‘It’s a queer sort of patriotism to act against the interests of your own country.’
‘Well, Dick, there are interests and there are goddamned interests. What drives these people is a sort of pessimism. You see, you and I will fight on to the last bullet and then go down flinging rocks. But these Johnnies have a different view. When victory seems impossible, they want to settle for the sort of defeat that will go least hard on them.’
‘You mean surrender,’ I said bleakly.
‘A surrender on terms, if you will. They see Hitler steamrollering his way across Europe and they reckon nothing can stand up to him. For them France’s fall is a certainty, and damn me if they’re not right about that. They argue that as a matter of sheer practicality we need to swallow our pride and cut a deal with the Führer while we still can.’
‘They’re fools if they think he can be trusted.’
‘Sure enough. By my reckoning, when you sup with this particular devil, you’d best have a spoon as long as the Trans-Pacific. Still, the deal he’s offering is mighty tempting to certain parties: leave Europe to him and Britain can have her empire and anything else that’s up for grabs.’
‘It will never happen,’ I scoffed. ‘Churchill would never agree to it.’
‘No, he wouldn’t,’ Blenkiron agreed. ‘That’s why these men are planning to get rid of him.’
5
ENCOUNTER WITH A WING THREE-QUARTER
‘You’re not talking assassination, surely?’ I exclaimed.
‘No, no,’ said Blenkiron, waving his cigar dismissively. ‘Even if they had the sand for it, they know that would just rile folks up against Hitler even more. What they figure is, if things keep on the way they’re going, with country after country falling to the Germans, the British people will lose the gumption for a fight. That will give them the chance they need to oust Churchill and replace him with somebody a sight more amenable. Take it from me, there’s no shortage of candidates.’
‘If your lot were to mix in with us,’ I pointed out, ‘that would scupper their plans for sure.’
‘Look, FDR will give Churchill all the help he can in the form of supplies and intelligence,’ Blenkiron explained, ‘but as for bringing the USA into the war, that’s going to take a bit of time. That’s why Britain has to hold out.’
‘The mood right now is definitely to fight on,’ I asserted.
‘But that can change. My job here is to give you Brits an edge and keep you in the game. Our peace-loving friends know that, and now that I’ve made my move, they’re pulling out all the stops to stymie me.’
‘And you think it all hinges on Mr Roland and his thirty-one kings?’
Blenkiron nodded emphatically. ‘If the information he promised is as big a deal as he claims, it could swing the top dogs in this country firmly into line behind Churchill, and we know that old Winston will resist Hitler to the last drop of blood.’
I glanced at the map which showed the German thrust driving unstoppably westward. ‘How much time do we have before they take Paris?’
‘Three or four days at the most,’ Blenkiron answered grimly. ‘That’s why you have to go now. It’s as dangerous as all get out, I know, but sometimes you have to grab the poker by the hot end.’
I tapped the stem of my pipe against my palm. ‘I’d be a lot happier if I were making this trip with at least one of the old team at my side.’
‘I’m itching to come with you,’ said Blenkiron, ruefully patting his paunch, ‘but as you can see, too many years of easy living have taken their toll. I was never a genuine soldier like you, and right now I’d only slow you down.’
‘Can we get hold of Sandy Clanroyden?’ I asked him. A cloud passed across Blenkiron’s cherubic face and he took a sip of whisky as he considered his words.
‘Lord Clanroyden has been on the continent for some considerable time. He’s in deep, far too deep for us to bring him out, even for a job as big as this.’
The news didn’t surprise me. Over the years Sandy had adopted new identities in every corner of the world, false names he could slip into like an old suit of clothes whenever the need arose. He seemed to have a knack for establishing himself in a spot even before anyone else suspected trouble was liable to break out there.
I nodded slowly. ‘I suspected as much when I heard nothing of him. You’d think for Barbara’s sake he’d stop risking his fool neck.’
‘Like you, you mean,’ said Blenkiron with a dry chuckle.
‘It’s a different sort of foolishness in my case. No matter how far I travel and what dangers I face, I know where my true home is and I’ll always be drawn back there. But with Sandy the attraction has always been the other way, always venturing out there in search of some fate no one else can guess at.’
‘It’s true that it’s darn close to a fever with that gent,’ Blenkiron agreed, ‘but that sickness of his has served us well too often to force a cure on him.’
‘So I’m on my own this time.’
‘Not quite, Dick. I’ve recruited a few friendly desperados who’ll hook up with you once you’re in France.’ Blenkiron grinned. ‘I call them my Special Reserve.’
‘Special Reserve?’ I echoed. ‘It sounds like a fine whisky.’
Blenkiron’s grin broadened. ‘These gentlemen have been matured like a good malt and now they’re ready to step up. Speaking of fine whisky,’ he said, reaching again for the bottle, ‘let’s have a last toast before I send you on your way.’
Blenkiron provided me with some additional pieces of information that would prove valuable once I reached Paris, as well as his assurance that I would soon be contacted by another of his agents. On my way out I passed Henry wrapping a volume of poetry for a customer with the same supercilious air he had used on me.
As soon as I stepped outside, the rumble of traffic and the gritty smell of the city hit me with the impression that I had moved from the secret world of intrigue and concealed rooms back into everyday life with its commonplace routine. I was just looking round for a cab when one pulled up right in front of me.
‘Hop in, guv’nor!’ the driver invited me cheerily. ‘I’ll get you where you’re going quick as a lick.’
I opened the back door, but before I could get in the noise of a powerful engine made me turn. I saw a motorcycle, the rider hunched over the handlebars, roaring down the pavement directly towards me.
At the last instant the motorcyclist slammed on the brakes and swerved to a halt mere inches from my foot. He lashed out with his left leg and kicked the taxi door shut with the sole of his boot. Ignoring the violent cursing of the cabbie, he turned to me and pushed up his goggles. ‘General Hannay, sir, I’d be obliged if you would climb up here behind me.’
Taken aback by his abrupt arrival, my first thought was to get rid of the man. ‘I already have a cab, thank you,’ I responded brusquely.
From the corner of his eye he kept tabs on the taxi driver who was shaking his fist in a crimson fury. ‘Sir,’ he persisted, ‘I am a close friend of Mr Dickens. I take it you enjoyed his new novel.’
That got my attention.
‘It was a real page turner,’ I said, meeting the steady gaze of his clear grey eyes.
‘Sir, if we could go,’ he pressed urgently.
I couldn’t say whether it was his use of Blenkiron’s password or his Scottish accent that inclined me to trust him but I felt confident I was placing myself in a safe pair of hands. I had no sooner climbed up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist than he gunned the engine and we roared off.
From behind us came a violent screech of tyres. Glancing back, I saw the cabbie execute a tight turn and come racing after us.
‘He must be desperate for business,’ I remarked above the growl of the bike engine.
‘He is desperate, and that’s for certain,’ the motorcyclist agreed. ‘Please hold on tightly.’
He bore down on the throttle and the bike shot forward like a racehorse, weaving deftly through the traffic
. The cabbie accelerated to top speed and ignored every rule of the road in order to keep us in sight. The air was filled with the angry horns of other drivers whose path the pursuing taxi cut across.
My eyes blurred and my stomach lurched as our bike shot the narrow gap between two red London buses. My new acquaintance wrenched us into an alleyway, glancing off two dustbins and knocking an empty cardboard box high into the air. We made a sharp corner into another tight alleyway, sending a cat screeching for safety. A tramp rummaging through the refuse at the rear of a restaurant almost climbed straight up the wall in his haste to escape as we whooshed past.
We emerged into an open street, leaving the taxi far behind. The motorcyclist twisted his way rapidly through the cars and buses and pulled up at the edge of Hyde Park. From Speaker’s Corner I could hear the stentorian tones of a resolute pacifist declaiming that Britain must withdraw completely from the European conflict for the sake of peace, humanity and several other virtuous things.
I dismounted with a sense of relief that we had survived our hare-brained ride. A few passers-by gawked at us as if we had materialised out of thin air, and I was grateful that no policemen had witnessed our breaking of so many traffic laws.
‘It’s generally unwise to get on the bad side of a London cabbie,’ I informed the motorcyclist as he climbed off his bike and kicked out the stand to keep it upright.
He removed his goggles and helmet and gave a faint smile. ‘I don’t think you and he had the same destination in mind.’ He briefly surveyed the traffic to confirm that we had indeed shaken off our pursuer.
‘And what makes you think that?’ I asked.
‘Oh, the fact that he was waiting up the road with his engine idling and only moved when he saw you coming out of Traill’s.’
My new acquaintance looked to be in his late twenties and, though he was of middle height and slightly built, it was obvious he had a considerable wiry strength. There was a calm watchfulness about him that impressed me as his sharp grey eyes took in every aspect of our surroundings, assessing safety here, a shadow of danger there.
‘Mr Blenkiron’s man Henry called me to say you were here and that I should hurry over and keep an eye on you. I must say I’m very glad to make your acquaintance, General Hannay.’
‘It’s my view that a man should not be addressed as “general” unless he is wearing the uniform,’ I told him.
‘Sir Richard it is then,’ he corrected himself.
‘That will do until we’re better acquainted, Mr ... ?’
‘Galt, sir, John Galt.’
Something about that name struck me as familiar and I quickly reappraised the fellow. I had seen that slim pale face in a photograph some years ago.
‘Galt, eh? Tell me, Mr Galt, have you ever been one for the game of rugby?’
A nostalgic smile lit his finely drawn features. ‘I admit I was a furious beast at it in my younger days. I played for Cambridge.’
‘And for Scotland, I recall. You were wing three-quarter in that famous victory over Australia. All the papers were full of your praises.’
‘It was a devil of a scrap,’ he said, ‘and we were lucky to pull it off as we did.’
‘Lucky, perhaps, but some bold play on your part, I recall, clinched the match in the dying seconds, Mr Galt.’
‘I did my bit,’ he admitted modestly. ‘And people generally call me Jaikie.’
‘It’s a pleasure to know you, Jaikie,’ I said offering him my hand. ‘We’re in a tougher game now, I think.’
‘But still on the same team,’ said he as we shook.
‘That’s quite a steed you’ve got there,’ I said, eyeing the bike.
‘She’s a proper beauty, isn’t she?’ he agreed proudly. ‘She’s a modified five hundred cc Empire Star and at a push she can top a hundred m.p.h.’
‘After the ride we just had, I can quite believe it.’
‘If you’d care to get back aboard, sir, I can take you wherever it is you want to go. I promise to take it easy this time.’
As we climbed onto the bike I said, ‘Perhaps one day you can tell me the whole story of that legendary match.’
‘Oh, we’ll have plenty of time for that,’ he assured me. ‘I’m going with you to Paris.’
6
SHELL GAME
When we reached the house in Great Charles Street, I showed Jaikie where to park his bike in the back garden.
‘You don’t suppose any malevolent taxi drivers are likely to come looking for us here, do you?’ I asked.
‘Mr Blenkiron has a couple of men keeping watch from across the street,’ Jaikie assured me. ‘They’ll shoo off any unwelcome visitors.’
‘Mr Blenkiron’s obviously been very busy during my enforced retirement.’
‘He excels at those sort of arrangements, sir, as you well know.’
Once inside we found the place had been thoroughly aired out and the housekeeper, Mrs Broyles, was conjuring up an evening meal out of some hurriedly gathered ingredients.
Mary appeared in a floral patterned dress, jotting a few reminders in her notebook.
‘I’ve spoken to our people at Fosse and they seem pleased that we’re back from Scotland,’ she said. ‘They want to know when we’ll be home.’
‘You as soon as you like. I’m likely to be gone a little while yet.’
‘Yes, I was rather expecting that,’ said my wife.
I introduced my new friend and told Mary that he and I would be leaving for France first thing. ‘Once there, we’re going to be taking a few risks,’ I added.
Mary sighed. ‘Are you sure I can’t come along? France is so lovely at this time of year - under normal circumstances.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find plenty to keep you busy here. In fact I’ll be surprised if you aren’t in uniform by the time I get back.’
‘You won’t be in uniform yourself then?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s not that sort of job.’
‘It usually isn’t,’ said Mary resignedly.
Mrs Broyles triumphed over limited resources to produce a dinner of kedgeree with watercress accompanied by an assortment of cold meats, cheese, pickles and salad.
At the table Jaikie appeared quite shy in Mary’s company and had little to say for himself. I had the impression that he possessed more information than had been vouchsafed to me and was keeping tightlipped to avoid any possible slip. However, by the time we got to the bread and butter pudding, Mary had charmed him into revealing some of his earlier adventures. He had spent time on Baffin Island trading in walrus ivory, worked as a deck hand on a trawler, circumnavigated Sicily in a canoe, and made a hiking tour of the Tyrole.
‘For the past couple of years,’ he concluded, ‘I’ve been employed as an agent of the National Antiquities Council, tracking down lost artefacts and escorting archaeological expeditions around some of the trickier corners of the globe.’
‘Good heavens, you’re quite the wanderer!’ said Mary. ‘Haven’t you ever considered settling down?’
‘Oh, I know exactly where I’m going to settle down,’ Jaikie replied with a flat seriousness usually found only in children. ‘I’m just not ready for it yet.’
I felt that behind that statement was a story or two he had left out of his dinner conversation.
Reminding me that we were to be off at first light, he bade us a good night and retired to one of the spare bedrooms. I told Mary what I could of what was up and then we too turned in.
Once up in our bedroom, she opened a drawer and took out something which she then pressed into my hand. It was a small, worn book, the very copy of John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress which I had inherited from my old friend Peter Pienaar. Peter had died in 1918 in aerial combat with the German ace Lensch, sacrificing his life to bring the German down and save my division from complete destruction.
He had little enough to pass on, but nothing was more precious to him than this. I kept the book in my desk at Fosse Manor, so that it would alwa
ys be near at hand, and many was the evening I had soothed my restlessness by reading of Christian’s journey to the Celestial City.
I stroked the ragged cover of the book with its faded depiction of the Heavenly Realm, and when my eyes met Mary’s I saw that hers were grave and deep.
‘But how . . . ?’ I began.
‘I’ve been carrying it with me,’ she explained. ‘You may laugh at this, but I had an intuition that we wouldn’t be returning home together and that you would be called away. I knew you would want Peter’s book with you when you go into battle.’
‘I wouldn’t trade it for the world’s best rifle,’ I said. ‘Somehow you’re always one step ahead of me.’
‘That’s because I’ve always been your future,’ she said, touching a hand to my cheek. ‘I was before we met and I will be when you return.’
We spent the night pressed close together, aware that it might be some time before we could do so again. The sun had barely cracked the sky before we were up and dressed, bolting down a simple breakfast of eggs and toast with a few cups of strong coffee.
‘We’ll be going in a few minutes,’ said Jaikie with a glance at his wrist watch. He stood by the window, toying with an unlit cigarette.
Though nothing about him suggested a military background, he clearly had experience of tight operations and close teamwork which did not come from anything as innocent as sports.
‘We’re not going by motorcycle, are we?’ I asked. ‘One ride like that is enough to last me.’
‘No, sir, that’s been taken already by two men bearing an uncanny resemblance to the both of us. They are travelling towards Scotland even as we speak and word has leaked out that they’re on their way to a secret assignment in Norway.’
‘Norway?’
‘You’ve operated there before, sir, and it’s as far from our actual destination as can be. Our transport will be arriving any moment now.’
As though it had been summoned by his words, I heard a vehicle pull up outside. It was a small white van with the name of a local firm of plumbers painted on its side. Two men in overalls got out and came up to the front door with bags of tools in their hands. As soon as Jaikie let them in they removed their overalls and passed them over to us. Once Jaikie and I had pulled these on over our normal clothes, they handed us their bags and wished us good luck. Mary gave me a final kiss as Jaikie and I headed out the door and into the van, the keys of which had been left in the ignition.
The Thirty-One Kings Page 4