Marbeck and the Double Dealer (16 page)

Silvan was smiling: Marbeck heard it in his voice. The man truly believed he could bribe him. What exactly had Moore told them, he wondered. But somehow he knew now that this was Juan Roble's man. Intelligence, drawn from Moore by torture, had been carried here from the Spanish Netherlands, via France. He frowned, and was glad they couldn't see his expression.

‘I thank you, but I prefer England,' he murmured. ‘We're the true power in Europe, after all. Even your new king, young and innocent as he is, is beginning to recognize that.'

‘
My
king?' Silvan feigned surprise. ‘I have neither king nor queen, sir. I'm a man for whom loyalties – and boundaries, too – have no meaning. Somewhat like you, I think.'

He sounded calm, but Marbeck's ear was attuned now. He had irked the man – and at once he strove to use it. ‘You and I aren't alike at all,' he snapped. ‘You think you can buy me as you buy an apple off a stall – or should I say
una manzana
? Just as your masters bought
Morera
– that's Mulberry, in my language. I fear his days are coming to an end, too.' He forced a snort of laughter. ‘But, of course, you know that, or you wouldn't be trying to tempt me. I fear you've had a wasted evening.'

There was no answer, but Marbeck sensed a stirring. His breathing was somewhat laboured now, he realized. He put a hand to his chest and found his pulse racing. At the same time, a slight dizziness came over him. He cursed silently. The drink: it wasn't rose-water he had tasted.

‘Are you feeling well?' Silvan's voice, somewhat harsh, floated out of the dark.

‘Never better.' Savagely, Marbeck dug his nails into his palm. He knew he must fight to stay awake.

‘I think otherwise,' the other said. ‘But before you leave us, I'd urge you to think most carefully about what I've said. Will you do that?'

Marbeck breathed steadily, furious with himself for allowing this to happen. He snapped another question.

‘Did you kill Ottone?'

But no answer came, and he knew he was losing consciousness. He tried to stab his palm again, with no effect.

‘You begin to bluster, Marbeck . . .' Silvan's voice seemed to come from far away. ‘But take this offer with you. You know the windmills, in Finsbury Fields? There's a black stone at the foot of the westernmost one. You'll find a space beneath it, where you may leave a message. Think on my offer – it's a golden gateway. I think you know that.'

‘Golden, is it?' Marbeck echoed, but his words were slurred. The room was fading . . . He tried to move, but his limbs wouldn't work. He stared, aware of shapes shifting in the gloom, then he sank into oblivion.

He awoke in daylight, opened his eyes and groaned as sunlight stabbed them. As he closed them again, someone spoke.

‘Master Sands?'

‘Hibbert?'

Blinking, he looked up into the face of his burly landlord. Street noises assailed him – hooves, a cart rattling past. He looked round: he was lying on the front step of the Dolphin.

‘Zachary found you,' Hibbert said. ‘You were like a dead man. You weren't drinking here last night, were you?'

‘No.' His mouth felt furred, as if he had woken from a drunken stupor. ‘I got waylaid,' he said, struggling to sit up. ‘It was . . . a celebration.'

The landlord sighed and reached down to help him. Stiffly, Marbeck rose, leaning on him for support. Nausea threatened, then subsided. Finding he could stand, he straightened up.

‘Your pardon, Master Hibbert. I'll go to my chamber.'

‘I'll send the wench up with some water,' the other said, after a moment. ‘Your clothes are in a poor state, sir.'

Marbeck looked down, saw his breeches were streaked with dust – and now events flooded back: the dark room, Silvan's voice in the blackness . . .

‘I thank you,' was all he could say.

With a nod, the landlord turned and went inside. The moment he had gone, Marbeck sat down on the step again. This was more than carelessness, he told himself: it was stupidity. He had been followed – perhaps even watched as he sat with Augustine Grogan, then plucked off the street like some country gull. Then he had been turned about, his defences probed. And worst of all, he realized, Silvan had been right: what use was he now to Cecil, if his cover was known?

Sluggishly, he got to his feet again. The future looked grim. There was nothing for it but to write a report to Master Secretary and tell him everything. A coxcomb, Cecil had called him not long ago. He sighed. If the spymaster had been one for profanity, he would employ a stronger term this time. With a sigh, he went inside and climbed the stairs to his chamber.

Later that morning, however, he received a visitor. He was penning his despatch when the knock came. Opening the door, he was surprised to see Joseph Gifford.

‘I'm in high dudgeon, Marbeck,' his fellow intelligencer said, entering without ceremony. ‘And soon to be in disgrace, too. Would you care to get drunk and hear my tale of woe?'

‘I'll hear your tale,' Marbeck said. ‘But I'll forgo the drink just now.' He frowned: his friend looked tired and dispirited, which was unusual. He gestured him to a seat.

‘I got back from Dover last night,' Gifford told him, sinking on to a stool. ‘I looked in, but you weren't here. The matter is . . .' He shook his head. ‘The nub of it is, all those weeks I spent dallying in the port appear to have been wasted. In short, I've allowed a papist agent to enter the country . . . right under my damned nose.'

‘How do you know that?' Marbeck asked.

‘We caught a terrified student – Magdalene man – about to get on a boat,' Gifford told him. ‘The poor fool had turned papist and was bound for the seminary at Douai – but what matters is that he carried a despatch. It won't reach its destination now, but the news it carried was serious.'

‘What was in it?'

‘Well, now it seems there's a new gamester in the city,' Gifford replied. ‘Odd thing: the message wasn't even in cipher. “Our brother arrived here safely a week ago”, and so on. Plus some papist expressions of faith and loyalty to the cause, and so forth. And it was signed – with a big flourish on the M. Very Spanish—'

‘You mean by Mulberry?' Marbeck broke in.

‘So it would appear.'

‘Then, we have a link. Question the student, and find out—'

‘If only we could.' Gifford sighed. ‘But the lad's so terrified, he's had some sort of a fit. He won't speak – not even the threat of torture will work.'

In exasperation, Marbeck muttered an oath. ‘Have you handed the letter to Cecil?' he asked.

‘No, it's here.' Gifford tapped his chest. ‘And I'm in no hurry to do so.' He shook his head. ‘I let my quarry slip by me, and our master's going to want to know why.'

‘Then, for once, you and I appear to be in similar straits,' Marbeck observed.

Gifford raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you looked somewhat under the weather. Shall we exchange news?'

They talked, without leaving Marbeck's chamber, and the morning turned into afternoon. Information and comment flew back and forth, until the picture became clear enough – and it wasn't encouraging. It seemed that Mulberry was still active in London, but there was a new force, too – a man who had already arrived by ship via Dover. His disguise, whatever it was, had been good enough to fool Gifford – and his name, Marbeck was now convinced, was Silvan. He felt certain that the man had replaced Gomez: a link between their spymaster overseas and Mulberry. And he now wondered if the other person in the room when Silvan questioned him had been Mulberry himself.

‘And you couldn't place the man's accent?' Gifford asked, after pondering the matter.

Having pondered it himself, Marbeck voiced a theory. ‘I think it was more like Italian than French,' he said. ‘I believe he may be a Savoyard, though he's a man who left his home long ago.' The words came back to him:
one without loyalties or boundaries
. . .

‘What troubles me most is that we can't know how much Moore's told them – not just about you, but about any of us,' Gifford said. ‘And to think this man's here – perhaps less than a mile away . . .' He uttered a curse. ‘One chance is all I ask – the chance to run the whoreson devil through the heart.'

‘If I don't get to him first,' Marbeck said. ‘For I've a notion it was Silvan who killed Ottone.'

He had told Gifford of yesterday's events; now he expanded on the matter. ‘It's clear that Ottone let his killer in after dark, when the fencing hall was empty,' he said. ‘Why? Because he spoke Italian to him. Perhaps he claimed some kinship, or mutual acquaintance – it matters not. He was able to put Ottone off his guard, then slit his throat.'

‘A skilled practitioner,' Gifford said dryly. ‘And now he's recruiting, is he?' He thought for a moment. ‘I think you may be right. Ottone was weak and posed a risk. If Silvan is under Juan Roble's orders, he was told to get rid of him.'

‘He might decide to remove Mulberry, too,' Marbeck said, ‘now that he suspects we're looking for him. If he hasn't killed him already . . .'

The two men fell silent, until finally Gifford looked up. ‘So, what will you do?' he asked.

‘The same as you, I expect.' Marbeck gave a shrug. ‘Admit I've been a fool and throw myself on Master Secretary's mercy.' Then, seeing the frown that came over Gifford's face, he brightened suddenly. ‘Unless . . .'

‘Unless what?' Gifford muttered, in a suspicious tone.

‘What if we wait a little while?'

‘Wait for what?'

Slowly, Marbeck rose from his seat. He gazed through the window. Already the afternoon was waning. He looked out over the Spital Field, then turned abruptly.

‘Cecil doesn't yet know of my encounter with Silvan,' he said. ‘Any more than he knows you let the man into the country. But I've been offered a means of contacting him . . .'

Gifford frowned. ‘Well, now,' he said. ‘Surely you're not proposing to play a double game yourself?'

‘Not quite – or not for long, anyway,' Marbeck replied, thinking fast. ‘But the fellow knew enough about me to think he could rattle me.' He paused. ‘They got that much out of Moore, at least. He knew about my family and my circumstances.' His mouth tightened. ‘Silvan was bold enough to name a letter-drop – as if he was certain I'd change my mind eventually.'

‘Overconfident, is he?' Gifford mused. ‘You mean, if he thinks he's hooked you, we might play him instead?'

‘It'll take a little thought,' Marbeck replied.

‘Oh, but I'm ahead of you, sirrah!' Gifford's spirits were rising as he spoke. ‘A windmill in Finsbury Fields?' He gave a snort. ‘He may have thought it a good place, but we can set a watch. There are houses in Everades Well Street overlooking that very spot.'

‘Hold fast.' Marbeck raised a hand. ‘It might be a while before they look under that stone.'

‘I doubt that,' Gifford said, smiling. ‘If I judge a man like Silvan correctly, he's short on patience, and he needs results. Hence, if you went to that stone and slipped a letter underneath it – something containing intelligence which appears genuine—'

‘We've opened the door,' Marbeck finished.

‘And thereby we may redeem ourselves in Master Secretary's eyes, once we present him with a
fait accompli
.' Gifford's smile broadened. ‘Now it merely remains for us to concoct a harmless piece of intelligence that will set Silvan's mouth watering.'

In some relief, they eyed each other. And, unbidden, a smile appeared on Marbeck's face, too.

T
hat same evening, Marbeck moved out of the Dolphin. It had almost become home, which was unwise for someone like him; now that his whereabouts were known, it was also dangerous. By nightfall he had packed his belongings, telling Hibbert he was called away on urgent business. Since he had no funds to pay the man what he owed, he left Cobb in the stable as a guarantee of his return. Then, somewhat hurriedly, he and Gifford took themselves westward and found temporary lodgings at the White Bear in Red Cross Street, close to the Barbican. It was a crowded area, where both men could remain unnoticed. For now Marbeck remained John Sands, while Gifford used his Edward Porter alias. Once established in a cramped chamber on the inn's top floor, they set about constructing a piece of false intelligence.

‘Short and terse, your letter should be,' Gifford said, sprawling on one of the narrow beds. ‘You must sound regretful, but make it plain you've overcome your scruples. This titbit of news you're including is but a token of your good will – and a taste of what you might bring.'

‘I know what to say,' Marbeck told him. ‘Most important is the value of the intelligence. It should come as a surprise.'

‘But they must believe it,' Gifford said. ‘Well, what's it to be? Shall we touch on the Low Countries, or Ireland?'

‘Why not both?' Marbeck said, on impulse.

The other's brows knitted in concentration. ‘Does anything spring to mind?'

Marbeck was on his feet, pacing the room. ‘Suppose I say that we believe the new fleet – the one the Spanish are building in Lisbon – is destined for Ireland. And hence the Queen's Council means to forestall it?'

‘What, get their fleet out first?' Gifford looked sceptical. ‘We can't construct one out of thin air. Their spies would already have noted it.'

‘Perhaps not, if it's small and has been put together quickly,' Marbeck countered. ‘And if it's made up partly of Dutch vessels . . . Dunkirkers too, perhaps, who've been bribed to join in the fray.'

‘You think they'd swallow that?' Gifford asked. But a smile was forming. Dunkirkers – the pirates who preyed on Channel shipping – were notorious: if the price were high enough, such men could be persuaded to follow any flag.