by Anne Perry
Shearing lifted his eyes and stared at Matthew. There was fury in his face—and fear, steady and unconcealed. It was the first time Matthew had seen it.
“A fatal flaw?” he asked.
“Yes,” Shearing replied.
“But Blaine knew the answer?”
“Possibly. Or maybe they hadn’t got far enough yet to realize it.” Shearing’s hands on top of his desk clenched tight, knuckles gleaming. “When we find the man who killed Blaine I’ll tie the rope around his neck myself, and pull the drop.” There was hatred so deep in his voice it rasped in his throat. “Who is it, Reavley?” That was a demand, almost an accusation.
“I don’t know, sir. Probably Ben Morven, but there’s no proof.”
Shearing looked beaten. He had been counting on success.
So had Matthew. He realized now just how much. He had believed Corcoran could do it, even without Blaine. Corcoran was a giant. He had been there all Matthew’s life—kind, funny, wise, above all, clever.
The sense of loss filled him with rage to equal Shearing’s. Whoever had murdered Theo Blaine might have lost Britain the war, the survival of everything that was of infinite value. He could not even imagine the end of his home and his life in the way he knew it. No more afternoon tea on the lawn, no irreverent jokes about the government, no country churchyards, no freedom to go anywhere you wanted, to be eccentric and make your own mistakes.
“Reavley!” Shearing’s voice was suddenly sharp.
It brought Matthew back to the moment with a jolt. “Yes, sir?”
“We must salvage something from this. Someone in the Establishment murdered Blaine and smashed the prototype?”
“Yes,” Matthew agreed. “Almost certainly the same person.”
“Probably Morven, but not beyond doubt,” Shearing went on. “A German sympathizer?”
“Naturally. There’s no other reason for doing it.”
“Is he on his own?”
“I doubt that.”
“Has Corcoran told him he’s beaten and is giving up?” Shearing leaned forward across the desk. “Be certain, Reavley! It could all hang on this! Who knows it’s a failure, apart from Corcoran himself?”
“No one.”
“Are you absolutely certain? Why? How do you know?”
“Corcoran still wants to keep working on it,” Matthew replied. “He can’t get Morven, Iliffe, or Lucas to do that if he admits it’s over.”
The irony touched Shearing’s mouth for an instant, then vanished. “Good! Excellent! We’ll send the device for sea trials,” he said wryly. “On Archie MacAllister’s ship. He’s already prepared.”
For an instant Matthew was stunned. Then he realized what Shearing meant to do. Morven must be reporting to someone who could not take the chance that the device did not work. They would have to steal it! “You’ll need someone on the ship!” he said urgently. “May I go? I’ve got nothing here that . . .”
“I have every intention that you should go,” Shearing cut across him. “Why do you suppose I’m telling you? I’ll have papers prepared for you and inform MacAllister. You will be a signals officer, newly drafted from a shore job, which will explain your unfamiliarity with naval discipline and the sea in general. We’ll change your name to Matthews. Reavley is too well known, the association would be immediate. We can get you on board the day after tomorrow. We need to be quick, but still give them time to get their man on as well. Be careful. It will not be easy. You will not know who he is, and there may be more than one, although I doubt it. It will be hard enough for them to get even one man there at this short notice.”
“Yes, sir . . .”
Shearing leaned forward over the desk. “Which means he will be good, Reavley! There are new men every voyage because losses are heavy. That’s all you’ll know about him. And you must appear like every other new man, no favors. MacAllister will not be able to do anything for you, except cover. He may tell some of his senior officers, but I have told him not to, unless in an extreme emergency. We can’t rely on them not betraying you accidentally. They are trained for the sea, not for espionage.”
“I understand.” Matthew felt his pulse beat harder, high in his throat. It was something physical to do at last, a real, immediate chance to catch whoever had murdered Blaine. He half hoped, and half dreaded, that it would be Hannassey himself. It was too late to grieve for Detta. That was a pain inside him he did not dare even examine.
He looked across at Shearing and saw his dark eyes studying him. It was a steady, penetrating stare, no readable emotion in it.
“Be careful, Reavley,” he said again. “Whoever comes after it, he will not be a fool, and he will be expecting us to guard the prototype with everything we have.” His mouth turned down at the corners, a delicate acknowledgment of defeat. “After all, it was supposed to be an invention that will turn the war for us. If we don’t guard it with our lives, they will know immediately that we failed.”
“And you’ll arrest Morven, or whoever it is!” Matthew insisted.
“Is that a question?” Shearing said bitterly, a flicker of anger back in his face again, savage, only just under the surface.
“No, sir, I apologize,” Matthew said sincerely. He hesitated a moment, trying to think of something further to say, but there was nothing. He glanced around the room with its impersonal furniture, its one painting of the London docks at twilight. He still did not know if Shearing had the painting because it held some meaning for him, or simply because it was beautiful and perhaps reminded him of somewhere else.
That evening the Peacemaker stood at the window of the house in Marchmont Street and looked down at the footpath below. He saw the young man from the Establishment in Cambridgeshire step out of the taxicab, pay the driver, and walk to the door. That was remiss of him. He should have stopped a block or two away, for the sake of discretion, as Mason always did. The Peacemaker’s lips tightened in irritation. He did not like to have to tell someone anything so elementary.
He heard the bell ring, and then a few moments later the light, rapid footsteps on the stairs, and the tap on the door.
“Come in,” he said abruptly.
The young man was flushed, his thick hair a little windblown as if he had been running, and he closed the door behind him with a sharp click, his hands shaking. He did not wait for the Peacemaker to speak, which was highly uncharacteristic.
“They are going to test the prototype!” he said, his voice sharp and high. “At sea. On the Cormorant. Day after tomorrow. We’ll have to be very quick.”
The Peacemaker was astounded. In spite of his usual self-mastery his heart was beating faster and the palms of his hands were wet. All thoughts of discipline for the carelessness of stopping outside the door vanished from his mind. “Sea trials?” He tried to keep his voice level, and failed. “So you’ve completed it? You told me there were still problems!”
“There were. Corcoran told us he was abandoning it, or at least we were. I didn’t believe him.” His face was a strange mixture of expressions, unreadable. “I didn’t think he would admit defeat, but I had no idea he had the answer and was just going to cheat us out of having a part in it. I suppose I should have seen it.”
“Are you certain?” The Peacemaker could not suppress the excitement bursting up inside him. This could be a superb victory! The device completed, and stolen for Germany. It could end the war in months. “Absolutely certain?” This gamble had proved a stroke of genius. His heart was lurching in his chest, making his breath uneven.
“Yes,” the young man answered. “They are taking it down to Portsmouth tonight and putting it on board the Cormorant, ready to sail in the morning.”
“Who are they sending with it? You?”
“No. I don’t know who’s guarding it. Probably someone from naval intelligence, but it’s supposed to be used by ordinary gunners.”
“Gunners?” the Peacemaker was surprised. “Not scientists?”
“No. Unless they have plans
they haven’t told us. But if it were anyone from the Establishment it would have to be Iliffe or me, and it isn’t.”
The Peacemaker steadied his breathing with an effort. “You have done extremely well,” he said gravely. He must not praise the young man too much. It was the cause that mattered. Arrogance always caused mistakes in the end, and there was much ahead for this man yet. He would be rewarded appropriately, not more. He smiled. “Now I understand why you came so hastily that you overlooked the rudimentary precaution of getting out of your taxi a street away. Don’t do that again.”
The eagerness did not dim in the young man’s face. “No time,” he said simply. “You’ll need to move immediately. Whatever you’re going to do, it will have to be right now.”
“I’m prepared. I assume that if the police had progressed any further in learning who killed Blaine, you would have told me?”
“Of course. But it doesn’t matter now. It’s finished without him.”
“On the contrary,” the Peacemaker said with a touch of chill. “It matters even more. Since it was not us, and would hardly be British Intelligence, it means there is some other interest of which neither of us is aware.”
“Domestic tragedy after all?” the young man said, but there was not quite the same certainty in his voice as before, nor the bright edge of intelligence.
“And smashed the first prototype?” the Peacemaker said sarcastically.
The young man blushed. “Sorry,” he apologized. “It has to be Lucas or Iliffe, but I have no idea which one.”
“Then go back and find out,” the Peacemaker ordered. “I need to know.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man’s face was paler now, the fire within him under control.
“Go,” the Peacemaker said softly. “I have much to do. You have done brilliantly, Morven. Your action today may have saved a hundred thousand lives.” He held out his hand.
The young man hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’m doing what I believe to be right,” he said quickly. “I don’t want thanks for that. I do it for myself.”
“I know.” The Peacemaker’s voice was gentle, a different kind of warmth in it, almost a tenderness. “I know you do. Go back. You are not finished yet.”
Once he was outside, Morven took a long, deep breath, and his whole body trembled. Then he controlled himself with a passionate effort and walked along the footpath.
As soon as the Peacemaker was alone, he moved across the room toward the telephone. He had not expected the guidance device to be completed so soon. In fact, he had come to the conclusion that it would not be created at all. Now suddenly it was going to be tested at sea. He had to send someone with the skills and the resources to get themselves into the crew of the Cormorant at a day’s notice, and the strength, the iron nerve, and the ingenuity to steal the device. That meant a man of wide experience and the ability to blend into any group of men and seem to be one of them, but also with an organization behind him who could and would do whatever they were asked.
And of course he would also have to inform Germany of it, so they could send a U-boat to intercept the Cormorant, which would take skill and some planning. If the device was as brilliant as Morven had said, it was the ultimate weapon!
There was only one answer: Patrick Hannassey. He was perfect. If there was any man in Europe who could get himself onto the Cormorant as a member of the crew, and be unremarkable, competent, a man whose face or mannerisms no one would remember, and yet have the intelligence, the imagination, and the cold, brutal instincts to kill if necessary, it was he.
He would get the prototype into the hands of the Germans. And in so doing, he would have to go with it himself. The Germans would probably have to employ more than one U-boat, and in all likelihood end in sinking the Cormorant, which was a loss the Peacemaker regretted. Still, bitter as that sacrifice would be, it was small as a price for ending the war now in May of 1916, instead of God knew when!
And it had the added, and now quite urgent, beauty that a word from the Peacemaker to his cousin in Berlin, and the Germans would keep Hannassey, get rid of him if necessary. He must not be allowed to return. A mention of his aims, a free and peaceful Ireland, demanding money, an even larger share of power and total independence, would be sufficient to see that Berlin removed him from the scene.
Yes. It was excellent! A better outcome than he would have dreamed possible, even this morning. He picked up the telephone.
Matthew reported for duty on board the HMS Cormorant. He was familiar with the sea from having spent holidays on the coast in small boats, but this would be very different. It was a relief to be able at last to do something personally to strike against the enemy who had, until this point, outwitted and outplayed him at every stroke. Somewhere on this ship, unless both he and Shearing had misjudged, there would be another man placed as late and as artificially as he was. That other newcomer would be here to steal the prototype for Germany, just as Matthew was here to catch him, and through him the murderer of Theo Blaine.
He had never been on a warship before, only seen them from the shore, low and sleek, gray castles of steel on the gray water, decks dominated by bridge and gun turrets. There was very little rigging, just one relatively small mast and two cross-spars, enough for signaling and radio. Funnels proclaimed the power of mighty engines. There was no grace and beauty of sails as at Trafalgar, or sound of the wind in canvas. They were more like wolves than swans in flight.
Once on board the differences were perhaps less great. He was welcomed without ceremony, merely one of eight new men replacing those killed or injured. As an officer, albeit junior, he had a cabin to himself. Perhaps that was Archie’s doing. As he unpacked his few belongings and stowed them in the space under the high, hard bunk and in the chest of drawers, he concluded that if shared, such cramped quarters would have made his task infinitely more difficult.
The only other furniture was a washstand, a chair, and a hinged table that let down as a desk. The whole space was about five paces by three, with a port over the bunk. But then the entire ship was less than two hundred feet long.
He must familiarize himself with it as soon as possible, learn every passage, stairway, every fitting and its use, every room, and at least something of every one of the hundred and twenty-seven men, and what his job was. One of them was his enemy.
He must go up and report to the signal room, and he could not afford to get lost. All the passages were narrow; one could barely pass anyone without touching him. On the floor was a curious substance, rough to the feel, a mixture of cork and India rubber known as corticine. Everything else was metal, with the occasional glass lightbulbs.
When he came above into the air, he found the deck itself was wood, but there was still the steel of gun turrets, and the mass of the bridge and signal house above, the only place from which almost everything could be seen.
He felt the thrum of engines and the surge of power. They were already under way; the safe, familiar outline of Portsmouth harbor was slipping astern. Soon there would be nothing around them but the gray water, and whoever else was on it, or under its concealing surface.
He thrust the thought from his mind and clambered up to the signal house to report for duty, not to Archie, but to the chief signals officer.
Ragland was a quiet man of about thirty-five, with a plain, intelligent face and sandy red hair. But when he spoke there was a sincerity in his voice and an authority of manner that earned almost instant respect. There was no dissembling in him and no bravado. He made it known he required the same of others.
He did not betray by any flicker of expression that he knew Matthew was any different from the ordinary replacement: raw, uncertain of himself, but adequately trained.
“Matthews? Settled in?”
Matthew stood to attention. He had no seniority here, he was a new recruit, given rank only because of his knowledge of signals. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. My name is Ragland. You’ll report to me. I don’t know
what you did ashore, but here obedience is exact and immediate, or you’ll end up at best in the brig, at worst at the bottom of the sea. There is no room for hesitation, individual will, or taste, and certainly not for any man who doesn’t fit in. We rely on each other, and a man who can’t be trusted is worse than useless, he’s a danger to the rest of us. Understood, Matthews?”
“Yes, sir.” He thought bitterly of how companionable that sounded, that perfect fellowship, the sort of thing people described in the trenches, and it did not apply to him at all. He could trust no one, except Archie, and Archie was remote from him in the hierarchy. He was more alone than he had ever been in his life. He knew the rudiments of his job, little more. He did not know the sea. To none of the men he would see day by day could he tell anything of the truth, nor dare he trust them. Somewhere on this ship there was a German agent who would think nothing of killing him if he blocked his path to the prototype. It was Matthew’s job to find him, before he found Matthew.
He had to do his job in signals without relying on anyone else. He could confide in no one and at all times must guard his tongue, the way he responded to anything, even the silent betrayal by his ignorance of duties, perhaps most of all the physical fear he had never had to face before.
“Then you had better familiarize yourself with your station, and the ship in general, and get about it,” Ragland told him. “You can start now.”
Matthew spent the rest of the day doing exactly as he was told, and trying to look as if it were natural to him. By the end of the evening he was becoming more used to the smells of salt, oil, and smoke, the sound of ship’s bells, and on deck the constant hiss and whine of wind and water. He was glad that at least the movement of the sea was something he was acquainted with.
Below he had eaten in the officer’s mess, listening a great deal more than talking. The food was good enough, but they were newly provisioned and he expected it to get worse. At least there was enough of it, and they were not under fire. He was a lot better off than Joseph had been most of the time.