Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Robert Goddard
Copyright
Past Caring
In Pale Battalions
Painting the Darkness
Into the Blue
Take No Farewell
Hand in Glove
Closed Circle
Borrowed Time
Out of the Sun
Beyond Recall
Caught in the Light
Set in Stone
Sea Change
Dying to Tell
Days without Number
Play to the End
Sight Unseen
Never Go Back
Name to a Face
Found Wanting
Long Time Coming
Blood Count
Fault Line
The Ways of the World
For more information on Robert Goddard and his books, see his website at www.robertgoddardbooks.co.uk
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain
in 2014 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Robert and Vaunda Goddard 2014
Robert Goddard has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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MAX COULD ONLY wish he had made the crossing from Scotland in such weather: calm, cool and benign, the sea sparkling, the sky blue, with puffs of cloud herded at the horizon like well-behaved sheep. He stepped out of the Ayre Hotel into the peace of early morning, lit a cigarette and gazed around him.
The few locals already up and about would probably have identified him as a visitor even if they had not seen him leave the hotel. Tall, lean and youthfully handsome, dressed in clothes that were just a little too well cut to have been bought from an Orcadian tailor, Max looked what he was: a man out of his element. Yet he also looked relaxed and self-assured: a man as unlikely to attract suspicion as he was condescension.
He turned towards the harbour and started walking. The staff of the Ayre had warned him that Kirkwall Bay did not normally appear as it did now: an anchorage for dozens of US minesweepers and support vessels, most of them stationary at this hour, but some with smoke drifting up from their funnels. They were there to clear the thousands of mines laid around the Orkneys during the war, a task expected to take them many months.
Max knew little of the sea war, sharing the general prejudices of those who had engaged the enemy on the Western Front that the Royal Navy had had a cushy time of it, Jutland notwithstanding. His gale-tossed passage across the Pentland Firth had forced him to reconsider, however. He did not envy anyone who had spent the past four and more years in these waters.
Of all the places in the world where he had never expected to find himself, the Orkneys were high on the list. But he was aware that there were currently a good many people there who wished themselves elsewhere, doubtless including the crews of all those American minesweepers he could see strung out across the bay.
The same was certain to apply to the crews of the interned German High Seas Fleet, under Royal Naval guard in Scapa Flow. Until glancing at an atlas shortly before his journey north, Max had supposed Kirkwall overlooked the Flow and he would therefore have a good view from the city of the captive ships. But Kirkwall was on the northern side of Mainland, the Orkneys’ principal island, albeit at its narrowest part. To the south, enclosed by Hoy, South Ronaldsay and various other smaller islands, lay the vast natural roadstead of Scapa Flow, where seventy-four German warships were corralled at anchor.
Max would see them soon enough, of course. He knew that. They were why he had travelled to Orkney. And they were why he was out so early.
But early or not, he was not proof against unlooked-for encounters. As he passed the Girnel, the old grainstore facing the west pier, he saw a woman he recognized approaching along the harbour front. It was too late to think of avoiding her. She smiled and raised a hand. He smiled too and waved back.
Susan Henty was clearly no local herself, a tall, big-boned young woman with a horsey look about her, dressed in newish tweeds. She had auburn hair and a broad, open smile. Max imagined her as an enthusiastic rider to hounds in the Leicestershire countryside she had already told him she hailed from. She was impossible to dislike, which was half the problem in itself. He could not afford to appear secretive. But neither could he afford to reveal much about himself, least of all the truth.
‘An early riser too, I see, Max,’ she said as they met.
‘I thought I’d take the morning air.’
‘Me too. I walked down to the cathedral. Rather a fine structure, actually.’
‘Selwyn not up yet, then?’
‘Probably still in bed, poring over a map. He’s very excited about seeing the Ring of Brodgar. As you are, I trust.’
‘Well, I . . .’
‘Selwyn’s so pleased you agreed to help him.’ Most women looked up at Max. Susan Henty engaged him levelly eye to eye. She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘I’m not sure he believes I’m completely reliable when it comes to surveying.’
‘I’m not sure I’m completely reliable.’
‘Perhaps not, but you’re a man, which makes all the difference.’ She smiled. ‘This trip’s doing Selwyn no end of good, Max. I’m more grateful than I can say for your willingness to indulge him. How’s your driving, by the way?’
‘My driving?’
‘Yes. You know.’ She mimed turning a steering wheel.
‘Ah, that. Not too hot, I’m afraid. A better pilot than a driver, to be honest.’
‘Then I’ll do it. One of the few blessings of the war is that it enabled women to take up things like driving without anyone disapproving. And I’m rather good behind the wheel, if I say so myself.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
She affected a frown. ‘Do I detect a note of sarcasm?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Mmm. I’ll have to be on my guard with you. I can see that. Now, the hotel’s recommended a garage where we can hire a car. And it looks like a fine day for it. So, shall we leave around ten?’
‘Suits me.’
‘Good. See you later, then.’
Max tipped his hat and watched Susan Henty stride on her way, back towards the Ayre. He disliked misleading her. He disliked every aspect of the subterfuge he was obliged to practise. It was a damnable game to have to play.
He lit another cigarette and waited until Susan was out of sight. Then he walked smartly along the street fronting onto the harbour, past the Kirkwall Hotel – of altogether grander appearance than the Ayre – and out along the east pier.
It was considerably longer than the west pier, with an extension added onto the seaward curve where it enclosed the harbour. Max strolled past a warehouse and assorted stacks of cargo and on towards the far end, passing another building that sported a prominently stencilled sign: US NAVAL PERSONNEL ONLY. An American marine of considerable bulk was standing by the door. He stifled a yawn as he returned Max’s ‘Good morning’.
A US Navy cutter was moored on one side of the pier. Max headed for the other side, propped his foot on a bollard and tossed the butt of his cigarette into the sea as he gazed idly out towards the massed minesweepers. He glanced at his watch and checked the time. Yes. He was neither late nor early. All he had to do was wait.
And not for long.
‘GOOD MORNING.’
The man was bulky and bearded, but had a sprightly look about him that owed more than a little to his mischievously twinkling eyes. He was dark-haired, thirtyish, dressed in a US Navy lieutenant’s uniform. He was wearing a greatcoat, despite the mildness of the morning, and smoking a cigarette. His accent was indeterminately American. West coast or east or where in between was hard to gauge.
‘Good morning,’ Max said cautiously.
‘I’d take you for an educated man.’
‘That’s gratifying.’
‘And you’re English, right?’
‘Yes. I am.’
‘Maybe you can settle an argument for me. Your prime minister before Lloyd George was Asquith?’
‘He was.’
‘And before him . . . Balfour?’
‘No. Campbell-Bannerman.’
‘Ah. I lose the argument, then . . . Max.’
Max nodded in acknowledgement that the preliminaries had been satisfactorily concluded. ‘Fontana?’
‘Lieutenant Grant Fontana, United States Navy. At your service.’
‘What’s your role here?’
‘Liaison with the local merchant marine. Which is handy for you, considering I know a drifter skipper who likes to make a little money on the black market – including illicit bartering visits to the German ships in Scapa Flow.’
Max paused before responding. ‘That does sound handy. Can he be trusted?’
‘He can be trusted to do what he has to do to stay out of trouble. And I can land him in a whole load of trouble any time I like, as he well knows. But on the subject of trust . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Who was that woman you were talking to?’
‘Susan Henty. I met her and her brother on the ferry.’
‘You met them?’ Fontana suddenly seemed less friendly. ‘You should have made it your business to meet no one.’
‘They’re harmless.’
‘So you say. What do they think you’re doing here?’
‘My brother was killed in the Vanguard disaster.’
‘Remind me what disaster that was.’
‘HMS Vanguard blew up while anchored in Scapa Flow on the night of the ninth of July 1917, with the loss of more than seven hundred souls. Probably caused by the spontaneous combustion of cordite in the magazine, though there were rumours of sabotage.’
‘And one of those seven hundred was your “brother”?’
‘Sub-Lieutenant David Hutton.’
‘So, that makes you Max Hutton?’
‘As far as the Hentys and everyone here’s concerned, yes. I’ve come to see where it happened – to pay my respects.’
‘Touching. Truly touching.’ Fontana sucked a last drag out of his cigarette and flicked it away. ‘Listen, I don’t want to know what you’re after on that German ship. I’ve done what the boss wanted me to do here: make it possible for you to get on board. It’s not going to be easy, but Tom Wylie’s the man to do it. I’ll see him this evening and explain to him what’s wanted and brief you on the plan straight after. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Meet me in the back bar of the Albert at nine o’clock. Mounthoolie Lane. It’s Saturday, so it’ll be busy. And noisy. No one will pay us any attention.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Any questions?’
‘Which ship will Wylie take me to?’
Fontana gave a mirthless little laugh. ‘You’ll find out when the time comes and not before. I mean to stick to the rules even if you don’t. The boss doesn’t like deviations.’
‘But he isn’t here, is he, to worry about how we get the job done?’
‘Not here? Well, that depends on exactly what you mean by “here”. I often feel he’s looking over my shoulder watching what I do.’
‘Do you feel that now?’
Fontana lit another cigarette and contemplated Max as he drew on it. ‘You should feel that now. It’d be good for you. Stop you taking too many chances. This is your first big job for him, isn’t it? If you want to live to do another, you need to be more careful. Guard your tongue and watch your back. That’s my advice. I’ll see you later.’
Fontana did not wait for a response. He turned and strode away across the pier towards the moored cutter. Max watched him from the corner of his eye as he started down a flight of steps to reach the craft.
The cutter got under way and headed out across the bay towards the minesweepers. Then Max began a slow, measured amble back along the pier.
THE FERRY FROM Aberdeen to Kirkwall had taken the weather as it found it: foul but no fouler than was often the case, according to a member of the crew who seemed to think Max was in need of reassurance, callow Londoner straight off the sleeper from King’s Cross that he obviously was. Fresh air was the only cure for seasickness Max knew, so he sat out the voyage on deck, with occasional descents to the saloon to warm himself by the stove.
He was striding back and forth by the rail, muffled up and clapping his arms together, when the ferry docked at Wick to pick up more passengers. That was when he caught his first sight of the Hentys. There was something in their attitude to each other, as well as a slight facial similarity, that told him they were brother and sister rather than husband and wife. And the sister’s anxiety about her brother was also apparent, even as they hurried along the pontoon to board. She watched his every step with a worried frown, as if he might fall or stumble – or simply collapse.
The Hentys also shunned the saloon and fell into conversation with Max as the only other passenger who preferred the open deck. Selwyn Henty, big-boned like his sister, but with thinning hair and an altogether less robust appearance, confessed at once that claustrophobia rather than seasickness was the problem in his case. ‘I did some tunnelling in the war. Since then I don’t seem to be able to tolerate sharing confined spaces with other people.’
The war had left other marks on Selwyn Henty: a gaze that never fixed itself on anything for longer than a few seconds and a tremor of the hands that the motion of the ship disguised until it came to lighting a cigarette or taking a nip from his hip-flask. He spoke with nervous rapidity as well, often jumbling his words.
Jumbled or not, however, his eloquence on the subject of ancient megaliths was undeniable. He was seeking to put the finishing touches to a theory he had devised – ‘a mathematical solution’, he termed it – concerning the prehistoric stone monuments of Britain. Those of northern Scotland were particularly illuminating, apparently. He and his sister had followed a fortnight in the Outer Hebrides – ‘The Callanish circles must be seen to be appreciated, Mr Hutton’ – with a tour of the stone rows of Caithness – ‘Fascinating, quite fascinating’ – and were now heading for the Ring of Brodgar on Orkney. ‘You’ve heard of it, of course?’
Max had not. Nor did he gain any inkling of the nature of Selwyn’s ‘mathematical solution’ from rapid-fire references to azimuths, extinction angles and the rate of decline of the obliquity of the ecliptic. Susan Henty gave him a few sympathetic grimaces during her brother’s disquisition, to which she added an apologetic explanation when Selwyn descended to the heads.
‘Selwyn’s never told me much about his wartime experiences, Mr Hutton, but they’ve taken their toll on him, as you can see. He wasn’t always so intense. This research project is good for him, though. If he can see it through and publish his findings, I think he’ll have been able to put some healing distance between himself and all the things that happened to him in France. Of course, he’s lucky to be alive when so many of his comrades aren’t, but his survival has come at a price.’
‘At least he has you to help him through it,’ said Max.
‘I do what I can. And you? Is there anyone to help you through it?’
‘Oh, the RFC was a breeze compared with the Army.’
‘I don’t believe that for a moment.’
‘It was, I assure you. I’m ridiculously unscathed.’
The broad, confident smile Max gave Susan Henty then was much the same as the one he gave both her and Selwyn as they set out in the hired Humber from Kirkwall the following morning. He was a free agent until he met Fontana again that evening. There seemed no reason not to enjoy himself as best he could.
Susan, however, proposed that they take an indirect route to Brodgar along the southern coastal road, so they could have a view of Scapa Flow and the interned German fleet. Since this would also give them a view of the waters in which HMS Vanguard had been blown up in 1917, claiming the life of Sub-Lieutenant David Hutton among hundreds of others, Max was in no position to object.
He prepared himself to appear moved by a first sight of the place where his supposed brother had died and was dismayed, when the time came, by how shamelessly he performed the role.
The Flow itself was a bowl of blue sea, enclosed by the mountainous bulk of Hoy and a string of smaller, lower-lying islands. Dotted across it were the grey, recumbent warships of the German High Seas Fleet. They stopped to view the scene from the hill above Houton, where a nearly circular bay was ringed by the jetties, slipways, workshops and hangars of a seaplane base.
A seaplane was taking off as they arrived. Watching it, Max experienced a pang of nostalgia for the days when he had flown virtually daily. As it was, it had been two long years since he had heard the wind in the wires as he piloted a craft into the sky. Fortunately, Susan, looking round at him from the driver’s seat, interpreted his doleful shake of the head as a sign of mourning for his late brother.
‘Do you know where the Vanguard was when it happened, Max?’ she asked.
‘What?’ His reactions snapped into gear. ‘Oh yes. She was anchored off Flotta. There.’ He pointed to what he judged was the correct island. ‘It happened at night. There was no warning.’
‘You can be glad of that small mercy,’ said Selwyn. ‘At least your brother didn’t know he was about to die.’
Whether Susan sensed the same meaning as Max did in Selwyn’s words – that he had felt certain he was about to die on numerous occasions – was hard to tell.
‘There’s that, yes,’ Max acknowledged.
‘Was his body recovered?’
‘No.’ It seemed safest to deny there was a grave to visit. ‘But there’s a memorial to all the victims at the Naval Cemetery on Hoy. I plan to go and see it.’
‘A frightful thing,’ said Susan. ‘The death of so many – in an instant.’
‘When did you hear of it?’ asked Selwyn. ‘You said you were a prisoner of war by then.’
‘The camp commandant passed on the news. He added his condolences.’
‘He did?’
‘They were good about things like that.’ Max recalled as much from the manner in which other prisoners had received such tidings. The tactics of misrepresentation were beginning to become instinctive, he realized.
‘Perhaps you think we’re being too hard on them now we’ve won.’
Max wondered for a moment if Selwyn was trying to pick an argument. If so, he would be disappointed. ‘No, I don’t. They started it.’
‘Yes. And let’s not forget it.’
‘Well, perhaps we could forget it for the rest of the day,’ Susan suggested, her voice tightening slightly.
Selwyn had little choice but to agree. ‘You’re right, of course. Prehistory awaits us. Drive on, sis.’
The Ring of Brodgar stood on a hill halfway along an isthmus of land separating lochs Stenness and Harray. Only thirty-six of the original sixty stones remained, according to Selwyn, but he reckoned that was enough for his purposes. The site was breathtakingly lovely, with or without the monument. Spring flowers were scattered richly across the turf. The blue waters of the lochs mirrored the sky above. The air was cool and fragrant.
But Selwyn had no interest in the scenery. Ropes, ranging rods and a theodolite were unloaded and the survey work began. Max threw himself into the task, which consisted of measuring as precisely as they could the distances between the stones, their relative heights and the diameter of the circle they formed.
Or was it a circle? Selwyn revealed during a break back in the car for sandwiches and tea from a Thermos that the ring might actually be an ellipse. ‘The elliptical form lends itself more readily to the creation of Pythagorean triangles, you see,’ he explained, though naturally Max did not see.
‘The people who built this were familiar with Pythagoras?’
‘No. They pre-date him. That’s the wonder of it.’
‘But what—’
‘We’ll know more when I analyse the data.’
With that Selwyn was off, theodolite under arm, striding back towards the stones.
‘He doesn’t have the patience to explain it properly.’ Susan sighed. ‘But it’s all there in his head. And you’ve been such a sport. It goes much better with three.’
‘What does he think this circle – or ellipse – was for?’
‘Observation of the sun and moon for the determination of solstices and the prediction of eclipses. He’s detected precise alignments for just those purposes at all the sites we’ve been to.’
‘But building this in its original form must have been a massive undertaking. Think of the man-hours involved in quarrying and transporting the stones, let alone erecting them. It seems incredible.’
‘A few thousand years from now it’ll seem incredible men spent so much money killing one another on the Western Front for four years.’
Max smiled grimly. ‘I don’t think it’ll take anything like as long as that.’
Susan sighed. ‘No, it won’t, will it? Now, we’d better report back for duty. Selwyn’s beckoning rather petulantly.’
It took longer than Max had anticipated for the survey to be completed to Selwyn’s exacting standards. It was late afternoon when they started back to Kirkwall. Half a mile or so along the road they passed four standing stones which Selwyn believed to be all that remained of another, smaller circle. He proposed to return the following day to survey the site as best he could.
‘We may be able to establish its relationship with Brodgar. Care to lend a hand, again, Max?’
‘Do say you’ll come,’ Susan urged him.
But Max’s availability hinged on what Fontana had arranged for him. He could not afford to make any promises. ‘I’ll let you know in the morning. I might wake up as stiff as a board after the hard labour you’ve put me to.’ He had, in fact, already experienced several twinges from a month-old bullet wound in his side, but he did not propose to mention it.
‘That’s the problem with you RFC johnnies,’ said Selwyn. ‘No stamina.’
Selwyn laughed as he spoke, for the first time Max could recall. Susan’s surprised glance at her brother suggested she had not heard him laugh recently either. It seemed Max’s company really was good for him. As to whether he would have the advantage of it much longer . . .
‘We’ll see about that,’ Max said softly.
MAX TREATED HIMSELF to a large Scotch and a soothing bath back at the Ayre, then took himself off to the Kirkwall Hotel for dinner to forestall any invitation from the Hentys to dine with them. A harbourside stroll afterwards filled the time before his appointment with Fontana.
The back bar of the Albert was, as Fontana had predicted, crowded and noisy at that hour on a Saturday evening. A fiddler was adding zest to a bubbling sense of raucousness. Max had to bellow his order to the barman. He had already seen Fontana, installed at a corner table and foot-tapping along to the music like a man with nothing on his mind but gentle enjoyment of the local night life.
Six strapping American sailors were drinking enthusiastically at the bar, but they gave no sign of being acquainted with Fontana. They could, Max realized, have come from any one of the dozens of minesweepers out in the bay.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Max asked, gesturing to the spare chair as he approached Fontana’s table.
‘Not at all.’ Fontana smiled and slid the newspaper lying by his glass closer to him to make way.
Max sat down. ‘Cheers.’
‘Your health.’ They both took a drink.
‘Lively, isn’t it?’
‘You can say that again.’
‘You’re with the minesweepers?’
‘Yup. But we take it easy on Sundays, so tonight’s a chance to relax.’
‘Well earned, I’m sure.’
‘You’re not from round here yourself, are you? Don’t I detect an English accent?’
‘You do.’
‘Well, this is your trusty guide to what happens in these parts – or doesn’t.’ Fontana nodded to the newspaper between them. ‘The Orcadian. I’ve finished with it.’ He turned the paper so that it was facing Max. As he did so, he twitched up a corner to reveal an envelope that had been slipped inside. Then he dropped his voice to a level no one near by would be able to hear. ‘It’s a letter for the captain of the ship you’ll be taken to. From the boss.’
‘He didn’t tell me there’d be a letter.’
‘Well, there is. My guess is it contains something to ensure the captain’s compliance with whatever you’ll be asking of him.’
It sounded a good guess to Max, but he did not say so. ‘What have you arranged with—’
‘No names,’ Fontana interrupted. ‘Let’s keep it simple. Travel to Stromness on Monday. It’s the closest port to the German fleet. Book into a hotel for the night. There’s a building contractor’s yard north of the harbour. You’ll be met at the gate at half past midnight. I’ve secured you an hour aboard the ship. I was told that should be enough. You’ll be back in Stromness around two thirty. On Tuesday morning, you can take the mail steamer to Scrabster and head home, mission accomplished. Does that sound good to you?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’ Max could not help worrying about the letter. It was the first intimation he had had that Commander Schmidt might not be eager to cooperate. ‘How long have—’
‘Excuse me.’ A figure was standing by their table, holding a glass in one hand and a chair by its back in the other. Looking up, Max saw to his astonishment that it was Selwyn Henty. ‘There’s room for a third, isn’t there?’
‘Selwyn? What are you doing here?’
Selwyn twirled the chair round and sat down. He deposited his whisky glass on the table with a heavy clunk. Max’s initial impression was that he was more than a little drunk, although his words were not in the least slurred. He extended a hand towards Fontana. ‘Good evening. My name’s Selwyn Henty. Has Max mentioned me to you?’
‘No,’ said Fontana warily. ‘But we’ve, er, only just met.’
‘Is that so? Well, now I’m pleased to meet you.’ Fontana was more or less obliged to shake Selwyn’s hand. ‘And you are?’
‘Lieutenant Grant Fontana, United States Navy.’
‘A long way from home?’
‘Quite some way, yuh.’
‘Like me and Max. We’re all strangers here.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought this was your kind of place, Selwyn,’ said Max, hoping though not necessarily believing that Selwyn’s presence in the Albert was just an unfortunate coincidence.
‘It isn’t. I only came here because you did.’
‘Are you saying . . . you followed me?’
‘Yes.’ Selwyn grinned blithely and Max saw Fontana’s face cloud with anger. ‘Don’t reproach yourself. I did a good many recceing missions behind enemy lines in the war. I’m no slouch when it comes to seeing without being seen.’
‘Why would you want to follow him?’ Fontana asked, assembling a pseudo-genial smile of his own.
‘Let’s not be coy, gentlemen. You two are, it pains me to have to say, up to no good.’
‘Pardon me?’ Fontana looked suitably taken aback.
‘What manner of no good I neither know nor care. It’s entirely your affair.’
‘This is ridiculous, Selwyn,’ said Max. ‘What the devil are you talking about?’
‘Your name isn’t Max Hutton, is it . . . Max?’ There was absolute certainty in Selwyn’s alarmingly round-eyed gaze. He knew.
‘What?’
‘It’s Maxted. James Maxted. We were at Eton together.’
Damn, thought Max. Damn it all to hell.
‘I was two years below you, so naturally you don’t remember me. Equally naturally, I do remember you. Ironically, most people would think me older than you now. It must be on account of the different wars we had. Mine took rather more out of me than yours evidently did out of you. But then you always did have an enviable quality of effortlessness. I remember watching you score a fifty for the second eleven once. Against Marlborough, if I’m not much mistaken. Lovely timing.’
Denial was futile. Max knew that even if Fontana did not. But what was the alternative? ‘You’re mistaken, Selwyn. I can—’
‘Please don’t. We both know it’s true.’ He was speaking quietly now, almost indulgently. ‘I felt sure we’d met before when you introduced yourself on the ferry. It only came to me later, though. James Maxted. Known as Max. Not Max Hutton. From which it followed you had not lost a brother on the Vanguard. That was all make-believe. But to what end? Well, as I say, I’m happy to let you keep that to yourselves.’
‘What makes you think I have the remotest clue what this is all about?’ cut in Fontana.
‘You mean what persuades me you are co-conspirators rather than chance acquaintances? Your carefully choreographed meeting at the harbour this morning, Lieutenant Fontana, as observed by me from the Ayre Hotel with my trusty binoculars. That is what persuades me. Max here travelling under an alias, and you patently straying from whatever duties you may have with the minesweeping fleet.’
Selwyn made a sudden grab for the newspaper, but Fontana slammed his hand down across it to stop him. They stared at each other for a moment, fury – at Selwyn, at Max, maybe even at himself – simmering in Fontana’s eyes.
‘Well, the point is made.’ Selwyn sat back in his chair and swallowed most of his whisky. ‘Here’s the thing, gentlemen. Our parents left Susan and me poorly provided for. My researches have committed me to an extensive – and expensive – programme of travel. I don’t expect my findings, when published, to be particularly lucrative. I may need to look to posterity for my greatest reward. But none of us can live on air, can we? And I should like Susan to have a more comfortable existence than she can currently afford. I foresee an offer of marriage, from a lamentable source, which she may feel obliged to accept. I should like to spare her that. I should like to give us both a little freedom in which to consider our futures. Shall we say . . . a thousand pounds?’
‘You’re out of your god-damn mind,’ said Fontana levelly.
‘You’re not the first to have said that, Lieutenant Fontana. But my sanity really isn’t the point. The point is that I shall notify the Kirkwall police and your commanding officer of my suspicions that you are engaged in some form of criminal enterprise unless you agree to buy my silence. I’m sorry the price is a little steep, but, as I’ve explained, I have my sister to consider as well as myself. On the other hand, I’m not unreasonable. You can pay me in instalments. Why don’t we say a hundred pounds as a down-payment? I’ll give you until the banks open on Monday to mull it over. But do mull thoroughly. I can’t prove a great deal beyond Max’s act of imposture. But I suspect all the official attention I can ensure you receive will scupper your plans, or at any rate greatly complicate them. Not that I’m inflexible. Far from it. A counteroffer on your part – a share of the proceeds of whatever you’re planning, for instance – will receive my serious attention. Do you see, gentlemen? You have to deal with me, irksome as it may be. Now, I’ll leave you to enjoy your drinks – and all the local gossip.’ Selwyn pointed airily at the Orcadian, still held firmly in place by Fontana. ‘Illuminating, I’m sure.’ He pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘I’ll bid you good evening.’ He turned towards the door, then turned back again. ‘By the way, Max, there’s no need to let this stand in the way of your accompanying us tomorrow. Susan will be disappointed if you don’t. And so will I.’ He essayed a form of salute to them both. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you.’
‘YOU DAMN FOOL,’ growled Fontana in the dark doorway along Mounthoolie Lane, where they had retreated from the Albert following Selwyn Henty’s departure. Max sensed Fontana wanted to shout at him, even strike him, but the need for secrecy held them both in its grip. The recriminations, bitter as they were, could only be whispered. ‘Because you couldn’t keep yourself to yourself on the ferry, we’ve got a blackmailer on our backs.’
‘How was I to know I’d meet someone who knew me at school?’ Max protested.
‘You shouldn’t have taken the chance. It looks to me as if that expensive education you had didn’t include a short course in common sense.’
‘Let’s not panic. I’m not travelling light when it comes to cash. We can agree to Henty’s terms and pay him a hundred quid on Monday. That’ll keep him quiet until I’ve been out to the ship. After I’ve got what I’m going there for, he can say what he likes. He can’t prove anything. He said so himself.’
‘You mean you get clean away and leave me to face the music.’
‘What music? There’ll be nothing for the police to investigate.’
‘We’d better hope that’s right. You louse things up Monday night and it could be a different story. If the British guard squadron reports any kind of incident, Henty’s allegations will get a lot of attention. And I’ll be in it up to my neck.’
‘I’m not going to louse things up.’
‘Really? Well, excuse me for pointing out that your record to date doesn’t inspire confidence.’
‘It’ll be all right. For God’s sake, what else can we do but play for time? The mission’s vital. It takes absolute priority. Haven’t you been told that?’
‘Yeah, I’ve been told. The mystery to me is why, if it’s so vital, a bungler like you was sent to carry it out.’
‘The boss trusts me. And he’ll expect you to trust me too.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Fontana tossed his head and took a few fretful strides along the lane, then stalked back to where Max was waiting. ‘All right. We’ll keep Henty sweet. Tell him we’ll pay up. But negotiate a lower figure. Or at least try to. He might get suspicious if we give in too easily.’
‘OK. I’ll do that.’
A silence followed, during which Fontana chewed over his anger, evidently long enough to swallow it. Then he said, ‘If all goes well, we won’t meet again. I’ll check with the Ayre that you’ve booked out on Monday and assume you’re proceeding as per my arrangements with Wylie.’
‘I’ll be proceeding. You can rely on it.’
‘I’ll have to, won’t I?’ Fontana pulled up the collar of his greatcoat and headed off without a backward glance. He had no more to say. His opinion of Max was clear. And Max could hardly blame him for holding it.
‘Hell and damnation,’ he muttered to himself.
Max returned to the Ayre Hotel cursing Fontana for being right. This was all his own fault.
But there was work to be done. ‘Have a pot of tea sent up to my room, please,’ he instructed the young man behind the reception desk. ‘And a jug of hot water. Very hot. I like my tea piping.’
‘The kitchen’s closed, sir.’
‘Just tea and hot water. No milk.’ He slipped half a crown into the young man’s hand. ‘There’s a good fellow.’
Max headed straight upstairs, relieved to reach his room without encountering Susan or Selwyn, or, worse still, the pair of them. Once inside, he took the letter out of the copy of the Orcadian Fontana had given him.
The name was written on the envelope with an italic pen in a neat, brisk hand. Fregattenkapitän L. Schmidt. Was it Lemmer’s writing? Max had no way of telling. He had seen no examples. But it seemed to him the sort of writing Lemmer might have.
Fritz Lemmer. The boss. The man who had sent him to Orkney. Max remembered him standing with his back to the sunlight flooding through the French windows in the eerily unfurnished chateau near Paris where they had met three weeks before.
A grey-bearded, bespectacled man of dignified bearing, learned, you would have said, expert in some esoteric field, yet light on his feet, square-shouldered, physically as well as mentally alert. The doors were half-open behind him. Birdsong drifted in on the breeze. There was something hypnotic in his tone of voice, something infinitely persuasive. The soundness of his judgement, it implied, was unassailable.
‘How gratifying to have your allegiance, Max. I am impressed you grasped the logic of accepting my invitation. Your first task is uncomplicated, though that does not mean there will be no difficulties. There are always difficulties. Do not resent them when they arise. They will harden you. They will expand your capabilities. I want you to travel to Glasgow. Yes, Glasgow. Wait there for further instructions. Nadia will deliver them. Arrange with her how she can contact you. I assume I do not need to tell you not to use your real name. But stay Max. First names stick. Last names are . . . flexible. It may be a long time before you hear from Nadia. That will be your first test. To wait – patiently and inconspicuously – until you are needed. If you perform the task well, when the time comes, I will have more interesting work for you. More challenging. More rewarding. The future, Max. That is where we are going. Others falter. Others stand still. We go forward.’
Max was part of Lemmer’s team from that day on. The realization was chilling, even though he had chosen to take on the role. His motive was his defence, a motive he could only pray Lemmer had no inkling of. As for Nadia, there too came a chilling realization. She was not merely one among who-knew-how-many operatives Lemmer deployed for his purposes. She was close to him. She was someone he relied upon, someone who might know more about him than most.
Max had ample time to dwell on such issues while he kicked his heels in Glasgow. He found a gymnasium where he could work off some of his frustration on the punch-bag and dumbbell. He took walking trips around Loch Lomond. He killed innumerable hours lying on the bed in his hotel room reading Sax Rohmer stories. He prowled the city. He lingered in cafés. He waited it out.
Nadia eventually made contact, as agreed, through the personal column of the Glasgow Evening News. They met amid the seventeenth-century Dutch masterpieces in Kelvingrove Art Gallery. Nadia, with her glossy dark hair and pale complexion, looked exotically mysterious in an elegant coat and dress. She evidently saw no need to blend with the background. After more than a fortnight of Glaswegian dourness, Max was at once reminded of how powerfully alluring she was. But it was vital never to forget how treacherous she could also be.
They were both working for Lemmer now, though. And Nadia for one was not about to betray him. ‘How are you enjoying Scotland, Max?’
‘It’ll be no hardship to leave it.’
‘Ah, but you are not leaving. You are being sent north. To Orkney.’
‘Orkney?’
‘The German fleet has been held at Scapa Flow since the Armistice. It is uncertain what will happen to the ships under the peace treaty. He cannot wait until then.’ She habitually referred to Lemmer by the personal pronoun rather than his name. It reminded Max, as perhaps it was meant to, of the respect she had for him. ‘The captain of one of the ships has something he wants. You will collect it.’
‘I imagine the Royal Navy’s keeping a close eye on those ships. Collection won’t be easy.’
‘An American officer called Fontana will assist you. He is with a US minesweeping fleet working there. You are to meet him in Kirkwall next Saturday.’
‘What am I collecting?’
‘A file. Grey. With the letters NBM on the cover. You have that? NBM.’
‘I have it.’
‘The captain’s name is Schmidt. Lothar Schmidt. He will know what you want.’
‘Which ship does he command?’
‘I do not have that information. Fontana will know.’
‘I’m to be drip-fed, am I?’
‘You are on trial, Max. Concentrate on doing what you have been told to do.’
‘I will.’
She smiled tightly. ‘Good.’
They adjourned to the gallery tea-room. Nadia appeared to feel Max needed reminding of the seriousness of what he was about to embark upon.
‘Mistakes can be costly in this work, Max. You understand?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘He rewards success. He punishes failure.’
‘Of course. It’s his nature.’
‘Yes. It is.’
‘When did you first meet him, Nadia?’
She looked at him narrowly. ‘You should not ask me that.’
‘You know when I first met him.’
‘Still you should not ask me.’
‘If not when, then where? St Petersburg? Berlin?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want me to go on guessing?’
‘No.’ She tapped a finely sculpted fingernail against her teacup, pointedly, as if it was a clue.
‘China?’
‘Almost. Korea. Chosen, as the Japanese call it.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘Not all of us who left Russia started by heading west, Max. I went east. I found work with a Japanese businesswoman in Keijo.’
‘A Japanese businesswoman in Keijo. That sounds interesting. What sort of business was she in?’
‘Many kinds. And one kind involved him.’
‘What took him to Korea, I wonder.’ Max smiled at Nadia, inviting some further disclosure.
But there was not to be one. ‘I have said too much already. I will say nothing more.’ And nor did she.
There was a knock at the door. Max took the tea-tray from the young man and sent him away with his thanks. A boiling kettle was what he really needed. But he was confident the steam from the jug and teapot combined would do the trick. There was no time to be lost. He held the envelope above their open lids and began prising gently at the flap.
| MOST SECRET | Paris, 27th April 1919 |
MEMORANDUM – Attention of C only (in cipher) HQ London
I exercised my discretion by enrolling James Maxted (known as Max), formerly a lieutenant in the RFC, as a special off-books operative on 5th April. I considered that logging a report of the arrangement at the time would risk attracting hostile attention.
The extraordinary opportunity Max’s engagement represented was the reason I proceeded on my own initiative. He first came to my attention following the death of his father, Sir Henry Maxted, in an unexplained roof-fall in the Montparnasse district of Paris on 21st March this year. Sir Henry was attached to our delegation to the peace conference as an adviser on South American affairs.
It appeared at first that Sir Henry had committed suicide. The French police believed he had discovered that his lover, Corinne Dombreux, who lived in an apartment in the building from which he fell, had been unfaithful to him with an Italian artist, Raffaele Spataro. But some of the circumstances were distinctly suspicious. Mme Dombreux’s status as the widow of a traitor also gave cause for concern – Pierre Dombreux, a diplomat serving at the French Embassy in Petrograd, is believed by le Deuxième Bureau to have acted as a Soviet, and possibly also a German, spy before his death by drowning in March of last year.
The French authorities were happy to record Sir Henry’s death as an accident, as was his eldest son, and heir, Sir Ashley. Max, on the other hand, was convinced from the first that his father had been murdered and set about proving it. I tried initially to dis courage him, in order to avoid a scandal that might embarrass our delegation. As you know, however, Max’s investigations unearthed a possible connection with Fritz Lemmer, whom Sir Henry had met while serving with our embassy in Tokyo in 1889/91.
Max contacted Travis Ireton, an unscrupulous American who peddles titbits of information about the conference. It appeared likely Sir Henry had tried to sell information through Ireton in order to fund a golden future for himself and Mme Dombreux. One of the pieces of information, culled from a list of potential sources of money in Sir Henry’s handwriting (I explained the background to this to you and the heads of department at an HQ meeting on 26th March), related to Lemmer’s current whereabouts. Max concluded that his father had been murdered to protect Lemmer. I was inclined to agree with him.
Max’s attempts to discover who had betrayed Sir Henry revealed the presence of a network of spies maintained by Lemmer within more than one delegation to the conference, including ours, working actively despite the collapse of the Imperial German government whose cause they originally served. Shortly after Max identified one of those spies as Walter Ennis of the American delegation, Ennis was murdered. Spataro was also murdered. In Spataro’s case, attempts were made to fasten responsibility on Mme Dombreux. The killings of Sir Henry and Spataro were well managed. They bore Lemmer’s hallmark. The killing of Ennis was hasty and public. It smacked of panic. We also lost one of our own men, Lamb, which was another reason I allowed Max to bear most of the risks of the investigation. Max was shot and quite seriously wounded at the time of the Ennis killing. That did not discourage him in the slightest, indicating to my satisfaction that he has what it takes. His war record confirms he is strong-nerved and fearless.
I cannot be sure Max has told me everything he has learnt. He has had dealings with a high-ranking Japanese police officer, Kuroda, who is attached to their delegation. Kuroda evidently knew Sir Henry quite well. He was a senior member of the team that investigated the attempted assassination of the late Tsar (when he was Tsarevich) in Japan in 1891, in which Lemmer was implicated. Ireton, we must assume, knows more than he is telling about Lemmer. His number two, Schools Morahan, is a resourceful fellow. And I am struck by the fact that Ireton’s secretary, Malory Hollander, lived in Japan for several years as a young woman.
There is the additional complication that Sir Henry first met Mme Dombreux while serving with our embassy in Petrograd. He and her late husband are said to have been friends. I suspect there is much more to be learnt about Dombreux’s activities, in particular who exactly he was working for. It follows there may also be much more to be learnt about Sir Henry.
Max mistakenly believed Lionel Brigham of our delegation to be one of Lemmer’s spies. His mistake had the effect, however, of drawing into the open the assassin Tarn, who I now believe murdered both Sir Henry and Spataro. Tarn’s killing by Max – the incident in Mayfair on 1st April that Special Branch dealt with for us – removed a probable threat to the lives of other participants at the conference.
The activities of Max’s RFC friend, former sergeant Samuel Twentyman, never sanctioned by me, led fortuitously to the unmasking of two members of our delegation who really did work for Lemmer, Herbert Norris and Alfred Dobson. It also forced into the open Lemmer’s White Russian henchwoman, Nadia Bukayeva. She killed Norris and Dobson to prevent them revealing any of Lemmer’s secrets under interrogation. Twentyman’s life was saved by the intervention of Morahan, who appears to be more scrupulous than Ireton.