The Hansa Protocol

by Norman Russell

  ‘What is the matter with you, madam?’

  There was a dangerous ring to McColl’s voice that would have silenced most women. It served only to kindle Ottilie’s pent up wrath, which exploded in a barrage of words.

  ‘The matter?’ she cried. ‘What is the matter? Fritz Schneider’s death is the matter! I have held my peace for Germany’s sake, but now I will speak out. How dare you exceed your orders! Poor Fritz! What harm had he ever done?’

  Ottilie Seligmann’s eyes flashed with a dangerous fire born from the arrogance of her Junker ancestry. The fire was almost immediately quenched by a flood of tears.

  Colin McColl’s lip curled in something like contempt.

  ‘Your onset of tenderness does you no credit, Countess Czerny,’ he said. ‘Schneider was dangerous to our cause, because he was a fool. A dangerously naive fool. He had become the unwitting go-between for our enemies—’

  ‘You murdered him! When your hired thug failed to kill him with his vile horse and cart, you crept into that hospital, and poisoned him! Feigling!’

  Colin McColl made as though to lunge at the enraged Ottilie. His face was drained of all colour.

  ‘Silence, you frantic woman! You fling that word “coward” in my face. But it was I who risked life and limb to destroy the traitor Otto Seligmann, and with him the copy of The Hansa Protocol that he had stolen for the use of Germany’s enemies. True, it was you who discovered it, hidden in the Belvedere, but it was I who triggered the mechanism, at great personal risk. I do always what is needful to usher in the New Age. As for Schneider, I had no personal feelings about him one way or the other. I had no personal feelings about Oliver, or Fenlake, or a dozen others whom I have sent to perdition.’

  Ottilie, he could see, had made a monumental effort to regain control of herself. It would not do to antagonize her further.

  ‘We must be careful, Countess Czerny,’ he said, in milder tones, ‘not to fly at each other’s throats. You know what is at stake. Very soon now, the great victory will be ours. One of the marines down at the quay today said that I was like a conjurer. He spoke more of the truth than he could possibly imagine.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Ottilie softly, ‘the trick – the sleight of hand. If you fall into their hands before the 25th, confessing to that trick will serve you well. But think! There are only four days left! When I think of that, my anger dies!’

  ‘I am glad,’ said McColl. ‘In one way, this whole glorious project owes its origin to you! You befriended that girl, Ottilie Seligmann, when she was dying of consumption at Jena. Everyone, so I was told, commented on your uncanny resemblance to her, despite a certain difference in age—’

  ‘It is true! She and I were like sisters. She was a good German, unlike her uncle, the traitor. The Herr Doktor Otto Seligmann accepted me as his niece. He had not seen her since she was a child. Maria Feissen was already established as housekeeper, and so matters took their course ….’

  Ottilie moved restlessly. She glanced around the dim room with distaste, mingled, so McColl thought, with fear.

  ‘Four days!’ she cried. ‘They cannot pass quickly enough for me! Soon it will be done, and my husband will spirit us away from this benighted land. How I hate this place! This loathsome hovel, and the so-called village beyond the road. His Excellency my husband would not deign to stall his cattle in a place as wretched as that! This house is dark, and alive with sounds. I hear noises, footsteps—’

  ‘There is no one here but us three, Countess. I am tired of searching the place every time you fancy that someone is walking about.’

  ‘You are right. It is nerves. So you must forgive me, and my severe language. You will forgive me, no? Ah! Here is the good Maria. All is in order, Frau Feissen.’

  The door had opened quietly, and the woman who had called herself Mrs Poniatowski came into the room. She looked as grim and forbidding as ever, but her eyes shone with a purposeful fanaticism.

  ‘I heard your voices raised,’ she said. ‘I hope that you are not falling out with each other? The tension up here in this cursed wilderness is getting on your nerves, no doubt. But think of the prize that is so nearly in our grasp! Calm yourself, Mr McColl. You have done excellent work. Countess, your role in this business has been vital all along. We are a dedicated group, are we not? We each have a role to play. So let us do our work for the Fatherland cheerfully, and without complaint. Dear Countess Czerny, do not let personal animosities or anxieties put our victory at risk. As for poor Fritz – well, I, too, was fond of him, and warned him many times that it would be wise to return to Saxony. He did not heed my warnings, and so he had to pay the price ….’

  Ottilie seemed to be subdued by the older woman’s words, and Colin McColl visibly relaxed. Mrs Poniatowski’s voice assumed a coaxing and conciliatory tone.

  ‘Do not spoil things at this late stage, dear friends, by quarrelling. Soon, it will all be over. His Excellency is holding himself in readiness. Play your parts! Be true to your destiny! Remember the rallying cry of the Eidgenossenschaft: for Kaiser and Fatherland!’

  In one of the ruinous chambers at the rear of the cottage, the well-dressed seedy man who had been warned off from the Naval Quay waited for the voices of the Queen’s enemies to recede as they left the room. With a deftness born of experience, he crept quietly from the dim store-room where he had been crouched in hiding, and slipped noiselessly away into the trees.

  Colonel Kershaw walked round the stony bulk of Craigarvon Tower, which was bordered by a flint-strewn path. His course lay downward from the gaunt pile, and across a bleakly exposed ploughed field, at the far end of which there was a ruined bothy, little more than a dry-stone shed, with the tattered remains of a thatched roof. Kershaw pulled the skirts of his long military overcoat around him, stooped low, and passed under the lintel of the gaping doorway.

  There was scarcely any shelter inside, but it was a convenient place for a meeting. Waiting for him was the well-dressed but seedy man whom the guards had driven away from the Naval Quay. He wore a well-cut black overcoat, and had the look of someone who had once been a gentleman, but who had fallen on evil times. He sat on a pile of fallen stones. Kershaw gingerly sat down near him, but did not look at him.

  ‘Well?’ said Kershaw abruptly. The other man replied in low tones.

  ‘They’re all there, holed up in a cottage at Thirlstane village. Colin McColl, Ottilie Seligmann, and Mrs Poniatowski. I have seen them.’

  ‘How did you contrive to do that?’

  ‘I gained entrance to the cottage. It’s a rambling, ruinous kind of place, and it was easy enough to hide away from their sight. I saw them, and I heard what they said to each other. Let me tell you what they said.’

  When the man had finished his account, he added, after a brief pause, ‘I will now do whatever you ask me to do.’

  Kershaw sat silent for a moment. He kicked a loose stone, which rattled across the ruined floor. He sighed, and rested his chin on his hand. Then he spoke.

  ‘You do realize, don’t you, Lankester, that I can do nothing to save you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the other man, in the low voice of a man without hope. ‘Yes, I know that. Nevertheless, I will do whatever you ask me to do.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Kershaw. ‘Listen carefully to what I have to say. Somewhere in that cottage near Thirlstane village, McColl will have hidden a letter. The letter was written by the late Dr Seligmann to a young woman called Miss Whittaker. A copy of that letter is fortunately in our hands, but McColl has the original. Do you know what I’m talking about, or must I go over it all?’

  ‘No. Naturally, I know all about it.’

  ‘The contents of that letter are harmless enough, but it could be used by the German war party to its great advantage. McColl will make the contents of that letter public in Germany. “The peace party is the party of traitors!” he’d say, and the ordinary German man in the street would believe him. Find that letter, and bring it to me.’

  The for
lorn Lankester inclined his head, but made no reply. Kershaw looked at him, and sensed that the man was holding something back.

  ‘There are other things that you know,’ he said, sharply. ‘Why do you not speak?’

  ‘I am ashamed to speak too much in your presence, for fear of hearing your contempt for me in your voice when you reply’

  ‘Whatever you hear will be what you have deserved. It is part of your sentence. Speak!’

  ‘McColl is known up here in Caithness as Angus Macmillan. He migrates here for certain periods of the year. He was in England for most of last week, but appeared up here on Thursday, the twelfth.’

  ‘Who told you all this?’

  ‘A broken-down old gossip I met in an alehouse, a kind of halfwit, with decades of stone-dust in his lungs. I plied him with ale, and asked him a few harmless questions. It’s amazing what that type of man sees and hears. Angus Macmillan comes down to the Naval Quay with his cart, which contains his box of tools. He’s been on HMS Fearnought, and also on HMS Leicester. I don’t suppose he’s been down there among the boilers and the bunkers for the benefit of his health.’

  Colonel Kershaw recalled the telegraph message that Inspector Box had sent him from London. He had mentioned the name Angus Macmillan, and had suggested that he and Colin McColl were the same man. Now, this wretched, shivering renegade had confirmed the truth of what Box had discovered.

  ‘I believe you’re right. McColl’s been up to no good in the bowels of those two ships. Perhaps the time’s come for us to take a look. On Monday, the coaling of the fleet takes place. By then, I expect, he’ll be up and away. Angus Macmillan …. Well, well. Colin McColl’s father was a Scot, but his mother was a German. Something tragic happened to her. So far, I’ve been unable to find out what it was.’

  ‘I can tell you that. I assumed you knew. Colin McColl’s mother was murdered by a French mob in Alsace, in 1871. Her crime, apparently, was being German.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  Colonel Kershaw stood up, and looked at the rain-soaked, unshaven man sitting patiently and hopelessly on the broken stones.

  ‘You fool, Lankester!’ he said. ‘Look what you have found out in a single day! You homed in on that old man in the alehouse like a pigeon coming back to its loft. Think now what talent you have thrown away, what public and private esteem you have lost for ever!’

  The wretched man made no reply, but he seemed to shrink back further into the shadows. Kershaw turned on his heel and left the ruin. He set out across the ploughed field that would bring him to the warmth and shelter of Craigarvon Tower. The thin rain was still falling, and the meagre fields looked barren and blighted. Kershaw suddenly paused, and turned round. Lankester had emerged from the bothy, and was beginning to drag himself away towards the road beyond the field. Kershaw called his name, and he obediently stopped in his tracks, waiting until the colonel had reached him.

  ‘I can get you a position with a trading company in the Malay Straits,’ said Kershaw. ‘If you want it, you know how you can contact me.’

  Lankester looked Kershaw in the eyes for the first time.

  ‘Thanks. But first, I will do what you have ordered.’

  Colonel Kershaw made no reply. He retraced his steps across the fields towards Craigarvon Tower.

  That Saturday evening, a blazing fire in a vast stone grate threw its orange glow on the trophies of arms and mounted spoils of the hunt adorning the walls of Craigarvon Tower’s great hall. Other light came from fitfully burning oil lamps, and whatever daylight managed to penetrate through the glazed slits of windows.

  Both Kershaw and Holland had received a batch of telegraph messages, which were spread out in front of them on the table. Kershaw was relaxed and thoughtful. Holland was unusually agitated, containing some special anger only with the greatest difficulty. Kershaw said nothing. When the right time came, Admiral Holland would unburden himself.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear,’ said Kershaw, glancing at a telegraph form, ‘that Sir Charles Napier has already begun a ruthless purge at the Foreign Office. I expect your people will be doing something similar, Holland. They could make a start in your Cipher Office! The Press, thank goodness, have not got wind of the matter, or they’d have manufactured a national panic of it by now.’

  ‘With very good reason,’ said Admiral Holland, hotly. ‘I’m glad Napier’s thought to tell you what he’s doing. One slight advantage of being an admiral is that I was able to order that self-satisfied bunch down at the Naval Quay to give us an open telegraph line to London.’

  ‘Napier says here that there’s more to come. He’s ordered a visitation of our embassies, particularly in central Europe. You know, I think the Queen might revise her ideas about Napier. The last time I spoke to her she seemed to think that he was ready for the scrapyard.’

  Holland smiled, and shook his head. It was not every day that someone whom he knew spoke nonchalantly about the last time that he’d spoken to Queen Victoria. He picked up another sheaf of telegraph forms from the table.

  ‘I’ve got a message here, Kershaw, from an equerry to the Prince of Wales. It’s apparently been sent to me as a matter of courtesy – presumably as a kind of placebo, to keep me quiet. His Royal Highness will arrive in Caithness on Tuesday morning, the 24th, at eight. He’ll be travelling overnight in the royal train, but will change to a special carriage when he transfers to the Highland Railway.’

  ‘He’s not coming here straight away, is he?’

  ‘Oh, no. He’s staying at Firth Lodge, Lord Westerdale’s place, some miles south of here. He’ll come to the fleet with as much informality as possible, at noon on. Wednesday, the 25th.’

  ‘Has the Prince any inkling of this business, do you think?’

  ‘I think so, Kershaw, though I can’t be sure. This other message here suggests that someone in London may have alerted him to the fact that something unusual is going on up here.’

  Holland passed the second message to Kershaw.

  Once in Scotland, I will regard myself as being under orders. Whatever you advise, I will do. Albert Edward P.

  Admiral Holland stirred restlessly. He threw the telegraph messages down on the table, and blushed with indignation.

  ‘What’s the matter, Holland?’ asked Kershaw gently. ‘What is it?’

  It came as a relief to Admiral Holland to give vent to his pent-up anger.

  ‘I went down there this afternoon, Kershaw, to the Naval Station on the shore of the sound. I was received by Commodore Cartwright. I told him about our fears that explosive devices may have been hidden in the bunkers of the Fearnought and the Leicester. He listened. I told him all about you, and about the special powers that you have from the Queen—’

  ‘And I suppose he took no notice of you? They never do, you know.’

  ‘He said that he would have the boiler-rooms and bunkers of both ships thoroughly searched – after he had received permission to do so from Admiral of the Fleet the Lord Leyster and Stayne. I’m not much loved by that particular nobleman, Kershaw. Once my name’s coupled in his mind with obstruction and inconvenience, he’ll make sure that I’m not able to make any more attempts to rock the boat!’

  ‘And do you mind?’

  ‘Damn it all, Kershaw, no! I don’t mind. I’m with you all the way. And if you have ways of circumventing these complacent idiots, then pursue them.’

  ‘I will, Holland, have no doubt of that. In any case, there’s a glimmer of light in the offing. I’ve not been idle, you know. Although I may be sitting here inert, I rather think that one of my crowd is very active down at Thirlstane village. For a little while longer – just a little while – we must watch and wait.’

  On Sunday morning, Admiral Holland declared his intention of taking a walk up to the cliff top with his binoculars. He admitted to Kershaw that he felt much better for having ‘let off steam’ the previous evening, and that his temper would be further improved by a walk in the morning air.

  ‘Anythi
ng’s better than just sitting here, doing nothing, Kershaw,’ he declared.

  Once he had reached the summit of the cliff, Holland flinched at the winter rain, which was being blown inland in drifts by the wind. The grey sea moved and churned uneasily to the horizon. Well muffled in his long naval greatcoat Admiral Holland planted himself defiantly in the face of the elements and looked through his binoculars. Not more than a mile out he could see a vessel, either moving very slowly north or at anchor. He focused upon it with his powerful binoculars. Black hull, white superstructure, metal masts, a raked buff painted funnel …. A steam-yacht.

  ‘A steam-yacht,’ said Captain Neville Dawson, commander of the patrol-boat HMS Fortune. He closed his telescope. ‘We’d best go out and take a look.’ HMS Fortune had rounded the point of Dunnock Raise some minutes earlier, and the watch had immediately alerted him to the presence of an unknown vessel in what was technically a restricted area.

  Within twenty minutes, HMS Fortune was within hailing distance of the yacht. The two vessels rose and fell beside each other on the choppy North Sea waters. Captain Dawson took a megaphone handed to him by a sailor, and called out:

  ‘What ship are you?’

  There was no response at first, but then a fine figure of a man appeared on the bridge of the yacht, a semi-circular structure immediately in front of the funnel. Well over six feet tall, with blond hair escaping from beneath his yachting cap, it was possible to see his bright blue eyes shining even in the dim light of the Northern Scottish day.

  ‘This is the steam-yacht Mary Tudor, out of Hull, bound for Norway. I see from the ensign that you’re a Royal Navy vessel. Do you wish to board us?’

  The blond man’s voice was so powerful that he could be heard without the aid of a megaphone. He had a pleasant, well-modulated voice. As he spoke, one or two members of his crew came on deck and stared curiously at the patrol-boat.