Frankie's Letter (27 page)

Sir Charles shook his head. ‘Not while you're in the house. They'll smell a rat at once.' He chewed his lip. ‘I like the idea of catching the bombers. If you can nip it in the bud, that's their precious propaganda triumph gone west.' His mouth tightened. ‘Damnit, they still win, even if we do catch them. If we do manage to evacuate Marriotvale, they've still brought an entire area of London to a standstill.'

He raised his hands and let them fall helplessly. ‘We're sunk, Brooke. They've won, whatever happens. If the bomb goes off, they've won. If it doesn't and we evacuate the area, all they have to do in the future is
say
there's going to be a bomb. We can't ignore it. It'll cause endless amounts of disruption and thousands of pounds worth of manufacturing time.'

‘Unless I give it a go.'

Sir Charles sucked his cheeks in, then leaned forward and tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder. ‘London,' he said, giving an address in Albemarle Row, Westminster. ‘We're going to see the Home Secretary,' he said, turning back to Anthony. ‘This is too big a decision for me to take alone.'

Anthony knocked softly at the door of 17, Nightingale Street, Marriotvale. A nightingale had never sung here. Nightingale Street was a smoke-blackened terrace among a series of smoke-blackened terraces, hunched against the looming factory wall of the Marriotvale Munitions Company.

Nightingale Street probably referred to the Crimea War, he thought, turning his collar up against the chill of the early morning. The date was about right. He felt nothing but sympathy for people who were forced to live in these jerry-built, two-up and two-down filthy slums.

He had been touched by the sight of a little street shrine, at the corner of the road. A jam jar of wilting flowers stood in front of a handwritten notice listing the names of dead soldiers from the surrounding streets. Marriotvale had very little to give, but it had been given.

He glanced at his watch and knocked once more. This time there was a sound of movement in the house, a few muffled swear-words and, after a short interval, the creak of a window being raised. Anthony looked up as an unshaven jowly face peered down at him.

‘What time do you call this?' the man called in a carrying whisper. By his voice, he was from Belfast.

‘Five o'clock,' answered Anthony in the precise tones of a German speaker. ‘I have a message from James Smith.'

‘Christ, I thought you were never coming. Wait there.'

The window was pulled down and, a few moments later, came the noise of feet on the stairs.

Anthony braced himself. He had an hour before the evacuation began. That was the scheme worked out with the Home Secretary and the Chief Commissioner of Scotland Yard. The Home Secretary had wanted to evacuate Marriotvale right away, but the Chief Commissioner was keen to give Anthony a chance. It would take, he argued, at least that amount of time to have enough men in the right place and, while they were being assembled, Anthony might as well try to bluff the bombers.

The door opened a crack. ‘Come in.'

Anthony stepped into the front room of the house. It was, predictably, dark, squalid and very dirty. A ragged curtain was pinned across the window and the furniture was a collection of packing cases.

The jowly man, who was barefooted and dressed in a long-sleeved vest tucked into serge trousers, took him into the kitchen, the only other downstairs room, where there was a table and two chairs. Here, with no curtain, there was daylight from the kitchen window which gave onto a tiny yard at the side of the house. The back wall of the yard was the factory wall.

‘My name's Joseph,' said the man. ‘My God, you're an early bird. Sit down, why don't you?'

Anthony gave a fastidious shudder that wasn't entirely assumed. ‘Thank you, no. I will stand.'

Joseph laughed. ‘You bloody Germans. You're all the same. You are German, aren't you?'

‘Yes, that is so. I arrived on the U-boat last night. My English name is Robert Jones. James Smith had business in Germany.'

There was a clatter of feet on the stairs and another man, dressed in workman's clothes of heavy cloth, came into the kitchen. He looked, thought Anthony, a cut above Joseph. ‘This is Kevin,' said Joseph. ‘He's in charge here. Kevin, this is Mr Robert Jones, as he wants to be called. He came on the boat last night.'

‘So I heard,' said Kevin. He had an educated voice and a thin, ascetic face. ‘Well, Mr Jones? Has Berlin agreed at long last?'

‘Do we get the money?' asked Joseph.

‘You will get a credit note for six thousand pounds to be spent on arms in Germany,' said Anthony. ‘I trust you are aware of the generosity of the government in providing such a sum.' Kevin and Joseph looked at each other with a quick nod of approval. ‘However, today's scheme will not be carried out.'

Joseph, who had been rolling a cigarette, looked at him in consternation. ‘Why the hell not? We can get the King! D'you not realize that? Why, Veronica herself came up with the plan.' With a shock Anthony realized he meant Veronica O'Bryan. ‘She worked out how we could do it. We've been planning this for months.'

‘It's the Kaiser, isn't it?' said Kevin bitterly. ‘He doesn't want to kill his cousin.'

Anthony nodded.

‘But his cousin is the
King
,' said Joseph. ‘Doesn't he see? The King is the heart of England. We kill him and we'll strike a blow they'll never recover from. By Christ, I'm damned if I'm having some bloody German turn round and tell us we can't do it. We're the men on the ground. We know what should be done.'

‘Be quiet, Joseph,' said Kevin. ‘These walls are like paper.' Joseph glared at him in frustration. ‘However,' continued Kevin, ‘I don't think Mr Jones here quite appreciates what's been done. This is a patriotic scheme that will benefit Ireland and Germany.' He drew an automatic pistol from his pocket and put it on the table. ‘Once the plan has been carried out, then the Kaiser will see its merits.'

Anthony had been afraid of this. ‘You will lose the friendship of Germany,' he said stiffly. Kevin's hand twitched towards the pistol. ‘There are matters at stake you cannot grasp. Take the money and forget your ideas. The Kaiser is insistent on this.'

Kevin picked up the pistol. ‘And what if we'd never got the message from the Kaiser?' he said softly, pointing the pistol at Anthony. ‘I'm an Irishman. I don't care who the Kaiser's relations are. Nobody knows you're here. I can explain the shot.' He gave a jerk of his head towards the factory. ‘Living next to that thing, people are used to noise. I think, Mr Jones, it might be better if you'd never come.'

Anthony looked at him. Kevin had the bright, cold eyes of a fanatic. The pistol was rock-solid. The muscles in Kevin's hand tightened and Anthony knew he was a breath away from death.

He allowed himself to look very scared. Oddly enough, it really was all pretence. His mind was working so quickly he didn't have time to be frightened. He wanted to get to the bomb and at least attempt to disarm it.

‘Wait! Perhaps if you can show me what you have in mind, how the device will work, I can argue for you in Berlin.' The muscles of Kevin's hand relaxed. ‘It is true what you say. After the King is dead, perhaps, it will be different. I agree with you. It will be a mortal blow for England. When the Kaiser sees that, he will change his mind –
if
you let me argue for you,' he added.

Kevin froze, studying Anthony's face. Then he laughed and put the pistol back in his pocket. ‘It seems we have an agreement, Mr Jones. Luckily for you.'

Anthony took a deep breath. ‘You will show me the arrangements? You will do more than merely throw a bomb, yes?'

‘I think,' said Kevin, ‘you'd better come with me, Mr Jones.'

He opened the kitchen cupboard, took out a powerful electric torch, then walked across the kitchen and opened a door.

The opening yawned blackly. It was the cellar. ‘I think you can go first, Mr Jones,' said Kevin. ‘Joe, get a cup of tea brewed, will you? I'm parched.'

The cellar steps, which were very steep and stank of damp, led to a tiny clay-walled room, glistening with slug trails. A small circle of light rimmed the coal-hole on the street above. There was a heap of earth piled up in the cellar. They've dug a tunnel, Anthony thought with sudden understanding.

‘Nice, isn't it?' said Kevin ironically, flashing his torch round the cellar. ‘This cellar, Mr Jones, is why we chose this house.'

He flashed his torch into the corner, showing a roughly dug hole. It was about six feet deep with a wooden ladder propped against the side. ‘Now, I'll go first, but don't try anything. Down we go, Mr Jones.' Anthony could hear the amusement in his voice. ‘I'm afraid you're going to get your smart clothes dirty, but it can't be helped.'

The hole opened out onto a narrow tunnel, about three feet wide. Following Kevin and the beam of light, Anthony crawled on his hands and knees through the passage.

‘We're under the factory wall,' explained Kevin shortly. ‘We'll come to another ladder in a minute. I'll go up first. You'll have to wait a moment while I see it's all right.'

He scrambled up the ladder, leaving Anthony in the tunnel. There was a pause and the creaking sound of wood. A gloomy light shone into the hole. Kevin looked down at him. ‘Come on!'

They came out at the back of a warehouse. A wooden pallet that had covered the entrance was pushed to one side.

Anthony stretched, glad to be out of the cramped tunnel. Wooden boxes and piles of shells stood heaped up in a huge, silent room. He looked around with apparent admiration. ‘This is clever, yes?' he said quietly.

Kevin put his mouth near Anthony's ear. ‘One of the warehouse men is one of ours. The other's an old dodderer and doesn't know anything about it. Altogether, we've got three lads who work here.'

His teeth showed white in a wolfish grin. ‘Funnily enough, they're all going to be off sick today. Follow me, Mr Jones.'

He led the way down a corridor formed by piles of crates, waited cautiously at the end and slipped across the gap to the next passage. ‘We have to go into the factory yard,' he said in a low whisper. ‘Just walk as if you owned the place. There shouldn't be anyone around at this time in the morning.'

Looking round, he waited at the end of the passage. The great double doors of the warehouse were in front of them but, set into the wood, was a smaller wicket door. Kevin took a key from his pocket. ‘You see what it is to have friends in the right places, Mr Jones. Me, Joseph, and a couple of the lads made the final preparations last night. There was supposed to be an explosives expert coming from Germany but he never turned up.'

Anthony recognized the description as that of Günther Hedtke and wondered what Kevin would do if he knew he was the missing expert. ‘I don't know what happened to him. I don't care, either. Your lot should learn to trust us more, Mr Jones. We don't need anyone to tell us how to do our job.'

He walked across to the wicket door and turned the key in the lock. After a pause to make sure there was no one about, he jerked his head at Anthony to come on.

The cobbled yard of the factory was set between the three-storey high brick walls of the factory, with its rows of long black windows. Dominating everything was the chimney, rising high from the engine shed. Before them were the closed factory gates and beyond, Anthony could hear the early-morning sounds as London stirred into life.

Kevin walked quickly up the yard, away from the gates. ‘There's some new buildings beyond the yard.' He grinned again. ‘That's what King George and his wife are coming to see. There's going to be a big fuss, with flags waved and a band playing and everything just fit for a king. He's got a beautiful silver trowel, ready inscribed with the date, to lay the foundation stone. That trowel will be the last thing he touches.'

They went up the yard between the main buildings. The land opened out and there, as Kevin had said, was the low brick wall of the foundations of a new factory building, looking very clean and raw. There was a wooden dais beside the wall, evidently prepared for the royal party.

‘Now this,' said Kevin, ‘is where it happens.' He stopped and pointed. ‘Tell them about this in Berlin, Mr Jones.'

He turned and grinned at Anthony. ‘Imagination's not any German's strongpoint, but we Irish have imagination. Imagine this. A few hours from now, all the factory hands will be out to see their precious King and Queen. Don't be sorry for them. They're making shells to kill your lads and are as legitimate a target as any soldier in uniform. This common land we're standing on –' he rubbed his foot in the grit – ‘will be covered with a red carpet so George won't get his feet dirty. That dais will be covered in fancy cloth with fancy chairs and fancy bunting. The band will play, Mr Noakes, the factory owner will hand George his silver trowel and George will lay the stone for the new building.'

‘And then?' asked Anthony. ‘What will happen then?'

‘Bang,' said Kevin softly. ‘That foundation stone has been booby-trapped.' He walked to the wall, resting his hand by the gap left for the stone. Where the stone was to go was a fine layer of cement. ‘Under there, under that cement, is a detonator. You can't see the cable because I've covered it up with cement to the ground.' He pointed back towards the warehouse. ‘It runs to the warehouse. It's all buried, out of sight. I tell you, Mr Jones, this is a great device. All we had to do last night was lay the detonators and connect the bomb. It's not a big bomb, but it'll set off a stockpile of high explosive.'

He laced his hands together and cracked his fingers in satisfaction. ‘They'll hear it the other side of the Channel. Now tell me the Germans don't need us. This took Irish brains and Irish know-how and because of us, you can strike at the very heart of England.'