Blackest of Lies (20 page)

“What did you tell them?”  Hubert could barely get the words out.

Kell was warming to his subject, keen to show just how he had engineered the ‘perfect crime’.  “Well, you must understand that we could not just tell our armed forces to give away information of this nature to the enemy.  It had to be done with a degree of … finesse.  We used the marine division of Sektion IIIb of the Nachrichten-Abteilung as unwitting accomplices. They have some very powerful signals intelligence capabilities and it’s run by an officer who doesn’t usually miss a trick – Colonel Walther Nikolai.  We arranged for what appeared to be a harmless signal, announcing that a certain channel off Orkney had been swept clear of mines, to be sent from one of Scapa’s vessels
en claire
– and not just once but four times in one hour – and not just four times to the local shore station at Longhope but all the way to Admiralty HQ, here in London.” 

He smiled self-consciously. “I confess was afraid that I might have over-egged the pudding, so to speak, with that last bit but it appears not.  Things innocuous, when emphasised, really do acquire a spurious sort of importance to those already predisposed to suspect everything and everyone.  People like us, in short.  What you don’t know is that we have a man actually inside Sektion IIIb – a Norwegian chap – who has informed us that the bait was duly taken.  They’re looking very hard at Birsay.  If Nikolai misses the meaning of the signals, he’s not worth his rations but I’m betting he’ll match them up with the Russian leaks.  Lloyd George’s calling off the journey had nothing to do with the Easter Rising – we tipped him the wink, so to speak.”  Kell fell silent for a moment and had the grace to cough apologetically.  “He is to be the new Secretary of State for War.”

Hubert sneered.  “It doesn’t surprise me – the man is an opportunistic coward.  And what do you plan to do if Nikolai doesn’t fall for it?”

“As I say, our informer suggests that they already have but you’re perfectly right: they could still mess it up.  And so we come to Plan B.  Clearly, we cannot rely on the Germans alone.  Certainly, we want to heap the blame on them and we need some form of trail which shows that they got the original story from the Russian Court backed up, sadly, by the aforesaid lapses in our own naval protocols.  But they
might
get a submarine to the correct spot, they
might
lay the mines in the correct position, the ‘Hampshire’
might
run into them, the ship
might
sink
,
Kitchener
might
be killed in the explosion or drowned as a result.”  He smiled coldly at Boissier and Pickup.  “Too many ‘mights’.  Thus, we come to our old friend and temporary colleague – Mr Duquesne.”

“
Duquesne!
”  Hubert leaned forward on Kell’s desk, appalled.  “Are you telling me we’ve climbed into bed with Fritz Duquesne?”

Kell wrinkled his nose at the metaphor.  “Well, of, course, I wouldn’t put it quite like that – the amusing thing is he doesn’t
know
it’s us.  Cumming discovered that Nikolai had inserted Duquesne back into the country to report on shipping movements in the run-up to Jutland.  He was supposed to contact ‘Colonel Datchett’ on arrival to get his exit instructions.  The good Colonel, ably played by Mr Boissier here, changed his plans.”

Hubert knew Duquesne to be a Boer working for German intelligence.  “Duquesne’ll stop at nothing to get a chance to kill Kitchener. He hates the British – and I’m beginning to see why.”  He looked Kell in the eye.  “I’ll see to it that the General Staff hear of this.  Whatever the outcome, you’re finished.”

“I’m sorry, Hubert, but the Prime Minister himself has sanctioned this operation.”  He smiled benignly at Hubert’s stupefied expression.  “But where were we?  You’ve made me lose my place.  Duquesne … yes, we were speaking of Duquesne.  Mr Duquesne had a further chat with our Colonel Datchett at Paddington Station.  ‘Colonel Datchett’, by the way, is a suitably disaffected and entirely fictitious officer of the British Army who has been passing low-grade information, via Duquesne, to the German intelligence services for some time now.  Boissier, or Colonel Datchett I should say, provided Duquesne with documents proving that he was Mr Rix – O’Beirne’s manservant. Our Boer has developed, at Datchett’s suggestion, a small but rather nasty explosive device to be planted in Kitchener’s cabin.  It will detonate when ‘His Lordship’ opens it and, should the ship hit a mine first, it will go off in what I am told is called ‘sympathetic detonation’.  It’s in the form of a red dispatch box. You, yourself, signed for it the other day.

In addition, Cumming currently has two of his men on board the
Hampshire
who have been rather busy.  A cleat which would normally secure one of the watertight doors to the boiler room has been cut almost through.  You can’t see the damage, unless you’re looking for it, but it’s there and, just in case, another of those enterprising lads from ‘Six’ has arranged for the ship’s blacksmith to be removed.  He will not be repairing it, even if it is discovered.  Duquesne will ensure that the cleat is broken off by dint of a sharp blow with a lump hammer, meaning that the door will not be capable of a water-tight seal. The effect of cold seawater touching the boilers when they are under power is, I am assured, catastrophic.  With U-Boat, bomb and boilers, we think we have all angles covered.  The ship, I’m afraid, is destined for the bottom.” 

Kell sat back, steepling his fingers.  “He really is a very talented individual, this Duquesne.  Pity he won’t work for us,” he said, reflectively.

Hubert could not believe that even Asquith was in on the plot. 
How far did it go?
  “What about O’Beirne?  Is he
aware
of the part he’s playing in Farmer’s death and that he might not even survive?”

Kell dismissed the question with an irritated wave of the hand.  “Of course not!  We have simply told O’Beirne that an MI5 agent will accompany him in the guise of his manservant.  He has no idea that he is a very dangerous German agent.  No-one else knows what Rix looks like and the real thing is currently enjoying an extended, if enforced, holiday at one of our nicer safe houses in the Lake District.  Duquesne knows all of this but thinks Datchett has arranged it for the benefit of Kaiser Bill.  It’s quite neat, really.”

This was enough for Hubert.  Farmer’s train would have left by now and the clock was ticking.   He made a dash from his seat to the door but was tackled by Pickup before he had gone more than two or three steps.  With his usual savagery, Pickup kneed him in the kidneys and pulled him to his feet.  Pushing his left arm behind his back, he threw him back into the seat.

“Gently, Pickup.  Remember that Lieutenant Hubert is still an invalid.”  Kell placed a hand on Hubert’s shoulder.  “You are an intelligent young man who sees his friend sleep-walking to an underserved death.  It is natural that you want to warn him or to save him in some way but you must realise the arithmetic at stake here.  I have proposed, and it has been sanctioned at the highest levels, that we sacrifice over 700 officers and men in order to avoid the immeasurably greater loss we would sustain should the true nature of Kitchener’s death become public.  I have done so in the belief that this strategy will give such a boost to public morale that we may
save
thousands at the Front – not just today but every day – and possibly shorten the War by God knows how many months.  Years, perhaps.  Instead of the somewhat tacky death Lord Kitchener suffered at the hands of an IRB thug, he will die an honourable one at those of the Hun and by that death help us avoid the inevitable defeat we would face in the trenches.”

“You are going to kill hundreds of men on the off-chance that it will keep the lid on the assassination.  Do the words ‘irony’ and ‘stupidity’ mean nothing to you?” Hubert spat.

Kell stood back from Hubert’s seat.  “Of course they do!  I am no monster, whatever you may think.”  Kell paused for a moment, head drooping slightly, and muttered, “My part in arranging their deaths weighs heavily on my conscience and will continue to do so for the rest of my life, I suspect.  I have no doubt of it.  I’m not a murderer.”  He fiddled for a moment with his letter opener before setting it down sharply on the desk and glancing at Hubert.  “But my duty is to make impossible decisions like this.  In that respect, I hold the fate of the country in my hands.  You
must
see that you cannot be allowed to interfere and, to make sure of that, I’m placing you under house arrest.  It will all be over in a day or so and any allegations from you after that point concerning the ‘truth’ will seem laughable in the light of events.” 

He nodded to Boissier and Pickup, “Take the Lieutenant to his apartment and look after him until you are relieved.”

**********

Hubert moved to get up but groaned back into the sofa.  With infinite care, he rolled over on to his stomach until he could slide on to his knees, facing the cushions, and lever himself up to an approximation of the standing position.  Boissier and Pickup had decided to assume a broad, liberal interpretation of Kell’s instructions.  One of Hubert’s eyes was closing and he suspected a cracked rib or two.  The bathroom of his little flat was as least three yards away but, by taking the occasional rest to catch his breath, he made it in record time.  Around ten minutes, he figured.

He teased his Sam Browne off and peered into the mirror which promptly advised him not to look again.  He splashed his face with water, spitting bloodily into the wash basin.  When he eventually stood up, the room was still spinning despite his gripping the ceramics. 
Just go and lie down!
  He pushed the thought away but another filled the vacuum ...
Henry!
  That brought matters into more focus. 
He had to get out and warn him!

Boissier had said that he and Pickup were going to the ‘Dolphin’, across the road. Hubert stumbled back into his living room and looked down at the pub.  Pickup, on the alert, saw him and raised a sardonic glass. From any window table on the Red Lion Street side, they were able to see the communal entrance to his group of flats, especially since the pub’s original glass, frosted and patterned, was now ordinary glazing as a result of a Zeppelin attack last September.  One of the regulars was killed outside when the front of the pub was blown in. 
The scorch marks were still visible on the pale brick of the buildings on the other side of the passage....

“Now
there’s
an idea.”

Suddenly, he was back in February standing outside the pub with one of the Registry girls – Honoria – who had been given the task of finding him suitable accommodation after his release from Farnham.  “I
do
hope you like it,” she said, “I know you need somewhere quiet and this part of Holborn is still fairly peaceful.”  She paused and added, “In fact, I live just around the corner down there.”  Hubert leaned back against the wall of the “Dolphin”, exhausted even by the exercise of getting here by cab from the Strand.  He nodded his head upward at the scaffolding that marred the frontage of what was to be his new home. 

“What’s all this in aid of?” he said in a raspy whisper. 

“Damage from the Zepplin bombs but I’m told that it’ll all be gone in a month.  Even then, isn’t it a
lovely
little place?”  She lisped the words through slightly prominent teeth.

Hubert concurred, although becoming aware of her pressing a little too close for comfort.  Sure enough, by the beginning of April, the façade of the building had forgotten the attack had ever happened.  The rear of it, however, out of sight of the world, was still covered with ladders, ropes and the assorted mysteries of the British workman.  Hubert had complained time and again about it to the concierge but had received the stock answer in reply, “There’s a War on, y’know!”

Now, sending up a silent prayer to little Napoleons the world over, he walked slowly through to the kitchen, holding on to almost everything vertical along the way and finishing off with an explosive coughing fit over the sink.  There was blood again – not a lot but enough to make him feel sorry for himself. 
Pickup was a real bastard
. He rinsed the sink, painfully pushed up the window and leaned out.  A couple of feet away to the right and level with his kitchen was the top of a ladder leaning against the back wall of his flat.

**********

Anne was back at the grindstone, still fuming about Thompson.  It had been an easy day so far but the stifling monotony of it all was killing her by imperceptible degrees.  So, when the creaky spring of the swing door announced a new arrival, she barely raised her eyes. And when no-one asked for a towel, she exhaled in exasperation.

“Would you like a …” She glanced around, searching for a customer, and was about to put it down to day-dreaming when she glimpsed a few locks of black hair just peeking over the far side of the counter.  Cautiously, she jumped up to lean forward and get a better view.  “Oh, my God!”  She scampered around the desk and crouched down beside Hubert.  “What happened to you, Lieutenant?” she asked.

“Chris!  It’s ‘Chris’ to you.  I thought we settled all that down at Broome,” he rasped in pain.

Anne rolled her eyes.  “Shut up, stand up and let me get you round behind the counter.  There’s a pretty good first aid kit there.”

For once, Hubert was in no mood to argue but time was pressing.  “No,” he said. “There’s no time.  Bring the kit with you and see if we can grab a cab.  We need to get to King’s Cross, pronto.”