Closed Circle
Page 31
As I rounded the bend, I remembered the gun waggling in my hand, and paused to shove it into the bag. Then I ran on, down and over a stone bridge across the river, then up again past what looked like army barracks. I was aware of people staring at me and pointing, of one or two shouts in my wake. I reached a railway bridge and a busy cross-roads. An east-bound tram was picking up passengers to my left. I ran towards it and leapt onto the platform just as it was pulling away.
‘Saints preserve us,’ said the conductor as I cannoned into him. ‘Aren’t you in a tearing hurry to be somewhere else?’
I was. But where? Where exactly was I to go? Klaus and O’Reilly were surely not Faraday’s only assistants. Others might be waiting for me at the Shelbourne. Yet I had no other refuge in this alien city. I was a fugitive with nowhere to hide. Except in England, of course. Except in the country I knew. I had a start on them, a precious start I was determined not to waste. And in my pocket I had a first-class return ticket to London. ‘Kingstown,’ I said abruptly. ‘I must get to Kingstown. Dun Laoghaire, I mean.’
‘Call it what you like, sir, I can’t help you there. We only go to Eden Quay.’
‘I must get to Dun Laoghaire,’ I said, grabbing his arm for emphasis.
‘Then calm yourself. A stroll over the bridge from Eden Quay will bring you to Tara Street station. You can get a train to Dun Laoghaire from there every half hour at least.’
‘Thanks,’ I let go of him. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No need for your apologies, sir. Just your fare will make me a happy man.’
The tram clanked and swayed on its agonizing crawl through Dublin’s crowded streets. Watched suspiciously by other passengers, I bound my bleeding hand in a handkerchief and mopped the sweat off my face, glimpsing reflections of myself, wild-eyed and dishevelled, in the windows opposite. I held the bag in my lap, never once letting go of the handle, and tried desperately to order my thoughts.
How and when had Diana communicated with Faraday? It could scarcely have been before we left Dorking, unless it was during the hour I had waited for her in the library. But perhaps she had not needed to. Perhaps Vita had done it for her. In which case her letter to Charnwood had been intended to make him see me alone, sparing Diana the painful necessity of explaining her treachery to us and leaving the way clear for Faraday to surprise us.
Not that he had surprised Charnwood. The gun and the phial of prussic acid – if it existed – proved he had expected to be betrayed. And that proved Faraday right about the records of the Concentric Alliance. They were Charnwood’s suicide note. They were his farewell to the world. And it was up to me to ensure the world received his farewell.
Speed was of the essence. The longer I delayed, the likelier it was I would fail. The Concentric Alliance was everywhere. But such an extensive organization might react slowly to events. If I could contact Duggan and exploit his Fleet Street connections, it was possible – just possible – that we might pre-empt them. But first I would have to reach England.
I was in luck at Tara Street, racing up the steps just in time to catch a late-running train to Dun Laoghaire. But the emptiness of the train should have forewarned me of the disappointment lying in wait at the other end.
‘The Holyhead ferry left more than half an hour ago, sir,’ announced the ticket-collector at Dun Laoghaire station.
‘When’s the next one?’
‘In just a little over ten hours, sir.’
‘What?’
‘It’ll give you plenty of time to see the town. A bit more than most folk would think it warranted, to be perfectly honest.’
‘Is there no other way I can get to England?’
‘To be sure there is, sir. Go back into Dublin. If memory serves, there’s a ferry to Holyhead from North Wall Quay about one o’clock.’
Back into Dublin, with more than three hours to wait? No. It was not to be countenanced. Faraday was quite capable of studying a timetable and calculating my options. He would come for me long before any ferry did. ‘There has to be some other way,’ I insisted.
The ticket-collector scratched his head. ‘Well, now, you could go down to Rosslare, I suppose, and cross from there to Fishguard. But that’s an evening sailing too. And more than three hours later than from here. No, no, you’d be much better off going from North Wall.’
‘Nevertheless, when is the next train to Rosslare?’
‘Well, if you took the ten o’clock down to Bray, you could catch the ten thirty-five from there to Wexford and be at Rosslare Harbour by … let me see …’ He thumbed through a dog-eared booklet. ‘Twenty past three.’
With six or seven hours to wait for the Fishguard ferry. But what did that matter? If it was the least logical choice, it was also the choice Faraday was least likely to think I might make. Rosslare it would have to be.
The shock of all that had happened can be the only excuse for my stupidity. It was another hour or so before my brain began to function properly. With a compartment to myself aboard the Wexford train, I reckoned it was time to examine the documents I had very nearly died for and for which three other men had died.
My mouth dropped open when I looked down at the bag and realized the enormity of my mistake. Faraday had only to travel to Dun Laoghaire and describe me to the ticket-collector – ‘Englishman in a hurry with Gladstone bag’ – to be given a detailed itinerary of my future movements. The straight line of my flight had suddenly become the circular despair of a rat caught in a trap.
To my left, the Irish Sea stretched away, grey and tantalizingly smooth, towards the homeland I seemed destined never to reach. How far was the Welsh coast? Fifty miles? Sixty? It might as well have been a thousand for all the difference it made. But self-pity would not give me wings to fly with. I could not go on and I could not go back. There was therefore only one thing to do. At the next stop, I got off the train.
Though no doubt assured of a warm place in the hearts of its true-born sons, Wicklow struck me that chill November morning as just about the grimmest and least welcoming place I could have chosen to take refuge in. Old men in threadbare clothes leaned on every other door-post, sucking at pipes. Barefoot children crouched in the gutters, playing dibs. And huge-girthed women gathered at shop windows to gossip and gripe. Only the dogs paid me any heed, perhaps recognizing in the passing stranger some of their own furtiveness. The rest of the population of Wicklow seemed unaware of my existence. And that, I reminded myself, was just as well.
I made my way to the harbour, sat up on the wall, lit a cigarette and anxiously considered what I should do next. A wind started to get up and toss stray spots of rain in my direction. The barnacled assembly of coasters and fishing smacks began to bob at their moorings. And an idea took tentative shape in my mind. I lit another cigarette, and by the time I had finished it the idea had become a plan of action.
Docherty’s Bar, hard by the quay, seemed as good a place as any to try my luck. The cavernous interior smelt like smoked mackerel soaked in Guinness and most of the customers looked old enough to be able to remember the Great Famine. But the barman seemed an amiable soul, one who might be willing to aid a romantic cause. And he evidently approved of my choice of whiskey.
‘It’s a pleasure to serve a gentleman of discernment,’ he remarked, casting a scornful glance at his other patrons.
‘Perhaps you’d be willing to give me some advice, then,’ I ventured.
‘What advice would you be after, sir?’
‘I was wondering if you knew of somebody with a boat who might be willing …’ I lowered my voice. ‘To run a gentleman of discernment over to the Welsh coast.’
He squinted at me for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. ‘I might, sir. But, now, why wouldn’t you be taking the ferry from Dun Laoghaire … if you don’t mind me asking?’
I smiled. ‘An affair of the heart is the problem. I have a certain young Dublin lady’s retinue of muscular brothers on my trail. They’d be waiting for me in Dun Laoghaire.’
‘But can you see any way out of it?’
‘Maybe I can, sir. Maybe I know just the man for what you have in mind. He’ll be in later. I’ll have a word.’
‘Thank you. I’d be obliged. Meanwhile …’ I drained my glass. ‘I’ll have another tot of your excellent whiskey. And perhaps you’d care for one yourself.’
* * *
Nearly an hour had passed, and I had retreated to a corner table, the bag stowed beneath it at my feet, when a short wiry man with a face like a monkey left a conversation with the barman to join me. Before he had said a word, his stained guernsey, woollen hat and weather-beaten complexion raised my hopes.
‘Mick tells me you want to take a private cruise to Wales.’
‘I do, yes.’
‘I might be able to help you there. I keep a boat in the harbour. Pretty little thing. The Leitrim Lassie. Sturdy as they come. I take fishing parties out in her in the summer. Week-enders from Dublin and such.’
‘And at this time of the year?’
‘Oh, I tend to my lobster-pots in her. She’s kept in trim, don’t you worry.’
‘So, she might be … for hire?’
‘She might. At the right price.’
‘And what would that be?’ I had sufficient cash about me to cater for most contingencies. But I knew he would expect me to haggle.
He looked me up and down, grinned and said without hint of irony: ‘Twenty pounds, sir. A bargain, I think you’ll agree.’
I laughed. ‘Out of the question.’
‘It’s a three or four hour trip. Eight or more for me to see home again. And I can take you to Pwllheli. That’s on the railway, which you’ll be wanting, won’t you?’
‘Er … Yes.’
‘But not the Holyhead line. So, no danger of running into those brothers Mick mentioned.’
‘Even so …’
‘Desmond Rafferty may not come cheap.’ He winked. ‘But he comes awful quiet.’
‘Does he?’
‘Oh yes, sir. As the grave.’
‘I’ll pay you ten.’
‘Fifteen.’
‘All right. Fifteen pounds.’
‘Guineas.’
I sighed. ‘Guineas it is.’
‘Then you have your private cruise.’ He extended his hand. ‘Would a four o’clock sailing suit you?’
Rafferty had business to attend to before we left and so had I. Wicklow Public Library was not likely to be mistaken for the British Museum, but it did possess a current Bradshaw, which contained both bad news and good. Whenever we reached Pwllheli, it would be too late for the last train with onward connections to London. But at least I could be sure of catching the first train in the morning. Then, connections permitting, I would be in London by half past two. I left the library, went straight to the nearest post office and despatched a telegram to George Duggan, care of the Alnwick Advertiser.
Have evidence we need to expose them. Meet me London tomorrow. Rose and Crown, Warwick Street, six o’clock.
HORTON.
By choosing the pub I had taken him to in September and allocating three and a half hours to possible delays on obscure Welsh branch lines, it seemed to me that I had been as cautious as I needed to be. Duggan would go to the North Pole in search of what I was carrying. He at least would not let me down. Nor would I let him down. We needed each other. As never before.
The weather had deteriorated by four o’clock, rain sheeting across the harbour in a stiff westerly. And the Leitrim Lassie looked to my land-lubber’s eye like the kind of craft that should never venture beyond an estuary. But needs must. And Rafferty, resplendent in flapping oilskins, was nothing daunted.
‘Sure, it’s nought but a squall. It’ll blow itself out like one of my wife’s tempers. Settle yourself in the cabin and enjoy the trip.’
The cabin was aft, separated from the wheel-house by a stretch of deck. As soon as we were under way, I retreated to its relative privacy, took the documents from the bag and laid them out on the small chart table. Several hours of solitude lay before me, with Rafferty busy at the wheel. This was the chance I had been waiting for all day to find out just how much knowledge – how much power – Charnwood had placed in my hands. As we cleared the harbour wall and set out on our voyage, I lit the hurricane-lamp, hung it from a beam above the table, and commenced another voyage – into the innermost circles of the Concentric Alliance.
15
SO NOW I knew. All the actions. All the names. All the steps along the path. Charnwood’s secrets were mine, in committee-man’s prose, accountant’s columns and carbon-copied correspondence: worse than I had imagined, because they contained only cunning and logic, where I had expected to find evil and madness. But megalomania featured nowhere in what the Concentric Alliance had done. It had been shaped in Charnwood’s likeness: calm, cautious and calculating, yet always remorseless in its pursuit of profit, and – when necessary – utterly ruthless.
Its origins lay in Charnwood’s mind and in a committee of his leading clients he established in the spring of 1909 to sanction unorthodox investments on their behalf. So far as I could judge from its minutes and resolutions, Charnwood invited its members to take advantage of the political and military connections he had made across Europe during the years he had spent selling weaponry for his father’s firm, Moss Charnwood. He believed Austria-Hungary’s annexation of Bosnia the previous autumn would lead to a world war within five years. And he maintained that his wealth of contacts would enable him to predict its outbreak to the very month. By accumulating large stock-holdings in the shipbuilders, munitions manufacturers and military suppliers of every affected country, buying gold whenever the price dipped, taking out war insurance however punitive the premium and short-selling war-sensitive shares when the time came, he anticipated that they could all in due course reap not simply a vast profit, but a fortune for life. To achieve this, however, they would have to borrow enormous sums to finance investment on the necessary scale. And they would have to be patient.
Charnwood’s clients needed little persuading. Most of them had probably already been won over in private conversations. They agreed to his proposals – and to the need for secrecy and forbearance. Charnwood was entrusted with the records of their transactions and assured of their complete confidence. Capital was borrowed and spent. Other members were co-opted. Sub-committees were established in France, Italy, Germany, Russia, Spain, Switzerland and Austria, presided over by Charnwood. What he had initially called the Special Investments Committee became one of several Concentric Committees, as he dubbed them. And then, some time in 1912, he made his first reference to the Concentric Alliance, a secret triplet of the two armed alliances into which the European powers had divided.
It was early in 1913, perhaps reflecting the ambitiousness of this new title, that discussion began of something euphemistically described as precipitation. Every financial resource of every member had been called upon to take advantage of the crisis arising from the invasion of Turkey’s Balkan provinces by Serbia, Bulgaria, Greece and Montenegro in October 1912. Charnwood’s contacts in Vienna had convinced him Austria-Hungary would not tolerate an enlarged Serbia and that war would therefore result from her expansion into Macedonia. But it had not followed. Emperor Franz Josef, supported by his nephew and heir, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, had held out for peace. So, as their debts mounted and their earlier confidence began to evaporate, the members of the Concentric Alliance started wondering if they could precipitate events rather than wait upon them.
And now the maggot entered the fruit of their greed. Precipitation was only a last resort, Charnwood said, only a sensible precaution. But the maggot grew. And pierced the skin. In September 1913, Franz Ferdinand announced his intention of visiting Bosnia the following June in his capacity as Inspector-General of the Army. Charnwood’s contacts spoke of the dangers of such a visit. If Franz Ferdinand were to be assass
inated, a peaceful voice would be silenced and Franz Josef would have no choice but to avenge his nephew. War must then inevitably follow. Of course, if he were not assassinated … But why not make sure he was? It lay within the Concentric Alliance’s power to do so. Their agents were in effective control of security in Sarajevo. They had penetrated the Black Hand, whose leader, Colonel Dimitrievitch, could be fooled into thinking Austria-Hungary would merely demand expulsion of the ruling Serbian dynasty – something Dimitrievitch himself was eager to bring about – if the Archduke died. And they could place their own marksmen in Sarajevo to guarantee – whatever happened – that he did die.
At every stage of the plan’s development, it was dutifully stated that something was bound to happen to render its implementation unnecessary. As a formula for the suppression of misgivings, this may have served its purpose. But nothing did happen. And the plan was implemented. On twenty-eight June 1914, with every last loan drawn upon and every last investment taken out, ‘events,’ Charnwood dryly reported, ‘were satisfactorily precipitated.’ Within little more than a month, they had what they wanted. And the world had war. The threat posed by Colonel Brosch and an unnamed journalist was acknowledged and dealt with in unspecified fashion. No other threat appeared to exist. The Concentric Alliance had covered its tracks.
I scoured the records of the years that followed for some sign of remorse, some hint of collective guilt. But there was none. Some members must have lost their sons. And Charnwood, I knew, had lost his wife. But, if they regretted what they had done, they stifled such sentiments in the face of the profits which flowed into their accounts, fulfilling, indeed surpassing, all their founder had promised. They never again needed to take a direct hand in history. With what they earned from the war – from every Dreadnought built and sunk, from every army contract for the supply of bully beef and boots, from every shell fired and every gas canister emptied – they could grow fat and wealthier still for the rest of their days. And so they did. Or so, at any rate, they must have thought they would.