Authors: David Downing
“Why not?”
“Oh, so many reasons. Who would hope to benefit, for God’s sake? Businessmen would know that their profits would be slashed, and the workers would know they were risking their lives for someone else’s profit. Why would they fight? Why would German workers agree to kill French workers?”
“They always have.”
“In the past, yes, but now there are organizations like the Second International to put the case for peace and solidarity.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“But you don’t think I am.”
“I don’t know.”
She was silent for a few moments. “You know what war’s really like, don’t you? You should be out there telling people.”
He gave her a wry smile. “I know what mine was like. But no one would listen if I tried to tell them. Any more than I would
have done. Old men desperate to leave their mark and young men lusting after glory—it’s a marriage made in heaven.”
“Or hell.”
“Yes.” He had a sudden mental picture of the Indian from Spion Kop. “Have you heard of an Indian named Mohandas Gandhi?”
“Of course—he’s the leader of the protests in South Africa. Why?”
“I met him once, during the war there. He’s famous these days, but back then he served in the Ambulance Corps. He was one of the men who helped carry me down off a mountain when I was injured. We talked for hours, or rather he did—I could hardly breathe, let alone talk. He seemed so positive about everything. I was still half convinced I was going to die, and he just took it for granted that I was going to live. I often think about him.”
“As an inspiration?”
“Yes, I suppose so. It would be better if men like that were running the world.” He shrugged. “But they’re not.”
“All right,” she said. “But people do evolve. We
did
get rid of slavery, and women
will
get the vote. And men like Gandhi will win more support.”
“Maybe. And one day organizations like the Second International might really make a difference. But it won’t happen quickly and not, I fear, in time to prevent a major war.”
“Well, I hope you’re wrong.”
“So do I.”
She smiled. “Why don’t we go back to my suite and order in some dinner?”
“All right, but will we have to eat in silence?”
“He won’t be in his compartment, but no—inviting a man to dinner wouldn’t upset my aunt. It’s dessert that has to be discreet.”
The food was excellent, the lovemaking even better—long
and languorous, with no distracting noises through the wall. Hating to leave, but knowing he must, McColl seized on a yawn as proof of her tiredness and insisted she have an early night.
She voiced her reluctance but was almost asleep by the time he got dressed. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, let himself out, and went in search of Father Meagher.
He found him in the club car, sharing an end booth with three other men. They were playing poker rather than bridge, and the priest’s face reflected the pitiful pile of chips beside his hand. He was losing but with any luck might survive a few more hands. As far as McColl was concerned, it was now or never.
He swiftly retraced his steps to Caitlin’s carriage. The car attendant was sitting in his tiny cubicle, reading the Zane Grey novel Jed had enjoyed so much, and only glanced up as McColl passed by. There was no one in the corridor and no reason to wait—he inserted the burglar’s thin metal tool and twisted and turned it the way he’d been taught. The lock clicked open rather more loudly than he’d hoped, and he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with more control. For a moment he considered relocking the door, but what would be the point? He couldn’t leave by the window while the train was moving at speed, and anyway there wouldn’t be time.
He turned on the overhead light and looked around the compartment. There was a suitcase on the cradle, but it wasn’t the large one in Palóu’s picture—if that was on board, it must be in the baggage car. He quietly opened the connecting door, turned on another light, and examined the dressing room, where three identical cassocks were hanging on hooks. There were two pairs of shoes on the floor, the usual toiletry items around the basin, and nothing much else.
He went back to the suitcase, where socks and undergarments overlaid several books, a San Francisco newspaper, an
illustrated New Testament for children, and a folder full of sheet music for traditional Irish songs. Underneath the music were two sealed envelopes bearing names but no addresses. One was for John Devoy, the head of Clan na Gael, the other for Erich Rieber, whoever he might be.
Success, he thought. And then he heard sounds through the wall, a clump on the floor as she got out of bed, and then footsteps. Had she heard him? She seemed to be pacing up and down, for heaven only knew what reason.
He forced himself to ignore her. What should he do now? He could tear the letters open and read them, but only at the cost of alerting Meagher, who might well suspect him of being responsible. That wouldn’t matter in itself, but as Cumming was fond of saying, half the value of knowing something lay in the other side’s not knowing you knew. If there were plans in either letter, then disclosure would lead to their being changed, and nothing would be achieved.
He had to steam them open, and he couldn’t do that where he was. He would have to take the letters with him and hope that their temporary absence was not noticed. The chances had to be good—Father Meagher didn’t strike him as the compulsive sort, someone who needed to check where everything was at regular intervals. The man was too sure of himself at the best of times and, judging by the amount he was drinking tonight, seemed likely to collapse at the sight of his bed. And when he woke up, the priest would be too busy nursing a hangover to think of checking through his belongings. If McColl could put the letters back in the suitcase while Meagher was having breakfast, then he should get away with it.
A sudden creak next door, which he hoped was her climbing back into bed, gave way to what seemed a lasting silence. He took a deep breath and cracked the door open, half expecting to find the priest outside. There was no one there, but he could hear footsteps. Inching an eye around the jamb, he saw
the car attendant briskly walking away—a few seconds earlier and there would have been some explaining to do.
Once the man had disappeared into the vestibule, McColl slipped out, clicked the door shut, and set about relocking it. For what seemed an age, the latch wouldn’t take, and by the time it did, sweat was beading on his brow. Again the click sounded terribly loud, and he almost ran to the sanctuary of the following car.
In the club car, Father Meagher was still playing poker and looked to have recovered some of his losses. There was now a whiskey chaser by the side of the beer, and the priest seemed redder in the face. McColl hoped he didn’t have a heart attack, or the letters would never be delivered.
Walking on, he considered ways of steaming the envelopes open. He would go to one of the kitchens, he decided—tell them he felt congested and ask for some boiling water to give his sinuses a face bath in one of the washrooms. It sounded a good idea, but not for very long. The envelopes were bound to look different after such treatment, and how would he ever restick them?
As he passed the stenographer’s office a simpler idea occurred to him. Office hours were long since over, but the door was open, the typewriter waiting for anyone wanting to use it. McColl went through the bureau drawers and found what he was looking for—a selection of plain envelopes. Reasoning that he might need more than one attempt to copy the names on the originals, he took six of similar size and walked on toward the observation car, expecting to find it empty.
It wasn’t, but the young couple at the far end were too bound up in each other to care what he was doing. With a keen sense of anticipation, he used his pocketknife to slit the envelopes open.
The letters within did not disappoint.
The one to the Clan na Gael leader was from Larry de
Lacey and ran to four pages. The letter
looked
dangerously high-spirited—de Lacey was fond of exclamation marks and found it hard to write in a straight line—but the content was sober enough. He began with some social news—one mutual acquaintance had gotten married, another had sired twins—before saying how glad he was that Devoy’s health had improved.
The niceties dealt with, de Lacey turned to the news from Ireland. He saw the workers’ defeat in Dublin as “an opportunity for the Brotherhood to reassert its own truly Irish agenda.” The ejection of the British was what mattered, and the Irish people must not let “utopian social goals” distract them from this task, particularly at this juncture, when other events seemed to be moving in their favor. De Lacey was pleased that the Brotherhood had secured control of the recently formed Volunteers and adamant that they should resist any attempt by Redmond’s Nationalists to usurp them.
So much, so predictable, McColl thought.
A report on funding followed. The California chapter of Clan na Gael had raised $1,704 for the struggle back home, a figure that de Lacey seemed more than pleased with, and several additional events were planned for St. Patrick’s Day.
Relations with “our Indian friends” were said to be good. “The British and BOI are making every effort to get HD declared persona non grata, and will probably succeed. But whether or not they shut the stable door, I think this horse has bolted! The organisation HD built up is strong enough to do without him, or at least without his presence here in the US. The focus of their efforts is already shifting home from exile, partly thanks to our joint efforts. The first shipment left here on the 26th of last month, and is expected in Singapore around the 15th of March. The second shipment is currently being organised by our other friends.”
Which could only be the Germans, McColl assumed.
“I had quite a long talk with vB the other evening, and he more or less admitted that they weren’t expecting very much but would be grateful for whatever we can give them. Which seemed realistic to me, and I told him it did. When the moment of opportunity comes, of course things will be different. They will give us the guns we need, not because they love us but because it will be in their interests to do so. And we will give our all in return, not because we love them but for the cause of a free and independent Ireland.
“I also talked to GF, who says he saw you a few months ago. He let slip that a joint operation on enemy soil is under consideration but proved remarkably coy when I pressed him on names and what was intended. Have you heard anything about this?”
Having asked this rather plaintive question, de Lacey asked to be remembered “to all at the
Gaelic American
office” and brought the letter to a close.
Who was GF? McColl wondered. He would have to cable Fairholme and ask if any known official at the German consulate had those initials.
He turned to the letter for Erich Rieber. This was much shorter, comprising less than two whole sheets of neatly written German, headed
San Francisco, March 8
and signed
Ernst Reischach
.
The first half of the letter dealt with the Indians. Reischach spoke highly of Har Dayal and stressed the need to make good the material assistance “we previously discussed,” a reference, presumably, to the shipment de Lacey had mentioned. He added that the Ghadar organization had been subjected to a British-inspired campaign of harassment by the American authorities, but that this had been thwarted, at least in the short term, by the unmasking and punishment of several informers.
The remaining paragraphs of the letter were a revelation,
and a shocking one at that. Their subject was “the English spy Jack McColl” and the German attempts to kill him. “As you know,” Reischach wrote, “our agent was unsuccessful in Shanghai, and I regret to report a second failure here in San Francisco.”
The sentences seemed to leap out at McColl, as if intent on finishing the job. He took a deep breath and continued reading. According to Reischach, his attempted murder had proved “both frustrating and divisive.” The Indians had apologized most profusely for their lack of success and guaranteed the silence of the failed assassin, who “knew nothing of his employers. They are adamant that none of their people sent the rumored warning and refused to make a second attempt until whoever it was is discovered. I suspect that only their fear of forfeiting our assistance in the other matter prevents them from openly accusing us.”
And it seemed that the Germans were divided. “Some of our people here were far from happy at the decision to make an example of the Englishman. RvS in particular was highly put out and has appealed for a change of heart in Berlin. Some of our people here agreed with him, while others did not, and feelings ran quite high for a while. RvS is now on his way to Mexico, so things have had a chance to settle down. By the time you read this, the whole business should have been settled—if Berlin has rejected RvS’s appeal, then our people in New York will have taken steps to greet Herr McColl on his arrival and taken the appropriate action.”
McColl put the letter down, wondering why he still felt relatively calm. It wasn’t over—another knife, or something equally unpleasant, might be waiting for him in New York. He would need to steer clear of crowds and be careful not to put Caitlin in danger. He had intended to ask Jed to meet them, but he didn’t want to put his brother at risk either. Perhaps Cumming would be able to help.
It could have been worse. Meagher obviously knew nothing of the Reischach letter’s contents—his attitude toward McColl, and the fact that it was sealed, seemed to prove as much. If the priest ever did read the letter, he would discover who and what McColl was and doubtless share the news with Caitlin. But if he hadn’t yet broken the seal, there seemed no reason he should.
And it was clear to McColl that he had, at least partly, misjudged von Schön. The fact that the young German had argued against his death sentence was gratifying, not least because it showed that McColl’s original judgment of the man’s character had not been so wide of the mark. He might not have realized that von Schön was a spy, but he had correctly identified him as a decent fellow.