Jack of Spies

by David Downing

  He was woken by the clanging of wheels on an iron bridge, and a lift of the curtain revealed an impressive river. The Mississippi, he guessed—another picture put to a name. He spent the morning in the observation car, staring out at the snow-covered fields of Iowa and Illinois. Caitlin appeared as the train entered the outskirts of Chicago, to tell him she’d find him on the 20th Century.

  He didn’t see her at the Chicago terminus. After checking his suitcase, he found the cable office and sent off his message to Cumming, then consulted his watch and walked outside in search of a taxi. “Can you get me to the lake and back in an hour?” he asked.

  “In twenty minutes, bub.”

  “Then show me some sights on the way.”

  They drove down through a canyon of skyscrapers to the ice-fringed lake, where he got out and stared for a few moments, feeling faintly ridiculous. On the return trip, the taxi stopped at lights underneath elevated tracks, and the thunder of a passing train was such that he feared it might fall through. He was back at Union Station in plenty of time and enjoyed walking down the long red carpet laid out for passengers on the famous express.

  The train was still in the suburbs when she found him in his seat, took his hand, and led him to her compartment. For the next twelve hours, they talked, ate, made love and slept—it was like being back on the boat, except that now the whole journey was ending. It seemed to McColl that the only subject they had deliberately avoided, on both this train and the last, had been their future, or the lack thereof.

  They could avoid it no longer.

  “How long are you staying in New York?” she asked, with a brittleness in her voice that seemed completely out of character.

  “I don’t know. A week, maybe two. Maybe even longer.”

  She was silent for a moment. “What are we going to do?” she asked, and before he could reply, she supplied the answer. “We will go our own ways, as we said we would. We’ll make the most of each other until the day we have to part, and when that day comes, we’ll wish each other well and try not to cry.”

  The Giant Racer

  The train drew to a shuddering halt beside one of Grand Central’s subterranean platforms at precisely nine-thirty in the morning, and McColl lingered in his seat for a few moments, wondering how best to make his exit, in the midst of a sheltering swarm or out in the open where a prospective assailant would find it harder to surprise him. Deciding it was six of one, half a dozen of the other, he joined those squeezing out through the vestibule and stepped down onto the platform.

  At least he didn’t have Caitlin to worry about. Unspecified family members were waiting to welcome her home, and McColl had gladly gone along with her wish to introduce him at some later date. It was bad enough being British—putting her loved ones in the line of German fire was unlikely to win him much kudos as a potential suitor. If that was what he was.

  He walked slowly up the platform, scanning the moving crowd for signs of hostile intent. With the grip of his suitcase in one hand and the butt of his pocketed gun in the other, he was approaching the ticket barrier when a familiar smile came into view.

  It was Jed, wearing a smart new fedora with the suit he had bought from Li Ch’ün.

  McColl smiled back but didn’t relax his guard. Once through the barrier, he urged his brother across the cathedral-like concourse until they both had their backs to the wall of the baggage-checking room. “I don’t want to sound too dramatic, but there may be another killer waiting for me,” McColl said quietly in explanation.

  Jed’s instinctive laugh lasted a few split seconds. “You’re kidding! But …”

  “Unfortunately not. And yes, there are things I have to tell you. But let’s get out of here first. A cab, I think. And keep your eyes open. Shout if you see anyone coming toward us.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Anyone but him.”

  Jed shook his head—in wonder, not refusal. “The cabs are that way,” he said, pointing out two flights of steps on the far side of the concourse.

  As they walked across, it seemed to McColl that the cavernous grandeur of the place was designed for drama. An assassination here would certainly make the front pages.

  But no one came at them with knife, gun, or bomb as they wove their way through the thinning crowd. Outside, the sky was gray, the cabs queuing up for fares. With one look back, McColl clambered into the first in line and breathed a little easier.

  “Thirty-sixth and Fifth,” Jed told the cabbie, who looked Italian. “I thought you’d like to see the showroom and then go on to the hotel. But …”

  McColl was staring back over his shoulder as they pulled out onto Forty-Second Street. As far as he could see, there was no other cab in pursuit. “I’ll explain it all to you and Mac,” he told his brother. “Tonight, when we’re alone,” he added quietly, with a nod toward their apparently oblivious driver.

  Jed laughed and shook his head again. “What have you got yourself into?”

  It was clearly a rhetorical question. McColl sat back and reacquainted himself with New York City, which he’d last seen almost five years earlier. There were many more automobiles competing for road space with the streetcars, buses, and traditional horse-drawn traffic, and the sidewalks seemed even more choked with pedestrians than he remembered. The noise was tremendous—those not shouting were pressing on their car horns. America’s premier city combined London’s modernity with almost Oriental bustle.

  The buildings seemed taller, though that might just be his memory playing tricks.

  They drove past the impressive public library, which had still been under construction on his last visit and which Caitlin had told him she often used for research. Two stone lions stood guard outside the entrance.

  The showroom in which Jed and Mac had rented space was a few blocks farther south on Fifth Avenue. It was twice the size of the one in San Francisco, and McColl couldn’t fault the location. He could just make out the bottle green Maia through the left-hand window, cloaked as it was by a line of admiring spectators.

  Mac was busy giving a young and rich-looking couple a guided tour of the automobile, which still appeared in gleaming good shape, considering the time spent in freighter holds and boxcars. “We’re showing her off until two and using the rest of the afternoon for trial drives,” Jed explained. “This is only our third day, and we’re full up till Wednesday.”

  “Wonderful,” McColl said. He was pleasantly surprised. Maybe the market in one-of-a-kind luxury automobiles would last longer than he thought.

  After booking the young couple an appointment, Mac came over to shake his hand. “Good trip?”

  “He’s still got people trying to kill him,” Jed said in a low voice. He was trying to sound flippant, but McColl could hear the anxiety.

  “I’ll talk to you both tonight,” he promised. “But right now I need a bath. Where’s our hotel?” Jed had cabled him the name—the Aberdeen—but not the address.

  “It’s four blocks south, on Thirty-Second Street. They’re expecting you.”

  “Great. I’ll see you both back there.”

  He could have walked or taken a streetcar, but another cab seemed the prudent option and took only a couple of minutes. The hotel looked fairly new, the lobby laid out and furnished in the modern style. He collected his key from reception and followed the bellboy into the elevator for the ride to the fourth floor. His room was at the front and came with a spotless bathroom. He decided not to worry about how much it was costing.

  He’d been soaking in the bath for about twenty minutes when a rap on the outer door had him reaching for the gun that he’d left on the washstand. He sat there in the water, ears straining for any indication that someone was trying to get in, but all he could hear was the traffic outside.

  Somewhat belatedly he realized that he hadn’t checked the wardrobe.

  He was really working himself up, he thought. He climbed out, wrapped himself in a towel, and went to investigate.

  The wardrobe w
as empty, but someone had pushed an envelope under his outer door. Presumably a bellboy had rapped on the door, hoping for a tip.

  “The coffee shop downstairs,” the note inside the envelope read. “The old man couldn’t make it.”

  It was the first half of the password that he’d received by cable. McColl dressed, put the letter copies in his inside pocket, and went down in the elevator. The coffee shop had a line of wooden booths with leather cushions arranged along one wall, beneath a mural depicting an Arcadian wilderness. There were people in most of the booths, but only one hand was beckoning him over.

  “Jack!” the man said. “I’m afraid the old man couldn’t make it.” The accent was American enough, but it wasn’t from New York City.

  “I’ll be seeing him at the weekend,” McColl replied, completing the exchange of passwords and sliding into the opposite seat. The man across the table was about his own age, wiry, with dark bushy hair and a dark mustache that failed to conceal a slightly crooked mouth. He still had his winter coat on, but his hat was on the seat beside him.

  “Coffee?” he asked, and raised a hand to call the waitress over. She looked about sixteen but took their order with the air of someone who’d been there forever.

  Once she’d gone, McColl’s contact offered a cigarette and introduced himself. “I’m Kensley, Nathan Kensley.” He took a quick look over his shoulder, presumably to make sure that no one else was in earshot. “I’m in charge of the network here, such as it is.”

  “And you report directly to Cumming?” McColl asked. The way the various intelligence organizations had evolved over the last few years, it was often hard to identify a chain of command.

  “And no one else,” Kensley confirmed, as if he understood only too well why the question had been asked. The coffee arrived, along with the napoleon that Kensley had ordered for himself. He took a large bite, then wiped the cream from his lips and mustache with a napkin. “So no problem at Grand Central.”

  “You were there?”

  “I was keeping an eye. Cumming has had a word with a German friend of his, an old contact from his navy days who still has some clout in Berlin. He asked him to use his influence to get the dogs called off.” Kensley shook his head in apparent wonder. “Cumming seems to think that this is just a few rogue operatives exceeding their authority, that their superiors are still willing to play the game the way gentlemen should.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “Oh, he may be right, if only because the Germans know that their operatives are as vulnerable as ours in a free-for-all. But I doubt it. I’d say they’re beginning to pursue intelligence work with the seriousness it deserves—and we should do the same.”

  “So I shouldn’t stop looking over my shoulder?”

  “No. Or not yet, anyway. Now, where are these letters?”

  McColl handed the copies over and sipped at his coffee while the other man skimmed through them.

  “Interesting,” Kensley said reflectively once he’d finished. “I’ll send these off to Cumming this afternoon. How, exactly, did you get hold of them?”

  McColl went through the circumstances, from the young Palóu’s camera catching Father Meagher outside the Ghadar office to his own nefarious activities on the Overland Limited.

  “Okay,” Kensley said when he was finished. “And I got the message about the priest staying over in Chicago. But you didn’t say how many days.”

  “He never said, and asking might have made him suspicious. He’s that kind of man.”

  “Not to worry—I’ll have someone check with the railroad. But I’ll want you with me at Grand Central when he does get in—he may be the only priest on the train, but if there’s a whole convention, I’ll need you to finger him.”

  “Fine,” McColl agreed. “Just let me know when.”

  “Will do. Now, one other question—what’s left of your cover? The Germans obviously know you work for us, but who else?”

  McColl thought about it for a moment. “I had no actual contact with any of Har Dayal’s people in San Francisco, and I used a false name when I hired the private detective to keep watch on them, so I’ve no reason to believe that the Indians would recognize me or even my name. And the same goes for the Irish. There was no mention of me in de Lacey’s letter to Devoy, and Father Meagher obviously didn’t know who I was or he’d have watched me like a hawk. So it’s just a matter of whom the Germans have told. And since they don’t seem to have shared their knowledge with their allies on the West Coast, we can only hope that they’re equally tight-lipped here.”

  Kensley asked if they had access to a photograph.

  “Not that I know of. There was one in the Shanghai paper, but it was dark and blurred—my mother would have had trouble recognizing me.”

  The American looked relieved. “Okay. So how long are you staying? Do you have your passage home booked yet?”

  “No. My boss in London is expecting me back by the end of the month, but a few days here or there won’t make much difference.”

  Kensley raised an eyebrow. “Business must be good, to stay in a place like this.”

  McColl sighed. “Not that good. My colleagues made some sales in Chicago without me, and they got a bit carried away.”

  “Still …”

  “Oh, I’m not complaining. Or moving. How long have you been in New York?”

  Kensley hesitated, as if weighing up whether to answer. “About five years. I came down from Toronto in 1909. I was a policeman there.”

  “A Mountie?”

  Kensley grimaced. “A detective.”

  “Of course. So how do we keep in touch?”

  Kensley took a card from his pocket and passed it over. “If you ever need to speak to me, ring that consulate number and leave a message for me. Say that Jack called. I’ll leave messages for you at the hotel reception. Or I may simply turn up in the lobby. If you see me, just walk on by and meet me here in the coffee shop a few minutes later. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Kensley slid himself out of the booth, stood up, and raised a hand in farewell as he turned to leave. As the Canadian pressed his hat down over his bushy hair, McColl was reminded of someone trying to close the lid of an overfull suitcase.

  But the man seemed intelligent, which boded well.

  McColl went back up his room and had almost finished unpacking when someone else rapped on his door. He took his gun from the suitcase, stood to one side, and asked, “Who is it?”

  “Your brother,” Jed said loudly.

  McColl put the gun back under a pillow and opened the door. “How did it go?”

  “Not bad. One definite and three probables, I’d say.”

  “Great.”

  “So Mac and I thought we could all celebrate with dinner and a show. If you don’t have anything else planned?”

  “Sounds wonderful. When are we leaving?”

  “Soon as you’re ready.”

  It proved an enjoyable evening once the elephant in the room had been wheeled out and discussed. McColl knew that Cumming would disapprove—to put it mildly—of his revealing anything of his Service activities, but as long as Jed and Mac were also in the line of fire, they deserved some sort of explanation. He didn’t tell them everything by any means, but he did admit to working, on a part-time basis over several years, for a government organization.

  “It started when I went to Russia in 1909,” he went on once they’d secured a table in a Broadway restaurant and ordered roast turkey with all the trimmings. “An old acquaintance from Oxford looked me up a few weeks beforehand and said that a friend of his had a proposition that might interest me. So I went to see this friend, who knew more about my upcoming Russian trip than I did. He had a short list of Russians whom he wanted me to get in touch with—men he and his superiors thought they could count on to support England in an international crisis.” The spoken appeal had been to his patriotism, but he had eventually come to realize that Cumming had deliberately seduced him with the
unspoken promise of adventure.

  “I won’t go into details,” he continued. “You get the general idea. This man—the one who sent me—was willing to pay me a small amount for doing this, to cover expenses and supply a little profit on the side, but he was very insistent that I should see such work primarily as a means of serving my country. And I did. I do. I went to Tsingtau for him—I’m sure you can guess what for—and I ended up having to make a run for it. The man with the knife in Shanghai was almost certainly hired by the Germans to make an example of me. There was another attempt in San Francisco that you don’t know about—another man with a knife waiting in my wardrobe—”

  “What?” Jed exclaimed.

  “Yes, I know. But I was luckier second time around—someone warned me there was an intruder in my room, and the British consul called in the federal police to deal with him. The reason I’m telling you both all this is that the Germans may have another go, and it’s possible—not likely, but possible—that they’ll try again when the three of us are together. So keep your eyes open whenever you’re with me.”

  “But there was no one waiting at the station when you arrived,” Mac said hopefully.

  “No, and there’s a chance a deal has been done between London and Berlin—a sort of gentlemen’s agreement to let each other be. But we can’t count on it, so be careful.”