by Gavin Lyall
Spy’s Honour
Gavin Lyall
© Gavin Lyall 1993*
*Indicates the year of first publication.
Contents
Copyright
The Salonika Road
Climbing Spy Hill
A London Club
Keeping the Code
Whitehall Court
A Postcard from Kiel
Cavendish Square
This Faithless Time
About the Author
THE SALONIKA ROAD
1
The journalist put down a pad of coarse writing paper on the café table, tilted and shook the chair to make sure there were no bits of broken glass on it, then sat down. A waiter put a cup of thick sweet coffee and a glass of water in front of him and the journalist nodded, but neither of them spoke.
He sipped the coffee, took out a pencil and wrote: Salonika, November 9. Then, feeling pessimistic about when the despatch would reach London, completed the date: 1912. After that, he stared blankly out at the cold morning, past the big Greek flag that hung in limp folds over the door. He knew just how it felt. He sighed and began to write quickly.
Today, after 470 years of Turkish domination, the Greek Army once more trod the streets of Salonika. It has been a great day for the Hellenes, their goal is reached, their dreams realised. And no ancient army returning victorious to its native Athens ever received a more tumultuous welcome than …
He realised someone was standing beside him and looked up, not moving his head too fast. He wasn’t surprised to see a uniformed officer – the city had more of them than beggars at the moment – but hadn’t expected the uniform to be of a Major in the Coldstream Guards.
“You are English, aren’t you?” the Major said. “Do you know where I can get hold of a horse?”
By the mane, the journalist thought, if there aren’t any reins. But he said: “Not so easy, in a country at war. But if you’ve got money, anything’s possible.”
“Just for a couple of hours or so.”
“There’s a stables in the street behind this place, but don’t blame me if it turns out the Turks have pinched them all to escape on. But if you want to get out to the Greek HQ down the road,” he nodded to the east, “you could get a lift on a supply cart.”
The Major was wearing highly polished riding boots and an expression that said he hadn’t put them on to go jaunting in oxcarts. He looked around the café as if hoping there was a saddled horse half-hidden in some corner, but only saw an old man sweeping fiercely at the chips of glass and crockery welded to the floor by sticky patches of wine.
“It looks as if you had a bit of a party last night.”
“It happens every four hundred and seventy years, I believe.”
Unsmiling, the Major went on: “I suppose you didn’t happen to run across a chap, a British officer in the Greek gunners?”
The journalist perked up. “No, but I’d like to. What’s his name?”
But the Major just nodded and said: “Well, thanks awfully. I think I’ll try that stables.”
Left to himself again, the journalist finished his coffee, beckoned for more, and wrote:
I spent the evening observing exultant human nature from a point of vantage in the principal café, where a huge Greek flag had replaced the Turkish red and white. The appearance of officers in uniform was the signal for the crowd to rise and give vent to more cries of ‘Long live’.
Then he crossed out from ‘cries’ and wrote simply: ‘more Zetos’. If any reader of The Times didn’t understand Greek, he wouldn’t dare to show it by complaining.
The road across the coastal plain must have followed the same line between the sea and the distant snow-dusted hills for thousands of years. Alexander the Great would have ridden it often, and Mark Antony on his way to Philippi to avenge Caesar’s murder. But like so many historical sites the Major had seen, it was frankly just another scruffy place. The road itself was no better than a farm track, soggy and stony at the same time, jolting the wagon at every step the oxen took.
A couple of miles out of Salonika they passed a small crossroads that had been shelled in the last hours of the battle. The road was pitted with small shallow craters that were already filling with rain, and the wreckage of a wagon had been piled at one side. A Greek working party was clearing the scatter of cooking pots, bundles of clothing and prayer mats, and lifting stiff corpses into another cart; one of the dead was clearly a woman. In the field beyond, another group was half-heartedly burying the remains of a horse; obviously the army cooks had had first pick at it.
The Major had never been on a fresh battlefield before and found it difficult to believe that Alexander’s or Antony’s battles had left so mundane a litter.
He got down near the tents of the Greek headquarters and after a flurry of saluting and schoolboy Greek, found an officer willing to look at the documents he had brought. General Kleomanes, the officer apologised, would much regret not greeting him but, alas, their supposed allies the Bulgarians were sending an army to dispute just who owned Salonika …
So the squabbling over the loot had begun already, the Major noted for his report. And perhaps Serbia, the third ally, also had its eyes on such a well-established port; what would the Emperor of Austria-Hungary, Serbia’s northern neighbour, say to that? And the Czar of Russia say to any interference with Serbia? And the Kaiser say to Russian interference? The dominoes of Europe were all ready to topple, and the Major unconsciously stiffened his shoulders as he stood with Antony and Alexander.
Of course, a European war would be a terrible thing, quite dreadful, however short it must be. But it was for the politicians and diplomatists to avoid it. A soldier’s job was to take what came, and if that included action and promotion, so be it. The Major had missed both the Sudan campaign and the South African war.
Good God – suppose the politicians kept Britain out of it!
The Greek officer led him through the neat lines of artillery and machine guns – drawn up not for battle, but to impress the citizens and journalists of Salonika – to a clutch of small buildings beside a railway line. These too had been bombarded, and he thought they were still smouldering until he realised the smoke came from cooking fires and looted stoves.
He paused to look at the shell damage with professional interest. It seemed curiously arbitrary: a patch of wall had been blown apart, some of its stones reduced to a muddy paste, yet a few feet away there was unscratched woodwork and unbroken panes of glass.
A group of officers huddled round a stove glanced at the Major’s papers, glared at him, and gestured out through a doorless back door towards a smaller whitewashed stone building. His escorting officer stayed by the stove.
“Colonel Ranklin?”
The man asleep on a folded tent in one corner had a round, childlike face that aged into strained lines the moment he woke. Then he worked his dry mouth and scratched in his limp fair hair, making grunting noises.
“I’m sorry to be the one to demote you, as it were,” the Major said, “but it’s ‘Captain’ Ranklin again now. I’m here to reclaim you.”
The man levered himself up into a sitting position and scratched vigorously at his thighs. He was short and, despite the last few weeks, slightly tubby. He wore a long goatskin waistcoat over his Greek uniform and hadn’t shaved for some days, but the stubble was so fair that it only showed where it was stained with grime.
“Who the devil are you?” he croaked.
That wasn’t the way you spoke to a Major in the Coldstream. “I represent, at some moves, His Britannic Majesty.”
“Good for you,” Ranklin said, peering at the Major’s uniform in the dim light. “How did you get here?”
The Major decided not to mention the ox
-cart. “On the good ship HMS Good Hope, now anchored in Salonika harbour and waiting, among other things, for you.”
Ranklin got stiffly to his feet. “But I’m number two in this brigade.”
“Not any longer, I fear. It’s all been cleared in Athens.”
He handed over the documents and Ranklin glanced at the preambles and signatures.
“But I resigned my commission in the Gunners.”
“And now, effectively, you’ve resigned from the Greek gunners, too.”
Then Ranklin said what was, to the Major, a very odd thing: “Did you collect my pay?”
The Major’s face stiffened with surprise. “I … I’m afraid it didn’t occur to me.”
Ranklin was wiping his face with a damp rag. “Well, I’m not leaving Greece without it.”
“I was told, unofficially, to pass on a message that I don’t understand: that if you don’t return to London there will be civil as well as military consequences. So shall we get a move on, Captain?”
It wasn’t quite that easy. Having conceded the Major’s basic demand, Ranklin made no effort to hurry. A small boy tending a fire by a large hole in the far wall made him a tin mug of coffee, and Ranklin sipped as he sorted through his kit. Most of it, along with battered tins of tobacco and sugar, he gave away to other officers and gunners who drifted in to say goodbye and scowl at the Major. Nobody even gave him the chance to show his haste by refusing a mug of coffee.
“Who’s the boy?” he asked.
“Alex? He just adopted us on the road. His parents are probably …” he shrugged. “He doesn’t say, doesn’t seem to want to remember them … I suppose it could have been our guns.”
“Some guns had certainly caused civilian casualties at a crossroads I came through. Don’t your chaps look where they’re shooting?”
“Of course not.”
The Major stared. “I beg your pardon?”
Ranklin stopped in the middle of packing a small haversack and looked at him. “Haven’t the Coldstream heard of indirect fire yet? We’ve stopped the sporting habit of putting the guns and gunners out where the enemy can get a decent shot at them. Now we skulk behind hills and forests and shoot over them.” He went back to ramming socks and underclothes into the haversack and said more thoughtfully: “And it works. It really did. Observation and signalling, the clock code, ranging, concentration – everything we’ve been practising since South Africa. It all came together and it worked. Our guns won.”
“Really?” The Major held the low opinion of artillery common among soldiers who have never been shot at. “Well, that’s something you can tell them back in London. And that it makes for a pretty messy war in this part of Europe.”
Ranklin slung the haversack from his shoulder. “We’ve been using French guns, the Turks have German ones. How’s it going to be different in any other part of Europe?”
The Major didn’t know; he just felt that it ought to be. Then he had to wait while Ranklin went in to say goodbye to the Brigadier – and, it seemed, the Paymaster. He came out of the station ticket office counting a roll of worn drachma notes and they walked back to the Salonika road.
Ranklin stowed the money away. “I suppose you’ve got no idea what they want me back for?”
“Not the foggiest, old boy. But after twenty years in the Army,” and he guessed Ranklin had also served nearly that long, “I’m only sure it’ll be something you never thought of.” He was too well-bred to have put into words his feeling about an officer who fought for money, but now he saw a chance to hint at it. “Perhaps they want you for some sort of job in Intelligence.”
CLIMBING SPY HILL
2
The first thing he noticed when he came on deck was the smell, steam and coal smoke, that was both exciting and threatening because it was the smell of travel itself. Just as, to Ranklin, the smell of wood smoke had once meant the security and comfort of his family home.
In the four months since the gun lines at Salonika, he had got back his normal slight tubbiness and his face its clean roundness, with a wisp of fair moustache as ordered by paragraph 1696 of King’s Regulations but invisible at more than a few paces. But what most people remembered about him was the permanent small smile that kept his blue eyes crinkled half-shut and gave him a look of innocent optimism, as if he were looking to buy a solid gold watch off the next stranger.
He had developed that expression over most of his thirty-eight years because he knew a more serious one looked absurd on his boyish face. But it was an expensive smile, attracting beggars and unnecessary but tippable help, and a misleading one. Ranklin leant firmly towards pessimism rather than optimism, no matter what King’s Regulations implied about it being All Right On The Day.
A long shudder rippled through the ferry as its engines slowed and they came into Cork harbour, past the Army forts that guarded the entrance and then the vast steel side of a four-funnelled liner pausing briefly on its run to, or from, America. In New York it might belong; here it looked ludicrously wrong, towering above the islands and headlands that cluttered the bay and standing rock steady while the tenders and bumboats serving it pitched and rolled in the swell.
Closer in lay a row of armoured cruisers, looking less warlike than industrial: all drab, stiff complication like bits chopped off a factory and floated out to sea. And beyond them the port of Queenstown sat on terraces cut into the face of a long ridge that, low as it was, almost scratched the gloomy March sky. The western end, he knew from a map, was called Spy Hill – but so was the highest point in many ports, meaning just the place from which incoming ships were first espied.
He peered through the thin drizzle, searching for Admiralty House, and knew it the moment he saw it because he had seen exactly the same building in every port of the Empire he had visited. With its canopied balconies, tree-shaded garden and tall flagpole, it gazed out over the heads of whatever natives it happened to be guarding with that serene superiority that only the Royal Navy could achieve.
Ranklin smiled at it with renewed pessimism and felt resentfully in his pocket to make sure he had enough change for the porters and cabbies waiting for him ashore.
“Bad luck, your kit not catching up with you,” the Admiral’s Secretary said, politely assuming Ranklin wasn’t dressed as a civilian on purpose. “Happens to us all. Sherry or pink gin? I don’t suppose you know anybody; I’ll introduce you.”
The Secretary was a Staff-Paymaster, with a Commander’s stripes and well senior to Ranklin; fiftyish, bald on top, with a ginger-grey imperial beard. The Admiral himself was at a conference at Dublin Castle: “He sends you his apologies,” the Secretary invented kindly.
The rest of the dinner party was all male, all Naval, and more jovial than the first mouthful of the first drink could justify. Either there was good news around, or the Admiral’s absence was good news itself.
“How’s London?” the most senior – a real Commander – asked.
“Cold and wet and all the taxis on strike,” Ranklin reported.
“Yes, I read something about that,” a senior Lieutenant chipped in. “The cost of petrol, isn’t it? Eightpence a gallon. Damn it, we must pay more than that here, don’t we?”
“Since you’re the only one with cash to waste keeping a car on these roads, you should know,” the Commander said.
The Lieutenant shook his head. He had a face that was both lean and limp with a puzzled expression, as if the world were always moving too fast for him. “I notice you didn’t turn down the offer of a lift, but damned if I know what I pay for petrol.”
There was a general chuckle and a junior Lieutenant forgot himself and tried to be funny.
“Why don’t you get one of your clerks to embezzle David’s pay?” he suggested to the Secretary. “He’d never notice and you could divvy it up among the rest of us.”
This time there was a general silence and the Commander growled: “Not in the best of taste.”
The Secretary stepped in to save the bew
ildered Lieutenant. “You’ve been on leave, haven’t you, Ian? Well, I’m afraid one of the Paymaster’s clerks is up for misuse of funds – and Lord knows what else, when the investigation’s complete. Sorry to wash our dirty linen in public, Ranklin.”
“Oh, I think the Army’s washing line’s quite as busy.” And they smiled gratefully.
“The funny thing,” David said, “is that he got caught trying to pay it back.”
“Ah,” the Secretary said. “That’s the great mistake. There’s no column in an accounts ledger for repentance. If you’ve been clever sneaking money out, you have to undo all that cleverness to get it back – and at best you end up with two irregularities instead of one and double the chance of starting an investigation.”
“I wonder what’s the theological view on that?” the Commander mused. “Repent not lest ye be found out. How’s that entered in the Great Ledger Up Yonder?”
“If you meet any ledgers in the next life,” the Secretary said with feeling, “it’s proof you’ve been posted to the Other Place. Shall we go in?”
Leading the way as their guest, Ranklin heard behind him David saying plaintively: “But where did he get the money to pay back?”
“Lucky with the gee-gees – at last,” the Commander suggested.
“But what races – in the weather we’ve been having?”
3
As with the drawing room, the dining room furnishings must have been provided by the Admiralty, giving the impersonal harmony of a stage set: “Act II, a room where visiting Royalty and lesser species may sit around a large dignified table on hard dignified chairs and, when the conversation lags, stare at pictures of sailing ships where at least the rigging is accurate. A few conventional souvenirs such as a Zulu shield and Chinese vases are permitted, to show that the Admiral has actually been abroad.”
But for all that, it was still a warriors’ dining room, full of familiar rituals, Ranklin’s own world more than any he had known. Only it wasn’t, not any longer. His ease with the routines, the conversation, even the jokes, was real – but still a sham, because he didn’t really belong. He himself, not his behaviour, was the pretence.