“Rather reminds one of standing in front of a firing squad,” Graham, who was standing next to Joe, said.
“I think the firing squad would go easy on us compared to this lot,” Joe replied.
It was announced that the prime minister, his cabinet, and their German guests would stand for pictures first and then take questions. Joe looked out over the sea of press and saw his daughter in the scrum. She had her notebook out and was scribbling in it furiously. She had a photographer with her. Joe frowned at her. She was no longer on her term holidays. She should have been up at university and must have skipped classes to come to London. Fiona would certainly be unhappy if she knew, and there would be a row. Joe was proud of Katie for her devotion to journalism, but that paper of hers could sometimes cause a good deal of trouble, too.
After three or four minutes of picture-taking, the questions started. Reporters were shouting, interrupting, demanding answers. An irate Fleet Street wanted to know why the government was holding trade talks with Britain’s erstwhile enemy.
Graham spoke first, telling them how renewed trade ties would help strengthen Britain’s economy. The prime minister followed, urging for magnanimity in victory, and then it was the Germans’ turn. Max von Brandt, their spokesman, stepped forward. He carefully and cogently outlined his commission’s plans, detailing benefits for both Britain and Germany. He talked for about ten minutes, then finished by saying, “We will, of course, explain our plans more fully during our meetings with our British counterparts here in London over the next few weeks, but we appreciate being able to outline our ideas for you here. Fleet Street has been ill-disposed toward us, and understandably so, but I wish to assure you that it is my sincere hope, and the hope of the German people—now that the hostilities between us have ended—that we can work together for peace and prosperity, and for the benefit of both our nations. Good day, gentlemen.”
Throughout Max’s speech, Joe sat in his chair smiling woodenly and all the while raging inside. Von Brandt’s presence was a cruel taunt to him. It was unbelievable that this man who had caused so much damage to his family, and to countless others, could stand here, smiling and talking about better days to come, as if nothing had ever happened. Joe’s rage boiled up inside him and he could not contain it.
After a few more minutes of questions, the prime minister gave the members of the press a wave good-bye and headed back inside Number 10.
“Mr. von Brandt,” Joe said, as German and British statesmen followed him. “Might I have a moment?”
Max stopped. He turned around, a questioning expression on his face.
“In here, please,” Joe said, gesturing toward a receiving room off the foyer.
Max followed Joe. Once they were both inside the room, Joe closed the door. “Berlin should have sent someone else. Anyone but you,” he said.
“I’m sorry to hear you feel that way, Mr. Bristow. I hope my work has not been lacking in some way?”
“I know who you are. And what you are. Maud Selwyn Jones died at your hands, didn’t she? Why? Because she saw something she shouldn’t have? Gladys Bigelow killed herself because you were blackmailing her. Jennie Finnegan went to her grave tortured over the fact that she’d helped you, a German spy. Her husband was very nearly killed by the information your network passed to Berlin. But I guess all’s fair in love and war, isn’t it?” Joe said.
Max shook his head. He gave Joe a puzzled smile. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Bristow,” he said. “But before you destroy a man’s reputation by accusing him of espionage and murder, you’d better have proof. A good deal of it. British libel laws, from what I understand, are highly punitive.”
Max was right, of course. Joe had nothing concrete with which to hang him. He believed Jennie Finnegan’s and John Harris’s stories, but others would not. And he remembered, too, what had happened with Jack Flynn when they’d tried to bring him in for spying.
“You heartless bastard,” Joe said. “I’d nail your head to the floor if I could only get out of this chair.”
“How lucky for me, then, that you cannot,” Max said. The smile was gone. His blue eyes were cold and hard. “A bit of advice, if I may: Things are not always what they seem, Mr. Bristow, especially when it comes to politics. The war is over. The entire world has accepted that. I urge you to do the same. Good day.”
Max smiled icily, then left the room, slamming the door behind him. Joe stared after him, knowing he couldn’t touch Max. Knowing he had only theories and hearsay, no proof. Knowing a treacherous and deadly man once again walked the streets of London and that he had no way to stop him. If only he did. If only there was some way, some one, some thing, anything, that could show the world what Max von Brandt was.
“Damn you,” Joe said aloud. He picked up a glass paperweight and hurled it at the door. It shattered into a million useless pieces.
Chapter One Hundred Six
Willa Lay sprawled out on her bed, tangled in her sheets, dreaming. She had fallen into a deep, narcotic sleep. A length of rubber tubing lay on the floor next to the bed, along with a syringe. A thin trickle of blood dripped from the inside of her right elbow.
She dreamed that she was standing on a platform at a train station, all alone. It was late and dark. A cold wind howled. It was a dangerous place. She knew she had to get out of there, but she didn’t know how. There were no exit signs, no doors or stairs, no way out.
She couldn’t quite remember how she’d got here. The pain had been very bad tonight—she remembered that. She’d been walking by the Seine earlier in the evening. She’d gone to buy wine, bread, and cheese. She’d seen a man walking toward her. He was handsome and tall and had red hair, and for the merest of seconds, her heart had leapt and she though it was him: Seamie. But of course it wasn’t. Seamie was dead.
She’d felt so heartbroken afterward, so crushingly alone. The pain of knowing that she’d never see his face again had been agonizing. She’d rushed back to her flat, thrown her food down on the table, tied the tourniquet around her arm, and shot herself full of morphine. Nothing could save her. Not her work. Not Oscar. He was a good man, but she didn’t love him. Couldn’t love him. Something in her had died when Seamie died—her heart. She wanted the rest of her to die now, too.
The train pulled in, billowing steam. She was so glad. The wind had grown colder, the darkness more menacing. She desperately wanted to get on board. Faces, gray and expressionless, looked at her from the windows, but she wasn’t scared of them. Seamie will be on this train, she thought. I know he will. More than anything, she wanted to see his face again, to hear his voice, to touch him. She climbed the steps from the platform to the train, turned into the car itself, and started to walk down the aisle, looking around expectantly for Seamie, but she could not find him. She walked into the next car, and the next. “Where is he?” she said aloud. “Where?” She was running now. Calling his name. But he was not there.
“Willa!”
She stopped and turned around. Was that him? It must be. But where was he?
“Seamie!” she called out. “Seamie, where are you?”
“Willa. Come on, Willa, sit up. …”
She felt pain, sudden and sharp. Someone was slapping her face. Hurting her. Again and again.
“Stop it!” she cried. “Let me go!”
“You’re conscious. Oh, thank God. Willa, open your eyes.”
She tried. But it was so hard.
Hands pulled her into a sitting position. A glass was pressed to her lips. The voice urged her to drink. Willa did so, then forced her eyes open. Josie was leaning over her. She looked terrified. And well dressed.
“You look so nice. Going out?” Willa mumbled.
“That was the idea,” Josie said tightly. “We were going to meet you for dinner. Oscar and me. Remember? How much did you take?”
“Not enough, apparently,” Willa said.
“Come on. Get up,” Josie barked. “You’re going to drink
some coffee and walk this off.”
As Josie tried to get her out of bed, another voice was heard—a man’s. It was coming from the doorway. “Damn it, Willa,” he said. It was Oscar. He looked heartsick.
“I’m sorry,” Willa whispered.
“How could you do it?” he asked her.
“Oh, Oscar,” she said brokenly. “How could I not?”
Chapter One Hundred Seven
Billy Madden picked up his glass of whiskey—his fifth in the last hour—and downed it. On the table in front of him—next to the bottle—was a photograph of his three sons. It had been taken right before they’d shipped off to France. All three were in uniform.
“I still can’t believe it, Bennie,” he said. “William and Tommy dead. And Peter in hospital and a right fucking mess. He can’t talk. He can barely walk. All he can do is shake—so fucking hard that he can’t hold a spoon, or a pen, or his own fucking cock. The nurses have to do everything for him.”
Bennie Deen, one of Billy’s heavies, was sitting across from him at a table in the Bark. He was reading a newspaper. It was four o’clock. The pub was quiet. Only a few other men were in it. Bennie lowered his paper now and said, “You’ve got him in a good place, guv. The best place. He’ll get better there. Didn’t that doctor—Barnes, was it?—say that they’re making strides with some of the worst of the lot?”
“Better? What’s better? Maybe one day he’ll be able to walk by himself. Or eat by himself. But he’s never getting out of there. He’ll die in that place. He’ll never have a life, a woman, kids, nothing. He might as well be dead, too.”
Billy poured himself another whiskey. “It’s hardest on me wife,” he said. “She don’t do nothing anymore. She won’t talk. Won’t eat. She just sits in the kitchen, looking out the window. Like she was waiting for them all to come home.”
“Can’t she have no more?”
“No more what?”
“Kids.”
“No, you stupid git, she can’t. She’s old. Forty, forty-one … I don’t know. And even if she could, kids aren’t hats, you know. You lose one, you can’t just fucking replace him. For Christ’s sake, go back to reading the funny pages, will you?”
At that moment, the door to the Barkentine opened and a young, well-dressed woman came inside. She was carrying a stack of newspapers.
“Is Mr. Madden about?” she asked the bartender. The man was just saying no, when she spotted Billy seated in his usual spot by the windows. “Ah! There he is. Thank you so much!” she said to the barman.
“Mr. Madden, might I join you for a moment?” she asked, as she approached his table. “My name is Katie Bristow. I’m the editor and publisher of the Battle Cry, and I work for Sam Wilson, your local member of Parliament.”
“I don’t care who you are, lass, you’re not welcome here,” Billy said. “This ain’t a pub for ladies.”
“Mr. Madden, Sam Wilson has a matter of great importance that he wishes to discuss with you,” Katie said.
“Then why doesn’t he come here himself?” Madden growled. Katie frowned. She looked down at the floor, then back up at Billy. “Just between us, Mr. Madden … I think he’s afraid,” she said. “It’s not everyone who’ll come down to this part of Limehouse.”
“Oh, aye? And why aren’t you afraid, you cheeky little snip?”
“Because I’ve seen you with your son Peter. At Wickersham Hall. At Christmastime. You ate mince pies and didn’t seem terribly fearsome.”
Billy sat back in his chair, dumbfounded that this girl knew about Peter and, moreover, that she had the stones to talk to him so plainly.
“My brother Charlie is a resident of Wickersham Hall, you see,” Katie explained. “He came back from France with severe shell shock. Members of my family founded the hospital. My parents contribute to its upkeep. I go there as much as I can. It’s difficult though, what with my classes, and the paper, and my work for Mr. Wilson. I was there in December, though, and I saw you both—you and Peter.”
“What do want?” Madden said gruffly. He didn’t like talking about his son with strangers.
“The government is in talks with the Germans about siting two motorcycle factories in London. One possible site is in Limehouse, but there is competition. Other MPs are against us. They want the factories situated in their own constituencies. Sam Wilson is going to hold a rally next Saturday in support of the factory. He wants you to come.”
Bennie burst into laughter. “Maybe you can carry the banner, Boss. Hand out badges.”
Madden laughed, too. “You must be joking. You want me to come to a rally … for the Gerries? The same people who started the war that killed two of my sons and damaged the third one?”
“It is not a rally for the Gerries,” Katie said. “It is a rally calling on government to site a German factory here in Limehouse instead of somewhere else. Because the people of Limehouse desperately need work, Mr. Madden. It is one of the poorest areas of London, of the entire United Kingdom. Life expectancy rates here are among the lowest in the country, and everything else—infant mortality, unemployment, crime, malnutrition—are extremely high. You are a powerful figure in Limehouse, Mr. Madden …”
“Too right!” Bennie chimed in.
“… and if people see you come out for it, they will come out for it, and we need numbers if we are to convince government to put the factory here.”
Madden was getting tired of this girl and her tedious speeches. “You’ve got the wrong man,” he said. “Rallies ain’t in my line of work.”
But Katie was not to be deterred. “I know what your line of work is. Must it always be? I saw you with your son, Mr. Madden,” she said quietly. “You were kind and concerned. You were—”
Billy Madden had had enough. Talk of his son made him feel helpless, and feeling helpless made him furious.
“My son is none of your bloody business. Get out. Now,” he said, his voice rising.
Katie blinked, but did not falter. “Can I leave a copy of my newspaper with you? It has a story on the factory. Maybe you could take a look at it sometime.”
Billy was barely keeping his temper under control now. “If I say yes, will you fuck off out of here?” he asked.
“Right away,” Katie replied.
“Yes, then. Leave your bloody paper. If nothing else, the pictures will keep Bennie here amused.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Madden, and thank you,” Katie said, as she placed a copy of the Battle Cry on top of his table.
Madden, staring out at the river, made no reply.
“The fucking cheek,” he said when she was gone. “Wilson can take his bloody factory and stuff it up his arse. I’ll never have anything to do with it or with the bloody Gerries.” He pointed at Katie’s paper. “Take that rag and burn it,” he said to Bennie. Then he poured himself another drink and continued to stare at the river, remembering Peter as he once was.
Bennie reached for the Battle Cry. As he lumbered over to the fireplace with it, he read the cover article. There were photographs to go along with the story, photos of the prime minister and his cabinet and the German trade commission. He stopped short, staring at one of the pictures.
“Oi, guv,” he said, walking over to Madden. “Take a look at this. … Isn’t this the bloke who used to come here? The one who hired a boat from you to take his man out to the North Sea? Name’s different, but I could swear it’s him.”
“What are you on about now?” Madden said.
Bennie put the paper on the table in front of him. “There,” he said, pointing at a picture. ‘Maximilian von Brandt, Spokesman for the German Trade Delegation,’ it says. See him? Second from the left.”
Billy squinted at the photograph. The whiskey had made his mind foggy. “You’re right. It is him. Without a doubt,” he said at length. “Peter Stiles he called himself. Says here his name is von Brandt, though. Well, whatever it is, the son of a bitch cost me a good boatman. John Harris disappeared right after the busies took his man Flynn. If
I ever see Harris again, I’ll gut him for walking out on me.”
Billy kept reading and as he did, the whiskey fog lifted. “Bennie, listen to this. It says here that von Brandt was an officer in the German Army during the war and was pals with the kaiser, and that he’s now a high-ranking government man and that the new guv’nor, Friedrich Ebert, handpicked him to come over to London and make nice.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So? So?” Billy said angrily. “So he lied to us! He came here to the Bark sounding as English as me grandmother. Made out like he was one of us. But that wasn’t true. He was German, Bennie. An officer in Gerry’s army. Pals with the kaiser … it says so right here!”
“So?”
“So, I’ll bet you my right ball that it wasn’t jewelry his man was taking to the North Sea!”
“You … you don’t think he was a spy, guv?” Bennie said slowly.
“No, you daft bastard, I know he was a spy!” Billy said. He shook his head in disbelief. “All that time, Bennie … all that time I thought he was a villain moving some swag. But he wasn’t. And me, Bennie? What was I doing? I was helping Max von bloody Brandt feed secrets to the Gerries. I was helping a dirty spy. Fuck me! No … fuck him!”
Billy stood up, grabbed the whiskey bottle, and threw it across the room. It nearly hit the barman and it shattered the mirror behind him.
“Easy, guv,” Bennie said.
But it was too late. The table Billy had been sitting at went over. Then every table in the room did. Pictures were smashed. Windows, too. Chairs were thrown against the wall. Billy was screaming and cursing, out of his mind. He only stopped his mad rampage when there was nothing left to break.
“I bet it was him who did for my boys,” he said then, wild-eyed and panting. “I bet it was him who gave the Gerries all the information they needed. It’s his fault, Bennie. It’s Max von Brandt’s fault William and Tommy are dead and Peter’s off his nut.”
“You’ve got to calm down, guv. This is no good.”
“Oh, I’ll calm down all right, Bennie. Just long enough to find von Brandt.”
The Wild Rose Page 58