Now, commanding a desk instead of a battlecruiser, he felt confident shaking up and modernizing his Papa’s musty organization. Starting out by ordering the intercept and reading of all Continental mail and cables, seizing all cargo shipments to enemy powers, and using spies to tap into the diplomatic dispatches of enemies, allies, and neutrals alike, including the United States, he had vastly expanded his agency’s reach. His network of agents and code breakers were driven as much by the confident, slightly sinister force of his personality as by their loyalty to the British Crown. Through his shrewdly narrowed gaze, which caused his fellow officers to nickname him Blinker, he saw his job as being to confuse and outwit the enemy, whether it was the treasonous Sinn Fein Irish rebels or the German–Austro-Hungarian Alliance of the Central Powers.
Yet here in Room 40, he hid his newest and most effective weapon.
And sure enough, when he opened the tall antique door he found a dozen shirt-sleeved “translators” bending over codebooks. More young men and women carried parsed messages from desk to cluttered desk. It was a thriving cottage industry, all of it due to the German radio-telegraph codes that had been providentially captured from enemy ships, retrieved off floating bodies, or dredged up in trawlers’ nets from the sea-bottom during the early months of the war. Or so at least the stories went around the Admiralty. But Blinker Hall knew that Churchill and his crew could be quite inventive when it came to protecting old-fashioned espionage sources, particularly their agents inside the German High Seas Fleet.
Scanning the room with his acute gaze, Hall saw, seated at the central desk in the rear, Sir Alfred himself in one of his unmistakable mauve dress shirts. The glaring pink color supplied an odd relief to the dark brown of old wood and flat white of papers, cuffs, and pale flesh untouched by sun in this drippy, foggy London spring. One would think there’d be more suntans among captains of the Admiralty, but not so in a paper war. Pasty-white seemed to be the de rigueur fashion this season.
Well, Alfred Ewing could afford to defy convention in his shirts, at least. Although his operation was a secret one, he was known to insiders as the mad Scottish genius who had assembled a roomful of mathematicians and linguists to streamline the code-breaking process. As an academician and math wizard himself, lately an Oxford don, the Room 40 chief was lax about saluting. But he welcomed Blinker over with a wave of his hand.
“Working late, I see, Alf.” Approaching Ewing’s command post, Hall saw that it was papered-over with dispatches, many with cover sheets marked Strict Secret and For Your Eyes Only.
“Yes, Blinker, hello,” Sir Alfred said, arranging security folders on his desk. “You’re running a bit late yourself.”
“Better late than not at all. Are you worried about getting out to a party tonight?” Hall spoke with reference to the screaming polka-dot bowtie that topped off the shirt garish enough to make anyone blink.
“If time permits,” Ewing replied, “I’ll go out on the town. But I can’t say for sure whether or when. Traffic right now is heavy, both by wire and over the aether.”
“The U-boaters are still proud of their new Marconi sets, I see.” There was no private place to talk, but the bustle of Room 40—clicking telegraphs, thudding of vacuum tubes, and the endless shuffling of pages—tended to mask conversation.
“Oh, yes. They test their wireless faithfully at the start of each patrol, and report back their positions each hour while in range of Germany.” Ewing pointed up to his large wall map of Western Europe. It had a bright red semicircle drawn from the North Sea down to the Bay of Biscay, broadly girdling England and Ireland—the German-declared Naval War Zone blockading Britain. “They’re chatty as ever, and our radio triangulation is quite good enough to confirm the locations. No false reports as yet.”
“I see.” Blinker said. “They’ve taken the bait, then?”
“So it appears, sir. Last week, as you’ll recall, they assigned four U-boats to the Irish Channel, and just yesterday three more sailed, presumably with the same orders to sink our troopships.”
Behind his poker face, Hall did mental calculations. The supposed troopships didn’t exist; they were mere planted rumors, full of phantom doughboys headed for a northern invasion of Germany that would never take place—unlike the real troop carriers steaming for the Gallipoli campaign against Turkey, down in the Mediterranean.
“So, Reggie, judging from these intercepts, our ruse is successful. The Huns are more worried about defending the Baltic Sea than attacking us on their western front. They think we’ve men and ships to spare.And whether we do or not, they’ll hopefully hold back their punches in Europe.”
“And Gallipoli, which seems to be turning into a bloody cock-up.”
Blinker held back, as was his prerogative. An intelligence operation could have multiple aims–to reduce enemy pressure on the main line of trenches running through France, and perhaps also distract from Churchill’s blow at the “soft underbelly of Europe,” as he put it, the Gallipoli naval landing. Hall felt his blink-rate accelerating with wrath as he thought of the young Sea Lord’s impudent, overly ambitious scheme.
“Let’s just pray he can pull it out of the bleeding fire,” Hall said at last. Or not, he added to himself, if that will put an end to his schoolboy meddling.
“We can hope and pray,” Ewing said. “As I hear it, the army lads, our Irish and the Anzacs alike, are having a devil of a time there in the Dardanelles, worse than the Navy did navigating the sea mines. The Turk’s belly hasn’t proven so soft after all.” As he spoke, he tidied the papers on his desk, sorting them into neat piles. “And meanwhile, of course, we face the same plague of commerce raiders here in home waters.”
“A damned nuisance, I know, ever since the Huns declared unrestricted naval warfare,” Hall said. “But we seem to be getting things in hand.”
“April wasn’t really so bad.” Ewing produced a report in a tan cover which read Absolute Secret. “Eleven ships lost, as compared to eighteen in March. You’ll see it all here.” He handed over the folio. “We can quite reliably tell which U-boats are out, and where they’re headed, before they’re outside wireless range of home, or after they head back in and brag about their kills. The rest will still be up to the coast watchers and channel patrols.”
And just as well, Blinker told himself. The coast guards and common sailors, even the fish trawler hands, knew their roles and would act for the common good. That was the great thing about Britain, and the reason why they would eventually win this war. As a sea captain, and now as spy chief charged with maintaining the broadest empire the world had yet known, Admiral Hall saw it clearly. England was a seagoing nation, relying on shipping for its food and defense, its wealth and employment. A ship depends on obedience by its crew, and on the absolute authority of its captain and officers. Without instant submission to a single will, the ship cannot survive long; elsewise everyone may perish, along with the vessel itself.
This theme ran through English government, as Blinker saw it, and through the very fabric of society. British subjects understood it and valued their places in the inflexible order. The basis was class–an aristocratic few, acting in enlightened cooperation, had to submit to the will of a single monarch, and in turn control the masses. Without this unity there would be chaos, and the ship of state would founder. In other earlier monarchies, the Church had been the main support of the kingship, with its hierarchy of God, angels, saints, men and beasts. Yet religious faith could falter, but this natural order of captain and crew, elite officer-caste and commoners, was impossible to deny, at least for an island kingdom surrounded on all sides by seas and rivals. Privileged Britons like himself and Ewing, acting by authority of the King–in a common understanding dictated by shared class, from their schools and social clubs and cabinet departments–could steer the land through any tempest of war, or of peacetime competition.
These were the views Hall had come to believe
in, and that were held by some few others, so he thought. But now they were the inner convictions of a spymaster, profound secrets–like so many other secrets, never to be written down or even discussed. The captain of a vessel at sea did not need to share his plans with any lesser officer or deckhand.
“An arrogant lot, these U-boat Kapitans,” Ewing was saying. “And competitive to boot. Just as pushy as their Kaiser, or even more so.”
“Yes, well, they have their new underwater weapon that was barely tried out before.” Hall was glad to be back on conversational ground. “Now it’s beastly effective.”
“It challenges the old rules of naval combat and any notion of international law.” Ewing added, waxing professorial.
“Well, that’s the downside for the Huns, don’t you see?” Hall replied. “The idea of destroying merchant ships and passengers without warning—without even taking the ship as a prize, or its cargo—it’s wasteful and barbaric, as if….”
“As if aircraft were to come and drop bombs on a city at random,” Ewing supplied. “As the German Zeppelin balloons so recently did on Yarmouth. Such a shame! I suppose the old, chivalrous days of warfare are past.”
“Yes, well, the time-honored Cruiser Rules are out the window—or out the porthole, so to speak. But it may still work to our advantage,” Blinker confidently added. “You can always trust these bloody-minded Huns to push things a bit too far.”
Chapter 7
Saloon Class
As was the custom in First Class—which Cunard quaintly called Saloon Class—Matthew Vane dressed for dinner. On this first night at sea, he thought it important to fit in. The voyage, so he’d resolved, would be no vacation from news reporting. On the contrary, this transatlantic run offered a rare chance to cross social lines and pick up useful news and gossip.
His black tuxedo afforded no space for a notebook. Only the smallest pencil stub and a folded sheet of paper, necessary for jotting down names, cabin numbers and a key word or two, would fit unobtrusively into the inner pocket. He adjusted his black bowtie and turned from the vanity mirror to brave Flash’s wolf-whistle.
“Not bad,” the photographer said, “but be sure to carry smelling salts. All the ladies will swoon.”
“Should we find you a dinner jacket?” Matt parried. “For Saloon Class, you’ll have to do better than that old coat. Though it might do OK in a Bowery-type saloon back home.”
Flash shrugged. “I’ll just make the rounds,” he said, and winked. “I think Second Cabin society is more my speed.”
That meant he’d be chasing nurses. No great loss, Matt thought, since having him around snapping pictures on the first night out might seem gauche and put the newsworthies on their guard. “If you’re not taking the camera with you, hide it well,” Matt said as he left. “It’s wanted by the authorities.”
From their suite on Main Deck E, Matt went up one flight of stairs to the dining palace on D. Their stateroom lay toward the rear of First Class, in a favored area amidships where the vessel’s noise and motion were least noticeable. So it was a smooth walk, like strolling down Broadway, along the carpeted passage to the Grand Dining Saloon’s double doors. Matt’s tuxedo, combined with a four-bit tip to the steward at the entry, earned him a seat on the main floor of the luxurious room. On entering the vast gallery, he was glad he hadn’t been diverted up to the mezzanine, with fewer chances to mingle in among the smart set.
The place was posh as they come, more elaborately gilded and paneled than his deluxe suite. At the center of the ship, a double ring of white pillars held up first the gilt-railed circular balcony, and above that a filigreed dome stolen straight out of the Palace of Versailles. Matt saw no skylights or portholes, just electric lamps hung all round the ceilings. Mirrors set at strategic places in the walls gave the room an illusion of endless size. The flooring was pale wood parquet, and the swivel armchairs anchored to it were upholstered in rose velvet. White embroidered tablecloths draped long tables, displaying place settings all aglitter with silver and crystal.
The table he was conducted to had several guests already seated, and they glanced up politely at the new arrival. Matt took his place opposite a matronly woman in a black evening gown, with a double strand of pearls across her bosom. Her black hair was done up in a massive coiffure which bobbed in welcome as he came up. The one unique touch to her ensemble was a small pair of pince-nez glasses perched on the stately bridge of her nose.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Mary Plamondon, and this is my husband Charles. We’re from Chicago. Are you American?”
“Yes, originally from Philadelphia,” Matt said. “I’m Matthew Vane, now a reporter with the Daily Inquisitor in New York.”
Before settling into his chair, he reached across the table and shook hands, first with the husband and then the wife. The man was stout and balding, dressed in a black dinner jacket and bowtie identical to Matt’s.
“Oh, Charles, he’s a reporter traveling to Europe! Are you going to cover the war, Mr. Vane?”
“Yes, I expect to,” Matt said, shaking out his napkin.
“How exciting! We think it’s so important, the war effort. Don’t we, Charles?” She nudged her husband, who nodded with an agreeable grunt but didn’t seem called upon to elaborate.
His wife went on with the introductions: next to Matt was Mr. Bowring, a British gentleman in shipping, and across from him an American named Gauntlett.
“But oh, a foreign correspondent,” Mary Plamondon said. “There must be so many interesting stories to be told! Is this your first time abroad? Our own trip isn’t quite so romantic. My dear Charles here manufactures brewery equipment, and he wants to sound out the Europeans to buy our products. Just the Allies, of course.”
“Beer brewing, is it?” Bowring asked on Matt’s right.
“Yes, definitely,” Charles Plamondon answered, finally moved to speak. “I’m interested in closing a deal with the Guinness concern in Dublin. They make a fine stout, but they’ll need our high-capacity vats and cookers if they want to expand their output.”
“We’ve done all our business until now in the States,” Mary added, shaking her head, “but if this Temperance Movement has its way, who knows what the future holds?”
“Yes. It’s a shame,” her husband said. “A little beer never hurt anybody, not like the hard spirits that some people can’t handle. But if this Prohibition thing passes, it’ll likely be just that, a flat ban.” He shook his head sadly. “These fanatics are sure to throw out the baby with the bath.”
“But the Europeans aren’t going to fall for anything like that,” Mary added brightly. “Least of all the Irish.”
“What about the Germans and Austrians?” Matt asked, a little mischievously. “They’re the biggest beer-drinkers of all. Wouldn’t you want them using your products?”
“Are you kidding?” Plamondon laughed. “Those German industrialists have been our biggest competitors in America, with their boilers that do double duty for beer and sauerkraut! This war can help us with European business by cutting out the German and Austrian competition, even if our US market goes bust.”
“But enough about our troubles,” Mary put in quickly. “There are some newsworthy people right here at our table. Mr. Bowring, there next to you, has a lot of ships at risk in this war.”
Matt turned to the tuxedoed man, who sat waiting good-naturedly. “Charles Bowring, of Bowring Shipowners?” he asked. “I recognize the name from covering the New York docks. You’re right in the middle of it all.”
“Quite so, old man,” Bowring said. “Business has expanded quite a lot, but so has the risk. We lost two vessels in April, one commandeered by a German surface raider, and one to a floating mine.”
“How awful,” Mary gasped. “Were any lives lost?”
“No, fortunately not,” Bowring replied. “But the crew of the captured ship was interned by Germ
any; I’m going now to see about getting them out. The shipping business takes me back and forth quite regularly to England, so I always take the fastest, safest liner, good old Lusitania.”
“How interesting! So you see, Mr. Vane,” Mary added, “you can write a news story about that! And Mr. Gauntlett, here, wants to make submarines in Rhode Island! Fred, maybe some press coverage would help you promote your venture.”
Matt looked to the man with mutton-chop whiskers across the table. “Submersibles, is it?”
“Well, yes, at least partly,” Gauntlett said. “I’m with Newport News shipyards, and I’m going to see about having the British license their designs for US manufacture. We could turn them out quicker, and every bit as well-built. It could help the Brits overcome this U-boat menace.”
“Subs fighting subs, you mean?” Matt asked, itching for his pencil and paper but afraid to pull them out. “The problem is, finding them while underwater. Is there some new gadget for that?”
Gauntlett looked reticent. “Well, if there were, it would be highly secret just now. Not something for the daily news. But they have made progress with underwater listening devices.”
Their talk was becoming more and more interesting to Matt when it was interrupted by the arrival of a new diner, a mustached and somewhat frail-looking Englishman. He was escorted to the table by a white-clad waiter.
“All right, steward, if I must,” he was irritably telling the man. “This spot right here will do quite nicely…Madame, if you don’t mind.”
Slipping into the vacant seat next to Mary, he gave no further heed to the crewman and suddenly became charming.
“Sorry for the fuss,” he told those already seated. “I thought I had another table reserved, but it was filled up. With these fixed seats, there’s no making allowances.” He thumped on the arm of his swivel chair.
“You probably didn’t tip the bloke enough,” Bowring said, “and now you’re stuck with us business travelers, the lowly hoi polloi. Tough luck, old chap!”
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