The Aquila Project

by Norman Russell

  Neither of them could even pronounce the names on the list that Quiller had pinned up on the staff notice board in the pantry. Monsieur and Madame Adamczyk. Monsieur and Madame Balonek. Monsieur and Madame Boruta. Monsieur and Madame Golombek. Monsieur and Madame Haremza. Doctor and Madame Jasionowski. Monsieur and Madame Malenkoff. Colonel and Madame Kropotkin. Doctor Franz Kessler. Herr Gerdler. Herr and Frau Eidenschenk.

  Ellen giggled. ‘Thank goodness we haven’t got to announce them! Mr Quiller says they’re mostly Poles, but that there are two Russian couples, and four Germans. Quite an affair!’

  The solemn booming of a gong came to them from the entrance hall.

  ‘That’s the first gong,’ said Ellen. ‘Come on, it’s time for us to take our places.’

  In the dining-room the table had been extended to accommodate the twenty dinner guests. The long white damask cloth held a wealth of gleaming china and crystal, and four silver candelabra rose from islands of fresh flowers. Each setting or cover, as Quiller called it, was marked by a small china plaque, upon which was written the name of the guest who was to sit there. A nest of five wine glasses reposed beside each cover. To Vanessa it was an awesome sight. She noticed that young Ellen regarded it as nothing much out of the ordinary.

  The two housemaids and Mary Partridge, the parlour-maid, took up their stations along the wall. Mr Quiller, in evening dress, and sporting white gloves, stood at the sideboard with Alexander, one of the liveried footmen. Despite her determination to remain calm, Vanessa found herself trembling. How much longer would she be able to sustain the fiction that she was a trained servant?

  The gong rang out for a second time, and within the minute the guests, their host, and hostess, trooped into the room. They were all talking animatedly in English, and with a little discreet assistance from Quiller, they found their places. In a moment, a savoury would be served, and Quiller would pour out a small glass of chilled hock.

  Vanessa allowed her eyes to rove across the seated guests. The baron and baroness seemed to have recovered their equanimity: each continued a conversation that had begun outside the room, the baron with Madame Boruta, an elderly lady who was rather deaf, and the baroness with an elegant and urbane gentleman, who, Vanessa thought, was probably Doctor Jasionowski.

  At a sign from Quiller the savoury was served, the three maids being followed by Quiller and the footman, pouring the hock. The conversation at table continued unabated, a kind of low, rumbling murmur from people who had no inhibitions about talking in the presence of servants.

  Snatches of their conversations came to Vanessa. There was talk of the latest Paris fashions, of Mr George Bernard Shaw’s new play. Someone wanted to know what had happened to dear Helga, and whether young Josef had succeeded in securing a commission in the Imperial Guard. Nothing of world-shattering moment was being talked about.

  They changed the plates, and served bowls of Brown Windsor soup without incident, even though Vanessa had convinced herself that serving soup would prove her downfall. Once again, Quiller and Alexander followed the maids with decanters, pouring the second wine. By this time, Vanessa had all but managed to remember the names written on the china plaques. The assembled guests were beginning to assume separate identities.

  Sitting immediately in front of Vanessa where she stood motionless against the wall was one of the German guests, Doctor Franz Kessler. A tall, thin man, he dressed elegantly, and wore a small rosebud in the lapel of his evening coat. The light from the chandelier glanced off the rimless monocle that he wore in his right eye. His fierce moustache put Vanessa in mind of the pictures that she’d seen of Kaiser Bill.

  Doctor Kessler had conducted a quiet, earnest conversation with his neighbour, Herr Gerdler, ever since they had entered the room. The two men seemed to be dwelling in a cocoon of their own making, paying little or no attention to the other guests.

  ‘…I told him in Berlin what was likely to happen, but you know what Count von Donath’s like…. True, His Excellency can be difficult…. The count has a brilliant mind, which one day soon will be able to realize its full potential….’

  Time for the main course. Remember: roast lamb, cut at the sideboard and served directly to the table. Then, she and Ellen to bring round the gravy – you were allowed to talk at this stage, and ask, ‘gravy, sir or madam?’ Mary Partridge and Alexander would follow with the vegetables; then she and Ellen again, with the mint sauce. (You were allowed to talk for that, too). Quiller would come last, with the claret. Move forward now.

  All was going well. The two Germans looked up briefly, and nodded impatiently when Vanessa offered the gravy. She served her side of the table, and returned to the sideboard. The mint sauce was the final ritual connected with the main course, and nothing, surely, could go wrong with that?

  When Vanessa reached Doctor Kessler, she leaned forward at his shoulder, ready to offer him the sauce. It was at that very moment that Kessler uttered the words: ‘He was snooping around at your shop that day. He was in on the attempt to arrest Grunwalski. He’s dangerous, I tell you. His name’s Box. Inspector Arnold Box.’

  Vanessa’s start of surprise jolted her tray, sending a spray of mint sauce down the lapel of Doctor Kessler’s suit. The man bellowed with rage, his face white and contorted as he sprang up from his chair.

  ‘You stupid little fool! Look what you have done! Clumsy, clodhopping girl!’

  The other guests stopped speaking. Baroness Augustyniak permitted herself a smirk of satisfaction. Vanessa tried to sponge down the frantic German’s coat with her napkin, but he seized it from her and flung it to the floor. All eyes were on her, and nobody spoke.

  ‘No real harm done, I think, Doctor?’ The powerful, genial voice of Baron Augustyniak came from the end of the long table, bringing with it a sudden calm. ‘Quiller,’ he continued, ‘you’d better get that girl out of the room. Ladies and gentlemen, let us all do justice to this excellent Welsh lamb.’

  Within moments ‘Susan Moore’ had been forgotten, and the conversations were resumed. Doctor Kessler still looked indignant, and treated Vanessa to a vicious glance, but he held his peace. Vanessa felt the tears stinging her eyes. How rotten it all was! Although she was not really a servant, she felt second-rate and inadequate. She saw little Ellen looking at her with a mixture of mute sympathy and bewilderment.

  Mr Quiller escorted Vanessa to the door, speaking in low tones. ‘Alexander, you take over Moore’s duties. Moore, you’d better make yourself scarce for the rest of the evening.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Quiller.’

  The butler quietly opened the door, and Vanessa slipped through into the hallway.

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, my girl,’ he whispered, and then shut her out of the room.

  9

  The Arrest of Gertie Miller

  VANESSA STOOD FOR a moment in the deserted hallway of White Eagle Lodge, and attempted to master her rising inclination to scream with impotent rage. How dare that arrogant foreigner call her stupid! She was not afraid of his ill-bred rages. Why, he looked like a comic parody of the Kaiser! And how dare Baron Augustyniak, her master, dismiss her from the room as though she were someone beneath his notice!

  It took her some time to master her rage, but when she did, it was succeeded by a sudden and alarming flood of tears. She was not the crying kind; these tears were for her humiliation in front of her young friend Ellen, and her sense of failure in having let down Mr Quiller. She had only been in the house four days, but she was already beginning to think of herself as a bona fide member of the household.

  She heard someone push open the green baize door from the kitchen, and hastily hid herself in the recess beneath the staircase. Albert, the second footman, appeared, pushing a trolley laden with glasses and decanters. Rage and tears forgotten, Vanessa joined him. She realized that he was setting out the refreshments for the baron’s private meeting in the study after dinner.

  ‘Do you want any help, Albert?’ she asked.

  ‘Why aren
’t you in the dining-room?’ Albert, a stout and stolid young man, was looking straight ahead, intent on manoeuvring his rattling burden across the tiled floor and into the carpeted corridor.

  ‘I spilt mint sauce on one of those Germans,’ Vanessa replied, ‘and the master had me thrown out! So I’ve nothing to do.’

  ‘Thrown out, hey?’ Albert smiled, and glanced at Vanessa. ‘Come on, then, Susan,’ he said. ‘You can help me set this lot out, and then wait for me to come back with the coffee. You’ve been crying, haven’t you? Don’t take any notice of that kind of thing. It’s all forgotten by the next morning, and you learn from the experience.’

  A temporary buffet had been set up against one wall of the baron’s study, and it was here that they set out two crystal decanters, six brandy glasses, and several boxes of cigars. Vanessa opened the door for Albert, and he pushed the trolley out into the corridor. When he was out of sight, she quickly surveyed her surroundings.

  The study was the last room along the corridor, which ended in a glazed door giving on to the garden at the side of the house. Directly opposite the study door was the entrance to a chilly, unlit room, evidently used for flower arrangements. Like the garden door, it was glazed with small square panes of frosted glass.

  She returned to the study, and moved swiftly across the room to the door of the little chamber beside the fireplace. It was still open, and a swift inspection showed her that, even when closed, it was possible to see parts of the study by squinting through a small aperture made in the wall to carry a gas pipe through to the overhead mantle. It was hardly a perfect hiding place, but it would serve its turn: if she could see, then she could also hear. She felt afraid, but behind the fear lurked a kind of pleasurable excitement. She was about to hear whatever secrets Baron Augustyniak shared with his select group of associates.

  When Albert returned with the silver coffee jugs, he placed them on a warming tray, igniting the wicks of two small spirit lamps arranged beneath it. She helped him to set out the coffee cups, the cream jugs, and the bowls of demerara sugar. When he moved towards the door, she said, ‘I’ll just plump up the cushions in these chairs, and join you later in the kitchen.’

  ‘All right, Susan,’ said Albert, and left the room, pushing the trolley in front of him. Vanessa listened as it rumbled away towards the hall. It was time to conceal herself, and wait for the baron and his friends to arrive from the dining-room.

  After what seemed like an hour, Vanessa heard the door open, and the murmur of voices as the baron and his friends came in from the corridor. She could see the door from her vantage point behind the gas pipe outlet. The baron entered first, holding the door open for his guests. He was followed immediately by Doctor Kessler and his friend Herr Gerdler, faded, stooping, with a mean, thin-lipped mouth. They were still talking earnestly together, as they had done at the table.

  The two Polish gentlemen, Monsieur Balonek and Monsieur Haremza, came in separately from the passage. Herr Eidenschenk came last, looking grave and thoughtful. Baron Augustyniak closed the door.

  Vanessa could see part of the baron’s desk, and the two armchairs placed near it, but the rest of the room was hidden from her view. For some minutes, everyone passed out of sight, and she could hear the tinkle of cups and glasses, followed soon afterwards by the reek of cigar smoke. Presently the baron appeared, clutching a glass of brandy. He sat down at his desk, and motioned with his free hand to the two armchairs. In a moment, Doctor Kessler and Herr Gerdler came into view, and sat down. The others, presumably, had settled themselves elsewhere in the room.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said the baron without preamble, ‘As some of us are Poles, and others Germans, I suggest that we speak English at this meeting. This will not be a long meeting, as we do not want the others to think that it’s anything other than a chance for a few old friends to indulge their nostalgia in intimate reminiscences. So let us begin. The fateful day, the 21 July, is not far away. Everything is ready for the momentous event of that day, which we have called The Aquila Project. I am what the English call an “anchor man”, ostensibly the man of power, but in fact at the service of more powerful forces. Herr Gerdler, would you like to remind us of what you see as the salient details of our mission?’

  ‘I will do so,’ Gerdler replied. ‘This very morning, the 9 July, the action group set out for Poland, taking Grunwalski with them. He is fully primed, and has the necessary weapons at his command – weapons that I have been able to supply.’

  ‘Has he been amenable to our aims since we freed him from his prison?’

  ‘Entirely so, Baron. Indeed, the man seems dedicated to the task ahead. I gather there are family reasons why he should be so loyal. We feel that Grunwalski is something more than a mere mercenary.’

  Vanessa saw Doctor Kessler attempt to hide an amused smile behind his hand.

  ‘So,’ Gerdler continued, ‘they have left England, and will be moving across France. You understand that the French route is the right one for them at such a time. Accommodation has been arranged at every stage of the journey, including its ultimate destination.’ Gerdler glanced briefly at Doctor Kessler, who once again smiled at some secret amusement, but said nothing.

  ‘You mean Polanska Gory?’ asked the baron.

  ‘Precisely. As for what happens to Grunwalski after the mission has proved successful – well, you will want to hear from Herr Eidenschenk about that.’

  Vanessa could not see Eidenschenk, but she could hear him clearly enough, though his English was heavily accented.

  ‘As you know, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘although I am by nationality German, my family has its roots in Poland, and I am fluent in Polish and Russian. I am also one of the original members of The Thirty. I have already put in place a little coterie of friends, all of German-Polish lineage, who will assume the role of uniformed police, and, after the great event has taken place, will take Grunwalski into protective custody immediately. They will transport him swiftly out of the Polish lands and back to France. He will be conveyed to Spain through a route that most of you will know about, and lie low there in Madrid until it is prudent for him to return to England, where he prefers to be based.’

  ‘What will he be paid? And who will pay it?’ asked a voice from somewhere in the room. It may have been Monsieur Haremza.

  ‘He will be paid ten thousand pounds. The money will come from the gold reserves of a nation which must remain unidentified. I know you will all see the necessity for that.’

  There was a general murmur of agreement, and then the baron spoke again.

  ‘Herr Doctor Kessler,’ he said, ‘I should like to say on behalf of us all how honoured we are to have you with us tonight, and to congratulate you on your appointment as Second Secretary at Prussia House. Will you please give us your views on the security aspects of The Aquila Project?’

  Doctor Kessler cleared his throat. He was looking straight ahead, and rather disconcertingly seemed to be staring straight into Vanessa’s eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Baron,’ said Kessler, ‘for your kind words. Concerning security, I will mention two points only. First, I think that someone should be detailed to keep a constant eye on a man called Detective Inspector Arnold Box, of Scotland Yard. He was concerned with the arrest of Grunwalski on Tower Bridge. He was seen questioning Peter Rosanski before his convenient demise, and I actually met him myself when he came to question Herr Gerdler here at his shop in Covent Garden. He’s appearing too often in our affairs for comfort. He needs watching.’

  ‘That can easily be arranged, Doctor Kessler,’ said Augustyniak. ‘I will see to it myself. And what is your second point?’

  ‘I want you to be assured, gentlemen, that all our sympathizers here in England, people who have smoothed our way during the last year, are being kept from having second thoughts by the knowledge that I hold compromising papers on every one of them. One or two of these people are very highly placed, and fully capable of bribing or cajoling servants and other lesser fry to betray th
eir trust. To make absolutely sure that these papers are out of the reach of such people, I have placed them all in the safe in my study at Prussia House, a safe to which I alone hold the key. Diplomatic immunity, gentlemen, is a sure guarantee against what the English call light-fingered gentry!’

  ‘Excellent, Doctor Kessler,’ said the baron. ‘But you mention one or two high-placed Englishmen who are helping to fund The Aquila Project. I’m intrigued! Would it be in order to say who they are?’

  ‘Well, Baron, under normal circumstances I’d say nothing, but yes, I’ll tell you their names. One of them, you’ll be surprised to hear, is—’

  Vanessa, numb and cramped with standing so long, suddenly slipped. She put out a hand to steady herself, and sent a number of silver trophies crashing to the floor. She saw the baron spring up from his chair with a cry of rage, and in a moment he had flung open the door. He seized Vanessa by the arm, and dragged her trembling into the room.

  ‘Thief!’ he cried. ‘I thought so…. You are no trained servant, Susan Moore! You came here for my silver, you little thief!’

  Still holding her by the arm, he all but dragged her across the room to the fireplace, and pulled the bell. His audience stood aghast, some shocked, some embarrassed. Doctor Kessler had sprung to his feet, his face once more white with rage, but some instinct concerning his place as a guest in the baron’s house kept him silent.

  Almost immediately the door opened, and Joseph Doyle, the surly coachman, came into the room. His cold eyes glanced briefly at Vanessa before fixing themselves on his master.

  ‘What’s amiss, Baron?’ he asked in his usual surly tones. ‘I heard a commotion in here as I came in just now from the mews.’

  ‘Doyle,’ said Baron Augustyniak, ‘this young woman is a thief. She had concealed herself in my trophy-cupboard with the intention of stealing my silver when my friends and I had left the study. Lock her up in the flower-room, and run for the police.’