Authors: Tim Vicary
‘Yes, sir.’ The three heads nodded in unison. They did not: salute — it would have seemed incongruous to all of them. But there was no sense in which they smiled or mocked him either. A small part of Werner expected that, always had done, because of his hand, which made him inferior to other men, unable to be accepted into the Imperial Army. To say nothing of what Charles Cavendish had done to him at school, all those years ago.
To his relief, these three, so far at least, seemed to accept him for what they had been told he was. A Major, a professional soldier in the service of the Kaiser. The leader of their operation.
He was beginning to sense, too, that they were not quite the boors they seemed. There was an air of quiet confidence about them, as though they had done these things before and we unworried by them. As though they knew their job, and trusted him to know his.
Let's hope they do, though Werner. After all, to ask just three sailors and a man with a ruined hand to persuade the UVF and the British Army to destroy themselves, that's not an easy task. If I do it, it will be the triumph of my career.
He left them, walking out into the smoky, cobbled street, feeling curiously alone, and excited.
‘What's happening, Sergeant?’ Simon asked.
‘Show of force, sir. And the Colonel's taking precautionary measures.’
‘Do you think they mean to fight?’
Sergeant Ian Cullen was a short solid man with a face like a seamed cannonball. He had fought the Boers, the Pathans, the Zulus, and the Catholic Irish, but his most formative military experience had been five years on the North West Frontier. There, as a young man, he had discovered that almost every rock could hide a bearded tribesman with a long flintlock rifle, any waterhole could be poisoned, any tempting glance from a veiled, sloe-eyed village girl might mean her brother was hidden behind a curtain with a slim curved knife, hoping to slit your throat and present your balls on a plate to his sister. The message was: trust no one but your comrades, and believe most of them are fools, too.
He glanced briefly at the sparkling eyes of Simon Fletcher. In Sergeant Cullen's view, anyone with eyes alight like that meant trouble. The young ADC had just fired a high-powered rifle for the first time, and now he thought there was going to be a battle. Not only that, but he looked as though he might enjoy it.
‘They might mean it, but they'd be mad to try,’ he said shortly. ‘I should go to the Colonel if I were you, sir. He might need you.’
As he watched the young man cross the field, Sergeant Cullen saw the platoon of British soldiers come into sight along the country lane about a hundred yards away. Always, throughout his military career, it had been axiomatic that you trust your comrades; and now those comrades, British Army soldiers, were the enemy. Not only that, but Colonel Cavendish, like a Pathan chieftain, had snipers concealed in the hedge, to fire on them at any false move.
For a second the Sergeant felt a twinge of conscience. If this went wrong, he would be in open rebellion, liable, perhaps, to be hanged as a traitor. But that was all nonsense, he told himself. The government would never have the nerve, and anyway, it was they who were in the wrong, with their Home Rule that would hand the country over to a bunch of disaffected Fenian rebels. Some of the best men in the army were in the UVF. Colonel Cavendish, for one. The way he had organised the landing of the guns at Bangor was staffwork of a high order, and this training session showed a commendable attention to the needs of young recruits. Now, in Sergeant Cullen's eyes, his instant decision to ensure their safety by covering the approaching men with an ambush showed a commendable mistrust of appearances.
If a man was ready for things to go wrong, the Sergeant thought, he was more likely to survive when they did.
Charles met Simon halfway as he strolled back across the field towards the main body of his men. He was in clear sight of hidden snipers all the way; he had a white handkerchief in his hand which he would drop if he wanted them to fire. But it was unlikely, he thought. There had been no reports of any other groups approaching to surround them, and it would be suicide for this single platoon to try to attack from the road. The most they might do was attempt some police action — demand the surrender of the guns, perhaps, which would make them look foolish. This is about propaganda and morale, Charles thought; I must manage this situation to gain the maximum psychological boost for my men.
He saw the young officer — a Captain — marching busily towards him at the head of his line. He's in a fix, too, Charles thought. If he ignores us, he'll look a fool; if he tries anything he'll fail.
He wandered casually on towards his men, listening to the steady tramp, tramp of the British Army's boots approaching. Sergeant Cullen had drawn up the UVF soldiers in three platoons of three lines each. All stood rigidly to attention. A few — about a quarter, maybe — wore military khaki; the rest were dressed in rough workmanlike jackets and coats which approximated as closely as possible to the same thing. Many were in flat caps, a few in trilbies or bowlers. Several had wrapped puttees around their trousers and most had some kind of military-looking belt, with ammunition pouches, and haversack.
And all, now — every single one of them — had his own brand-new Mannlicher rifle.
Charles thought: if I was that young British Army captain, I wouldn't want to see that. I'd pretend I hadn't noticed.
He smiled, and glanced sideways over his shoulder. The hedge at the edge of the field was less than three feet high, so the two sides could see each other very clearly. The British platoon was nearly opposite them now, about ten yards away from the rigid lines of the UVF. They had shouldered arms, and kept up a steady, well-drilled pace. But none of them were looking to the front, as the drill-book said they should be. Every single eye in the British ranks was straying sideways, taking in the details of the UVF men they were about to pass.
Every eye, that is, except those of the young Captain, who was affecting to ignore them.
In his best, clipped, Sandhurst-style tones, Charles said: ‘Sergeant Cullen! Order the men to present arms, if you please.’
‘Sir!’ Just as the tradition of the Army ensured that his commanding officer's voice was quiet, casual, polite, assuming that discipline was so absolute that an officer's request in the gentlest tones would be instantly obeyed, so Sergeant Cullen's parade-ground voice, assiduously cultivated over the years, was a high-pitched bullroar, so ear-shatteringly loud that no private soldier, even if deaf, blind, and afflicted from birth with congenital idiocy, could fail to be affected by it, and jump to obey.
‘Companeeeee! Prepare to salute! Preeezent ... arms!’
A cloud of rooks rose, flustered, from a treetop four fields away. Nearer at hand, as it had to, the head of the young British Army captain turned right to see what was happening.
He was being paid a compliment. The entire company, fifty men of the Ulster Volunteer Force, were saluting him in the traditional style of the British Army. Charles, Sergeant Cullen, and his half-dozen officers all had their right hands raised to their caps. The men in the ranks stood, ramrod-straight, one foot behind the other, with their rifles held vertically, directly in front of them.
Brand-new, totally illegal, German rifles. Better than the ones the British soldiers had. Held out, straight in front of them, in a position no one could possibly pretend to ignore.
As a salute. A loyal gesture of respect.
Charles could not quite keep the smile from his face. He guessed that there were probably several other smiles in the ranks behind him, as well.
He watched the young British Army captain. What do you do now, boy? he asked him silently.
For a moment the young man looked away, and Charles thought: by God, the puppy, he's going to ignore us! If he does that, the brat, I'll march behind him, all the way down the road to Ballygowan, and arrest him at the crossroads!
But the habit of military courtesy prevailed. The young man was, after all, being saluted not only by a force vastly superior to his own, but by a commander wearing the cap of a Colonel. The order came ringing back over the hedge.
‘Platoon! Eye-es . . .
right!’
The order was slightly superfluous. All the British Army soldiers were already gazing to their right, but now they had permission to do it. In the traditional response to the salute, they marched past the saluting UVF men, their eyes looking rigidly at them over their right shoulder, the young Captain with his hand raised stiffly to the peak of his cap in salute.
In Charles's left hand, he felt the white handkerchief crushed firmly in his fist. Fifty yards away, hidden in the ditch, his three best marksmen watched the scene, grinning to themselves over the sights of their guns. One of them could just see the young captain's eyes, tiny black dots at this distance, over the foresight at the tip of his barrel.
T
HE LOUNGE of the Imperial Hotel was comfortable, warm, extensive. An ample coal fire blazed in an impressive grate, surrounded by a fireplace of pink and grey marble. On the walls, solemn portraits of city dignitaries alternated with pictures of railways, docks, and shipyards. The room was full of armchairs and chesterfields, screened from each other by luxuriant potted palms and aspidistras. Waiters flitted discreetly between them, ministering to small groups of earnest businessmen and gossiping wives.
Werner sat in an armchair in a corner by the window, where he could look out into the street and keep an eye on anyone who came in through the main entrance. A newspaper lay unread on the low table in front of him, a cigarette smouldered in his left hand. A thin smile crossed his lips as he watched the solid citizens of Belfast moving and chattering between the potted plants, like beasts in a jungle. I am like a hunter here, he thought, hidden in the foliage, waiting for the perfect shot.
He flicked his ash into the ashtray, blew a smoke ring, and watched.
A young man entered the lounge.
He was very slim, in blue blazer and flannels, with a straw hat in his hand. His brown hair was cut fashionably short, and his profile, as he glanced around the room, was classically beautiful. Broad forehead, regular aquiline features, smooth rosy skin. He moved through the room with casual grace, like an athlete, a gazelle amongst hippopotami. At last he saw Werner, strolled towards him, and sat down on the sofa opposite.
‘I couldn't see you. Were you hiding?’
‘No.’ Werner took a long drag at his cigarette, exhaled, smiled. ‘Just watching.’
His manner, the long slow look from the unsettlingly cold blue eyes, irritated Simon Fletcher. He looked away, out of the window, to reassure himself that no one had followed him here. ‘Well, I hope it amuses you.’
‘Oh, it does.’ It was the first time Werner had seen Simon in civilian clothes. Close to, he noticed that the blazer was slightly threadbare around the cuffs and elbows, the straw boater faded. This relieved him. He didn't want Simon becoming too wealthy; too independent. ‘Would you like coffee?’
‘Why not?’
Werner raised his hand to beckon the waiter and order. While they waited, he said: ‘Our last interview was very useful. I was much praised for my articles in the
Neue Zuricher Zeitung
. My editor is coming to regard me as something of expert on Ulster affairs.’
‘How nice.’ Simon lounged back comfortably in the sofa raised an eyebrow ironically. ‘That's what you wanted, isn't it? But then, I expect these things seem a little different from the perspective of Zurich.’
‘Of course. Most of my readers are satisfied with a very superficial understanding. But for my own self-respect, I like to maintain higher standards. I need to know more.’
The waiter arrived and put a tray with silver pot and cups on the table between them. Werner paid, bent to pour the coffee carefully with his left hand, then put the pot down and passed the cup to Simon with the same hand. Simon made no move to help him. As the young man took the cup Werner noticed him gazing contemptuously at his damaged right hand, the one he could never use for such delicate operations.
Simon sipped his coffee and smiled, looking perfectly relaxed, perfectly at ease, casually aware of his own good looks. He said: ‘I could tell you more, of course, if you like. If the pay was right.’
Werner finished pouring his own coffee, balanced it carefully beside him on the left-hand arm of his chair. ‘The pay would be the same as before. The newspaper is quite happy with that.’
‘I might need more.’
Simon let the words hang in the air between them, and watched a flicker of surprise cross the other man's face.
Werner felt a surge of anger, fuelling the contempt which he had felt ever since he had met this young man. But he controlled it, quickly. Simon Fletcher was the most useful informant he had found so far in Ulster. For the past two months they had been meeting regularly in different places, always with a straightforward, mutually profitable exchange of information for money. As ADC to one of the leading UVF commanders, Simon had access to and understanding of some of the most important plans of the organisation. As a talented young man of poor background with no moral principles, he was prepared to sell some of this information for money. On condition that it was published in Switzerland, attributed to no one, and shorn of certain precise details which might give the informant away.
Those were terms which Werner could happily comply with, since the most crucial details of Simon's information were not intended for publication at all. Instead, they went straight into the reports which Werner wrote for von Falkenhayn in Berlin. Any extra money Simon received would come straight out of the coffers of the German Chancellery.
I suppose they can afford it, Werner thought. The only question is, how much this smooth-faced little whore deserves.
The vital thing that Simon Fletcher did not know was how Werner had worked out that he would be a useful informant in the first place. Simon had no idea that Werner had known Charles Cavendish at school. And even less idea what that schoolboy relationship had been like.