The Secret Generations (4 page)

*

The door carried the legend
MO5 Capt V Kell
. Charles had never heard of MO5. He knocked, and a pleasant voice called for him to enter.

Vernon Kell sat be
hind a small desk in this unprepossessing room. Beside the desk there was a small table, a couple of chairs, and a wooden filing cabinet. Maps hung on the walls, and a pile of pamphlets lay on the desk in front of Kell – very much a military man, with moustache to match, square-faced, but blessed with friendly, open, features. As he rose, Charles noticed that Kell momentarily allowed his shoulders to droop, then straightened them, as if with effort. The same effort went into the laboured intake of breath.

‘
Railton, I presume.’ The Captain sounded as though he was in difficulty. ‘Sorry about this,’ he tapped his chest. ‘Be over in a minute. Asthma. Confounded thing’s crept up on me again. Had it as a child. Be a good fellow and give me a minute, eh?’

Charles nodded, took one of the spare chairs, and waited for Kell to regain his breath. He seemed in poor health for a man of
– Charles calculated – about the same age as himself: mid-to late-thirties.

‘
Lord, I’m sorry,’ Kell said eventually, colour coming back into his cheeks. ‘Should’ve stayed away today. Had an attack over the week-end. Martyr as a child. Thought it’d gone by the time I went to Sandhurst, but back it came.’ He smiled, giving Charles a casual glance. Charles, however, had the distinct impression that Kell had looked almost into his soul, examined the secret places of his mind, and summed him up in one quick look.

‘
Well, what’ve you been working on of late? Nobody’ll have told you what this is all about, I suppose?’ Kell’s manner was easy, relaxed, with no trace of what The General would have called ‘side’. The General hated ‘side’.

‘
Sort of errand boy, between the Foreign Office and the Admiralty, for a time, and the answer to your second question is no.’ He held Kell’s eyes and quietly told him about his proposed resignation.

Kell grunted.
‘Diplomatic’s not for you, eh? Suppose you should’ve followed your father. Sorry about him, Charles – if I may call you Charles?’

‘
Of course.’

‘
Good. My name’s Vernon. Should still be with the South Staffs. Would be, if it weren’t for the dysentery and asthma. Pegged me to a desk, here. Then threw me into this job. Been clamouring for help ever since we began. Mind you, there’s Sprogitt – the clerk,’ he inclined his head towards a door in the corner. ‘Sprogitt lives in what should be a broom cupboard. Apart from him, there’s only me, though I’ve got my eye on another fellow. Typical, isn’t it? They appoint me head of MO5 and then give me no staff.’

There was a tiny pause before Charles asked what th
e MO5 stood for.

‘
Military Operations Five. Look, I’m a new boy at this; like yourself. How much do you really know about Intelligence – well, Security anyway? What d’you know about what the yarnspinners call The Secret Service?’

Charles admitted he knew very little.

‘Well, I suppose I’d better give you the state of play.’

During the next hour Kell demonstrated one of the reasons he had been asked to form his new department, for he gave a clear, lucid picture of the current situation regarding clandestine matters, as far as Great Britain Was concerned. Towards the end of the last century there had
been a two-headed, ineffectual monster – Military Intelligence, and Naval Intelligence, each with its appropriate DMI and DID (Admiralty). Now only the Director of Intelligence Division at the Admiralty remained, and the Committee of Imperial Defence, concerned at the lack of any well organized machinery during the Boer War, had for some time been attempting to unravel the various strands of the complex business.

‘
There’s a Foreign Section running around the Empire, and Europe. A handful of agents. Some are rogues; others dedicated men and women.’ Kell threw up his hands, going on to explain that the Foreign Office had been more than unhappy with the way in which Intelligence was being handled by the Military. ‘A lot of people were, rightly, furious when the War House, here, disbanded the Field Intelligence Department. It was better than nothing – in fact it was the best thing we had. As it is, the Army’s left with precious little, and the General Staff don’t trust the Foreign Office. The Navy have an organization that’s moderately good. But some of those within the Committee of Imperial Defence have decided to reorganize.’

So, now, the Foreign Office was determined to see a proper service established.
‘They’ve been working on the Foreign Section for some time, he confided. ‘Though it still comes under the War Office, even with a naval man in charge. Smith-Cumming. Able fellow.’

‘
And this section? MO5?’

‘
Early days, Charles. Couple of years ago, the CID claimed me,’ – he spoke of the Committee of Imperial Defence – ‘and finally winkled me into this little spot. Me, the furniture, and Sprogitt,’ he waved towards the clerk’s door.

‘
To do what, exactly?’

‘
MO5’s brief is to study the possible vulnerability of the country to foreign espionage; tell them what we should do about it; and then, get on and do it. The term espionage, incidentally, covers our own particular brand of subversives.’

‘
You mean extremists? The Irish Fenians and the like?’

Kell nodded,
‘Yes. Revolutionaries; Fenians; anarchists; agitators – all of ’em.’

‘
And where do I come in?’ As he said it, Charles knew he wanted only one answer.

‘
I hope you’ll come and help. What is it King Lear says?

Take upon
’s the mystery of things

As if we were God
’s spies.

Come and be one of God
’s spies with me, Charles.’

‘
But I know little of…’ Charles began.

‘
Nor do I,’ Kell said grittily, ‘but the job’s interesting, a challenge, particularly because nobody’s really done it before. I want to see it through, but I’m accountable to the CID. If I could recruit my own staff, arrange my own methods and training, we might eventually become a formidable force. So, are you with me, Charles?’

With a tiny hint of reservation, Charles nodded, and Kell crisply said he was pleased, if only because he needed help. I
n fact, the first Director of MO5 did not particularly like Charles Railton, detecting in his manner, face and eyes, something a little below standard for a man of his upbringing. But Kell was a believer in conversion, and if anyone could make Railton into a reasonably efficient officer in this new department, it was himself. Now he quickly told Charles that he had already begun to learn the job, mainly through his most important contact, Superintendent Patrick Quinn – Paddy Quinn – head of the Metropolitan Police’s Special Branch.

Quinn had been in charge of what was once known as the Irish Branch
– formed to combat the Irish extremists – for over six years, and, according to Kell, the man was not merely an able policeman, but an expert in many things that would be very useful to them: ‘Interrogation techniques; knowledge of the way subversives work; surveillance; underhand methods. Quinn’s also a Royal bodyguard. So we have a good helping hand there.’

‘
So, when do
I
begin?’

‘
No time like the present. Don’t worry about a posting from the FO. That’ll all be taken care of.’

There were several pages of notes and memoranda for Charles to read, then and there, in the office; and, within the next few hours, he discovered some of the things that would be expected of him.

Kell believed that time waited for no man. Charles would have to follow in his new chiefs footsteps – do a course on wireless telegraphy, and another at the Admiralty on codes and ciphers. Then Paddy Quinn would teach him, ‘Some most unusual skills. Oh, and you’ve yet to meet Sprogitt.’ He called the man’s name loudly towards a door which opened to reveal the tiny office in which the clerk spent most of his time.

On that first day at MO5, Vernon Kell and Charles Railton worked until well after five in the afternoon, not even pausing for luncheon. By the time military and civilian personnel were beginning to leave the War Office building, the two men already had a framework of the organization which, in later years, would become known as
‘The Firm’.

The evening was cold, with a slight frost rising round the gas lamps of Whitehall. But Charles did not take a cab home. Nor did he head for the Travellers, which had been his usual habit, in the past, after work at the Foreign Office. Indeed, the Travellers Club was, and is, known as the Foreign Office Canteen.

Instead, he walked home, enjoying the crispness of the chill air.

There was a sense of starting anew in the South Audley Street house. After dinner Charles talked with Mildred. He told her there had been a change, that he had been reappointed, though he said nothing of the true nature of his duties.

Before sleep took him that night, Charles pondered on one aspect of the day which intrigued him. He had casually asked Vernon Kell who had recommended him for work at MO5.

‘
Why, your uncle – Giles Railton – of course.’ Kell sounded as though this should have been obvious.

But why, Charles wondered now, should something like that be obvious? Indeed, why had he been chosen? Certainly Uncle Giles was a senior member of the Foreign Service, but what on earth would a rather dull old bird like Giles know of Intelligence matters?

Chapter Three

Earlier, almost at the same moment as Charles arrived home, an important bell was clanging in another part of the capital – in the Caledonian Road, a mile or so from the Great Northern Railway’s King’s Cross Station, and hard by Pentonville Prison.

Among the many abroad in that part of the city, midst the clanking trams and bustling people, one in particular made his way, with purpose, down the Caledonian Road, stopping finally at the familiar striped pole which signified a barber
’s shop, pushing open the door of number 402A and causing the automatic bell to clamour.

Inside, the gas jets were turned high, the two barber
’s chairs vacant, and the sweet scent of cheap bay rum mingled with that particular smell of London, wafting in from the street – an amalgamation of grime, horse and the prevailing odour of soot.

For a moment, the man stood inside the door, his head cocked, listening as the spring bell slowly stopped its harsh warning. He was dressed more fashionably than those who normally frequented this seedy neighbourhood, wearing a long dark greatcoat with a fur collar, the design of which was certainly foreign.

As the bell ceased so a young fellow, in a not over-clean apron, appeared in the doorway at the far end of the shop.

‘
Good evening…’ he began, his accent thick, guttural; stopping suddenly when he saw the stranger’s face, turning to call urgently up the stairs. ‘Karl,’ he shouted. Then, in German, more loudly, ‘Karl, come. The gentleman is back.’

The visitor took one step inside the shop, paused, then walked forward with confidence,
his well-waxed moustaches quivering, like an animal picking up an interesting scent. The young barber waited in the rear doorway, glancing upwards nervously at the sound of heavy footsteps now descending the stairs.

The second barber, entering from the staircase, was obviously the owner o
f the shop. He moved with a familiar authority, his appearance neater, and cleaner, than that of the young assistant – hair cut short, to the scalp, above slightly bovine features. ‘Ach!’ the grunt contained some relief as he set eyes on the newcomer. Then, to the younger man, ‘Wilhelm, the door if you please.’

The blind was quickly pulled down, the key snapped home in the lock. Only when this was done did the owner speak again.
‘It is good to see you… Herr… Weiss?’

‘
Names do not matter. We can talk in private, yes?’

The barber motioned his visitor to the stairs, giving Wilhelm a nod, telling the lad to stay where he was.

Once upstairs, the visitor asked, ‘You have come to a decision? Made up your mind?’ He dusted off the seat of a stand chair with his gloves and sat down, small eyes never moving from the barber, who now spoke slowly, as though choosing his words with great care.

‘
Yes, I shall do my duty for the Fatherland. But it is necessary for me to have help. I cannot do it alone. Young Wilhelm is reliable. He’ll keep his mouth closed. I shall do it if he is also paid a small amount.’

‘
There should be no difficulty with the money. But you have the responsibility.’ He drew out a large piece of heavy-grade folded paper. ‘Before I leave, you must memorize the names and addresses I have here. I do not care how long it takes, but I shall not leave until I am satisfied that you are word perfect.
Verstanden
?’

The barber took the paper with immense care, as though it were some kind of explosive device
– which, in a way, it was.

*

The man the barber had called Weiss, boarded the midnight ferry boat to Ostend.

He stood by the rail gazing at the lights of England disappearing into the cold night, but his thoughts did not even touch on the barber, or the work going on in London. Gustav Steinhauer had larger matters on his mind: things which gave him a particular power, an almost unique position within the Diplomatic and Military regimes of Prussia.

He was also anxious to get back to Berlin. These little forays abroad were important, but it was his special work, for the Kaiser himself, which took pride of place in his life. At the heart of it all was Hans-Helmut Ulhurt, who had taken several months to regain his health. Now, still in the private clinic, he had learned to walk again, with the aid of a wooden leg, and was doing well.

Only one thing appeared to puzzle Ulhurt. He was surprised that the Imperial Navy had dropped any charges against him concerning the affray at the Buffel. Steinhauer told him not to worry about it; as far as the Navy was concerned, he had disappeared from the face of the earth. There was work for him to do, and it could well include the kind of fighting he seemed to enjoy so much.

‘You are to concentrate on getting fit again; learning to walk and move with a wooden leg as well as you did with two real ones: Steinhauer counselled. ‘In time you will learn all things. Some of your friends have paid a high penalty for that night in Kiel; he cocked his head to one side, ‘Some have been executed. Do as I tell you. Keep silent. Obey only me, and you will not suffer the same fate.’

*

At one point during his return to Berlin, Steinhauer found himself again becoming anxious. It was now two years since the Kaiser had sent for him privately – not only an honour, but the moment he had fought, schemed and planned for over the years.

Gustav Steinhauer
’s background could in no way be described as aristocratic, in the Prussian sense. However, he had relations at court. His cousin was friend and companion to the Kaiserin, while there was one uncle on his father’s side who certainly had the Kaiser’s ear. The Steinhauer family were what the English would call well-to-do, though not quite top drawer.

Gustav was exceptionally bright
– quick in study, and a very hard worker. By his early twenties he spoke four languages fluently; had made friends in influential areas; and secured a place for himself in the Foreign Ministry on the Wilhelmstrasse.

It was during his first years at the Wilhelmstrasse, that Gustav Steinhauer discovered his taste for intrigue and duplicity. Within two years he found himself in a position to travel regularly between the Wilhelmstrasse and the court, taking with him drops of gossip and tittle-tattle which might prove useful to the Kaiser and his many advisers.

In the forefront of his mind, Steinhauer remembered that the long-deposed Bismarck had relied on one man for intelligence and a complex system of spies – the hated, but very powerful, Eduard Stieber. As the years passed, Steinhauer’s one ambition had been to become the Kaiser’s Stieber, and the opening appeared, quite suddenly, just before Christmas in 1908. What happened then, finally led him to petty officer Ulhurt in Kiel.

In England, n
obody connected with MI1(c) – the Secret Service – or the tiny MO5, could possibly know what a part Steinhauer and his one-legged protégé would play in the future. Certainly none of the Railton family, even if they had known of the men’s existence, could have foreseen the havoc and the harvest that would be reaped.

The meeting with the
Kaiser had happened so unexpectedly that Steinhauer did not have time to reflect, or become nervous. He had been visiting his uncle, and on reaching his office, found the man in a state of excitement.

‘
His Majesty wishes. to see you.’ Uncle Brandt paced up and down. He was in full uniform being on duty that day.

‘
Me?’ Steinhauer swallowed. ‘When?’

‘
Now. The court leaves for Austria in two days. His Majesty sent for me yesterday. He asked for you; when you would next be coming… He is waiting now.’

Within minutes, Gustav Steinhauer found himself being marched through the marbled corridors, and before he knew it there was the Kaiser himself, looking serious, and rather terrifying with his waxed moustaches, and that strange aura of power and dignity which seemed to surround him.

For a full minute, the Kaiser looked him up and down, as though appraising him. Steinhauer thought of undertakers. Then, the Kaiser spoke.

‘
You are Gustav Steinhauer from the Foreign Ministry?’

‘
Majesty.’

‘
Good. I commend you. You have brought some useful items of information to the court. I am in your debt.’

‘
No, Majesty. No! I simply wish to serve your Majesty and the Fatherland. I am dedicated…’

The Kaiser took no notice.
‘I commend you,’ he repeated, as if to say ‘stay quiet man, if I say I commend you, then that is all’.

‘
Thank you, Majesty.’

‘
I have work for you, Steinhauer. Work of a special nature. Dangerous, but rewarding. Will you undertake this work for me?’

‘
Anything, Majesty. Say the word. For you and the Fatherland, anything.’

The Kaiser gave a brisk nod.
‘Good. You know that I am basically a man of the sea?’

‘
I’ve seen your Majesty’s beautiful painting of the torpedo boats attacking the ironclad warships… in the Berlin Academy of Art. Inspiring. It is…’

‘
Thank you,’ the Kaiser began to talk quickly, rapping out the sentences like orders, not giving Steinhauer a chance to interrupt. ‘I am also versed in military matters, naturally, but above all I love the sea, and the Imperial Navy. It is imperative that the world see the Fatherland, and not England, as Master of the great oceans.’ He took a quick breath before rattling on. ‘When you start this duty for me, you must remember this.’

Then, the Kaiser began to get down to the details.

Gustav Steinhauer became elated, almost heady with the power that was being placed in his hands.

*

Giles Railton carefully replaced the telephone earpiece, cradling it into the U-shaped arm projecting from the instrument’s column. He had answered Vernon Kell’s call in his usual manner – a series of monosyllables, for Giles disliked the telephone. Well, the news was good, even though Kell did not sound very enthusiastic about Charles. At least it brought his nephew into that world which Giles had inhabited for so long.

Giles sat in his study, on the second floor of the elegant Eccleston Square house, a few doors from where Winston and Clemmie Churchill were basking
– between a hectic political life – in the joys of parenthood, with their first child, the five months old Diana.

When his French wife, Josephine, was still alive, Giles
’ study was known to the children as ‘Father’s Hide’. Indeed the children were never allowed into the room, and he recalled Andrew’s sense of injustice at the age of ten – ‘Why cannot we play soldiers with Papa?’

Josephine had found it difficult to explain to the small boy. Five years later she was not there to explain: coming into the hall, on a Friday evening, bright and happy after a shopping expedition, and dropping dead, of a brain haemorrhage, at the foot of the stairs.

Giles rarely dwelt on that terrible day. In fact, he seldom thought of his own past, except when it was necessary to draw on personal experience. The events of the last weeks, however, had forced his mind from the safety of its private battlements. The death of his elder brother had brought more than mere memories, it had also produced an avalanche of pressing problems. One of these had, for the time being, been settled by Vernon Kell’s telephone call.

Unlike most of the Railton males, Giles had never grown to a full tall stature. The General, even at the age of seventy-six
– when he died – had maintained a full six feet two inches. But Giles, though far from stunted, had reached five-seven at the age of fourteen and stopped there. He did retain other Railton features – the nose, eyes, and a full head of hair, just beginning to grey as he entered his sixty-first year.

It was strange, he considered, how often in the family history there was a great gulf fixed between the arrival of children. There was over a dozen years between The General
’s sons, John and Charles, the same hiatus which had existed between himself and The General. Indeed, Giles knew of yet another child sired by his brother, never spoken of, yet born only twelve or so years ago. The General had certainly been active with more than one woman since his wife’s – Nellie’s – death in a riding accident during the autumn of 1884.

As far as his colleagues were concerned, Giles Railton was merely another senior civil servant
– a time-server waiting for the inevitable autumn of his days. Nothing could have been further from the truth, for Giles Railton was only just reaching the apogee of his career.

The memos and documents called him a
Senior Adviser: Foreign Policy
. Yet his official dossier contained more fiction than fact, going back many decades. It did not mention such things as the part he had played in the purchase of shares, for the government, in the Suez Canal, the visits to India, and the two years in Egypt. The copperplate handwriting gave little away about the many, and various, visits and journeys around Europe, or their purpose. Among other matters, the clandestine meetings in Russia remained uncharted, for, while diplomats met the Czar and his advisers, it was Giles who, in secret, spoke with men like Lenin, Trotsky, and other dedicated revolutionaries, trying to understand and analyse their dangerous political ideology.