Contingencies. There had been something about them on Sir Henry’s list. Sam could not exactly remember what. But the word had been there all right.
‘Does it mean anything to you, Mr Twentyman?’
‘No, senhor. But it might mean something to Max.’
‘Will he recover? I spoke to a doctor who came in while I was there. He shrugged his shoulders a great deal. It is a habit of the French I do not like. He gave Max une chance sur deux. Fifty-fifty, you would call it. Not good.’
‘Not so bad either. He faced worse odds than that every day he flew in the war.’
Ribeiro raised a smile at that. ‘You hearten me, Mr Twentyman. You are better for me than the doctor is for Max, I think. This coffee, incidentally, is undrinkable. Do they sell brandy here?’
‘I’ll ask.’
Sam went up to the counter and enquired pessimistically after cognac. To his surprise, it was forthcoming. The phrase Contingencies Memo sprang suddenly into his mind as he watched the serving woman dispense the liquor. Yes. That was the item on Sir Henry’s list. Valuable, like every other item on it.
When Sam returned to the table with the brandy, he found Ribeiro fiddling with his rosary beads again. He looked as if the cares of the whole city were resting on his shoulders. ‘Thank you,’ he said, raising the glass and taking a sip. He set it down again with a heavy sigh. ‘My father, God rest his soul, once told me a happy man is a man without friends. What do you think, Mr Twentyman?’
‘Did your father have many friends?’
‘Oh, yes. And some of them caused him great problems. He had a generous nature. When the rubber boom ended, many of his friends asked him for help. He lent them money, which some of them never repaid. But what do you do when a friend asks you for help? Turn him away? No. Of course not.’
Sam had the distinct impression Ribeiro was really talking about himself rather than his father. Who was the friend he had not turned away? And what had he asked for? ‘You and Sir Henry went back a long way, isn’t that right, senhor?’
‘Yes.’ Ribeiro took another sip of brandy. ‘It is.’
‘You tell me if I’ve got the wrong end of the stick, but was there something Sir Henry asked you to do that you regret doing now?’
Ribeiro stared at him in silence for a moment. He went on staring at him as he smoothed down his moustache. Then he said, ‘What did you do in the RFC, Mr Twentyman?’
‘I kept the planes running.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘I know engines, senhor. I could tell from the sound of them if there was something wrong before it actually went wrong. It’s a knack. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.’
‘And you have it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I must be careful what I say to you. You have good ears. There is a difference between listening and hearing and it seems you know the difference. I cannot speak to you of what passed between me and Henry. It would not be right. But I will speak to Max. After what has happened to him, I must, as soon as he is well enough, which I pray to God will be soon.’
‘Can I tell him what you’ll be speaking to him about?’
Ribeiro nodded solemnly. ‘You can. Tell him I know why Henry was trying to raise so much money. Tell him I know what he was planning to spend it on.’
LIONEL BRIGHAM ENTERED Fradgley’s office at the British Embassy that evening with the air of one unconvinced that anything Fradgley wanted to discuss could be urgent enough to justify an interruption of his normal Sunday routine. His expression suggested he would swiftly be demanding an explanation from Fradgley for this summons ‘on a matter of the utmost importance’ with a distinct presumption that it was unlikely, in his judgement, to be important enough.
The few members of staff on duty at the Embassy had been unable to enlighten Brigham in the slightest degree, other than to confirm that Fradgley was on the premises. Strangely, however, upon knocking at the door and going on in without waiting for a response, Brigham was dismayed to discover that the room was empty, the chair behind the broad desk untenanted, no one’s eyes but those of the King in a framed photograph on the wall trained upon him.
‘Damn it all,’ Brigham remarked in his bafflement. ‘What the devil’s the fellow playing at?’
‘Ah, there you are.’ Through a doorway in the far corner of the room, leading Brigham knew not where, a figure suddenly advanced, beaming in welcome. It was Horace Appleby of the Secret Service, a man Brigham had done his best to steer well clear of. He regarded the Secret Service as an unwise and unwarranted innovation – a johnny-come-lately to the business of government which he would have preferred not to have come at all.
‘There’s clearly been some mistake,’ said Brigham, with as much nonchalance as he could muster. ‘I’m here to see Fradgley.’
‘Presently indisposed,’ said Appleby, clamping an unlit pipe between his teeth. ‘But even if he had been here, it’s you and I who’d have done most of the talking. Shall we sit down?’
‘No need. I won’t be staying.’
‘Please, Mr Brigham. Take a seat.’ Appleby subsided into the chair behind the desk and gestured towards the chair facing him.
‘There’s really nothing we need to discuss, Appleby. I think I’ll be going.’
‘As you wish. I can’t force you to stay. But there are some questions you’re going to have to answer sooner or later. Very serious questions. It’d be in your own interests to hear what they are.’
Appleby was still gesturing towards the vacant chair. Brigham hesitated a little longer, then shrugged and sat down. He took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘I’ll give you until I finish this.’
Appleby smiled, but said nothing. His only response was to fill his pipe and light it, in a leisurely routine that declared he would not allow Brigham to set the terms of their exchanges. Then he smiled again.
‘Perhaps I could ask you a question, Appleby,’ said Brigham. ‘Your outfit’s been going, what, ten years? Can you point to one single achievement of lasting value that you’ve chalked up in that time? We managed to rule an empire for two centuries without … whatever it is you people do. Extraordinary, isn’t it?’
‘How would you describe your dealings with Igor Bukayev, Mr Brigham?’
‘What?’
‘Igor Bukayev,’ Appleby repeated. ‘How would—’
‘I heard what you said.’
‘Then perhaps you’d oblige me with an answer.’
‘I don’t have dealings with him,’ Brigham said, slowly and carefully.
‘But you do know him?’
‘He’s a politically active member of the Russian exile community. It would be surprising if I hadn’t come across him.’
‘When did you last come across him?’
‘I don’t know. Some reception or other.’
‘A long way from the Canal de l’Ourcq, I assume.’
‘The Canal de l’Ourcq?’
‘Yes. Out in the nineteenth arrondissement.’
‘You’ve lost me, Appleby. You probably know more about canals than I do. Father a bargee, was he?’
Appleby sent up a plume of smoke and studied Brigham intently through the haze of it. ‘Bukayev’s body was found earlier today in a sack suspended in the Canal de l’Ourcq, Mr Brigham. Do you want to make a joke out of that?’
‘Good God.’ Brigham’s expression switched to one of horror. ‘Bukayev’s dead?’
‘Yes. Just like Walter Ennis.’
‘I heard about Ennis. Shocking business. But … did he have something to do with Bukayev?’
‘You tell me.’
Brigham frowned heavily. ‘What are you driving at, Appleby? I’d be grateful if you simply came out and said it.’
‘You’ve admitted an acquaintance with Igor Bukayev. What about his niece, Nadia Bukayeva?’
Brigham’s expression darkened. ‘His niece?’
‘Do you know her, Mr Brigham? Yes or no?
‘I may have met her a
few times. In the company of her uncle.’
‘Ever been alone with her?’
‘What are you implying?’
‘Have you or haven’t you?’
Brigham weighed the question for a moment, then said, ‘Not that I recall.’
‘Really? I wouldn’t have put you down as a man of fallible recollection, I must say. And last night isn’t long ago, now is it?’
‘Last night?’
‘You were seen.’
Brigham flinched. ‘You have her under surveillance?’
‘What we have is independent verification of her claim that you visited her last night.’
‘She told you?’
‘She did. She also told us you passed on a message to her, a message that led her to the Canal de l’Ourcq this morning – and a terrible discovery.’
‘I passed on a message?’
‘Do you deny it?’
‘Certainly I deny it.’ The colour in Brigham’s face and the tone of his voice suggested denial was very much what he was about. ‘This is preposterous. I visited her, yes. I considered it ungentlemanly to volunteer the fact to you, but in the light of her outrageous allegation I no longer feel obliged to protect her reputation. I went to see her, at her prior invitation, for reasons the tenor of that invitation made clear enough. I spent an hour or so with her. She mentioned her uncle had left Paris for a few days. She said nothing else about him. And I said nothing about him at all.’
‘Let me get this straight.’ Appleby removed his pipe from his mouth and pointed the stem at Brigham. ‘The purpose of your visit was … sexual?’
‘If you insist on being specific about such matters, yes.’
‘You’re old enough to be her father.’
‘I don’t believe I have to defend myself in this regard, Appleby. I’m a bachelor. I enjoy the company of women. And Nadia Bukayeva enjoyed my company. There’s nothing else to be said.’
‘Except that she tells a very different story. And someone must have passed the message about Bukayev to her. Otherwise she wouldn’t have known where to go.’
‘Whoever it was, it wasn’t me.’
‘You contend she’s lying?’
‘I don’t contend. She simply is.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘To avoid naming the person who really passed the message, presumably.’
Appleby replaced the pipe in his mouth and relit it. ‘Your work for the delegation has touched on our policy towards the Bolshevik regime, I believe. A committee you sit on formulated advice to the Prime Minister concerning the strategy to be adopted by our negotiators if the proposed meeting with Russian representatives at Prinkipo had gone ahead.’
‘What of it?’
‘Involving yourself with the niece of a well-known Tsarist could be seen in the circumstances as compromising. Highly compromising, I’d say.’
‘You can probably cause me some embarrassment, Appleby. But nothing worse. I think you’ll find I have more friends than you do.’
‘More highly placed friends, you mean?’
‘They tell me you were a policeman before you joined the Secret Service. I can believe it. There’s definitely something plodding about you. The uniform must have suited you.’
‘They tell me you took some leave last week in order to attend Sir Henry Maxted’s funeral. Is that correct?’
‘It is.’
‘So, you won’t deny being acquainted with him?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Or Walter Ennis?’
‘I met the fellow at various meetings.’
‘Your acquaintances are an unlucky lot, aren’t they?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, so many of them come to a sticky end.’
Brigham lit another cigarette and gave Appleby a long, contemptuous look. ‘And so many more of them don’t.’
‘Do you know Sir Henry’s son, James Maxted?’
‘Of course. I’m a friend of the family.’
‘Are you indeed? Then you’ll have been sorry to hear of his condition.’
‘His … condition?’
‘I assume you’re aware he was injured during the Ennis shooting.’
‘No.’ Brigham’s face drained of colour. He appeared genuinely shocked. ‘I was not aware of it.’
‘He’s in the Hôtel Dieu, fighting for his life.’
‘Good God. Are you saying … he may not survive?’
‘It was a relatively minor wound. But septicaemia’s the problem now. I wouldn’t like to say what his chances are.’
‘Does his mother know about this?’
‘He said he preferred not to worry her.’
‘But …’
‘You look upset, Mr Brigham.’
‘I am upset, God damn it.’ Brigham jumped up from his chair. ‘I’d better go and see how he is for myself.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t allow that.’
‘What?’ Brigham glared at Appleby. ‘What the devil do you mean?’
‘There’s good reason to suppose the man who killed Ennis hoped to kill young Maxted as well. I’ve placed a guard on his room at the hospital. In view of the suspicious nature of your involvement in this matter, I can’t authorize you to visit him.’
‘You think I might try to kill him?’
‘Your loyalties are unclear, Mr Brigham. Therefore your actions are unpredictable.’
‘My God, you have a nerve.’ Brigham brought his fist down on the blotter in front of Appleby, setting the lids of the bottles rattling in Fradgley’s inkstand but making no discernible impact on Appleby’s composure. ‘I shall be lodging a formal complaint about your conduct – and your damned insinuations.’
‘Please do. I’ve already notified the Permanent Under-Secretary of my concerns about you. I await his response.’
‘His response will be to tell Cumming to bring you to heel.’
Appleby puffed at his pipe and smiled up at Brigham. It was unusual to hear C referred to by his actual surname. It could be regarded as calculatedly disrespectful, as Appleby suspected it was intended to be. But he did not rise to the bait. ‘As to that,’ he said in an amicable tone, ‘we shall see, shan’t we?’
THE BREAKING OF Max’s fever was like the passing of a storm. All, in an instant, was clear and calm. He lay in his bed at the Hôtel Dieu, conscious of himself for the first time in some indeterminate period. It was dark beyond the window of his room, but which night it was he had no way of judging. He felt cool and serene, though so weak he could barely raise his hand to his brow. The sleep he fell into then was a soft, healing slumber.
He was aware of a nurse hovering over him at some point, checking his temperature and the dressing on his wound and murmuring ‘Très bien’. He opened his eyes and tried to speak to her. She smiled at him and patted his hand. ‘Dormez tranquille, monsieur.’
Max vaguely supposed a doctor would come to see him in the morning. But it was still dark outside when gentle pressure on his shoulder woke him and he became aware of a white-coated presence beside the bed.
Max did not recognize the doctor, though it was hard to make out his features, silhouetted as he was against the dim light from the doorway. There was no other light. Someone had turned off the bedside lamp. He could just discern a suit and bow-tie beneath the white coat. The man was grey-haired and bearded and wearing some distinctive, apple-scented cologne. His face was entirely in shadow.
‘Doctor?’ Max murmured.
‘I am a doctor, yes.’ The voice was low and silky, but the accent was not French. It was altogether more middle European. ‘Though not of medicine.’
‘I’m … sorry?’
‘Don’t apologize, Max. You’ve not been well, though now, I’m glad to say, you appear to be recovering. It is actually for me to apologize to you. I was not responsible for Saturday’s … coup de main … but those who were are to some degree under my control. I regret that it occurred. There was a certain amount of panic when it
was realized Ennis might tell all. He had made himself a threat to the safety of several people. Their reaction was understandable but excessive. We cannot have assassinations on the streets of Paris. It is altogether too conspicuous.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I think you know who I am. I was acquainted with your father. We met in Tokyo … thirty years ago.’
Max was seized by the conviction that the man sitting at his bedside was none other than Fritz Lemmer. He tried to push himself upright, but did not have the strength. He opened his mouth to cry out, but a hand was clamped over it.
‘They would not believe you, Max. They would think you were still delirious. I am Doctor Wahlen from Strasbourg, helping out here at the request of the Director. Nod your head if you are willing to continue our conversation without raising the alarm. It would be to your advantage to do so, I assure you.’
Max nodded and the hand was removed. He lay where he was, his chest heaving from the effort he had made to rise. He was by no means certain that he could shout for help even if he wanted to.
‘I am sorry for your father’s death, Max. I rather admired Henry. He was incorruptible but surprisingly imaginative. Encountering him here in Paris was the sheerest misfortune. He had no business catching a tram so early in the morning. It was simply bad luck. Even so, I would not have expected him to recognize me. I tried to ignore him, to pretend I did not know him. I sensed the attempt was in vain, but I hoped he would realize that to move against me would be extremely risky. And why should he take such a risk, after all? Patriotism surely has its limits. I stood there, in the crowded tram, ignoring his stare, refusing to engage with him eye to eye. We did not speak. There was no acknowledgement. I thought of the last time we had met. A reception at the Russian Embassy in Tokyo, shortly before the Tsarevich’s visit, in the spring of 1891. I wonder if he thought of it also. I will confess to you that I would have liked to talk to him about those days. I cannot tell you how earnestly I hoped he would not pursue me. For his sake as well as mine.’
‘You expect me … to believe that?’
‘It is the truth. Of course, I did not know then that he was involved with Madame Dombreux, although naturally I was aware he had been acquainted with her late husband. Pierre Dombreux is something of a puzzle, to me as he is to others. I thought I had him in the palm of my hand. But no. It seems he served several masters, none of them loyally. If he trusted anyone, it was Henry. That was my difficulty when I encountered Henry. How much of what Dombreux knew did he know? It was the lure he planned to use to trap me. I cannot complain. The hunter must always expect to be hunted. There is no divine law that dictates the prey may not turn upon the predator. Still, it is a dangerous game, as Henry discovered, though I suspect that came as no surprise to him. Patriotism was not his motivation. Hence my miscalculation. He wanted to profit from what he knew about me. Do you know why he needed so much money? I confess I do not. He was not a mercenary man. There must have been a compelling reason. Strictly speaking, it is irrelevant, at least to me. But it would be interesting to know.’
The Ways of the World Page 27