‘What did you have planned for him?’ asked Aviation.
‘Questioning at the section house.’
‘Questioning?’ queried Military. ‘Or interrogation?’
‘Whichever proved appropriate.’
‘Shouldn’t we have had warning of this?’ asked Naval, with a hint of peevishness.
‘There wasn’t time.’
‘Clearly there wasn’t enough time to manage the operation properly,’ pronounced C. ‘Which is a pity, to put it mildly.’
‘No one regrets more than I do that he slipped through our fingers,’ said Political. ‘I’m taking all the steps I can to find him.’
‘I can’t believe a fellow like Appleby would be a turncoat,’ said Naval, shaking his head incredulously.
‘Perhaps he isn’t,’ said C. ‘But his conduct is certainly worrying.’
‘How worried should we be?’ asked Military. ‘I mean, as to the ramifications, if indeed Appleby is one of Lemmer’s agents.’
‘Very,’ said Political firmly. ‘He was here barely a month ago, telling us how determined he was to track Lemmer down in Paris and what methods he’d use to go about it. If the information I’ve received is correct, he was deliberately misleading us, on Lemmer’s orders. Consider what happened. There was no trace of Lemmer, but one of our agents and two members of our delegation ended up dead, along with one of the Americans. We’ve assumed Norris and Dobson were working for Lemmer and that Norris arranged the murder of Sir Henry Maxted. But what if Appleby was behind it all? What if he arranged to dispose of Sir Henry and then covered his tracks by disposing of Norris and the Yank as well? He blamed Dobson’s and Norris’s killings on a Russian woman for whose very existence we have little evidence beyond his own account.’
‘What about Sir Henry’s son? Wasn’t Appleby working with him?’
‘Supposedly. But nothing’s been seen or heard of young Maxted since that business in Mayfair.’
‘You think his body’s waiting to be found somewhere?’
‘I can’t say. He may have been eliminated. Or he may have thrown in his lot with Appleby.’
‘This is awful,’ said Aviation pitifully.
‘It’s not good, I agree,’ said Political. ‘There may be grave implications for the security of the conference.’
‘No one will thank us for sowing alarm unnecessarily,’ declared C. ‘It’s imperative we find Appleby. We can only assess the situation properly once we’ve been able to establish the truth. Who’s his number two in Paris?’
‘He doesn’t really have one.’ Military sighed. ‘It’s been rather a one-man show.’
‘Then we’ll have to send someone over.’
‘Jefferies?’ suggested Political.
‘Mmm.’ C thought the matter over, then said, ‘Yes. Jefferies will do to hold the fort. Have him sent to me for briefing.’
‘And as to Appleby?’
‘Turn all resources to finding him. Involve Special Branch if you need to. I want Appleby available for questioning within twenty-four hours – forty-eight at the most.’
‘It may prove difficult to take him alive.’
‘He’s no use to us dead. And you’re to give him the benefit of the doubt as far as his loyalty’s concerned until we’ve been able to put it to the test. Is that clear?’
Political nodded. ‘Completely.’
‘Very well. That’ll be all for now, gentlemen. One point, though. The Germans have only just arrived in Paris. It’ll be another week or so before they’re presented with the peace terms. It’s a week that could well contain a lot of delicate manoeuvring. We must do nothing to complicate matters unless circumstances force us to. It’s our task to ensure they do not. You understand?’
There were mumbled affirmations all round.
‘Good.’ He gave a nod of satisfaction, then watched as they gathered their papers and rose to leave.
At the last moment, he signalled for Political to remain.
‘How reliable would you say your contact in the German delegation is, Nick?’ he asked as soon as the others had gone.
‘Extremely. His reports on how the SPD would react to the Kaiser’s abdication were borne out by events and he alerted us to the trap Ebert set for the radicals in January. I’ve never had cause to doubt him.’
‘So, you believe Appleby is Lemmer’s man?’
‘I do.’
‘Then he must be apprehended and interrogated. But the second is just as important as the first. You do appreciate that, don’t you?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘You’d better get on with it, then.’
After Political had left, C moved from the table to his desk and sat down heavily behind it. He pulled a drawer open and took out Appleby’s personal file, which he had ordered up earlier. It was thin and generally unrevealing, though what it did reveal was an improbable background for a traitor.
Appleby and C were of the same generation. Appleby was in fact the older man by two years, born in 1857, the son of a Woolwich Dockyard foreman. He had gone straight from school into the police – first the Surrey Constabulary, then the Met, ending up in Special Branch before he was recruited by the Service at the start of the war. There were no blemishes on his record, unless a hint of truculence towards superiors he considered incompetent ranked as one, which it did not in C’s estimation. There was, above all, no suggestion of bribe-taking. He was not, on the evidence, an easily corruptible man. And the memorandum he had recently submitted explaining his recruitment of James Maxted, which C had not seen fit to mention at the meeting, made it easy to believe – as perhaps it was designed to – that he was in fact acting in the Service’s best interests.
But the war years had heaped tragedies upon Appleby, as they had upon others. An only son, slain at Loos in 1915. Then his wife, a few months later, by her own hand. He had been stationed in Rotterdam at the time and, for operational reasons, had not come home for the funeral.
Was it there, C wondered, alone and grieving in the neutral Netherlands, that he had succumbed? Was that the opportunity Lemmer had seized upon?
There was no way to know for sure. Political favoured public-school men for senior positions, men such as himself. He did not approve of Appleby and his kind and that may have made him hasty in his judgement. C did not share Political’s prejudices. As far as he was concerned, the question of Appleby’s guilt was not settled. But soon it would have to be.
THE TRAIN PULLED
into York. During the usual bustle of passengers boarding and disembarking, Max left the guard’s van handcuffed to the constable and escorted by Tunnicliffe. They proceeded at a grim-faced plod along the platform, passing the restaurant car en route. Glancing up, Max saw Nadia watching him as he went. He gave her as ambiguous a grimace as he could contrive. She looked perplexed, as he had hoped. Perplexed was how he wanted her – and Lemmer – to remain.
A Black Maria was waiting outside the station. When Tunnicliffe swung the rear door open, Max found himself swapping a smile with the only occupant of the van: Appleby. At a word from Tunnicliffe, the constable released the handcuffs and Max clambered aboard. His bag was handed in after him. He sat down on the bench facing Appleby.
‘Good journey?’ Appleby enquired, with a crumpled grin.
‘Rather fraught, actually, since you ask.’
‘Me too.’
Tunnicliffe climbed in behind Max and sat down next to him. The door was slammed shut. The only light they had now was through a grille from the cab.
‘We’re heading for HQ, if that’s all right by you, Horace,’ said Tunnicliffe.
‘I’ll tell you in a moment, Bert,’ Appleby replied, as the engine started and the van drew away. ‘Once I’ve heard what Max has for me.’
‘He didn’t get your telegram, by the way.’
‘Things were rather hot at Waverley,’ said Max.
‘They’d have been even hotter if you’d made it to King’s Cross. Now, what’s the precious cargo? You can speak freely in front of Bert. We were in the Met together, before he decided to come back to his roots.’
‘I’ll put my finger in my ears if you want,’ said Tunnicliffe.
‘It might be safer for him if he didn’t know who we’re talking about,’ Max pointed out.
‘Don’t name him, then,’ said Appleby. ‘We discussed why you might contact me before you left Paris. Have you got the goods?’
‘Yes.’ Max unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, pulled out the Grey File and handed it to Appleby. ‘A coded list of all his agents.’
Appleby gave a whistle of appreciation. ‘How’d you land this?’
‘Long story.’
Appleby peered at the file. ‘I can’t see a thing in this gloom. Here, hold it for me a moment.’ He delved in his bag stowed beneath the bench and pulled out a bicycle lamp, which he switched on. ‘Right. Let’s take a look.’
He retrieved the file, studied the letters NBM and the Imperial eagle on the cover by the light of the lamp, then leafed through the contents.
Several minutes passed with nothing said, then Appleby switched off the lamp and closed the file. He had seen enough.
‘Well?’ Max prompted.
‘Do you have a photographic unit up here, Bert?’
‘Photomotography? What’s that, then? Some newfangled Lon’on notion? Yes, of course we have a bloody photographic unit.’
‘I need them to do something for me. Straight away.’
Sam was chain-smoking and drinking strong tea in his office at the Majestic, shuffling paperwork without the least consciousness of what it comprised, while pummelling his brain in search of a half-decent idea about what he should do next.
It was bad enough that Tomura’s men might be on his scent. Worse, they had evidently taken George Clissold captive. Sam had been unable to tell Zamaron what he knew about why George might have been kidnapped, though he was doing precisely nothing to help the poor fellow by staying silent. Zamaron had mentioned that Appleby had left Paris for unknown reasons. He had wondered whether his departure was connected in any way with Soutine’s murder and George’s kidnapping. Sam found himself wondering as well. Most of all, though, he wondered whether the people who had come for George would come for him next.
The arrival in the doorway of the towering figure of Schools Morahan counted as the only form of good news he might have expected. Sam’s relief must have been obvious.
‘I expected to hear from you this morning, Sam. We agreed it’d be wise for me to meet George Clissold.’
‘I know, Mr Morahan. But you can’t meet him. You’d better sit down. And close the door, will you?’
‘What’s happened?’ Morahan closed the door, as requested. But he did not sit down.
The photographic unit at York police headquarters comprised a poky, fume-filled basement room and a staff of one. Since Appleby had no intention of leaving the pages from the Grey File in the photographer’s unsupervised possession, he and Max remained there while each page was photographed.
A ban on smoking, due to the flammability of the chemicals, denied Appleby the use of his pipe, other than to chew on, which he did while perusing a
Bradshaw
borrowed from the front desk. Max sat down and promptly fell asleep. The photographer was busy by now in his dark-room.
The arrival of Tunnicliffe woke Max with a start. ‘Word on the wire from the Linlithgowshire force,’ Tunnicliffe announced. ‘A man fatally stabbed on the Inverness to Edinburgh train as it crossed the Forth Bridge. Assailant fled the scene at Dalmeny. Another man involved in the incident also fled before the police arrived. Clues to what happened are scant.’
‘Let’s hope they stay that way,’ said Max warily.
‘This isn’t going to end up biting me in the arse, is it, Horace?’ Tunnicliffe asked.
‘Only if it’s already bitten our heads clean off.’
‘High stakes?’
‘None higher. We were never here, Bert, all right?’
Tunnicliffe gave Appleby a slight but entirely adequate nod of agreement. ‘All right. Someone was. But not you. Or Max. I’ll see to that.’
‘We need a ride to Sheffield.’
‘The Chief Constable’s Rover do for you?’ Failing to raise a retort from Appleby, he went on: ‘I’ll arrange something.’
‘Also a stout foolscap envelope and stamps to cover a decent weight.’
‘Right.’
Tunnicliffe left. Max stood up and stretched. ‘Why Sheffield?’
‘That man you killed on the train, Max,’ Appleby said softly. ‘He’s unlikely to be the last if we’re to get through this.’
‘Can’t we just go straight to your boss?’
‘Getting to him will be half the battle, if not most of it. Lemmer will put all his best men on stopping us.’
‘You still haven’t explained Sheffield.’
‘We can pick up a through train on the Great Central there. It’s a sleeper to Penzance.’
‘
Penzance?
’
‘We’ll get off at Oxford.’
‘And why Oxford?’
‘I want to know what’s in the file before I try to deliver it. It’ll tell us exactly who we’re up against. For that we need someone fluent in German and expert in code-breaking.’
‘You have such a person?’
‘Yes. And we’ll find him in Oxford.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘We’ll take the prints and the originals with us. The prints are for the code-breaker to work on. But I intend to post the negatives to a safe address before we catch our train.’
‘In case we don’t make it, you mean?’
‘The odds are against us, Max. You know that.’
‘How heavily against us, would you say?’
‘Lemmer has at least one of the Service section heads on his side. That gives him a lot of firepower to draw on. It means he can reinforce his own men with loyal British agents led to believe we’re traitors.’
‘Every man’s hand will be against us,’ Max said bleakly.
‘Not every one,’ Appleby corrected him. ‘Just most of them.’
IRETON RETURNED TO
33 Rue des Pyramides late that afternoon flushed and clearly intoxicated after a lengthy lunch with three members of the Greek delegation.
‘I swear Metaxà is even more potent than tequila,’ he complained to Morahan, who was waiting to see him. He slumped down in an armchair in front of the fire.
‘We need to talk about Soutine, Travis,’ Morahan said, propping himself against the desk.
‘Again? Surely we said everything we needed to this morning.’ Ireton yawned expansively.
‘The man who found Soutine’s body has been kidnapped.’