The Thirty-One Kings

by Robert J. Harris

  ‘Look, I will talk to some people, perhaps make a phone call or two. In the meantime I’ll introduce you to the Swiss ambassador. His neutrality makes him a lure for all manner of gossip and he knows absolutely everybody. To be frank he’s a bit of a bore, but I promise to get back to you with something.’

  She took me by the arm and guided me to where a portly man in spectacles was selecting samples from a platter of truffles.

  ‘Rudi,’ she said, ‘this is Mr Cornelius Brand from South Africa. He’s quite at sea here and you would be doing me an enormous favour if you could help him make a few new friends.’

  The ambassador’s mouth was quite full so he could only nod in acknowledgement. When Beata had glided away he scrutinised me like I was seeking the hand of his daughter.

  ‘Come with me, Mr Brand,’ he said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. ‘Let’s see if we can find some fascinating company for you.’

  To begin with he introduced me to merchants of one kind or another who would not leave their successful businesses behind and whose only fear was that the current crisis would lead to a drop in the markets. Next I made the acquaintance of several minor French functionaries who seemed oddly proud that they would be handing over to their new masters an admirably efficient bureaucracy.

  When my guide felt he had done his duty by me, he squeezed onto a divan with an equally plump lady to share a plate of éclairs, leaving me to my own devices. However, as I wandered about the room, I noticed that from time to time this Rudi was casting veiled glances in my direction. Did he still feel a sense of the responsibility laid upon him by our hostess, I wondered, or did those languid eyes belong to someone far more dangerous than a mere gourmand?

  As the food and drink made the company more and more garrulous, I was easy prey for anyone who felt in need of a new friend or of a fresh ear to talk into. I was treated to the profound political insights of actors, painters and - worst of all - poets. For what felt like an eternity a belligerent pacifist bombarded me with the unassailable truth that this whole catastrophe was the fault of his own French government and their treacherous English allies.

  I disengaged myself with as much grace as I could muster and, following the sound of a piano, took refuge in the next room. Here, a highly-strung woman with tear-filled eyes was working hard at turning Debussy’s ‘Clair de Lune’ into a dirge.

  I was beginning to feel a similar sense of despair. I still had no clue as to which of these guests was Klingsor and I was wondering when Beata van Diemen would ever return. Then I chided myself for my poor attitude. I had not come through so much simply to give up. No, I had to think my way through this.

  I had encountered enemy agents before, chief among them the Kaiser’s most brilliant spy, von Schwabing. He was a master of hiding himself in plain sight, taking on a false identity so impenetrable that even when I was certain my foe sat before me, I still had trouble believing that this affable, tennis-playing Englishman could be my primary foe.

  That was his greatest skill and his greatest satisfaction, to hide in the open with the light shining fully upon him. What if Klingsor were doing the same thing? Rather than sitting in some dark corner talking in whispers, would he not take a special pleasure in showing off in front of the whole party?

  At once my thoughts turned to the amateur conjurer whose performance I had paused to watch earlier this evening. Could it be that simple? Was Klingsor so arrogant that he would adopt the name of a wizard from Wagner’s Parsifal and was now entertaining an unsuspecting audience with his sleight of hand?

  I moved swiftly through the bustling interconnected salons until I found him. He was relaxing with a cigarette and sipping a martini, but at the high-spirited urging of his fellow guests, he stood up to an appreciative burst of applause. He plucked a deck of cards from his pocket and immediately began to demonstrate his dexterity by fanning them and then making individual cards vanish, only for them to reappear in the pocket of some astonished onlooker.

  ‘Who is that extraordinary gentleman?’ I asked a nearby lady once she had stopped applauding.

  ‘Leo O’Riordan,’ she replied. ‘I believe he is a journalist for the Irish Times. Isn’t he marvellous?’

  ‘Yes, he’s very skilled.’

  I observed closely as O’Riordan made handfuls of cards vanish into thin air. His concealment of his true identity was just as brilliant, and I resolved to force the issue with him at the first opportunity. Fluent as I was in German, I was sure I could convince him that I had arrived with urgent news from Berlin. Once I had him alone I would find the means to unmask him. I was pondering my strategy when I felt a sudden presence at my elbow.

  I turned to see Beata van Diemen standing there. Even though she was the glamorous hostess of the evening, she seemed to have passed unnoticed across the room, as if cloaked in a mist of invisibility from an old fairy tale. I reflected that as she was much occupied in helping fugitives escape from enemy territory, she must have become well practised at moving unseen through a crowd.

  ‘Mr Brand,’ she said in a low, urgent whisper, ‘I think I may be able to help you after all. We must speak privately.’

  I directed her attention to the golden-bearded Irishman. ‘I’m almost sure that man with the cards is the one I’m looking for.’

  A vexed frown creased the smoothness of her brow. ‘You must not confront him now,’ she insisted. ‘To do so would be disastrous. Come, we must talk where prying ears cannot reach.’

  She set off across the room without further instruction, trusting me to understand that I was to follow. She drew a key from her purse to unlock a small cream-coloured door which led to a narrow stairway. Locking up behind us, she led me to an upper floor where we entered a brightly lit study.

  She poured us each a glass of brandy. As soon as she handed me mine she threw hers back in one swallow and set the glass aside.

  ‘Go ahead,’ she urged me with a sad smile. ‘You will need a drink when you hear what I have to tell you.’

  Foolish as it was, I had the strange sense that she would not divulge her information unless I took my brandy as she had done. I knocked it back in a single gulp, feeling the warmth of it slip down my throat, and met her cool gaze.

  ‘There,’ she said approvingly. ‘You had best sit down now.’

  ‘Is what you have learned really so shocking?’ I asked.

  ‘It is,’ she affirmed. ‘More so than you could ever have guessed.’

  She walked around the room, lightly touching a finger to the various pieces of ornamental porcelain. She appeared lost in thought, reflecting on the gravity of our situation.

  I was actually feeling a little woozy, and so was happy to oblige her by sitting down on a chintz chair. The room seemed suddenly very warm and I had to fight back a wave of nausea. With an effort I fixed my shaky vision upon her as she ceased her wandering and came towards me.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘what have you learned about Klingsor?’ My words sounded strangely slow and slurred to my ears.

  Beata loomed over me, appearing much taller than before, as if her slight frame were elongating before my eyes.

  ‘I am afraid he has unmasked you first, Mr Hannay.’ Her voice echoed as though we were in the centre of some vast marble tomb.

  ‘Hannay?’ My thoughts were sluggish, but I knew something was amiss. ‘My name is ... Brand... Cornelius Brand.’

  ‘So you told me - Cornelius Brand, the South African mining engineer,’ she retorted mockingly. ‘But in fact you are Sir Richard Hannay, soldier, war hero - and spy.’

  There was an acidic bite to the last word that cut through the haze that was enveloping me. I tried to speak, but my tongue was numb.

  ‘Poison!’ I choked at last, realising too late just what a gullible fool I had been.

  All around me the room was dissolving, like a painting in oils melting under an extreme heat. Objects were losing their boundaries, the colours spilling into each other in a dizzying swirl that threw me into
a spasm of vertigo.

  Beata leaned closer, but all I could see of her face were her small white teeth exposed in a smile as frigid as an Arctic gale.

  ‘Did you think I would not see through your boyish deceit, Mr Hannay - I, who for years have studied every dossier on you? You and Mr John Scantlebury Blenkiron. And of course your dear friend Sandy Arbuthnot, Lord Clanroyden.’

  There was no mirth in her words now, only a terrible, savage hatred. And, as the fatal darkness sucked me down, I knew precisely who she was.

  15

  THE BLIGHTED SPIRIT

  Out of the darkness came a swirl of dust from which emerged a small rocky hill in the centre of a valley. A hollow in the summit created a natural fort defended by three men with half a dozen armed followers. Obscured by the haze, they looked like the ghostly remnant of an abandoned garrison while the sighing of the wind was like a lament for all that would be lost here.

  A blonde woman climbed the rugged slope, her pale blue eyes ablaze with a passion somewhere between love and vengeance. She carried a flag of peace, though everything in her manner spoke of war. The three soldiers watched her approach with something like awe in their faces and one of them appeared on the brink of fainting.

  When she reached the crude fort the woman spoke in a voice charged with the bitterness of betrayal and the persisting hope of glory. The man she addressed, the one with haunted eyes, listened as though entranced by a siren’s song. The conflict tearing at his heart was evident in his tortured features as he finally rejected her offer in a voice as dry as sand.

  Her brilliant eyes flashed in fury and she laid a final curse upon him before starting back towards her own lines. It was then that the shells began to fall and a cry of anguish burst from the man’s lips.

  That cry echoed in my ears as I struggled back to consciousness. I felt as though I were sunk in a devouring marsh and it was taking all my strength to fight my way up to the open air. When I cracked open my eyes they were stabbed by the harsh glare of an unshaded light bulb hanging overhead. At my first attempt to move I discovered I was bound hand and foot to a stout wooden chair with bonds that were more than tight enough to hold me in my weakened state.

  I felt sick to my stomach and my head lolled drunkenly to one side. Slowly my vision cleared to the point where I could absorb my surroundings. The walls were white-washed brick, the floor uncarpeted boards, and the furnishings limited to a couple of straight-backed chairs and a small round table. I guessed I was in the cellar of Beata van Diemen’s house, though this room was a bare contrast to the elegant chambers above. I recalled the drink, the sudden crippling sickness, and my own stupidity at allowing myself to be so easily drugged.

  There was only one door that I could see and it was firmly shut. Standing in front of it, still incongruously dressed in her party finery, Beata van Diemen was touching a silver lighter to a cigarette. When she noticed me stirring she took in a long draw of smoke and glanced at her jewelled wristwatch. Exhaling slowly, she viewed me through the smoke as though I were a newly acquired objet d’art.

  ‘You recover quickly,’ she said. ‘It’s only been a few hours.’

  There was a bitter taste in my mouth and I supposed I must have retched before losing consciousness. Licking my dry lips, I struggled to find my voice. ‘I hope I haven’t missed the party.’

  I sounded like a feeble child at the end of a coughing fit.

  A half-smile twisted one corner of her painted mouth. ‘Good. You can still make light of the situation. The guests are gone now, returned home to tremble in their beds as they wait for their conquerors to come marching down the street. That will be a sight to see, will it not?’

  ‘Your people do have a flair for pageantry.’ I paused to work up some moisture in my mouth. My tongue felt like a dry dish rag, but I was determined not to meet her gloating with silence. ‘A bit too theatrical for my taste. I’d sooner watch the Life Guards on parade.’

  She was keeping her distance, viewing me from afar as she smoked. As I focused on her scornful eyes, I could not deny that she still looked beautiful, even though I now knew her for what she was. It was a savage beauty I had encountered only once before.

  I had not followed my own chain of reasoning to its logical conclusion. If Klingsor was hiding in plain sight, taking sly satisfaction from being the centre of attention, there was no one more obvious than the hostess of the party. She, after all, had arranged these revels, and it was clear now that she was celebrating her own victory.

  Noting the intensity of my gaze, she said, ‘So, Mr Hannay, have you recognised me at last as the very adversary you were seeking?’

  ‘I should have done so earlier,’ I admitted. ‘From the very first I was aware of something familiar.’

  ‘Really? Is the resemblance so strong?’

  ‘Enough to have warned me that you are Hilda von Einem’s daughter.’ Even as I spoke the words, the enormity of it shook me to the core. So many years ago, and those fateful events still had me ensnared.

  Hilda von Einem was the most brilliant of the Kaiser’s agents and she had guided events in the east to the brink of a Mohammedan uprising that would have set the whole region aflame. My friend Sandy Clanroyden, in the guise of a fanatical mystic, had infiltrated her inner circle so completely that he became the linchpin of her scheme. When he turned against her the whole magnificent enterprise came crashing down into the dust and that astonishing woman was killed in an artillery bombardment mere moments after making a final effort to regain Sandy’s allegiance.

  Beata was silent, letting the ash fall from her cigarette as though her thoughts had also drifted back to another time and place.

  ‘I think it was the eyes,’ I said, recalling how unafraid she had been of the two drunken oafs. ‘Yes, you definitely have her eyes.’

  She drew closer and stared daggers at me. ‘If that is true, then you must see the hate in them.’

  Her embittered gaze was as bleak as the bare light above. I lowered my head and fought my way through the lingering fog that still engulfed my thoughts. After a few seconds I forced myself to look up. ‘Hate is a shabby, desiccated thing, you know. Once it takes root it blights the spirit and nothing else can grow.’

  She gave a short, hard laugh. ‘Are you trying to dispense wisdom? It comes very hollow from the lips of one who has been so easily duped.’

  She paced around me, disappearing from view behind my back.

  Her bitter voice continued. ‘When we met by chance in Montmartre you imagined me a damsel in distress and you have been unable to shake off that impression. That very English sense of chivalry has proved your undoing. I could not have devised a more perfect blind.’

  An awful realisation dawned on me that all along she had been in complete control of my actions. ‘You knew me even then? Right from that first moment?’

  She was still out of sight, lending her voice the uncanny quality of a disembodied presence. ‘I was familiar with your appearance from some old photographs in our files, but the resemblance was not conclusive. It was the name Cornelius Brand that gave you away. You really are overly fond of that alias.’

  ‘I find it safer to use a name I can answer to instinctively. I’m happy to admit that when it comes to deceit, you have me beaten. You’ve tricked a lot of people into thinking that you’re a saviour of those fleeing the very regime you serve.’

  Beata came into view, her high heels clicking on the bare wooden floor. While her back was to me I tugged at my bonds, but the knots had been expertly tied.

  ‘Oh, I have genuinely helped many of them escape,’ she said, turning to face me, ‘but only those of little importance. About one in ten is someone we do not wish to go free, and they do not escape. Some flaw in their false papers or other piece of bad luck guarantees their return to the homeland to face justice. And I remain unsuspected, of course, lamenting each of those few failures.’

  I knew what was involved in creating and maintaining such a perfect and false pe
rsona. ‘I suppose your charming story of childhood courage was just that - a story.’

  ‘No, Mr Hannay, it was true, but incomplete, which is the secret of any effective falsehood. You see, the day after I stood upon the doorstep of the old man’s house I decided to take my revenge on Elisa for frightening me so. I waited in ambush for her to come riding her bicycle by the canal, as she did every day. She suspected nothing when I jumped out and pushed her into the water.’

  There was an almost childlike glee in Beata’s voice as she remembered, which rendered her tale even more horrific.

  ‘She screamed, and she heard me laugh as she splashed into the cold, muddy water. She struggled in a blind panic, desperate to disentangle herself from her bicycle. She came within a hair’s breadth of drowning and I have never forgotten the look of craven terror on her face as she crawled onto the bank. I knew then what it was to master one’s fears and turn them against others.’

  She stubbed out her cigarette and faced me squarely. ‘I believe it was even then that I began planning my revenge upon you and your two noble friends.’

  Appalled though I was, I could not help but feel a pang of remorse for this girl who had grown up devoid of kindness or compassion so that now she stood before me like a twisted shadow of her mother’s greatness.

  ‘You must have had something better than that in your life,’ I whispered, ‘a family, a father . . .’

  ‘I had neither,’ Beata snapped, ‘only the tales that were told me of my mother’s heroic struggle - and of her betrayal.’

  ‘We were all of us doing our duty,’ I said. I sounded like a defendant pleading in court, though I had no doubt sentence had already been passed. ‘She did not die by our hand and we buried her with honour.’

  ‘I damn your honour!’ spat the girl. ‘And I damn you too. All three of you. I had a hunt planned, Hannay, a year from now when England will have fallen. I was going to track you all down like beasts and relish your slow, painful deaths. I did not expect you to come running to me.’ She paused to flick away a small piece of ash from her sleeve. ‘I suppose it was the thirty-one kings that flushed you out.’