“We will do our best to prevent it coming to that. You know another thing I wanted to tell you,” the young lieutenant went on, “in case I don’t have the chance later, is that I have always admired your father.”
“How do you know him?” asked Amanda, glancing over in surprise.
“My father and he served together years ago,” replied Lieutenant Langham. “He always spoke highly of him. My father followed his career even after they parted ways and said how much he admired your father years later, too, when he resigned from the House of Commons. I remember my father telling me what courage that took, to go against convention and popular wisdom and step aside right at the height of his popularity. I had the chance to meet Commander Rutherford myself before the Dauntless put to sea.”
“When was that?”
“Mr. Churchill sent me down to Plymouth to deliver a personal message to your father. I was also in Scapa briefly later and met your brother . . . George, I believe.”
“Yes . . . yes, that’s him.”
“I found what my own father said was true. The exchanges between the commander and me were brief, but he treated me with the utmost respect.”
While Amanda was trying to think how to reply further, she felt the automobile slowing again.
“This will do fine, Sergeant,” said Churchill to the driver.
“It looks like we’ve arrived,” said Lieutenant Langham.
“Everyone out,” said Churchill, “but quietly.”
89
Unexpected Visitors to English Shores
Inside the house, Ramsay Halifax had arisen about half an hour earlier.
He had arrived at Hawsker Head late the previous night. A nicely lit fire was already ablaze as he came downstairs, thanks to Doyle McCrogher, though Ramsay found himself alone. McCrogher was at sea in his trusty vessel bringing ashore what Ramsay expected to be a single additional guest—an arrival, it might be noted, that he was not especially looking forward to seeing on the basis of the fact that he had himself made the drive north from London alone. There would be purgatory to pay from Barclay’s mouth, and he was already trying to plan how to respond to the anticipated caustic barbs from the latter’s tongue.
Chalmondley Beauchamp, meanwhile, was atop the lighthouse at the controls, a function in the operation of the network which he now handled almost entirely. The two or three others present were all still asleep.
Ramsay made himself a small pot of tea and had just completed his first cup in front of the fire when the door opened. The astonishment which registered on his face was instantaneous. He sat for a moment gaping at the figure who followed Hartwell Barclay inside.
“Scarlino . . . what are you doing here?” he finally exclaimed, more confused than anything. “You didn’t find—”
“No, I didn’t find her,” interjected Scarlino testily, showing no inclination toward conversation with Ramsay.
Behind him another stranger walked in.
“But if—”
“Forget the girl,” said Scarlino, removing his coat as the door closed. “That was just a ploy. We are here on another assignment—one that requires, shall we say, talents of which you have proved yourself capable. The girl means nothing anymore.—Is there any coffee around here?” He glanced about, then walked in the direction of what he took for the kitchen, where a kettle of water still stood steaming on the stove.
“We—what we?” said Ramsay, rising from his chair. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that. What kind of talents?—Barclay,” he said, now turning to his mentor in the ways of the Fountain, “what’s this all about?”
“That’s what I should be asking you,” Barclay rejoined, finding a cup and pouring himself what remained in Ramsay’s small pot from the table in front of the chair where he had been sitting. “You were supposed to have taken care of the girl by now, if you recall.”
“Unfortunately, she has continued to elude me.”
“She’s not dead?”
“No, she’s not dead.”
“Why not?”
“It didn’t work out. What are these other two doing here?” he said, returning to the subject at hand. He gestured toward the newcomers in the kitchen, who were investigating coffee makings and scarcely paying attention to the conversation about them in the adjacent room.
Barclay took a long sip from the tea in his cup, then eyed Ramsay intently.
“It seems they have orders from Austrian and German Intelligence to assassinate the good Mr. Asquith and his colleague Churchill,” he said.
“What!” exclaimed Ramsay. “That’s further than we’ve ever gone.”
“Perhaps,” replied Barclay. “Unfortunately, they left me little choice but to bring them to England for precisely that purpose.”
“That may be. But what the deuce does it have to do with me?”
“The most fascinating part of their scheme,” replied Barclay, the hint of a smile now revealing itself in his expression, “is that they seem to think you are the man to pull the trigger.”
“What! That’s the most insane—”
“It seems they have been setting this whole thing up for months.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Once Matteos put you and Scarlino in touch, you were a marked man, Ramsay. They knew all about us. They infiltrated our network.”
Barclay’s only consolation in the affair—for the past miserable hours in the submarine had caused him to hate Scarlino and the Prussian even more than Ramsay did—was in seeing his irritating and cocky young colleague squirm. “Seems as if we’ve been beaten at our own game,” he added with an ironic smile.
“How is that possible?” exclaimed Ramsay.
“The other fellow there is a high-ranking member of the Prussian Intelligence Service. They have contacts throughout Europe that make us look like amateurs. It would seem, my dear young Halifax, that we are working for them now.”
“Well, I for one have no intention of working for them!” said Ramsay irascibly.
“You have no choice, Halifax,” said Scarlino with a sinister smile as he walked in from the kitchen holding a cup of very bad and hastily assembled coffee. “We are in charge of this operation now. And its code name is Halifax Kills Churchill.”
An evil laugh now filled the room. The sound of it grated on Ramsay’s ears so stridently that for a moment his hand twitched in the direction of his gun.
If he was going to kill anyone, he thought, this maniac ought to be at the top of the list!
90
Moving In
As they hatched their plot inside the house, none of them had an idea that less than half a mile away one of the two men they had come to England to assassinate was invisibly closing a net around them.
Churchill motioned to the vehicles that had stopped behind him. Silently about two dozen uniformed men in the colors of the British Army and Royal Navy, along with five or six plainclothes Secret Service agents, came forward on foot. More signals and a few whispered instructions followed. Under cover of the rolling hills, brush, and a few trees, the band began slowly moving toward the lighthouse and other buildings, gradually spreading out to surround the compound against the bluff overlooking the sea.
Her heart pounding even more than before, Amanda walked between Langham and Churchill, beginning to wonder what she had gotten herself into. She didn’t mind a little adventure now and then. But these men were carrying guns! Somebody could get hurt around here!
Slowly the combined strike force crept from the three landward sides toward the house with the red roof. The buildings all sat relatively exposed near the bluff. So far they had not been seen. They would have to run the last fifty yards without benefit of cover.
When everyone was in place Churchill gave the signal.
Bending low, they hurried stealthily from their positions toward the first of the outbuildings, then, when it was safe, to the base of the lighthouse, spreading out again around two or three other small structures.
At last they slowed. Following Churchill’s signal, they crept toward the main house, crouching as they moved into position. Two teams would enter simultaneously by front and back doors. The rest would remain outside to keep the house and buildings surrounded.
Churchill motioned to Amanda and Langham to follow him. They ducked low beneath a window off the sitting room. Catching a breath or two, Churchill now rose carefully and peeped over the sill of the window. Most of those inside were apparently seated in the main lounge after the arrival of the newcomers. He crouched low again and motioned for Amanda to sneak whatever peek she was able.
Up in the gallery of the lighthouse, Chalmondley Beauchamp happened to glance down toward the ground.
Were his eyes playing a trick on him in this morning mist?
He saw . . . there it was again . . . someone running. What was that figure doing down below? Now he was running toward the base of the lighthouse. What were all those figures about! There were people everywhere.
Dozens of them! Wearing uniforms!
Seized with sudden panic, he grabbed his binoculars and ran outside the small glass-enclosed room to the catwalk. He looked straight down to the ground.
It couldn’t be! Was that actually . . . it looked like that young assistant of Churchill’s, the son of that naval officer, whatever his name was. What the devil—
Good heavens, there was Churchill himself! And Colonel Forsythe of the army and Jack Whyte from the Secret Service. What was happening!
Obviously the jig would seem to be up!
He had better change the message immediately. As for his own future, suddenly it looked very seriously in doubt.
Amanda clutched the sill and slowly rose to the edge of the window and peeped through into the seemingly innocuous room where so much mischief had been hatched. At last this place was about to be revealed for the den of falsehood it was.
“Do you recognize anyone, Miss Rutherford?” Churchill asked.
“It’s Mr. Barclay!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “I don’t know any of the others—”
Suddenly a gasp escaped her lips.
“What is it?” asked Churchill.
“Ramsay Halifax is there too!”
“What about his mother?”
“No, I don’t see her.”
“Anyone else you recognize?”
Amanda glanced around the room, shaking her head.
“Well, those two will be enough to put an end to this espionage ring and shut down this lighthouse for good. That’s what I wanted to know. I didn’t want to move until we could be confident of nabbing the ringleaders.”
“Wait,” said Amanda, “—another two men just entered from another room. But . . . no, I’ve never seen either of them before.”
“Let’s go. Langham, you take three men and climb the lighthouse and arrest whoever’s up there and put a stop to those signals.”
“Yes, sir,” whispered the lieutenant, motioning to several of the men kneeling behind them.
“The rest of us will bust up this little party inside.”
91
Break-In
Meanwhile, unaware of their danger, the group inside the house continued their discussion.
“And the trail in Switzerland?” Ramsay had just asked Scarlino.
“That was on the level,” replied Scarlino, taking a seat and sipping at the bitter brew in his cup. “I did my best. Had we located the girl, putting a bullet in her would simply have been a bonus for you. But you were my quarry all along, Halifax. Why do you think I let you live through all your stupid moves and the insults that came out of your mouth? If we hadn’t had more important plans, you would have been dead long before now. You’re the kind of arrogant young fool it is not my custom to put up with.”
“And your friend?” said Ramsay with scorn, nodding haughtily in the other man’s direction.
“I am Rald Wolfrik with the Prussian Intelligence Service,” now said Wolfrik. “My own identity is unimportant. What is important is that we are all on the same side here. This petty arguing is pointless. Our objective is to be rid of Churchill and Asquith and sabotage the Allied cause. And you, Mr. Halifax, because of your background and the freedom you have moving throughout England and especially in London circles, not to mention your newspaper contacts which we plan also to use to our advantage, are ideally suited for the assignment.”
“I will be no part of it,” said Ramsay irritably.
Wolfrik smiled. “As my colleague said a moment ago, you have no choice, Mr. Halifax. You will be leaving with us for London first thing tomorrow mor—”
Suddenly two doors at opposite sides of the house burst open with a loud shatter.
A dozen uniformed soldiers crashed through and tramped quickly into the lounge.
“What the—” exclaimed Barclay, leaping to his feet.
The rest of those seated inside were so taken by surprise that for a second or two no one moved a muscle. The hands of Scarlino and Wolfrik, both experienced assassins, as if in simultaneous reflex, gradually moved to the guns resting inside their coat pockets. But the rifles trained straight on them caused both to reconsider without need of verbal persuasion.
“Everybody just stay where you are and remain nice and calm,” said Colonel Forsythe, moving to the center of the room. “There is no need for anyone to get killed here. As you gentlemen can see, you are outnumbered. There are more of us outside.”
Suddenly Ramsay’s eyes widened in disbelief to see the figure entering beside the tall form he recognized as that of First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill.
“Amanda!” he exclaimed. “How in the—”
Instantly he caught himself.
Realizing there was no chance of escape, suddenly Ramsay’s brain performed a cunning about-face. The transformation was so swift that even one as experienced in chicanery as the Secret Service’s Jack Whyte did not see the 180-degree turnabout that had occurred. A wide smile now spread across Ramsay’s face.
“Why, Amanda, my dear,” he said smoothly, rising and walking toward her. “I am so relieved to see you at last.”
“Stay away from me, Ramsay!” said Amanda.
“Is that any way for a wife to talk to her husband? I’ve been so worried about you.”
“Wife!” exclaimed Churchill.
“Of course, didn’t she tell you?” said Ramsay innocently. “I assumed you knew.—You are, I believe, Mr. Churchill.” Ramsay approached and extended his hand. “I am happy to meet you at last, sir. I am Ramsay Halifax, stepson of Lord Halifax, with whom I believe you were acquainted.”
“Yes . . . yes, I knew him,” said a bewildered Churchill, shaking the offered hand. “But—”
“I have been working undercover with the British Secret Service for some time,” said Ramsay. “My colleague and I, Mr. Barclay, who has been with the Secret Service for years,” Ramsay went on, nodding in Barclay’s direction, “have been on the Continent for some time—Vienna, actually. Our orders were to infiltrate Austrian and German intelligence operations, which we have successfully done. We have just returned and were on our way to London to report our findings.”
Churchill glanced at Jack Whyte with wrinkled brow, then turned toward Amanda. “What’s this all about, Miss Rutherford?” he asked. His voice did not sound amused.
“Rutherford . . . oh no, I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” interposed Ramsay. “Her name is Halifax—Amanda Halifax. Although I cannot say as I am surprised. My wife sometimes has difficulty telling the truth. With all the espionage and counterespionage contacts with whom my work involved us, she occasionally became confused about which side was which. They were understandably perplexing circumstances, I grant you. Yet we had no alternative but to continue with our investigations, for the future of England, even though in time I realized I should probably not have brought Amanda into it so quickly. Unfortunately, in the end, my dear Amanda became so confused she actually thought we were working for the Austrians.”
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br /> Ramsay smiled with a sadly humorous expression and shook his head two or three times.
“That’s when she ran off,” he went on. “I’ve been looking high and low for her ever since. I’ve been worried sick about you, Amanda dear,” he added, once more moving to approach her.
Amanda took a step backward, fuming and speechless.
“What in thunder is going on here!” bellowed Churchill.
“It is obvious she has said some things to you,” Ramsay continued, “that are greatly exaggerated, if not outright lies. It would not surprise me to learn that she has told you many things which are simply fabrications of a very vivid imagination, including whatever she may have concocted about this house of ours where we often entertain friends. I don’t blame her, however, Mr. Churchill. She has just been very confused.”
“Ramsay, how dare you say such things!” cried Amanda, the storm finally exploding. “Everything you are saying is completely distorted. You know it! You have twisted it all to make it sound exactly backwards from the way it really is. You know as well as I do that you’re all spies.”
“Spies!” laughed Ramsay as if he were humoring a child. “Heavens, Amanda, where do you come up with these things! Just what have you been telling these gentlemen about us?”
It was now Hartwell Barclay’s turn to speak up. Very slowly he walked toward the scene. He glanced toward Secret Service Agent Whyte, who was as bewildered as Churchill.
“Hello, Jack,” he said, then turned and riveted his eyes upon Amanda’s face.
“Ramsay,” he said slowly and methodically, his voice smoother and softer than Amanda had ever heard it, “ask Mrs. Halifax to come over here with us where she belongs.”
As he intoned the words deliberately, his eyes bored into Amanda’s with the penetrating gaze that had always succeeded in gaining mastery over her.
“Amanda,” said Ramsay in a soft tone of command, “come over here with us, just as Mr. Barclay says. You are one of us, remember.”
Ramsay took another slow step toward her, extending his hand as if to gently lead her toward him. “You are my wife, Amanda. My wife . . . you are one of us.”
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