Authors: Bill Aitken
“Yes, sir.”
Fitzgerald closed his eyes for a moment and calmed down, turning to Farmer. “Apart from that, were you satisfied with the results of your little ... test, Colonel?”
“Henry,” prompted Farmer.
“Yes, ‘Henry’.”
“I was. Indeed, I was. I feel much better about the whole thing now.”
“Good. Well, let’s move the illusion up a notch. Your uniforms have arrived. They have been laid out in your room. Be so good as to try one on and come downstairs, so that I can take you through the correct mode of dress for an officer of Engineers.”
Ten minutes later, Farmer walked into the drawing room in working dress. Hubert stared in amazement and then settled back into an armchair with a quiet grin on his drawn face.
Fitzgerald stood up. “Yes, that will do very nicely, indeed. You know –
Henry
– I do believe, with a following wind, this might just work.”
**********
Bruce Lockhart sat back from the table at which he was decrypting the ‘IMMEDIATE - EYES ONLY’ signal he had just received. As MI6 Station controller in St Petersburg, he would expect to see anything from MI5 only under the most unusual circumstances. The two Services rabidly avoided encroaching on each other’s respective patches since their separation a matter of only a few months before. And yet, here was a signal marked ‘MOST SECRET’ from Kell himself. Repeated, he noted, to Cumming.
“So Kitchener is to come to Russia!” he mused, spinning slowly from side to side in his over-stuffed swivel chair and chewing the end of his pencil. “But what the hell are Kell and Cumming up to?” He grinned to himself. ‘Kell and Cumming’. Sounded like a dubious music hall act. He looked at the signal once more:
LORD KITCHENER TO ARRIVE ST PETERSBURG 9 JUNE - STOP - PASSAGE TO BE UNDERTAKEN BY ROYAL NAVY DEPARTING CLYDE 5 JUNE - STOP - K WILL CONSULT WITH HRH THE CZAR AND REMAIN FOR 10 DAYS - STOP - YOU ARE TO LIAISE WITH OKHRANA CONCERNING SECURITY FOR VISIT - STOP - TAKE ALL ACTIONS NECESSARY TO BRING JOURNEY - BRACKET - WITHOUT PREJUDICE - BRACKET - TO ATTENTION OF PRINCE VORONTSOFF - STOP - SIGNAL TO BE DESTROYED WHEN READ - END
Vorontsoff was a noted sybarite of the Russian court who could not be trusted to keep his mouth shut were it to save the life of his grandmother. Why tell him? ‘Without prejudice’ was security service code for ‘leak it to him by accident’. Perhaps this was a feint – leak the news and then let Kitchener disappear somewhere else while everyone’s eye is off the ball – but that would mean that the Czar would have to be in on it. Unlikely, to say the least.
Of course, it was perfectly obvious why he
might
be coming. The Court was riddled with Russians playing for the other side. It was the only way they could afford to pay for the upkeep of their mistresses. Unless, of course, you were a member of the Government – then, it was a simple matter of pocketing your soldiers’ pay, selling off their replacement equipment and issuing only enough food to keep them from starving. It was a good living and no-one ever got caught. Besides, who was looking? The Czarina was too busy with that flea-bitten mongrel Rasputin and the Czar did whatever the last person told him to do. Lockhart
had
heard rumours that an injection of gold was coming from Great Britain, so that was possibly the reason for his journey but then many other, less important people, could act as that sort of courier.
Being who he was – possibly the world’s most famous soldier – Kitchener had a great deal of influence in military circles. Perhaps, Lockhart reflected, his visit was more to do with stabilising the rickety Duma and ensuring that the Russian Army stayed at the Front. All indications were that they were deserting
en masse
. Just about the only thing they were able to do with any sort of efficiency. True – a visit from someone like Kitchener might just do the job for a few months and stave off another revolution.
“He
must
be coming, then,” he thought. “Bugger! That means I’ll have to trawl for crockery through all those bloody flea-infested ‘antique’ shops in the city!”
Kitchener’s love of fine porcelain and china was well-known, even in the Russias.
Wednesday 24 May 1916 0800 hours – Thursday 1 June 1916 2300 hours
Beitzen relaxed against the conning tower as he powered the
Bruder Walther
slowly into Kiel on the diesels. “Coming home has to be the greatest feeling in the world,” he said to himself as he nonchalantly acknowledged the ‘welcome back’ cheers of other U-boat crews, preparing for sea. One or two chuckles and Rabelaisian comments followed them in honour of the still-bent main periscope.
There was a slight breeze blowing as U-75 tied up, fluttering the tonnage pennants painted by the crew to advertise the success they had achieved in sinking the enemy. All hands were on deck for the arrival back in port and Beitzen felt a surge of pride as he looked down at them from his vantage point. They had done well and deserved a little relief from the unrelenting pressures of war. He inhaled a deep, calming breath – some well-earned shore leave for them but not for himself, right now. His successful mission had to be debriefed at Admiralty HQ then, maybe, he could go home to Magda for a little while.
While the boat tied up, he quickly arranged matters with Grassl – shore time for the crew, recall procedures, duty watches and so on. “I’ll have to pop over to HQ, now, and tell them how the mission went. After that, I’ll be off home. That’s where you’ll find me if anything turns up out of the blue.” He made his way over to the Admiralty building near the quays, turning over in his mind half a dozen different ways to ask for two weeks’ leave for his crew. It was hopeless, he supposed, but worth a try. Before he knew it, he was explaining his actions to the Commander, Fourth Flotilla, a very senior Captain.
“And so, you were able to pick up Sir Roger and his men?”
“We were, sir.”
“Even with your reduced speed submerged?”
Beitzen said nothing but stared ahead at attention.
“Relax Beitzen,” he said, “I’m really sorry to have to tell you this. It’s a bitch of thing after all you and your men have gone through but the sad truth is that your efforts were in vain.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid Sir Roger was arrested by the Royal Irish Constabulary shortly after he landed. It would seem that MI5 had foreknowledge of the arrival location and were waiting for them. They shot his inflatable full of holes when it was a couple of hundred metres off shore and it capsized him and his people into Tralee Bay. The entire party ended up being washed on to Banna Strand and all their possessions were lost. I believe that Feld-Webel Leutnant Montieth escaped but Sir Roger has been taken to the Tower of London. The third man – Bailey – we don’t yet know about.”
Beitzen’s shoulders drooped in defeat.
“You must be washed up. The pity is that I can only give you and your crew four days shore leave, I’m afraid. Something really big is about to blow and you’ll all be involved. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when you return. The main thing now is to go home and see your family. You’ve done an excellent job under very difficult circumstances, so try and recharge your own batteries.”
“Thank you, sir.” Beitzen saluted like an automaton, and left the office.
**********
Near the end of his first morning, Farmer slipped into his ADC’s office, now occupied by Hubert while the ecstatic owner was off on mandatory leave for the next month.
He looked up at his ‘commanding officer’. “How are you doing, Field Marshal?”
Farmer grimaced. “You know, I think I have managed to undo all but the most stubborn of the knots in the pit of my stomach – largely due to Miss Thorpe.”
“Henry! You’ve known her less than a day!”
“I don’t … act your age, for goodness sake, boy!”
Hubert chuckled to himself, signed the document he was working on and sat back in his chair, observing his companion with a critical eye. “You
do
look a little more relaxed, Henry. Seriously.”
“She really has been very helpful. When I arrived, I thought she was going to stick me with a hat pin right off but she’s thawed in no time.”
“I noticed she’d lined you up with two or three meetings. How did they go?”
“Well, they were rather junior individuals but working in areas of current interest to Kitchener. She chose them well. They had never met him in person and they were over the moon to be called in. And, of course, she ran me through what’s on the board, so to speak. Everything she’s done shows she’s thought long and hard of what I
needed
to be told and what I didn’t. Excellent woman.”
Hubert said nothing but continued to observe Farmer with an innocent expression.
“Shut up!” exploded Farmer. “Anyway, now I remember why I came in to see you – why didn’t you tell me Kell was coming round?”
“No! When?”
“This afternoon, according to Joan.”
“Ooh,
Joan
is it?”
“You are a pathetic child, Chris.”
“I am, indeed, Field Marshal.”
“Wonder what he wants so soon?”
“He’s probably just paying a social visit to see how things are going in general – no pun intended.”
“I wonder.”
“Don’t,” he said, pulling himself out of his chair, “Time for lunch.”
**********
Of all places, Gallagher found himself seated in a disused church hall just outside Dublin itself. Even in the musty light, he could make out the faces of those in judgement upon him. Butterflies flitted inside his stomach for an instant. He would take on any odds to complete a mission but this was different. There was no fighting or improvising his way out of this one and failure meant only one thing – a bullet in the back of his head. If he was lucky. There would be no extenuating circumstances, no court of appeal, no commutation of sentence – just death.
Iain MacDonald was presiding. That was the only good thing. He and Gallagher were no great friends but they shared a mutual, if guarded, respect for each other. MacNeill, to his left, was a different thing, as were his cronies, like Cathal Brugha on the right. This deck was stacked. Gallagher wondered if MacDonald knew.
“Sean Gallagher, you have been brought before this tribunal to answer the charge that you did murder a serving member of the Irish Republican Broterhood, namely Patrick Riordan, in the pursuance of your operational objective, Field Marshal Kitchener, British Secretary of State for War. How do you plead to this charge?” MacDonald’s voice was flat and devoid of any expression which would lead Gallagher to believe that he had a friend in the enemy’s camp.
“I plead not guilty to this charge and I defy your right to try me. I’m entitled to a minimum of six members behind that table.”
MacDonald held up a gnarled hand. “I’d advise you not to add contempt of court to the charges. You know very well that as Chief of Staff, I have every right to try you. But you’re right about the six members. We lost most of those qualified to sit at this table in the wee upset on Easter Monday. You've been out of touch for a while, remember. And, since then, Kell and the RIC have been runnin’ a bit of a purge on us – you’ll have seen the check points and bloody uniforms everywhere – you can’t scratch your arse but there’s a Webley on your forehead five seconds later. Cathal and Eoin are the only ones that haven’t been picked up yet. But I’ll take all that into account. You know you’ll get a fair hearing from me, Sean Gallagher, and most of the breaks.”
Gallagher relaxed back into his seat.
“Anyway, where the hell do you come from, tellin’
us
that you didn’t kill him, you bastard?” shouted MacNeill.
“And that’s enough from you, Eoin, or this is a mis-trial and I let Gallagher walk out o’ here!”
Gallagher looked at MacNeill and at MacDonald. “I didn’t say that I didn’t
kill
him. I’m just saying that it wasn’t murder.”
“Why did you have to kill him, Sean?” asked MacDonald.
“Self-defence. Y’see
someone
...” Gallagher stared meaningfully at MacNeill and his cronies, “someone had persuaded young Riordan into holding on to the weapons we used.”
MacDonald looked at MacNeill.
“I say ‘weapons’ but I really mean just ‘weapon’. He kept
mine
. If he wasn’t working for someone in this room, he was definitely working for the Brits.”
“You bastard! He would never ...” MacNeill never completed his sentence but launched himself at Gallagher across the table. MacDonald and the others held him down while he continued to kick and scream abuse. Gallagher hadn’t moved during the entire episode but sat calm and satisfied in his seat.
MacDonald shoved MacNeill back behind the table. “You and me’ll have a two-handed crack later on, Eoin MacNeill. But right now, let me say to all of you that if this is true, this thing Gallagher tells us, there’s goin’ to be trouble. There’ll be no personal vendettas in this Army. Every man bein’ sent on a mission has to know that he can come back safe from his own kind, at least. There’s no future for us else.”
MacNeill sat back down, blowing like an exhausted horse. He had other ways to get Gallagher that didn’t involve this old fart MacDonald. Patience.
“Right then, Sean Gallagher,” said MacDonald, “I want to know every step that takes us from when you left Kitchener’s place to Riordan ending up in a ferry toilet.” He looked up from the charge sheet, “And it’d better be good, Sean.”
Gallagher gathered his thoughts and made to speak but a movement in the far corner of the room caught his eye. The men at the table turned round to see what the disturbance was and saw one of MacNeill’s bodyguards walk into the hall. Gallagher recognised him as Feeney.
Feeney came up close to MacDonald at the table and whispered urgent intelligence. MacDonald, in turn, started in surprise and peered at Gallagher.
“And you say, Sean, that you killed Kitchener outright?”
Gallagher looked at him as though he were mad. “Of course I bloody did! No question about it.”
“Well, Feeney here – good lad yourself, Feeney, off you go – Feeney tells me that we’ve just received a report from one of our boys in London. Kitchener was seen goin’ in to the War Office this morning, large as life and twice as ugly. Now, what do you think of that?”
Gallagher paused, momentarily left-footed by the news. “Look MacDonald, if I shoot you four times with a Mauser, you stay dead. It’s an inevitable sort of affair. Somebody’s got his wires crossed here.”
“Aye, an’ it’s you!” crowed MacNeill. “Pity the boy’s not here to stand up for you! You’ve no witnesses, now!”
Gallagher could see his point. Things looked very much like he had entered into some sort of agreement with the British Security Services to leave Kitchener alive and to return home, having bumped off the only witness to the contrary. He tried to put himself into MacDonald’s position. Would
he
believe him, if their roles were reversed? But, if it were true and Gallagher was a traitor in league with the Brits, would they allow Kitchener to be seen so soon? Would they blow their own cover? It was this thought that brought Gallagher round to his senses. He knew damn well that he had killed the old bugger, so there was only one answer. He chortled, “The devious bastards!”
“What is it, Sean?” said MacDonald, watching his every expression.
“MacDonald, I’m tellin’ you straight – I executed him and there’s no question of that.”
“So, how do you explain … ?”
“They’re usin’ a
double
! How the hell they managed to get a hold of one this quick, I don’t know. Maybe they have one on tap. Maybe they’ve used one before an’ we’ve never known! Maybe …”
“Maybe you just killed an actor, an’ left the real thing alive and kickin’!” MacNeill said.
Gallagher stared at him, detached from the moment. “You might be right there, Eoin –
maybe
.”
“We’ll need to think this one over –
bugger it!
– no we don’t,” said MacDonald. “There’s only one answer to this. Sean, this is your business. I don’t give a damn whether you killed a real one or not. Chances are, it doesn’t even matter. It’s what the workin’ man thinks that’s important. But if you
did
kill a double, the Brits’ll be pissing themselves laughin’ at us an’ I’m not goin’ to let that happen.”
“And if I killed the real Kitchener?”
“Then we still haven’t achieved the objective. The British Army don’t know about it and neither do the British people. So you’ll still have to do somethin’ about it.”
“You mean go back and kill him
twice
?”
MacDonald grinned a death’s head smile. “Aye, Sean, somethin’ like that. You get yourself over there and do the job. But this time do it somewhere less private. Don’t give them another chance for a cover up. I want people in the street to see it.”
Gallagher got up to leave.
“Sean, do this well and the slate’ll be wiped clean.” He held up a hand against MacNeill’s wrath. “But if you don’t manage it, don’t come back. ‘We clear?”