‘Underhill and I have history, sir.’
Ross raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Lhasa. 1904.’
The major chewed on his pipe thoughtfully for a while. Lock couldn’t be certain if Ross knew exactly what had happened between him and the sergeant major, but he must know about the atrocities committed by the British in Tibet, and Lock was sure that Ross could put two and two together and guess what Lock was getting at.
‘Things happen in times of war, laddie. Stop being so naïve.’
Lock shook his head. ‘We weren’t at war, sir. And there is nothing that can excuse wh—’
‘Shut up!’ Ross took a step forward, jabbing his pipe into Lock’s chest. ‘That’s an order. Or do you want to spend the rest of the war in this cell?’
Now it was Lock’s turn to remain quiet.
Ross nodded. ‘Yes. A good agent should have a fast brain and a slow mouth. You seem to be behaving in the exact opposite manner.’ He paused, squinting at Lock’s left eye and then his right. ‘Perhaps that bullet did affect your brain, after all.’
Lock shook his head. He still had something to say.
‘There’s a rat in the White Tabs, according to Wassmuss’s own notebook. Yes?’ he said. ‘Unless that’s a double bluff to cause discontent, suspicion and paranoia amongst our own ranks. But if it is true, then just why do you think that the sergeant major is secretly meeting with foreign business dignitaries in the back rooms of cafes?’
Ross did an almost perfect job of keeping a straight face, but Lock spotted the merest hint of surprise.
‘There was no sign of Bett … Pretty Officer Boxer either at this cafe, so I’m presuming Underhill’s being there can’t have been to do with the “investigation”, as you so quaintly put it. Sir.’
‘Who did he meet?’
‘A fat man. In a suit. Spoke with a strong accent, possibly Dutch or German.’
‘More,’ Ross said, turning away from Lock. He began to pace the cell, tapping his pipe stem against his teeth. ‘Go on, go on,’ he waved irritably.
‘I didn’t get a clear look, sir,’ Lock said, ‘but I would say that he was in his fifties, very overweight, sweated profusely. He had tightly cropped blond-grey hair, a round, red face, fleshy, moist lips. He’s a snappy dresser, a dark suit with a red and white spot—’
‘Spotted handkerchief,’ Ross interrupted. ‘Kept in his front breast pocket.’ He pointed to his own breast pocket. ‘Smokes a cigar?’
‘Do you know him, sir?’
The major nodded. ‘Oh, yes. An old colleague of our dearly departed Lord Shears.’
‘Another oilman?’ Lock was inwardly pleased. He and Singh had already guessed as much.
‘Yes, another APOC director. Not Dutch or German; Swiss. His name is Günther Grössburger.’
‘Apt.’
‘Very. And you didn’t hear or see what they were talking about or doing?’
‘Some negotiation. There was something on the table between them. Then the fat … Grössburger gathered it up, put it in a small black box and handed it to Underhill.’
‘Handed?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t see it clearly, but whatever it was, it was small and Underhill put it in his pocket.’
‘Money? Papers?’
‘From the sergeant major?’
‘Yes, of course from the sergeant major. What did he give Grössburger? Tell me you saw that much.’ The major stopped pacing and raised an expectant eyebrow.
Lock shook his head. ‘Nothing. He gave him nothing.’
‘Damn.’
‘Except a coin purse.’
‘So he did give him something. He gave him money.’
‘If that was what was in the purse. Yes, sir. But not papers. Unless it was folded into a tiny square.’ Lock held up his hand with his thumb and forefinger squeezed close together as an illustration of the size.
‘Don’t get smart with me,’ Ross glowered.
‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. But do you believe me now? That the sergeant major is up to something?’
Ross fished the matches out of his pocket again and relit his pipe.
‘And you didn’t hear anything?’
‘Only a name, sir.’
‘A name?’
‘Bingham-Smith.’
‘Oh, for pit—’
‘That’s what I heard, sir. Something is going on and it’s to do with both the assistant provost marshal and the sergeant major. And the German, Grössburger.’
‘Swiss, Lock, he’s Swiss.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘And there was no one else?’
‘No, sir.’ Lock decided to keep Bombegy’s presence outside of the cafe from Ross for the time being. He would question his Indian cook himself later on.
Ross was scowling again, staring off into the middle distance. His face seemed troubled now.
‘Did they see you?’
‘Who?’
‘Underhill and Grössburger,’ Ross snapped.
‘No.’
‘Certain?’
Lock frowned, thinking. No, he was positive that he’d managed to get away from the cafe without causing too much of a disturbance. Hopefully his pale, sweating complexion and his haste, not to mention his warning comment about the cuisine to the Australian officer sat eating there, marked him out as just another case of food poisoning making a quick exit before his bowels did.
‘Absolutely, sir. Why?’
Ross glared back at him. The colour around his neck was flushed, but he was keeping the pent-up fury at bay.
‘Because, you idiot,’ Ross said, through gritted teeth, ‘Underhill is on a job and if you’d been seen by Grössburger, or the sergeant major, or confronted them, then you may well have blown weeks of hard work.’
Lock was taken aback. ‘I don’t—’
‘Of course you don’t understand, Lock. You weren’t in the loop. You were in hospital recovering from an attempt on your life. Christ, I wish that bullet had been more true.’ Ross, his face the colour of beetroot now, such was his anger, glared up at Lock. ‘Or you were supposed to be in hospital. I told you to stay put. I told you the investigation was well underway. I told—’
‘Perhaps, if you had told me what was going on, what you were doing, sir, then may—’
‘What!?’ Ross said, spraying Lock with spittle. ‘Let me remind you, Captain, that you,’ he jabbed Lock’s chest with his pipe for emphasis, ‘work for me. You,’ he jabbed Lock’s chest again, ‘take orders from me and you—’
He went to jab Lock’s chest for a third time, but Lock was quicker, grabbing hold of the major’s pipe.
‘Will you please stop poking me with your bloody pipe.’ It was a stupid thing to do.
The major wrenched the pipe from Lock’s grip and pressed his face close.
‘You,’ Ross said, ‘will do as you are told. Do you understand?’
Lock straightened up and stared the major right in the eye. He wasn’t going to back down. Not yet. There were too many questions.
‘It’s too much of a coincidence, sir. The brothel, Grössburger, Underhill, Bingham-Smith … They’re all linked somehow.’
Ross glared back at him but he didn’t attempt to interrupt again.
‘So,’ Lock said, ‘if Underhill is working for you and some lead ended up with the sergeant major holding a clandestine meeting with Grössburger, then what does it all mean?’
Lock hesitated, his thoughts suddenly turning to Bombegy. He cursed. No, not Bombegy? Surely not? Was he the lead?
The major scowled back at him, hesitant about adding something of his own.
‘Was it just a coincidence that Grössburger was at the brothel when Bingham-Smith was?’ Lock continued. ‘Was your raid really to keep the peace? Or was it all an elaborate plan so you could legitimately arrest Grössburger without arousing suspicion from any of Wassmuss’s other agents who may have been watching?’
Lock paused. His head was throbbing, but he w
as waiting for the major to either deny or to confirm what he had said thus far. But Ross wasn’t saying anything. He was just standing there letting Lock’s mind continue to try to unravel the mess.
‘What about the two merchants and the general I saw being questioned by a red cap outside of the brothel? Are they here? In a cell? Or did you spirit them away, too?’
Still the major remained tight-lipped.
‘You planned it, didn’t you?’ Lock said. ‘The fight. One or more of those pals of Bingham-Smith’s is a White Tab.’
There was a faint flicker of amusement on Ross’s face, but the major was too shrewd to give much away, and was quick to suck and puff on his pipe again to hide any telltale expression.
Lock nodded slowly, realisation dawning.
‘My turning up at the brothel was actually a bonus for you, an even better spark to ignite the fight.’
Now the major visibly relaxed. He shrugged.
‘We spotted you and Singh approaching, so held back until you went inside. That’s why Singh never came to your aid. I stopped him.’
‘I see.’ Lock was absent-mindedly rubbing the sore spot on his chest where the major had been poking him.
‘Come, laddie, he’d be under arrest too if he had done. And I’d imagine there’d be a few more broken heads.’ Ross chuckled at the thought.
‘And Grössburger? What have you got out of him so far?’
Ross looked mildly surprised. ‘How do you know we have him?’
‘I saw him being bundled into that staff car that was parked opposite Cennet.’
Ross nodded. ‘Of course you did. Well, nothing of particular interest. Yet. But he’ll break. Underhill and Petty Officer Boxer are questioning him at this very moment. How about we pop along and see how they’re doing?’ He held his hand out towards the open cell door.
‘Petty Officer Boxer!’ Lock scoffed. ‘Come off it, sir. I said the same to her; there are no women in the Services. Not ranked, anyway.’
Ross gave a wry smile and put his finger to his lips. ‘A little experiment. But it’s coming. As surely as votes for women is coming.’
Lock followed Ross along the corridor that was lined with metal doors all bearing faded tin numbers, and on up the worn stone steps he’d climbed before.
They emerged out into the empty antechamber and then into the vast echoing hall. As he was the last time Lock was here, the lone provost sergeant was still sat at the same desk writing in presumably the same ledger.
Lock headed for the main door, but Ross took his arm and steered him in the other direction, over towards a recess in the mud-brick wall. This, in turn, led to another dimly lit corridor, again lined with metal doors, four on either side. However, there were no numbers here, only letters. They walked to the far end where, leaning against the wall, stood a provost sentry. He stood bolt upright on seeing Ross and Lock approach.
‘At ease, Corporal,’ Ross said.
The sentry gave a stiff nod, then turned and unlocked the door marked ‘G’. Lock followed Ross inside.
Beyond the door, the cell was similar in layout to the one Lock had just left, only it was bigger, nearly three times the size. The walls and floor were of mud brick and hard earth, and again a single, barred window high up on the far side was the only source of ventilation and natural light. There were two items of furniture, a kitchen table pushed up against the right-hand wall and, in the centre of the cell, directly beneath a single electric bulb that hung limply from a rope flex, shining a sickly yellow light down, was a wooden kitchen chair. Here sat the fat man, the man Ross referred to as Grössburger, the man whom Lock had spied with Underhill in the Café Baldia, the man whom Lock had seen being bundled away from the brothel. He wasn’t tied down, but the questioning he had been subjected to had clearly involved physical violence. His nose and lip were bleeding, his left eye was swollen, and there was a cut above his eyebrow. There was a dampness around his crotch and a pool of sharp-smelling liquid at his bare feet. He was still dressed the way he had been on leaving Cennet.
Standing over the fat man, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and soaked in the sweat of exertion, was Underhill. He turned on hearing the door open, sneered at Lock, then straightened up and nodded to Ross.
‘Sah.’
Lock caught a familiar smell of perfume cutting through the stench of fear and turned his head to see Betty Boxer, arms folded, a burning cigarette in her hand, standing inside, next to the door. She looked, even in the weak, yellow light, pale and disturbed.
‘I took you more for an equestrian than a pugilist,’ Lock said.
Betty put her cigarette to her lips and glared back. But Lock could see her hand shaking. Was she here under duress?
‘What the hell is this?’ Lock said, turning back to Ross.
‘This is war, laddie. The gloves are off when we deal with spies and terrorists. You think you can do better?’ the major challenged.
Lock shook his head and walked over to the table that was pushed up against the wall. Spread out across its surface was a number of personal items: a pocket watch, a fountain pen, some coins, mostly Indian rupees, which wasn’t surprising as they were now the official currency of Mesopotamia, having recently been introduced by the occupying British. There was also a money clip containing Swiss franken, English pounds and German papiermarks, the red and white polka dot handkerchief, a small leather-bound notebook and the small black box Lock had seen Grössburger hand to Underhill. It was open now and inside, resting on a black velvet cloth, was a pair of pearl earrings. They looked very expensive. Lock noted that there was no sign of the coin purse, however, that Underhill had given to Grössburger in exchange for the box.
Lock picked up the notebook and flicked through its pages. They were all blank. No, what was that? He fanned the pages again, slower this time, and stopped a third of the way through. One page had three words written down, in black ink, in neat, flowing script, three very familiar words:
Lieutenant Kingdom Lock
‘Intriguing, don’t you think?’
Lock glanced up. Ross was peering over his shoulder.
‘So who is he really?’ Lock said. He closed the notebook and put it back down on the table.
‘Günther Peter Grössburger. Born 1861 in Basel. Swiss national, APOC director. But he’s also a pearl smuggler, a German sympathiser, and a spy.’
‘Nein,’ Grössburger muttered. ‘Ich bin kein Spion.’
‘Shut it, Fritz!’ Underhill slapped the fat man across the jaw.
Lock saw Betty wince and turn her gaze away.
‘Does she have to witness this?’
Betty glared back at him. ‘I choose to be here, Captain.’
Lock frowned. He didn’t understand the American girl at all. She made no sense; her presence here, in this cell, in this city, even in this war made no sense. What was she trying to prove? Another suffragette? To what ends? He looked back at the major, but he just gave an almost imperceptible shrug.
‘Pearl smuggler?’ Lock said, changing the subject.
Ross picked up the earrings and held them up. They were very beautiful and appeared to change colour as the major turned them slowly in the light.
‘Captivating, aren’t they? The pearls come from Bubiyan Island, at the mouth of the Shatt al-Arab. They are worth a fortune and are the favoured currency, we believe, and the main source of funding, for Wassmuss’s network.’
‘A fortune?’
Ross nodded. ‘Sir Percy Cox estimated the pearl market for 1914 to be worth somewhere in the region of three million pounds. That’s something like sixty-three million German marks.’
Lock gave a low whistle. ‘So he’s the paymaster?’ he said, staring down at Grössburger.
‘That’s what the sergeant major has been trying to find out,’ Ross said. ‘But we aren’t getting very far. We’ve searched his rooms at the Hotel Ezra. All there is, is that notebook containing the two names.’
The major picked the notebook up fr
om the table and flicked through until he found the page he wanted. He held it up for Lock to see.
Marmaris
‘That’s a sleepy little fishing village on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey,’ Lock said.
‘It’s also the name of a boat.’
‘A boat?’
The major nodded. ‘Yes, a Turkish steamer, in fact.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Up the Tigris, north of Qurna.’
Lock glanced at the fat man slumped in the chair. ‘A rendezvous? A centre of operations?’
The major shrugged. ‘Could be, laddie. I hadn’t thought of that. A mobile command centre …’ Ross said, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. ‘Very good, Lock. I like it.’
Underhill snorted derisively.
Grössburger lifted his head slowly and turned to focus on the two officers staring down at him. His eyes found Lock, and he squinted as if to see better through fogged vision.
‘Was? Was haben Sie … gesagt?’ he gurgled weakly, as if he were trying to speak with a mouth full of water.
Underhill slapped Grössburger sharply across the jaw again.
‘Stop talkin’ that filth, Fritz!’
Lock stepped forward to intervene, but Ross held him back.
‘Leave the sergeant major to do his work, laddie.’
‘This is barbaric, sir.’ Lock wrenched his arm away.
‘Now, listen, Lock. This isn’t a game. We need to crack Wassmuss’s network, or thousands will die.’
‘Thousands are dying every day in this goddamn war. Sir.’
Ross scowled back at Lock. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
Grössburger made a rattling sound, cleared his throat, then spat to his side.
‘Lock? You are Lock?’ he said in heavily accented English, his voice barely a whisper.
Underhill slammed his fist into the fat man’s belly. ‘I said shut yer mouth.’
Grössburger doubled up gasping for air.
‘All right, Sergeant Major, enough for now,’ Ross said.
Underhill moved away from the prisoner, rubbing his knuckles. His eyes met Lock’s, inviting him to challenge him, make some comment.
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