Spy’s Honour

by Gavin Lyall

  “You’re Worcestershire, aren’t you?” David asked quietly from his place at Ranklin’s elbow.

  Instantly wary, Ranklin said: “Yes, originally.”

  “I knew your brother John, not very well, but – I was dreadfully sorry to hear of his death. A shooting accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Realising Ranklin didn’t want to talk about it, David hadn’t got the knack of changing the conversation completely. “Well – at least you didn’t have to resign the Army to take his place.”

  “No.” What place? he thought sourly, then accepted that he had to find a new topic for himself. “D’you know what time the Maggie Gray will be getting in?”

  He probably should have said “moor” or “berth” but that wasn’t what caused the flurry of Naval glances. The Secretary coughed and said: “I don’t think we’re expecting her until, ah, sometime tomorrow morning, are we?” He looked to the Commander for help, and got it.

  “With a southerly wind the channel’s tricky enough even by day, and it only needs to back a couple of points and she’d have to anchor in the roads. And I’ve known times when the big liners have just passed us by – eastbound, that is – too rough for the tenders to go out, and with a boat train to meet at Southampton …”

  “You haven’t had a signal from her, then?” Ranklin asked timidly.

  The chuckle around the table was unforced, if cynical. “From a Merchant wireless operator?” the Commander said. “Most of them aren’t qualified to put in a new light bulb. It’s absurd that we have to transport our stores, ammunition and … er, everything, in chartered merchantmen. The South African war cost us … well, I don’t know, but quite ridiculous. What we need, and it’s for the Army’s sake as much as anything, is a cargo fleet manned by our own people …

  So, with the SS Maggie Gray apparently still out of sight and mind, the conversation sailed on through the savoury, the passing of the port and the loyal toast. Then the butler, clearly an ex-sailor from the days of wooden ships, passed the silver box of cigars. Ranklin chose the smallest, perhaps subconsciously hoping that when it was finished they could finally get down to business – although how, with this crowd around, he didn’t know.

  But the Secretary calmly chose a cigar like a truncheon and, when he had finally got steam up on it, started a mock-pompous tirade against the junior Lieutenant for smoking a cigarette.

  “You admit it’s a filthy habit and that’s just the point: it’s a habit when it should be a pleasure …”

  Shut up, go away, and leave us to get on with it! Ranklin screamed silently. And, as if he had read Ranklin’s mind, the Commander pulled out a large watch and went through a ritual of consulting it, saying: “Well, the Navy may be going to the dogs, but I’m going to my night’s repose.”

  There is always something artificial about such leave-taking, with juniors following their seniors’ lead, but this seemed more planned than most. Nor were there any farewells between those leaving, no “I’ll see you at …” or “Will you be going to …?” They just left, in a bunch, having made clear to Ranklin that he should stay.

  Well, perhaps the Secretary had, after all, given them orders – though the whole dinner had been unnecessary, in Ranklin’s view.

  “Bring your glass through,” the Secretary commanded. “Give them a chance to clear the table.”

  In the drawing room he half opened the long curtains across the French windows that led onto the house-length balcony and ornate stone steps into the garden. From there, in anything but fog, the Admiral could stare out over the whole bay, now a long low constellation of riding lights and lit portholes, threaded by slow comets that were the sparking funnels of tugs and tenders still at work.

  “I wonder,” he mused, “if we’ll dare be showing all these lights this time twelvemonth? Or even six months?” He sighed and let the curtain drop. “Now, Captain, will you please tell me what your orders are?”

  From being too polite, the conversation had suddenly become a great deal too blunt. But, Ranklin reflected, he was the junior and very much on Naval territory. And it wasn’t as if he were going to tell the whole truth anyway.

  “I believe you’ve had a signal about the rumour that the Fenians are going to make an attempt on the Maggie Gray and her cargo?”

  The Secretary nodded. “We have full precautions in hand.”

  “I have been detailed, with your co-operation, to take charge of one man who is thought to be involved in the attempt. If your people catch him. Even if they kill him.”

  The Secretary was registering surprise and some distaste. “What an extraordinary business.”

  “The man is not Irish,” Ranklin said quickly, “nor English, and couldn’t pass for either. He’s expected to be sailing for America in the next day or so, after … whatever happens. I spent the afternoon doing a round of the shipping offices …” It had been a dispiriting experience, jostling through crowds of Irishmen and – far fewer – women, all intent on leaving their homeland and the Empire he was sworn to defend for the hope-paved streets of America; “… but he’s used half a dozen aliases we know of and probably more we don’t so … Anyway, we – my superiors – just want to stop him sailing but keep him out of the hands of the police.”

  “And lawyers and courts and newspapers, hey?” the Secretary said shrewdly. “Well I won’t say the Navy hasn’t done that before. But who are your superiors? Who are you, come to that?”

  “Oh, I’m just a Gunner, pure and simple,” Ranklin said, wishing it were true. “This is just one of those odd tasks; I was spare, between appointments …”

  “Hmmm. I expect you’ll be glad to get back to your pure and simple gunnery. If I may take advantage of my age and give some advice, don’t let them – whoever they are – get you too mixed up in these sorts of carry-ons. There’s altogether too much of it about these days, spying and so on. We may need it in India and Ireland, too, sometimes, but it’s got nothing to do with honest-to-God soldiering and sailoring. We’re in clean, honourable professions and it’s our duty to keep ’em that way. And if they want spies, let ’em comb the jails for such people.”

  Like most landlocked sailors (and deskbound soldiers, to be fair) the Secretary talked a strong line in blood and thunder. But Ranklin mostly agreed with him. He nodded and said: “Oh, quite, absolutely,” with sincerity, then asked: “Can you tell me what the arrangements are for the Maggie Gray when she arrives?”

  “She’ll unload at Haulbowline – that’s the berths on the dockyard island in the bay.”

  “Is that normal routine?”

  “Oh yes. Most Naval stores go ashore there, most of them are distributed to our ships by tender anyway. That’s how the ammunition will get to your forts: they’re the devil’s own job to reach by land; the roads here aren’t made for lorries, especially in winter.”

  Ranklin could well believe that, but still found it odd that the Navy’s first thought when moving something was to do it by sea, even over a few hundred yards. But it left a delicate problem.

  “This may sound absurd, sir, but unloading at the island and so on – it doesn’t give anybody much opportunity to interfere.”

  The Secretary raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Do you want them to have a chance? Yes, I suppose you do, if you want to catch one of them. But the matter of safety has to come first, and since we’re talking of five hundred tons of ammunition – ”

  “Almost impossible to turn into bombs. Though, of course, the Fenians might not be expert enough to realise that.”

  “Quite possibly, but suppose their plan is just to set the ship on fire? D’you want a blazing ammunition ship along the quayside by the town down there? You can’t expect us to take any risk of that.”

  Ranklin nodded glumly. He had realised from the start that he could fail, but knowing nothing of the routines here could not see in detail why he would fail, so he hadn’t felt too depressed. But now he saw precisely how.

  Only that mea
nt that the ambushers should fail for just the same reason, and they must have known the unloading routine here when they made their plan. And a mere explosion – however unmere it might be considered as an explosion – didn’t sound like the ambition of the man he was after.

  He was in a tricky situation. “If,” he said cautiously, “an attempt is to be made, is it possible that the Fenians know something that, er – I don’t?”

  “Quite impossible.” Then the Secretary realised he had said that too quickly, and added: “Of course, I can’t tell just how much you do know.”

  “When you say ‘impossible’ do you mean there is something, but you think it’s impossible that they should have found it out?”

  The Secretary gave him a cold and senior look. But Ranklin was thinking of the rest of the dinner party leaving in a bunch, perhaps with a purpose that wasn’t the Commander’s “night’s repose”. “Could it be,” Ranklin ploughed on, “that you expect the Maggie Gray a good deal earlier than I’ve been led to believe?”

  “If so,” the Secretary said blandly, “it would be earlier than certain others have been led to believe as well.”

  You bloody old fool, Ranklin thought; didn’t you realise that the very existence of a plan to ambush the ship means they’ve got a source of information inside your dockyard? And if you haven’t caught that source, you’ve no idea what information it’s passing on.

  With careful calm, he said: “We – and I include my London superiors – are all on the same side.”

  “But our aims are different, it seems. I want to save Queenstown from being blown off the face of the earth, you want to catch a particular man. You wouldn’t care to tell me just why capturing him is so important to you – and to whoever your real superiors are?” He smiled a superior smile and puffed on his cigar. “No, I rather thought not. I’m afraid, Captain, that matters will just have to rest there.”

  4

  Only matters didn’t, because at that moment three men stepped quietly from behind the curtains covering the French windows. They carried, respectively, a shotgun, a pistol and a rifle.

  “If ye’ll be keepin’ quiet, gentlemen,” the one with the shotgun said, “we’ll be doing jest the same.” And he patted the shotgun barrels. He had a long face, mostly hidden by a tangle of black moustache and beard, and wore a short seaman’s jacket over whipcord breeches. As his glance searched Ranklin he seemed to hesitate, frowning, and Ranklin had the absurd idea that they had met somewhere before.

  The man with the rifle moved quickly to check the doors to the dining room and corridor; the third man made sure the curtains were properly closed, then turned, and Ranklin certainly knew him, although only from photographs: the man he had come to Queenstown to collect.

  Then the Secretary decided he owed it to his age and rank to say something useless: “What the devil d’you think you’re …”

  “Be quiet, Admiral,” the man with the pistol – Peter, as Ranklin was thinking of him – said with a faint accent.

  The shotgun man chuckled. “Ah, he’s no admiral. But he should be knowing how many’s in the house.”

  “If you think …” the Secretary began.

  “Tell them,” Ranklin said. “It’ll be safer for the servants.”

  “Yer a wise man.” But the dark eyes under the matted black hair were still puzzled about Ranklin.

  The count came out as the butler, a footman and a kitchen maid; the cook lived out and the Admiral’s servant and his wife’s maid had gone to Dublin with them. That sounded right to Ranklin, and he let his nod of agreement show.

  At a word from Peter, the man with the rifle laid it aside – cautiously; he wasn’t used to firearms – and began searching them. He was young, not yet twenty, Ranklin guessed, and probably very scared under his aggressive pose; that made him dangerous. Then he found Ranklin’s card case, opened it, and read out his rank and name.

  The shotgun man gave a little satisfied grunt, then: “And now put it back. It’s got a badge on it, d’ye want that and the story of it showin’ in the pawnshop window?”

  Reluctantly the younger man handed the case back. “And if he’s a captain, where’s his uniform? A spy, more like.”

  “Sure, sure,” the other soothed. “And carryin’ his cards and eatin’ at the Big House for disguise.” He smiled through his beard at Ranklin.

  So he knows me, and knows I can’t remember him, Ranklin thought. But he doesn’t want to announce that; could there be an advantage to me there?

  Then Peter took charge. “You will go and imprison the servants. Here, I am on guard.” He was both taller and younger than Ranklin and held his sharp-faced head with a high, nervous pride. His dark hair and moustache were neatly trimmed, and when he stripped off his shabby overcoat he was wearing evening dress and, more surprisingly, a crusting of elaborate foreign decorations and honours.

  This display enraged the Secretary. “How dare you, sir!” he erupted. “You’re nothing more than a damned bandit!”

  The pistol jabbed towards his stomach. “Do not make me angry,” Peter said. “I need you for my plan but I can make a new plan.” It was the very lack of anger that made them all, even the Irishmen with their own guns, hold their breath. They might kill if it meant something, Ranklin thought; Peter will kill because it means nothing.

  The Secretary swallowed and shut his mouth. “Sit yourself,” Peter ordered, waving the pistol to include Ranklin. They sat in deep chairs from which sudden movement was impossible.

  The other two went out; Peter stationed himself by the fireplace holding the pistol – a pocket-size semi-automatic type – loosely by his side. “You,” he said to Ranklin, “you are a captain of artillery. What do you do here?”

  Ranklin remembered to be properly reluctant and sparse in his answer. “I’m here to inspect the guns in the forts.”

  “And then?”

  “I report back to my superiors.”

  “Report what?”

  “I don’t know yet. I only got here this afternoon.”

  Peter nodded, not really interested, and then looked at the Secretary, who clenched his mouth firmly. Peter smiled. “I do not ask your secrets – I know them already. I just tell you what you must do. I tell you, and you will have time to think how to cheat me. Think carefully. Think how, when you try to cheat me, you can stop me killing you. All of you: him, the servants, the sentries at the gate – yes, I know of them – the men who bring the gold. All of them. We have enough bullets.”

  The gold? Ranklin felt his ears peaking like a rabbit’s. What gold? Whose? – presumably the Navy’s, certainly the government’s – But where, how …?

  He hadn’t controlled his expression and Peter was smiling at him. “Yes, Captain: you did not know about that. Twenty thousand gold sovereigns for the fleet out there. You think your big guns rule the world, but no: it is small guns – ” he gestured with the pistol, “ – and gold.”

  The butler came in, high-coloured and highly indignant, ushered by the black-bearded man who was now carrying the rifle. He held it with familiar ease at the high port position, finger clear of the trigger – and that way, Ranklin remembered who he was. Or had been. This time, he kept his face expressionless, but nobody was looking at him anyway.

  “They’re all locked up,” the man reported, “and the maid so sniffling scared she’d have the footman wrapped round her like a blanket and welcome – if Mick wasn’t watching. I’ll be taking the Captain now, then.”

  Peter nodded. “Yes, take him … Ach, Captain: as an officer, it becomes your duty to be sure the other prisoners stay quiet – and alive.”

  As Ranklin was marched out, Peter began giving instructions to the Secretary and butler: “Remember now, I am Count Viktor de Bazaroff of the Imperial Russian Embassy, asked by your Foreign Minister to give information – most secret – to the Admiral who sails with the fleet …”

  The only basement room with a proper lock was the wine cellar, lit by a single unshaded light bu
lb and, of course, unheated. The kitchen maid, pale, wide-eyed and tear-stained, sat huddled in a nightgown and a blanket at the end of a rack of dusty bottles. The footman, in his shirt sleeves and collarless, leapt up from his seat on a wine box as Ranklin came in. He was little more than a boy and it was only the audience of the kitchen maid, Ranklin guessed, that was keeping him calm.

  And perhaps only these two who are keeping me calm, Ranklin’s thoughts confessed. But of course he had to take charge of them: it was expected of him, no matter that they weren’t his servants and the situation wasn’t of his making nor understanding. No matter how badly he did it.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” he announced, then corrected himself. “Nothing that worrying will improve, anyway. We just have to wait – and keep quiet. I’ve been nearly twenty years in the Army and I know there’s times not to try and be clever. This is one.” He realised he was speaking mostly for the two Irishmen behind him, and hoped they were listening. “Now, lad, if that’s a case of brandy you’re sitting on, get out a bottle. There must be a corkscrew around somewhere, so we’ll all have a tot to keep us warm.”

  “A thoughtful deed, Captain,” the black-bearded voice said over his shoulder. “Though when was drinking permitted in cells?”

  “Just a mouthful. And for yourself?”

  “Thank ye, Captain, but I’ll get by a while without. Step into the corridor when ye’ve finished dispensing rations.”

  The corridor was just as dimly lit and a waggle of the shotgun – they had swapped weapons again, and “Mick” with the rifle had gone back upstairs – suggested he shut the cellar door behind him. They stared at each other.

  “Well, now, Captain …”