by John Harris
‘Mebbe you’ve got something,’ Midwinter conceded slowly, his brow twisted in bewilderment. ‘Nothin’ turns out as you expect, does it, and nothin’ means what it ought to mean. This is a hell of a profession to be in.’
Slattery was right. The internecine strife in Mexico had made the withdrawal of the Punitive Expedition possible at last, and the movement back across the border began. Whatever Wilson might make of it, the invasion had turned out to be another of his blunders over Mexican pride.
‘Even his peace in Europe doesn’t seem to be catching anybody’s interest,’ Horrocks commented. ‘Chaps in the trenches aren’t very impressed.’
With Horrocks heading back to Washington, Slattery escorted Magdalena to Mexico City and established himself with her in the house in the Avenida Versailles. Atty wasn’t slow to make sure of a place in the servants’ quarters.
A lull at the end of the year enabled them to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas together. Magdalena spent most days now in Stutzmann’s office arranging the details of a new trip to the States. Her presence in Carrizal had been kept quiet and American producers were eager to promote her, but they had decided that before offering her to New York in opera, she should do a small tour across Texas in The Bohemian Girl. Slattery had never seen her more carefree as she went every day to the Conservatory for singing lessons and instruction in the technique of the new medium.
Occasionally she gave little private concerts for him, singing her high Cs disdainfully, as if she could waltz round the room as she uttered them, so that Pilar, watching from the door, heaved a sigh. ‘Like a bird,’ she whispered. ‘A bird full of the joy of living.’
She was still nervous about her debut, however. ‘I’m afraid,’ she said.
‘What of?’ Slattery asked.
‘Of you being here and me being a thousand miles away. Of ruining your life. I don’t know how to be married. All I have ever been is a singer. We shall quarrel. I shall throw things. You will beat me.’
He laughed and put his arms round her. Her concept of conjugal bliss seemed more suited to a dogfight than a marriage. Slattery had the feeling that while they would certainly hurt each other, they would also caress each other, supporting, devouring, sinking and rising, and would still be doing it a lifetime ahead.
‘Magdalena, you can’t shut out love any more than you can shut out pain. It’ll work out without too much anguish.’
She let him kiss her then lifted her eyes, frowning and uncertain.
‘Hermann has a new singer,’ she went on. ‘Dolores Mendoza. She’s pretty and has a good voice. With help she’ll be very good.’
‘And that’s worrying you? Because something is.’
She sighed. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘It isn’t that. He went to Chihuahua to make arrangements for her to appear at the Theatre of Heroes and he learned Fausto had been there. At my house. Will anything happen to him?’
‘After Carrizal, if he’s caught on American soil, yes.’
She was silent and he went on forcefully. ‘We’re not in operetta, Magdalena. Things don’t always come right in the end. Keep away from him. He could be the cause of you being banned from the United States for ever.’
She was silent for a long time. When she spoke again it was slowly as if she were deep in thought.
‘What I want,’ she said, ‘is peace. And children, not opera. I’ve lived out of a suitcase so long I’ve forgotten until now that I’ve got all the instincts a woman usually has. I need to worry about someone, protect them, offer up prayers for their happiness and safety.’
As she climbed aboard the train for the north two days later, she seemed suddenly impatient.
‘I’ll be back in Mexico City within a month,’ she said. ‘I have only to stop off in Chihuahua to collect costumes before going on to the border. Jesús will look after me and Hermann will be there, too. He’s decided to make an appearance in The Bohemian Girl. Props are going up from Mexico City and we’re meeting in El Paso for the final run-through.’
As she vanished towards her compartment Slattery turned to Jesús. In the boy’s eyes Magdalena, who had clothed him, fed him and given him a pride in himself, could do no wrong.
‘Take care of her,’ Slattery told him.
‘Of course, sir.’ The boy put down the bags he was carrying and opened his jacket. It was long and fashionable and hid the fact that he wore a gun at his hip.
‘How long have you had that?’
‘Some time, sir.’
Slattery smiled. ‘Better keep it out of sight,’ he advised. ‘They’re not so keen on guns on that side of the border.’
Eight
When Slattery appeared at the office the following morning, Atty jerked a thumb.
‘He’s back from Washington,’ he said. ‘And you’re wanted.’
Slattery didn’t hurry. It was a small matter of pride that he couldn’t be summoned willy-nilly. Instead, he went to his own office and glanced through the papers on his desk. Things hadn’t altered very much. Germans were still being greeted by the Mexicans with cheers and Americans with boos or brickbats. And Carranza was preparing himself to be formally inaugurated as president. For once, there appeared to be no rival candidates, though Zapata was still in the Morelos hills and Villa still had the ability to pop up anywhere at any time.
Six years of bloodshed had long since broken the country down into small autonomous states under the leadership of bandits-turned-generals or generals-turned-bandits, and the graft in Mexico City was clear. Carranza’s officials speculated in everything, selling offices and concessions, organising thefts from the National Treasury, trafficking even in pensions. Though there was peace of a sort it was a disturbed peace of small uprisings and rebellions, and life remained cheap and easily forfeited.
When Slattery finally appeared in front of him, Horrocks was looking particularly blank-faced and enigmatic, something which had been growing more marked with every visit to Washington. He glanced pointedly at his watch.
‘You’re late,’ he said.
Slattery waited. Horrocks always liked to develop his tactics with a maximum of dramatic effect amid the aura of mystery with which he wrapped himself.
For a moment he said nothing, then he gestured. ‘Shut the door,’ he said. ‘And lean on it.’
Again there was a silence then Horrocks announced that he had been sworn to secrecy.
‘So why tell me?’
Horrocks frowned. ‘It goes no further than you,’ he said.
He went on to explain that a telegram from the German Foreign Minister, Zimmermann, had been intercepted in London. ‘It’s to the German ambassador in the States.’
‘He was ordered home.’ Slattery said.
‘The telegram was sent before he left. London’s been holding it’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see in a moment. It begins with a passage about them commencing unrestricted submarine warfare on February 1st–’
‘Old news. It’s already started.’
Horrocks gave him a cold look. ‘The Irish never make good agents,’ he snapped. ‘They can’t hold their tongues. We know that, of course, damn it! What we didn’t know but what the telegram makes clear is that if American hopes of remaining neutral in spite of submarine warfare are to prove false and they join the allies, then the German ambassador is instructed to propose to Mexico an alliance in which Germany and Mexico will make war on the States together.’
‘War!’ Slattery’s jaw dropped.
‘Not intervention. Not an incident. War.’
‘Is this true?’
‘I’m not in the habit of disseminating gossip.’
Slattery was silent for a moment. ‘Why am I being told?’ he asked. ‘It’s not usual to inform the galley slaves about this sort of thing?’
‘It’s not usual to inform me,’ Horrocks pointed out coldly. ‘But, as you’ll see in a minute if you’ll just, for God’s sake, hold your tongue, it’s important for us to know. In r
eturn for war against the US, Mexico is to be offered Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and all former Mexican territories. It’s the Plan of San Diego without the frills.’
‘Do the Americans know?’
‘They will. In time.’ Horrocks smiled. ‘There’s more. Japan’s to be invited to join the fun. The idea behind it all, of course, is the old chestnut that if the Americans should come in on our side in Europe over the submarine campaign, this will nullify their efforts by keeping them busy on their own side of the Atlantic. As they found out when they set up the Punitive Expedition, they haven’t the wherewithal to fight two wars at once. Not for a long time. And, if it came to a choice, they’d inevitably choose the one on their own side of the ocean.’
Horrocks’ glance at Slattery was smooth in its smugness. ‘This old son, is that mistake I always felt we’d eventually force them into. Thanks to a little luck and a bit of smart footwork on our part, Berlin’s finally been forced to offer an out-and-out alliance in return for an out-and-out invasion.’
‘There can’t be any mistake, I suppose?’
‘My dear chap, you haven’t heard the whole of it yet. To make the offer, they used the facilities Wilson granted them. They actually used the US State Department cable to offer a chunk of continental United States to Mexico.’
‘It’s enough to bring the Americans in without hesitation.’
‘If we can prove it, it will set the Americans roaring for guns, and ships to take them across the Atlantic.’
‘Has Washington been told?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘London’s afraid the reaction would be that it’s a fake.’
‘We’ve surely got proof of its arrival.’
Horrocks gave him a pitying look. ‘Of course we have.’ he said. ‘But – if we offer it as it stands, Berlin will know at once that we’ve broken their codes and immediately change them. So it has to be done another way.’ He lit a cigarette and placed it in the amber holder. He seemed totally in charge of the situation. ‘Because of its importance, the telegram was sent in code by three different routes. By wireless from Berlin to Long Island; by Sjogren’s Swedish Roundabout; and over the US State Department Cable by courtesy of President Wilson.’
Slattery waited in silence. There was more to come, he knew, and Horrocks was dealing with it in his own languid way.
‘The telegram which conveyed the final decision about U-boats,’ he went on, ‘was numbered 157. But there was a second one, number 158, which contained instructions to be passed on to the German Minister in Mexico City on what to offer Carranza. It will have significant small differences from the original. Dateline. Address. Signature. And so on. If we produce that one for Washington’s delectation, the Germans will assume it was stolen in Mexico City and blame it on bribed secretaries or agents inside their embassy here. We have to find it.’
Slattery grinned. ‘Turner,’ he said at once. ‘The printer we rescued from a firing squad. His brother works at the telegraph office.’
Horrocks vanished again as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving Slattery puzzled by what he had been told. It seemed an extraordinary development and all the proof they could find would be needed. But he had no doubt that Atty would produce the telegram they wanted and suddenly his attention was diverted by trouble near Torreón.
The Mexicans hadn’t forgotten the Punitive Expedition and there were a few Americans there anxious to go north of the border to safety. With the American Consul still occupied with flung stones, broken windows and the far from remote possibility of lynching, the British Vice-Consul was handling things on his behalf. But he was a very young and inexperienced man who had slipped into the job largely by accident and was appealing for help from someone with more knowledge. Knowing it could do Britain a power of good in the White House, Slattery packed a Gladstone bag for the journey, tossing in a bottle of brandy and two tins of meat for safety. Trains often stopped running at night and were even occasionally blown up and the passengers stranded.
‘It’s only a day’s ride further on to Chihuahua City,’ he explained to Atty.
Atty grinned. ‘And she’s there,’ he agreed.
The journey north was slow, with a variety of alarms and excursions but he reached Torreón by evening. It was bitterly cold and he was glad of the heavy ulster he wore. The Vice-Consul met him.
‘The officer in command here’s General Murguía,’ he explained. ‘He’s supposed to be the terror of his own officers and hates rebels. Any he catches he hangs at once. He’s known as Pancho the Rope. What’s the best way to approach him?’
Slattery smiled. ‘If he’s no diplomat, he’ll probably not welcome diplomatic talk. But as a soldier he might be interested to have your request in short sharp sentences and then have you shut up.’
‘You think so?’
‘At least you’ll get your answer more quickly.’
Murguía’s private railway coach lay on the line on the outskirts of the town, and as they approached it, one of his aides catapulted down the steps to the track, to pick himself up, dust himself down and disappear with as much dignity as he could manage.
‘Not an auspicious moment to arrive, it seems,’ Slattery murmured.
The Vice-Consul drew a deep breath and climbed the steps with Slattery on his heels. ‘Better now than never,’ he said.
Murguía was dressed in the uniform of the old Porfirian army, with a visored képi that gave a sinister expression to the shaded eyes and emphasised the hard lines of the mouth. He was a grim-visaged, dark-skinned man with a scarred face; and he was obviously on the point of leaving.
‘Well?’ he barked. ‘Who’re you?’
The Vice-Consul explained.
‘I’m busy. I’ve just been informed Villa is heading this way and I want to be ready. What do you want?’
The Vice-Consul drew a deep breath and loosed his words in a flood. As he finished, Murguía stared at them for a moment, making no comment, asking for no credentials and showing no emotion. He simply barked a request for the number of American men, women and children who wished to leave. Then he clapped his hands and an officer appeared at the double. The rasping voice continued, dictating an order for safe conduct.
‘To cover all Norteamericanos and their families,’ he said. ‘They will be put in passenger coaches which will be hauled by military trains to Piedras Negras.’ As the officer turned away, Murguía stopped him with another bark. ‘The death penalty for anyone molesting them,’ he snapped. ‘Let it be made clear.’
The Vice-Consul seemed startled at the suddenness and completeness of his agreement and was standing with his mouth open when Slattery touched his arm.
‘I think you’d better make sure everybody’s ready,’ he murmured. ‘The General doesn’t seem to be the sort of chap who’ll take kindly to delay.’
Such was the anarchy in the area the Vice-Consul had to leave at once for Esterito to the south, where a British farmer had been attacked by a group of bandits, and could only offer Slattery the local hotel.
‘I can’t even give you a meal,’ he said. ‘My cookhouse has been burned down. I’d advise you to eat at the station. It’s better than the hotel.’
The hotel was shabby and, heading there through the dark streets, Slattery noticed the marks of the numerous sieges the town had suffered in charred shop fronts and shattered houses. With its naked lights and buggies and the saddle horses tied to hitching posts, it had the look of a frontier town rather than a railway centre.
Slattery was tired and his leg painful. A policeman eyed him as he limped past. Outside the hotel, he came face-to-face with Fausto Graf. He had stopped dead, his face pale and strained. Above the upturned moustache his blue eyes were fierce as he stared at Slattery, startled and hostile at the same time.
‘The Englishman with the crippled leg.’
‘Honestly earned, Fausto,’ Slattery said. ‘In a better war than yours. What are you stirring up here? What new misery are y
ou plotting for Mexico?’
Graf’s face broke into a wide smile, handsome, intelligent, defiant and treacherous. ‘Something you will not know, Englander, until it hits you.’
They stared at each other, like old opponents in a game that had been going on far too long. Then Graf’s mouth twisted.
‘Why are you here? You are in my way. You are always in my way. You have been in my way from the first day you arrived. I should have removed you. I still should remove you. Your removal would concentrate my sister’s mind. Without you, she might give her affection where it should belong, to someone of her own race and creed and culture.’
‘What do you know of culture, Fausto?’ Slattery’s voice was stiff with dislike. ‘What do you even know about Germany? You’re a Mexican.’
As he had guessed, he could have offered no greater insult and Graf’s face darkened with hatred.
‘You have their gift for treachery, Fausto,’ he went on. ‘Their love of mindless vendettas. You’re not a German. You’re just another of those little brown men you despise so much.’
As he had been speaking, Graf’s hand had been moving towards the pocket of his coat. Slattery guessed he had a gun there and he shook his head and smiled.
‘I should leave it there, Fausto,’ he advised. ‘You might be tempted to use it and there are too many witnesses.’ He indicated the men standing outside a nearby bar and the policeman with his slung rifle. ‘Even in Mexico murder’s still considered a crime. What a pity you couldn’t have met me a few minutes ago further down the street at the end of a dark alley. That’s the proper place for an assassin.’
Graf stared at him, bitter fury in his eyes, then he brushed past and vanished. For the first time since he had met him, Slattery felt a trace of sympathy for his blank fanatic patriotism. Nothing would ever change him. Come the end of the world, Graf would still be preaching German superiority to anyone who would listen.