Authors: Bill Aitken
Boissier smiled. “What can we get for you Mr Vance?”
Vance simply shook his head imperceptibly and waggled his half-full pint glass of beer.
“I see you’re sorted, so perhaps we should get straight down to business? Time is very short.”
Vance nodded.
“Very well. I understand that you have already been briefed by my Director?” Seeing Vance nod again – he was clearly no conversationalist – he continued. “The key things here are that we must immediately have a vehicle to drive around the island and that you remain here and keep an eye open for an Irishman. On no account are you to interfere with his movements. Just watch him.”
Vance took a draw at his beer and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “And while Ah’m daein’ that, whit’ll you two gentlemen be up tae?”
The voice sounded to Boissier like a couple of dogs fighting. He leaned forward to speak quietly but, with the racket going on in the pub, the precaution seemed, even to him, a little excessive. Still, appearances were everything and he didn’t like the way this Scotch copper was looking at him. “We are on the track of highly classified materials stolen by German agents that may come ashore from a Royal Navy ship currently at sea. We are to prevent them from reaching Germany or even falling into the hands of the civilian population. Apprehending the spy is a secondary consideration. The documents are everything. With that aim in mind, we’ll be patrolling the western shoreline all this evening. We would appreciate your interceding with the local Police force on our behalf. We don’t want them getting in the way.”
“And that’s it?”
Boissier relaxed into his seat and smiled, “That’s it. Keep an eye out for our Mick around the docks and local cafés near Scapa. If he’s anywhere, that’s where he’ll be. I understand that you have a full description of him?”
“Aye.”
“Well, in that case, I suggest we meet back here at, say, nine o’ clock this evening?”
Vance grunted, drained the last of his beer and stood up. “Yur car’s parked ootside. It’s the black Armstrong.” Glancing around carefully to make sure he had left no traces behind, he turned and slid quietly out of the pub.
Pickup looked at his colleague through the one eye that remained open to him and growled, “What the hell are we meeting up with him again for? He’s trouble. You can smell it.”
Boissier turned sideways to look at him more clearly and enunciated his words with care. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you? By nine we will be off this bloody island with Farmer, Fitzgerald and Hubert
dead
– that little snip of a girl, too, if we can find her.”
He thrust his glass at the other man. “Here, get me another glass of this sheep dip and then we’ll be on our way.”
**********
The lower deck crew of the Hampshire had been given permission to watch the C-in-C’s pinnace come over from the
Iron Duke
. Speculation was rife as to the VIP they were to carry to Russia. One of the signallers had a pair of binoculars trained on the pinnace but the rolling seas made it difficult to keep it steady in the field of view. He had to fight off advice and questions from his mates until he caught a glimpse of “scrambled egg” on the caps of some of the officers. “A shower of bleedin’ brasshats!” he moaned to his friends. “A real big nob, for sure.”
“Hang on,” said Leading Seaman Rogerson, “Don’t you recognise ‘im? It’s the Chief Recruitin’ Officer hisself! Just the spit of ‘is bleedin’ poster!” He ran an experienced eye over the situation. “They’re goin’ to have an ‘ell of a time tying up in this sea.”
Just then, a cry went up from the other end of the line of men. “What’re they rollickin’ about, Bill?” he said to Chief Shipwright William Phillips, standing a couple of men further down the line.
“One of the young killicks had an engagement ring for ‘is girl. Just been jostled by one of the lads and it slipped clean out of ‘is fingers into the sea. Had it for about a year and an ‘alf but never ‘ad a chance to ask her. Pore little bugger.”
Rogerson’s face fell. “Bad omen, that.” Moodily, he watched ‘Lord Kitchener’ and his entourage disembark from the boat and make their way up the gangway to be piped on board.
After the usual introductory pleasantries, including a description of the ship’s part in the battle, Captain Savill offered his cabin to Farmer and the ship was made ready for sea without delay. Farmer gratefully retired below to the cabin with Fitzgerald and MacPherson to look over some Russian papers. If anything could take Farmer’s mind off the dreadful movement of the ship, it would be Cyrillic script.
Fitzgerald sent the junior officer out to arrange for some refreshments to be brought to the cabin. “Well, Henry,” he said, looking over at Farmer who was gazing out at the hills of Hoy slipping in and out of the mists. “It looks as though we’ve been able to give Gallagher the slip. In a few days, we’ll be in Archangel. He won’t be following us there.”
“Thank the Lord. I was beginning to imagine all sorts of things.” He sat down and gazed at the deck.
Fitzgerald exhaled slowly. “Yes … Hubert. I’ve been wondering, too. What on earth could have happened to him? It has something to do with that man Kell – I’m certain of it – and, if that turns out to be true, I have to wonder what he has in store for us.”
“I’m beginning to wish Gallagher had found us, instead!”
Fitzgerald smiled. “No you don’t but I understand what you mean – the devil you
know
.”
Within thirty minutes, at around 1645 hours, the
Hampshire
slipped her cable and began making slow headway towards the western exit to Scapa Flow, following the route taken by her escorts earlier, and out into the Pentland Firth
Monday, 5 June 1916 1645 hours – 1942 hours
Hubert reached an unsteady hand up at the trembling, high-pitched voice.
“Will you answer me? It was a bloody
Goyard
!”
“Means bugger-all to me, old man. Help me up – I’m done in,” whispered Hubert, almost inaudibly.
“I will do nothing of the sort until I get some answers. Who the devil are you?” squeaked O’Beirne, indignantly.
“Christ! My name is Hubert and I’m on the staff of MI5. Are you O’Beirne?”
“Yes, indeed, and you can just explain …”
“Shut up”, he groaned wearily. Anne was clearly rubbing off on him. “Are we on the
Hampshire
?
“Can’t you
feel
the ship rolling all over the place?”
Hubert collapsed heavily on to the floor. “Look“, he gasped, “the way I feel right now, I’m not sure whether it’s the ship or me.”
O’Beirne help him up to sit on the edge of the bunk. “Mr Hubert, I think you’d better explain things. For a start, why would you want to stow away in one of my trunks?”
Chris felt like throwing up but willed himself to be calm. “It’s as simple as this – there’s a plan to kill Lord Kitchener.”
“I know – but you already
have
a man looking out for him – this fellow Staughton who’s acting as my manservant.”
Hubert grunted in amusement but even that took more out of him than he could afford and O’Beirne had to support him against the movement of the ship. “He’s actually a very dangerous man called Fritz Joubert Duquesne – a Boer working for the German Secret Service.”
O’Beirne stared at him disbelievingly. “Are you sure of this? How do you know?”
“Never mind that – time’s short. We have to alert the Captain of this tub that there may be mines ahead and that Kitchener’s cabin has to be searched immediately for explosive devices. Your ’manservant’ was provided with one before you left.”
Things started to click in O’Beirne’s head. “The Paddington delay!”
“That’s the one.” He stood unsteadily up. “Let’s get moving.”
O’Beirne moved over and opened the door of the cabin but backed away from it as Duquesne stepped in, holding a gun at waist level. “Move over to the bulkhead and sit on the floor,” he hissed and turned to look at Hubert. “My God, they’re scraping the barrel at ‘Five’ if they think you’re fit even for
light
duties.”
“Fit enough for the likes of you, Duquesne.”
“I seriously doubt it,” he murmured and coshed him viciously with the gun barrel. As Hubert hit the decking, the Boer turned slowly towards O’Beirne, crouched in the corner of the cabin, and smiled. “
Now
, ‘Milord’ …”
**********
On the bridge, things were going from bad to worse. As they rounded Tor Ness at 1745 hours, the ship hit the full force of the storm which, perversely, had now backed round to come from the northwest. Savill could just make out the two escorts waiting for them in the middle distance but the weather was incredibly bad. It seemed inconceivable that they could maintain the necessary speed to stay safe from submarine attack – not in these seas, possibly the worst he had ever experienced.
Speed was the key to it all – the
Hampshire
was poorly armoured and, even then, only amidships. He took the same line as the rest of the Navy that ‘speed
is
armour’ but without destroyer escort, they’d be dreadfully exposed. Mind you, with the ship yawing around like a fishing smack at anchor, it would be a very talented submariner who could get a decent shot off in these conditions.
“Signals?” shouted Savill as the
Hampshire
plunged in a torrent of spray between the two escorts, “Send to Unity and Victor, ‘Take station and make revolutions for 18 knots’.” He watched as the destroyers turned to follow the
Hampshire
. He gripped the rail out of sheer reflex as the
Victor
was nearly pooped in the heavy seas. The rain bounced off the superstructure, hiding the ships astern but, in a moment, they re-emerged through the mist.
“Jesus! Did you see that, Number One?” he shouted over the shrieking of the radio rigging.
“Damn close one, Sir. Someone on board said his prayers last night, that’s for sure.”
For quarter of an hour, Savill watched as the two smaller ships slipped ever further back into the grey vapour when he saw a faint yellow flickering between them, followed by a brighter signal to the
Hampshire
.
“The
Victor
informs
Unity
that she can only manage fifteen knots – relayed by
Unity
, Sir,“ called the Signals officer.
“Yes, I can see. They’re taking a hell of a pounding.” He turned to his First Officer. “What do you think, Charles? Fifteen is too slow.”
“I agree, Sir. Sixteen is the slowest we can allow. We have to get Lord Kitchener out of these waters without delay.” He ducked as a mountain of water roared over the weather shield of the open bridge.
“Right – let’s bring her a little closer into land, too. We might get a bit more shelter there and stop the Army getting sick. Starboard five and make revolutions for sixteen knots. Relay that back to the escorts, Signals. Bring her back amidships on my command.”
**********
Hubert rolled slowly over and weakly rubbed the crusted blood gluing his left eye shut. As his field of vision came more into focus, he caught sight of O’Beirne’s still body lying over in the corner. It had that ‘pile of old clothes look’ that meant Death was in the room – he’d seen enough of it to know – but nevertheless he crawled painfully over to check, his ribs hurting badly. O’Beirne’s face was covered with a pillow taken presumably from the bunk above him. Chris removed it gently, uncovering glassy eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Duquesne was an efficient killer – you had to give him that.
Using the furniture, he dragged himself up. His head was one mass of pain. “If anyone hits me again, I’m resigning,” he thought and staggered towards the door. Wrenching it open, he tripped over the storm sill and tumbled into the passageway at the feet of a Royal Marine sergeant.
**********
Savill scanned the horizon for the escorts and glimpsed them alternately appearing and then vanishing as they crested mountainous spume-covered waves far in the distance. He had already made yet another reduction in speed and had signalled the fact to the
Unity
, asking if Leckie could keep up. Suddenly the light of an Aldis lamp flickered through the storm.
“
Unity
says ‘no’, Sir,” shouted the Signalman. “They’re only able to maintain ten knots.”
Savill swivelled on his stool and wiped the spray from his eyes. The two little destroyers were mere specks on the edge of visibility. Clearly, they’d soon lose contact all together. He thought for a moment and then made his decision. “Very well, Signals. Make to
Unity
, ‘Destroyers return to base’. Ask them to repeat to
Victor
. Log the time.”
Moments later, the reply glinted through the darkness of the storm. ‘Message received and understood. Good luck.’
At 1820 hours, the
Hampshire
was on her own.
**********
Duquesne, dressed in regulation navy oilskins, curled up in the lee of one of the superstructures topsides. He considered himself perfectly safe from detection – no-one in his right mind would be topsides in weather like this. The mines couldn’t be far ahead by now and he had armed the bomb in Kitchener’s cabin. It was timed to go off just before the mines – or perhaps a little later; it was difficult to finesse these things – and he’d made sure that the boiler room door wouldn’t be closing properly when the ship went down.
Thinking of O’Beirne made him feel very good, indeed. Of course, he would
really
have liked to strangle him but, just in case the body was found, he didn’t want it appearing in a post mortem. Smothering seemed a sensible alternative but,
honestly
, he would have liked more
time
.
He glanced round the corner, narrowing his eyes through the blast of rain and spray, to re-check the location of the nearest Carley raft. There was a pinnace but the officers would be in it and Datchett had warned him to stay out of sight as much as possible.
Besides, there would always be a better chance of survival with the lower deck types.
**********
Captain Savill peered through binoculars at Marwick Head appearing through the low cloud. If anything, the weather had worsened, much to his complete disbelief. The
Hampshire’s
bows were driving deep into the water, slowing her down
.
He turned at the commotion behind him as two Marines, accompanied by their Sergeant, brought what could only be described as a prisoner on to the bridge.
“What’s the meaning of this, Sergeant?” he shouted.
“Beg pardon, Sir. Mr O’Beirne of Lord Kitchener’s party has been found dead in his cabin. Looks like foul play and this man was found with the body. Claims to have information about a plot to kill His Lordship.”
“For God’s sake, Sir, listen to me. My name is Lieutenant Christophe Hubert of MI5. Until recently, I was attached to Lord Kitchener’s staff. I can’t go into details now but I was detained by force then managed to escape and get on board without being detected. Mr O’Beirne was murdered by a Boer working for the Germans. He has planted a bomb in your cabin with the intention of killing Lord Kitchener. Your route has also been compromised and is probably mined. We need to get His Lordship out of your cabin
now
and turn this ship around.”
Savill looked disbelievingly at Hubert. “You were on his staff, you say?”
“Yes, Sir”
“Well, it’s easy enough to check that out and, if it’s as urgent as you say, we’d better do it quickly. Sergeant, take Lieutenant Hubert down to His Lordship’s cabin – but guard him carefully. If he fails to recognise our stowaway, lock him in the brig for the duration.” He turned to His Gunnery Officer. “Matthews, go down with them and speak to Lord Kitchener.”
“Very good, Sir. Follow me, Sergeant.”
The five minutes it took for Hubert to get from the bridge to Henry’s cabin were probably the longest of his life. Matthews knocked on the cabin door and greeted Fitzgerald who answered it.
“Apologies for disturbing you, Colonel, but this man here says he is known to you and Lord Kitchener.” He swivelled aside to reveal a very battered Hubert.
“Hubert! Thank God you’re here!”
Farmer, hearing Hubert’s name came to the door. “Hubert, my dear boy … my goodness, you
have
been in the wars. Very glad, indeed, to see you.”
Hubert knew Farmer was ‘in character’ and was really
overjoyed
to see him. “Thank you, Sir but no time to explain things. There may very well be a bomb in your cabin and we need to get you out of it – right now.”
Without collecting any possessions, apart from grabbing their greatcoats, Farmer, Fitzgerald and MacPherson ran out into the companion-way as a violent explosion blew the door shut behind them, shredding the port bulkhead and killing the Marine on sentry duty outside the cabin. Farmer was thrown heavily against MacPherson and Hubert ended up underneath Fitzgerald and Matthews. For a moment, everything was stunned silence until he felt a hand helping him to his feet and found himself face to face with the Sergeant, who simply nodded and said, “Good call, Sir.”
Fitzgerald, coughing in the acrid smoke, just looked ashen-faced at the wrecked cabin door and slicked back his hair into a semblance of neatness. “My God! That was on the money, Hubert. I thank you.” He looked at the marines checking over the fallen man, his face hardening. “Is this the work of someone we both know?”
“Indirectly but, yes, Sir.”
“Let’s be clear, you’re talking about Kell – the
bastard
. If we get out of this alive, Hubert, I swear …”
The companion-way was now filling with sailors emerging from cabins but, in seconds, the Marines had Fitzgerald and Farmer stumbling quickly through the roiling fumes which filled the air. “Make way, there!” ordered Matthews, “Make
way
for Lord Kitchener!” Behind them, sea water began to flow over the cabin’s storm sill.
**********
Up on deck, Duquesne felt, rather than heard, the explosion and hugged himself at the thought of Kitchener in small pieces. This would make his name with German High Command – he’d be able to name his own price from now on – if he survived, of course. But the biggest satisfaction came surely from the knowledge that he had avenged his mother and sister on the man responsible for their deaths. Yes, he had tried and failed once before but that was now a distant and frustrating memory. At last, it was done. Even now, he could hardly bear the memory of the day he passed through his parents’ farm in Nylstroom, serving with the British Army of all things, to find it razed to the ground on the orders of Kitchener’s ‘scorched earth’ policy. The stink of burnt wood made him sick, still. That’s when he found out that his sister had been killed and his mother was dying in a British concentration camp. And that’s when he swore to devote his life to the destruction of Kitchener and the whole bloody British Empire. It would never really be over but Britain would not recover from this in time to win the war. Euphoria swept violently through him like a drug.