Authors: Bill Aitken
“And now we’re going down to the scene of the crime, as it were. What’s the plan?” asked Hubert.
“Well, clearly, I have to conduct an investigation into what went wrong and you can all testify that everything is above board.”
Hubert watched the thunderstorm approach. A few bumps on the road delayed Kell’s retort but, when it came, it was icy cold. "I’m only going to say this once, Commissioner – we are
both
responsible for the internal security of this country. If you think I’m going to restrict myself to ‘testifying’, as you quaintly express it, you’re deluding yourself. There will be no decisions taken without my complete agreement and if you cannot accept this right from the outset, we can turn this car around, go back to the PM and sort the matter out.”
Hubert watched the exchange with interest. He had learned early on that there was no love lost between MI5 and Special Branch. Military Intelligence did all the spadework to build a case against an enemy agent but it had no ultimate power of arrest. They were required by law to hand their prey over to Special Branch for the legal process to take its course. MI5 had to stay in the shadows while Special Branch got all the glory – it was an old story but it still made Hubert smile to see it in action.
Thompson said nothing but his face told volumes. Taking the awkward silence as agreement, Kell continued, “But one thing’s absolutely certain: no-one must ever even
think
that this might have been the work of the IRB –
ever
– or we’re just building another problem for the country to solve after the war. How we’re going to do that is the rub. We need time. Time to work out some sort of plan – a cover story of a heart attack or something like that brought on by overwork. He was in his late sixties, after all. Anything that could reasonably take him out of public view without delay."
Fitzgerald blinked several times and plucked at some imaginary threads on his uniform. "You’re talking about Lord Kitchener as though he were a stone in your shoe, Kell,” he barked across Thompson, irritated by other's dispassionate manner. "He was a great soldier and a great
man
, too. None of us were fit to bull his boots. Don’t you dare forget that. We have lost our best leader at a desperate time because of the incompetence of those who were meant to protect him." He looked, with some significance, at Thompson.
Kell remained unruffled. "I meant nothing of the sort, Colonel, nor can you lay any blame at my door, since it was Special Branch – not MI5 – that was in charge of his safety. It looks as though the IRB have succeeded in bringing down Lord Kitchener but I have to make sure that they don’t bring down the county with him. Public morale is a critical measuring stick for my department. We’re losing thousands of our youngest and fittest men at the Front almost on a daily basis. The Russians are just deserting in droves because of corruption at the highest levels inside their General Staff. And, of course, the French are as hopeless as usual. Against that sort of backdrop, losing Kitchener could be the final straw for the country.”
Hubert looked sharply at Kell. He had seen some very brave Frenchmen on the field of battle and, as for his own ancestry …
But Kell was in full swing. “You see a very different war from the one Thompson and I have to fight. Not everyone supports the war and even those who do are getting monstrous weary of it. The War Office might be in touch with what’s happening at the Front but you have little idea of what it’s doing to the British people.”
“Now just a …”
Kell held up a hand. “No, please hear me out. Every single day, Thompson and I have to hunt down all sorts of traitors and spies and malcontents. I dread to think how Britain will react to the news that Lord Kitchener has been gunned down in cold blood by citizens of our own country.” Kell sat back in his seat. "You can be sure of one thing, though – if civilian morale drops any further, we can just pack up and surrender to the Kaiser. Kitchener’s death is devastating – as you rightly say, he was a great man but we have higher priorities now."
Fitzgerald sniffed in disdain and looked out of the window at the passing countryside.
Kell had it right, though, Hubert thought. This certainly was one hell of a disaster. The war, pretty much, was over if they couldn’t put a patch over this. There was no-one with Kitchener’s grasp of the current military situation to slip in and save the day – no-one of his stature, even. What made it worse was the fact that it was also very unusual, to say the least, to have a serving military officer holding a government portfolio. It was highly unlikely that someone else from the General Staff could pick up the torch without fumbling it. He remembered, still with a tinge of disbelief, that Kitchener couldn’t even speak in the House because he was
unelected
– Minister of State for War and he was debarred from opening his mouth in Westminster. That had to be done by his Under-Secretary – a ludicrous state of affairs – but, right from the start, the King and the Prime Minister wanted Kitchener and no-one else. Now he was dead. The thought that Germany might actually win simply because this would sink British morale too low to be resurrected …
Thompson trumpeted into his handkerchief, bringing Hubert sharply back to reality. "Nor do I need you, Kell, to labour the point that my men slipped up. I will deal with that later, as I have already made clear. But, look here, we're in danger of drifting from the point, which is to decide what, in God’s name, to do next." He jerked his chin at Hubert, still facing them in the front passenger seat. "Lieutenant, you are new to this – a fresh eye, perhaps. What’s your initial reaction?"
From the corner of his eye, Hubert could see Kell glare at Thompson's impertinence. He smiled to himself but, yet, with a touch of irritation. Clearly, as a
very
junior officer, he would have nothing of value to contribute in Kell’s eyes. But then, Kell had not fought in this conflict whereas Hubert knew how the men, particularly the younger ones, worshipped Kitchener. His posters and photographs were everywhere, sternly pointing out the ‘road to duty’. It was inevitable that he would be proclaimed almost a demi-god by those serving under him – which made the Irish connection all the more incredible.
He cleared his throat. "As Major Kell said, we cannot let English troops know that Kitchener was killed by the IRB – if that is, indeed, the case.”
Thompson nodded agreement: nothing had been proven yet. Hubert pressed further. "I'm of French Swiss-Canadian parentage so, to a certain extent, I think I can view Anglo-Irish relations from something of a distance but, even so, I have absolutely no doubt that we’d have internecine war in the trenches if this came out – the English against the Irish. Kitchener was like a God to the British Army.”
“We know he was popular but surely that’s overstating the case a tad.”
Hubert cast his mind back to the carnage he had left behind at Ypres. “Well, think about this. When the mud had set on the Ypres Salient after one of the larger pushes, the Red Cross were trying to identify some of our boys who had died on the field. They came across a young lad – no more than a schoolboy, really – but there he was, lying face down in the mud of an empty trench. His only company was a couple of mutilated horses that had been blown in by the blast of a shell. In one hand he had his empty Enfield and, in the other, a crumpled, blood-stained photograph of Lord Kitchener, torn from a magazine.” He paused and smiled sardonically at the others. “Not much more than a child, I agree, and probably very impressionable, but men grow up quickly over there, Commissioner. It's either that or not growing up ever. Clearly, this lad had worshipped Kitchener – and he wouldn’t have been the only one – so, one sniff of this business and all hell will break loose. We'll lose the War within the week."
"Point taken. But a
week
– that quickly?” asked Thompson.
Hubert paused as the driver honked the horn like some demented goose. "I do. And it's for that very reason that I can't really take this idea of the Irish being involved. Surely it can't be in their own interests to allow the Hun to win the War? I mean, Ireland would fall with Britain. What makes you think they're behind this – apart from the type of gun?"
"As I said – Gallagher. We had reports that he was seen in London recently. As usual, he buggered off and disappeared God knows where. Now, perhaps, we know.” Thompson shook his head emphatically. “But you’re wrong if you feel that an English defeat wouldn’t serve the Irish cause. There’s strong evidence the IRB have been in close talks with the Hun over who gets what after Britannia sinks below the waves. At any rate, Gallagher is just too important to be here without a suitable target in mind. The IRB don’t waste his talents – although it
is
rumoured there’s some rough and tumble going on at their Dublin Brigade HQ. One or two of his colleagues-in-arms seem to be less than happy about the way he ploughs a lonely furrow – but that's beside the point.”
“And what, exactly is to the point, Commissioner?” asked Fitzgerald.
Thompson shifted arthritically in his seat as the firmly sprung car hit a rut in the road. “What
is
to the point, Colonel, is the fact that the Mauser is his preferred weapon. It’s a little bulky, but you can be assured that when you pull the trigger, anything in front of the business end is going to feel terminally unwell. And the clincher, I suppose, is that we simply have nothing on the Hun espionage front to suggest enemy involvement – they're all playing nice with their sketchbooks and cameras.” He chuckled and wiped his nose. “Well, the ones we didn’t sweep up on Day One of the War, that is.”
“I’ll bet that pleased the Kaiser,” said Hubert.
“It did that. Apparently, he raved for the best part of two hours when he heard the news. Steinhauer must have had his ears reamed out.” Seeing Hubert’s eyebrows raised in question, he added, “Steinhauer’s Major Kell’s opposite number.”
Kell uncrossed his legs in irritation. "All very interesting but, as you say, we’re drifting from the point. Colonel Fitzgerald has set us a limit of three days before things start to unravel. What are we to do?"
**********
Riordan collapsed like a sack of potatoes into the seat beside Gallagher, who had been dozing in the corner of the carriage. Wartime wreaked havoc with train timetables and the compartments were packed to bursting, despite the early hour. Using a combination of natural cunning and brute force, Riordan had been able to secure the seats. He beamed at the standing passengers in a vain attempt to show them just how inoffensive he was. Gallagher stirred himself, allowing Riordan to lean sideways, whispering like a Guy Fawkes conspirator out of the corner of his mouth.
"So why didn't you phone Brigade, Sean?"
It had been arranged that a successful conclusion of the job was to be signalled by calling a particular Dublin telephone twice for three rings each. Seemed innocuous enough but Gallagher's sixth sense had kittens when MacNeill suggested it. And Gallagher was a man who always listened very carefully to his instincts – they had kept him alive for most of his thirty-five years and he had too many enemies in the IRB to allow them the luxury of knowing that the job was done. He wasn’t about to risk personal or political betrayal. Right from the start, he had decided that that he – and no-one else – would choose the time and the place to break the news to the likes of MacNeill.
The train clattered across a series of points in one of the few bursts of speed it had attempted since leaving London. The journey to Stranraer was going to take forever at this rate. He glanced around to see who might be listening and then looked Riordan warily in the eye.
"Will you shut up talkin' about it till we get back home?” he said in an undertone.
"Well, Sean, I just don't want to get into any trouble with Brigade. Y'see? If they tell you to do somethin', you just don't go around doin' it your own way. Not if you want to hang on to your knees you don't, anyway." He paused. "When
are
you goin' to let them know?"
Once again, Gallagher had the impression that Riordan was not as Bog Irish as he let on. Was he really there as back-up or was he insurance for the boys at Brigade? He went over the events of the previous week. Was there anything that could be used against him back home? Nothing sprang to mind. His instincts had led him true but it was definitely time to clam up on friend Riordan.
Gallagher leaned over to whisper in Riordan’s ear, "I'll tell them in me own good ...” Gallagher suddenly saw the greasy glint of a pistol butt – a Mauser – catching the yellow, flickering light of the carriage underneath his companion’s well-worn jacket.
The bastard had watched him hide the guns at the station!
This was none too good – he was unarmed while Riordan was not and if that gun was to make its way ‘somehow’ into the hands of the Brits, wiped clean or not, he was as good as hanged. Inside, he knew he had to get that gun back from Riordan and there was probably only one way to do it.
“Like I say, I’ll tell them in me own good time.”
**********
Hubert wondered what they would find down at Broome – the body of Kitchener himself, perhaps? The thought of seeing him, lying there in his nightgown, was repellent and he had already made up his mind to refuse to view the body. Some things, he thought, should be left to memory.