.’
‘I wouldn’t mind taking her up,’ said Jack wistfully. ‘It looks more of a fighting machine than the Farman.’
Sykes pulled a face. ‘I’m not crazy about the B.E.s. They’re underpowered and sluggish. The pilot sits in the rear cockpit and it’s damned awkward. The observer has the guns, but his field of fire is pretty limited. They’re not bad for reconnaissance but they’re not very nippy. I don’t know how this’ll perform with the weight of the extra fuel.’
‘That’s our problem, sir,’ said McAvoy. ‘With the best will in the world, we can’t put all that extra fuel on board without it affecting the climb and speed. At the moment I’m wondering how it’s going to get off the ground.’ He turned as Corporal Quinn came into the hanger.
‘Lieutenant Haldean?’ said the Corporal. ‘Major Youlton wants to see you immediately, sir.’
‘Me?’ said Jack in surprise. ‘What for?’
Sykes cleared his throat. ‘Don’t worry, Jack, you haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve got an idea what this is about. Good luck, old man. I’ll see you in the Mess later.’
Jack finished his lime juice and followed the corporal across the airfield and into the huts which housed the offices and Mess. He couldn’t think why on earth the Major should want to see him. Sykes said he wasn’t in trouble, but a summons like this was unsettling.
Quinn knocked at the door of Major Youlton’s office. ‘Lieutenant Haldean, sir,’ he announced, ushering him into the room.
The Major was sitting at his desk. ‘Thank you, Quinn,’ he said. ‘Close the door behind you. I don’t want to be disturbed by anyone unless it’s absolutely vital.’ Quinn saluted and left the room.
‘At ease,’ said Major Youlton. Jack relaxed and stood, his hands clasped behind him. ‘Sit down,’ added the Major. ‘This will take some time and you might as well be comfortable.’
Feeling rather self-conscious, Jack sat down. He was badly puzzled.
Major Youlton slid the cigarette box across the desk to him. ‘Help yourself, Mr Haldean. You do smoke, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jack, cautiously taking a cigarette. He lit it with some trepidation. It was less than a month since his first cigarette and he hoped he wouldn’t start coughing.
‘Just landed?’ asked Youlton with a smile.
What on earth did he want? ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jack guardedly. ‘We had the sky to ourselves.’
The Major nodded. ‘It’s too hot for Turks at this time of day.’ He steepled his fingers and looked at Jack thoughtfully. ‘Before I begin, Lieutenant, I want to emphasize that what I am about to say is highly confidential. I have asked that we should be undisturbed. In addition I have posted two men outside to see that no one approaches the window of this room. Our conversation must not be repeated to anyone. Anyone at all, you understand? Utter secrecy is vital.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Jack. This was getting downright mysterious.
Youlton paused once more before speaking and when he did, what he said was completely unexpected. ‘Lieutenant Haldean, your record, since you joined the squadron, has been outstanding. You have shown, on numerous occasions, your intelligence, adaptability and courage. Captain Sykes speaks highly of your abilities. If you carry on as you have begun, you will go very far in the service.’
Jack couldn’t speak for pleasure. For Captain Sykes and Major Youlton – Major Youlton! – to have such an opinion of him was beyond his wildest dreams. He was seventeen years old and he had tried, with all the devotion, hard work and passion he was capable of, to be a worthwhile member of the squadron. He didn’t realize it, but he was aching for recognition. He had never been so grateful to anyone as he was to Major Youlton at that moment. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said huskily.
Major Youlton didn’t seem as pleased as Jack expected. In fact, he seemed downright uneasy. He pulled at his earlobe before he spoke. ‘The fact is, Lieutenant, that there’s a difficult job in the offing. Do you know what is meant by a special mission?’
Jack’s eyes widened. ‘Why, yes, sir.’ A special mission! By crikey, if the Major meant to send him on a special mission, that would be really something. Of course he knew what a special mission was. Really top-notch pilots flew special missions. Special missions were glamorous, exciting, dangerous . . . And then, like a shock of icy water, the reality hit him. Dangerous. Scarily d
angerous.
A special mission meant flying an agent – a spy – over the lines, landing in enemy territory and taking off again. Sometimes the pilot left the agent to make his own way back and sometimes he waited while the agent completed his job. If the plane was spotted, then all the pilot could do was trust to his lucky stars he’d manage to evade capture somehow. Spying was a job without honour and neither the agent nor the pilot were protected by military laws or conventions. If a pilot were forced down, alone in a two-seater plane, he was deemed to have dropped a spy. There was no defence and the penalty was a firing squad.
It took, perhaps, a fraction of a second, but Jack knew that however long he lived, he would remember that moment in Major Youlton’s office. The Major, with his concerned eyes and worried forehead, the skin showing white creases against the tan of his face. The sun laying hot, dazzling wedges of light on the dark wood of the floor and the metal of the filing cabinet. The open window with the lazily buzzing flies on the window sill, the far-off chunk of a rotary engine and the distant shout of an Arab water-boy. All these things he would remember forever because, in that vivid moment, he left part of his boyhood behind. Spies were fun, terrific fun, to read about, but this was real.
He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll do it, sir,’ he said quietly.
Youlton held his hand up. ‘Wait. As I say, this is a difficult mission. I can’t order you to do it, only ask you to volunteer. You are perfectly free to refuse. I don’t want you to agree yet. O’Leary, who has flown such missions in the past, is on leave and I simply can’t spare one of my flight commanders. Of the rest of the officers available, you are the obvious choice, but you must realize what you’re taking on.’
I know what I’m taking on, thought Jack. He’d nerved himself to say yes like a diver leaving the high board and he wanted to get it over with. Later, he realized just how fair Youlton was being.
‘Naturally, the exact nature of the mission is secret,’ continued Youlton, ‘but its successful outcome could alter the course of the war in the East. Because it is so important, I have agreed to what, to speak frankly, seems a very hazardous enterprise. Did you see a B.E.2c in the hanger?’
A Hundred Thousand Dragons Page 11