The Hansa Protocol

by Norman Russell

  ‘Who are you?’ Captain Dawson demanded. ‘You are sailing in restricted waters.’

  ‘My name’s Chesterfield. Sir Mark Chesterfield. I’m skippering this yacht myself. Sorry about being in the way. I’ve heard nothing about this sea-lane being restricted. What’s your name, anyway?’

  ‘Dawson. Captain Neville Dawson. Please up anchor at once and proceed. There’s no call for us to board you.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain. Good luck!’

  The giant yachtsman waved an arm in a desultory salute, and disappeared from the bridge. In less than a minute Dawson could hear the yacht’s anchor being hauled in. He gave the necessary commands and HMS Fortune turned across its own wake and sped back towards Dunnock Point. The steam-yacht also altered course, and proceeded quickly north.

  Towards mid-afternoon a visitor called at the Tower. The stone-flagged entrance chamber of the building had been transformed into a guard room, and the two men could hear the challenging voice of the soldier on duty. In a moment, the soldier appeared in the great hall. He was a smart man of thirty or so, wearing the dark-blue uniform and red-piped forage cap of the Caithness Highlanders.

  ‘There’s a Captain Dawson to see you, sir,’ he said to Admiral Holland.

  ‘Dawson? I don’t recall the name, Corporal. You’d better show him in here.’

  In a moment Captain Neville Dawson, commander of the patrol-boat HMS Fortune, had been ushered into the hall. At Holland’s invitation, he took a seat by the fire, but did not remove his uniform overcoat.

  ‘Captain Dawson,’ said Holland, ‘let me introduce my colleague, lieutenant-Colonel Kershaw, of the Royal Artillery.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Dawson began, ‘a certain incident took place today as my boat rounded the point of Dunnock Raise. I think you should hear about it.’ Dawson gave the two men an account of his afternoon’s adventure.

  ‘Well done, Dawson,’ said Admiral Holland when the commander had finished speaking. ‘You did right to report the incident to me. I saw that steam-yacht myself, and wondered what it was doing out there.’

  ‘The man who came up on the bridge said that he was Sir Mark Chesterfield—’

  ‘Chesterfield, hey?’ said Holland. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of him. But he was quite right, of course. There are no actual restrictions on sea-traffic in the area. Only if someone got too close would we want to question them about who they were. Which, indeed, is what you did this afternoon. Chesterfield …. No. Do you know the name, Kershaw?’

  For reply, Colonel Kershaw took a wallet from his pocket and extracted a photograph. It showed a very tall, fair-haired man in an exotic, heavily-braided uniform. ‘Was this your yachtsman, Captain Dawson?’

  He passed the photograph to their visitor.

  ‘Why, yes,’ said Dawson. ‘So you know him, sir. Who is he?’

  He handed the photograph back to Kershaw, who successfully stifled a smile. The captain’s transparent naïvety amused him.

  ‘That, Captain,’ said Kershaw, ‘is a man called Count Czerny. He is an Austro-Hungarian nobleman, and head of a group of most dangerous and fanatical enemies of this country. He has a very useful gift: he tells truths as if they were lies.’

  ‘But— Why, the man was English! I spoke to him!’

  Captain Dawson was very English himself. He seemed personally affronted that Kershaw should regard Sir Mark Chesterfield as anything other than a True Blue Englishman.

  ‘Count Czerny,’ said Kershaw firmly, ‘is an Austrian. He had the good fortune to be brought up in England. He went to school there, and speaks English perfectly. But I have it on very good authority that he is a consummate liar of the most dangerous type.’

  Dawson’s forehead had creased in hopeless puzzlement. What was this damned colonel talking about?

  ‘So there you have it, Captain Dawson. Czerny is a dangerously persuasive man. Some normally very astute people have fallen under the spell of Count Czerny’s rhetoric. Obviously he was successful in making you yet another victim of his persuasive charms.’

  It was time, thought Holland, to come to the rescue of a fellow sailor. Why leave him to the tender mercies of this sinister army colonel?

  ‘It was good of you to come up here and tell us this, Dawson,’ said Admiral Holland. ‘Let me walk back with you part of the way. I’ll try to give you a clearer picture of what we’re talking about.’

  The two sailors passed through the guard room, and presently the great entrance door was slammed shut and bolted.

  16

  The Coaling of the Fleet

  By Sunday evening it became evident that the coaling of the fleet on the following day was going to be a very wet and hard exercise. Rain began to pound the headland by dusk, and during the early evening it rolled inland, saturating and chillingly cold.

  Dinner was served in the hall at seven, and was eaten in a brooding silence. The inactivity and sense of helplessness was beginning to take its toll.

  At half-past eight, the corporal came into the hall and whispered to Kershaw, who excused himself and left the room. The corporal led him to a small stone chamber containing shelves full of oil-lamps and drums of lamp-oil. There was a wood stove here, so it was possible to sit comfortably while the torrential rain thundered against the thick glass of the narrow window-slit.

  Lankester crouched before the stove, clutching a glass of whisky, which someone – the corporal, perhaps? – had given him. Steam rose from his wet clothes. He did not look up as Kershaw closed the door and sat down on a wooden bench. As in the ruined bothy, so now in the lamp-room, Kershaw asked the single question, ‘Well?’

  Lankester delved into an inside pocket and drew out an envelope.

  ‘It was in a tin biscuit-box under a pile of rags. There were other documents there, but I left them. I have read it. McColl and Czerny could have made great capital from that document. So, of course, can we.’

  As Lankester said the word we his voice trailed away into a tone of hopeless melancholy. Kershaw affected not to notice.

  ‘Is there anything else of moment you need to tell me?’

  ‘Yes. McColl and his “family” are packing up. His work is done, and he will not be involved in the coaling operations tomorrow. But I believe he may have seen me hanging round the Naval Quay. When he misses that letter, he may well come after me. If so, I shall be ready for him.’

  Colonel Kershaw gazed at the glowing stove. Lankester sipped his whisky thoughtfully. Kershaw got to his feet.

  ‘You must stay in the castle tonight. It is both foolhardy and dangerous to our plans if you venture out again in this storm. Leave as soon as it’s light. I will tell the corporal to prepare you a warm place somewhere.’

  ‘You will trust me in the castle unsupervised?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Colonel Kershaw left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Lankester finished his whisky. After several nights shivering in a subterranean Norse dwelling on the edge of a bog, the warmth of the lamp-room was luxury indeed. It reminded him forcibly of the comfort of Bagot’s Hotel, and he smiled wryly to himself. Bagot’s! Another world, another era, it seemed now. Major Lankester got to his feet as he heard the corporal approaching. At last, he was to have a good night’s sleep under a proper roof. Tomorrow could take care of itself.

  When the sun rose on Monday morning, Lankester was ready to greet it. He felt refreshed after a good sleep in dry quarters, and after a rough breakfast of bread and tea he was let out of Craigarvon Tower through a rear wicket-gate, which was immediately closed and barred behind him. He set off down the stony track that would ultimately take him to Thirlstane.

  Colonel Kershaw, too, had been an early riser. He stood at a window embrasure on the stone stair of the Tower, and watched Lankester as he picked his way through the stones of the steeply descending track. He was about to turn away when he saw Lankester stop abruptly and look about him. Then he left the path and began to walk swiftly in the opposite direction towards
the cliff. Had he seen Colin McColl?

  Kershaw hurried down the stair and went to the guard-room in the castle porch. The corporal in the uniform of the Caithness Highlanders came to attention as he entered.

  ‘At ease, Corporal,’ said Kershaw. ‘Do you recollect the man who came to see me last night?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I let him in through the rear postern. I’ve only just let him out again.’

  ‘Well, I want you to go out now, and trail him. He’s approaching the cliff from the south side of Craigarvon Tower at this moment. Try to keep out of sight if you can, but your prime duty will be to protect him. Go armed, and shoot without hesitation if he seems to be seriously threatened.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The corporal selected a rifle from the rack on the far wall, and loaded it. He slung the weapon over his shoulder, came to attention in a salute, then opened the door. A squall of cold rain dashed into the porch. Kershaw closed the door, and went to sit thoughtfully at the fire. He had done what he could.

  Major Lankester had gone only a few hundred yards when he realized that he was being stalked. A trained and experienced courier, he was used to situations of this nature. He stopped abruptly, and concentrated all his faculties in an intense effort to sense from what direction the danger came. Then he turned off the path and made his way purposefully towards the cliff.

  As he walked through the cold rain he thought of the quietly spoken Scotsman in the cottage at Thirlstane, who had boasted to his fellow-conspirators of his success as a murderer. He had a score to settle there. Poor young Fenlake’s blood still cried out for vengeance.

  He stopped again, and listened. He had detected a slight fall of stone to his right. He fell to the ground and began to slither silently through the muddy grass towards a large boulder. Colin McColl, he knew, would be behind it, waiting for him. Colin McColl would have found out about the letter, and he was not a man to forgive being thwarted so seriously.

  Major Lankester moved like a snake through the grass and stones towards the boulder. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, he came in sight of McColl, who was crouching down, as though ready to spring, his gaze fixed on the path rising upward from the castle to the cliff Nearer … nearer ….

  With a leap and a cry of triumph Major Lankester threw himself on Colin McColl, and bore him to the ground. He had the satisfaction of seeing the venomous rage and disbelief on the face of his enemy.

  Lankester’s sudden attack had proved too much even for the lithe and strong Colin McColl. He found himself pinned to the ground by the weight of Lankester’s broad frame. The soldier’s brawny forearm lay across the other man’s throat, inexorably squeezing the breath out of him. He held the Scotsman in a vice-like leg-hold as they struggled round the protecting boulder and came perilously near the edge of the cliff. Lankester unclenched his teeth to spit out a question. ‘Why did you shoot young Fenlake?’

  ‘Because he saw me at the house in Chelsea. We exchanged some pleasantries in the garden there. Nobody on your side gets a good look at me and lives.’

  The words were gasped out with a venomous intensity, despite the continuing throttling pressure of Lankester’s arm.

  ‘I was going to avenge Fenlake’s death. I was going to choke the life out of you. There’s only one way to save yourself. I know that you’ve planted infernal machines down there in the fleet. Tell me where they are hidden. Tell me! Tell me!’

  The strong arm pressed inexorably and skilfully across the Scotsman’s throat. McColl’s senses began to swim, and the pounding in his ears seemed now to blot out the noise of the implacable weather. He found that he could gasp out a few words.

  ‘There is a time-bomb placed in the bunker of the Fearnought. There is a second, identical bomb in the bunker of HMS Leicester. Curse you! How did you find out?’

  During this brief exchange McColl had stealthily slipped his right hand into an inner pocket, where his fingers closed round the butt of a heavy Mauser pistol.

  ‘You are wise to tell me,’ said Lankester, ‘otherwise I should have killed you. Now I will merely render you unconscious. It will be for the law to deal with you as it wishes. But I can subject you to a little more discomfort if you do not tell me how to disarm the devices. Where is the key to turn off the time-clocks?’

  The reply was a horrible, half-strangled giggle. Lankester suddenly increased the pressure on the other’s jugular vein.

  ‘Tell me!’

  The giggling ceased, and the damaged voice took on an air of gloating triumph.

  ‘You have thwarted us by finding the traitor Seligmann’s letter, but in this matter of the devices, you can do nothing. Today the fleet will be coaled up, and the devices will be hidden from sight by tons of coal. But even if they were found, you could not defuse them. They do not work by keys. They work by a combination lock. Solve that, and you can open the plate covering the control switch. But you will not solve it, and I will not tell you what it is.’

  With a sudden convulsive movement of his whole body the Scotsman lurched to his feet, and Lankester followed, still firmly clutching his enemy. They were now within a few feet of the cliff edge, and its 400 feet drop to the rocks below.

  Colin McColl fired the hidden pistol at point blank range. There was a hideous report which sent the gulls screaming up into the sky.

  Major Lankester died immediately. His body was flung backwards and landed on its back in the rain-sodden grass.

  The force of the shot flung the already weakened McColl backwards, and he teetered on the edge of the cliff before righting himself. The signal-flags … the flags that he’d hidden among those stones on the cliff edge. Ah! They were still there! He must signal to Count Czerny now. There, anchored out to sea, was the steam-yacht Mary Tudor, waiting.

  As he stood up with a flag in each hand and turned towards the sea, a single rifle shot rang out from the sheltering rocks.

  McColl made no sound, but a grotesque look of surprise came to his face. He reeled drunkenly, and then plunged headlong over the cliff to the rocks 400 feet below.

  In the gleaming oak-panelled stateroom of HMS Fearnought, Commodore Cartwright put down his china cup on to its china saucer, and said, ‘It’s dashed inconvenient, Captain Webster, but that’s what Lord Leyster and Steyne has decreed. It’s not at all what I’d expected. It’s that fellow Kershaw’s doing, I’ll be bound.’

  Commodore Cartwright tossed a telegraph form across the table to the Captain of HMS Leicester.

  Search bunkers of Fearnought and Leicester for explosive devices. Insist Admiral Holland be present. Prevention in this case better than cure.

  Captain Webster handed the telegraph form back to Cartwright, and pulled a wry face.

  ‘Hardly a convenient time for conducting a search, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s just after nine o’clock now. The coaling of the fleet is scheduled for eleven o’clock precisely.’

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to exercise patience, Captain. I don’t blame Admiral Holland for this nonsense. After all, he was one of the architects of our modern naval policy. But when I heard that he was holed up on the cliffs there with Colonel Kershaw, I tried to keep a polite distance. Army personnel should keep their noses out of naval business. Especially that one. He’s a dark horse.’

  ‘Hear, hear! So what will you do now, sir? There’s less than two hours to go.’

  ‘I’ve asked Captain Dawson to go up there to Craigarvon. He’s already met Holland and Kershaw. I’ve told him to invite both of them down here to witness the search, and stay on for the coaling, if it takes their fancy! We’ve three hundred tons of coal left in our bunkers here on the Fearnought. I expect you’ve something similar?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’ve something like two hundred tons. It’ll be a confounded nuisance, and the civilian men will grumble, but it shouldn’t take us too long to sift through that kind of tonnage.’

  Captain Webster stood up, and saluted.

  ‘Thank you very much for giving me breakfast, sir,’ he said
. ‘With your permission, I’ll get back to the Leicester, and set things in motion there.’

  ‘Permission granted, Captain. And now I’ll prepare myself for an interview with our chief stoker!’

  ‘Sir! I must speak to you at once!’

  The corporal had flung down his rifle when Colin McColl had plummeted from the cliff top, and had bent down over Lankester’s inert body. It had taken him only a moment to ascertain that he was dead. He had looked up when Colonel Kershaw and Admiral Holland had come running from Craigarvon Tower in response to the bark of the rifle.

  ‘The fellow I shot, sir – the enemy – he told your man that he’d planted a device in the Fearnought, and another in the Leicester. He said that he’d put them in the bunkers. I was crouching behind that rock over there. I heard everything he said—’

  ‘Well done, Corporal. I’ll see you’re commended for this action. What’s your name?’

  ‘Menzies, sir. The enemy said something else. He said that the two devices had combination locks on them, so they couldn’t be turned off. He laughed, sir.’

  ‘Laughed?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He said that the devices would soon be hidden from sight by tons of coal. Very pleased with himself, he was, even though your man was choking the truth out of him.’

  After Menzies had finished speaking, the three men stood in silence, ignoring the fine rain, and looking down on Major Lankester’s body. One by one, other members of the small garrison came out of the Tower, to be followed by the civilian servants. By common consent they gathered mutely at the fatal spot.

  Colonel Kershaw looked round the circle of watchers. He was pleased as well as surprised to see them.

  ‘Men,’ he said, ‘the body lying dead at your feet is that of Major William Lankester, of the 107th Field Battery of the Royal Artillery. He was an agent of the Secret Intelligence Service, and has died here on active duty at the hand of one of the Queen’s enemies.’