‘Hold on, Mr— Schools, I mean,’ said Sam. ‘Senhor Ribeiro told Max and me Sir Henry was raising money to keep Madame Dombreux in comfort.’
‘Ribeiro was an old friend, Sam. He told you what Henry asked him to tell you. Henry realized he was playing a dangerous game that could cost him his life. He didn’t want Max trying to finish what he’d started. So, he had Ribeiro ready with an alternate explanation for his money-raising efforts.’
‘You think this person he was trying to rescue . . . is Farngold?’
‘Maybe. The name means something. That’s for sure.’
‘And you think whoever it is is being held . . . by Tomura?’
‘It would explain why he’s so anxious to lay hands on le Singe. Henry may have hired le Singe through Soutine to steal that document from the Japanese. With any luck, we’ll soon know why Henry might have wanted it. But it never reached him, did it? Soutine may have realized how valuable it was and tried to play both sides against the middle, ultimately with fatal results. As for Count Tomura, he left Japan around the second week of March. His son could have cabled him to say Henry was onto them. And he got here just as quickly as he could.’
‘We really do need to know what’s in the document, don’t we?’
‘Yes, Sam, we do. Let’s hope Yamanaka plays ball.’
‘He will. I’m sure of it.’
‘Good. One other thing, though. Henry swore me to silence about this. I’m only telling you because your neck’s on the line now along with mine. As far as Max goes, we’ll have to tread carefully. “If anything happens to me, Schools, don’t breathe a word to my family.
Especially my son James
.” That’s what Henry said. Telling Max what we find out won’t necessarily be the right thing to do.’
‘Doesn’t that depend on
what
we find out?’
‘Yuh.’ Morahan sighed. ‘It does.’
Max stepped out of the Balmoral Castle into the full darkness of night. Glamorgan Street boasted only a paltry ration of gas lamps. Max crossed to the opposite side of the road and walked nonchalantly along, neither hurrying nor dawdling, checking the house numbers he saw and calculating how far he was from number 24.
There were a couple of commercial vans and a cart standing by the roadside. And one car, just about where Max reckoned 24 was. As he drew alongside the vehicle, he saw to his relief there was no one sitting behind the wheel. The door closest to the car was actually that of 22, but the entrance to 24 was only a few yards further on. The lights were on inside the house – on both floors.
Seeing his chance, Max crossed the road and headed along one of the narrow, covered alleys that he presumed led to the back lane between the yards of the houses in Glamorgan Street and those of the next street. He was committed now. He was going in.
IT WAS AS
dark as the inside of a coal bag in the lane and the ground was uneven, but Max worked his way along to number 24 by counting the gates serving the yards. He reckoned 24’s gate was certain to be bolted and he could not afford to make any noise trying to open it. Someone had considerately thrown out an old slatted box into the lane from 22, however. Max stood gingerly on it and peered over the wall into the yard of 24.
There were lamps on in the rear windows of the house, upstairs as well as down. The curtains were closed, but enough light escaped into the yard to show Max the lie of the land. To his right, on the other side of the gate, was the privy. Below him, its upper leaves brushing against him, was a bay hedge. And straight ahead, standing by the wash-house door, was a man smoking a cigarette, its end glowing at intervals as he drew on it.
There was no way Max could scale the wall without the man seeing or hearing him. If he raised the alarm the game would be up. Max stood where he was, wondering what he should do next.
The decision was made for him. The man finished his cigarette, tossed it away and started across the yard towards the privy. He went inside, not bothering to close the door behind him, hawked and spat, then began to urinate.
Max cast caution to the winds, scrambled up onto the wall and half-jumped, half-fell into the yard. There was a suspicious grunt from the privy. The man stepped back out, still buttoning himself up. Max struck him with the socked lump of masonry somewhere around the back of the neck. He grunted again and collapsed, Max lowering him gently to the ground.
The gun he found in the man’s raincoat pocket reassured him he had not knocked out an innocent householder. Max took the weapon and headed for the house.
He opened the wash-house door and stepped inside. The door to the passage was open and in the lamplight he could see the first few treads of the stairs. He could hear voices in one of the bedrooms and someone moving around in the kitchen.
Then he heard another sound, that of a car drawing up outside, directly outside, given the sudden glare of the headlamps through the fanlight above the front door. The man in the kitchen stepped out into the passage. A second man started to descend the stairs. Max moved out of sight, deeper into the wash-house.
‘It’s all right, Fairbrother,’ said the man on the stairs in a cultured tone. ‘I’ve decided to move Appleby.’
So, Max was right. Appleby was there. But apparently he would not be there for much longer.
‘I had no warning of this, sir,’ said Fairbrother, who sounded aggrieved.
‘Unusual times dictate unusual arrangements. It’s been necessary to coordinate our response with our sister organization.’
‘Thought you liked to keep them at arm’s length, sir.’
‘Ordinarily, yes. But there’s nothing ordinary about this, is there? Let them in, would you?’
Max heard Fairbrother move down the passage and open the door. The engine of the car outside was still running. There were heavy, entering footsteps. And another voice – one Max recognized.
‘We’re here for Appleby,’ said Grattan. ‘You’ll have orders from Political. Ah, there he is. Evening, sir.’
Max realized then that the man who had come downstairs was Grieveson, otherwise known as Political, Lemmer’s most highly placed spy within the Secret Service and Appleby’s captor.
‘Good evening,’ said Political. ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we? Appleby’s upstairs. Follow me.’
‘Where are we taking him, sir?’ asked Fairbrother.
‘You’re taking him nowhere. Leave it to Grattan. You’re to stay here until you hear from me again. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir. But—’
‘That’ll be all, thank you. Chop chop, gentlemen. Time waits, etcetera.’
Heavy footsteps on the stairs told Max that Grattan and a companion – probably Hughes, the other MI5 man who had turned up at Bostridge’s cottage – were following Political up the stairs. The moment to strike, Max calculated, was when they brought Appleby down. He stayed where he was.
But Fairbrother was restless. Maybe he decided to consult his colleague, last seen exiting into the yard. He marched into the wash-house.
And straight into Max, who pressed the barrel of the revolver against his temple and cocked it. ‘Move or cry out and you’re dead. OK?’
Fairbrother nodded. ‘OK,’ he murmured. He was a bluff, burly, middle-aged man who looked as if he had seen a lot of action. He was surprised but not frightened. It was beginning to become clear to Max that for such men guns being held to their heads was all in a day’s work.
‘I’m James Maxted. I’ve come for Appleby.’
‘You won’t get him.’
‘Listen carefully. Whatever you’ve been told, this is the truth. Political’s sold out to Lemmer. So have Grattan and his friend. So have quite a few others Appleby and I are determined to expose. You have to decide whose side you’re on.’
‘What have you done with Parks?’
‘If you mean the chap I met coming in, he’s nursing a headache out by the privy. He’ll live. The only killers in this house are the men who’ve just walked through the front door. I saw Grattan shoot Jeremy Bostridge in cold blood.’
‘Political said Appleby did that.’
‘And you believed him? Who do you really trust? Appleby or Political? A lot hinges on your answer. You know there’s something wrong about handing Appleby over to Grattan. Political’s behaving oddly, isn’t he? He’s not sure of you, so you’re to stay behind. You know there’s a plot afoot. You just don’t want to believe it.’
‘Say I do believe it . . .’
‘Help me stop them taking Appleby.’
They were coming back down the stairs now, moving more slowly than when they had gone up. Max heard Appleby say, ‘You won’t get away with this. None of you will. Your names will be on the list.’
‘Shut up,’ said Grattan.
‘Lower your gun and I’ll do what I can,’ whispered Fairbrother.
Max had no time to weigh the odds that Fairbrother could be trusted. He lowered the gun.
Fairbrother strode into the passage quickly enough to block the path of Appleby’s escort.
‘Get out of the way,’ said Grattan.
‘We need to talk this through,’ said Fairbrother. ‘I can’t let you remove Appleby without a direct order from C.’
‘
I’m
giving you a direct order,’ barked Political.
‘Not good enough, sir. I’m afraid—’
There was a loud crack and a moan from Fairbrother. He had been shot.
Max burst out of the wash-house. He saw the gun in Grattan’s hand; Fairbrother sliding slowly down the wall of the passage; Appleby, hands trussed behind his back, glancing towards Max in surprise; Grattan swinging towards him.
Max fired at Grattan’s chest. The bullet hit. He went down with a groan. Hughes, who was holding Appleby, struggled to free his gun. But Appleby thrust his weight back against the man, felling him on the stairs. Max jumped forward and fired twice, hitting him in the throat.
Then he trained his gun on Political, who was standing a few treads higher on the stairs. ‘Give up or I’ll shoot you where you stand.’
Political was pale and trembling, much of his self-assurance stripped away. A lean, aquiline Englishman of the mandarin class, Max guessed he was not accustomed to witnessing sudden, violent death.
A man, younger than the others, was watching from the landing. Hughes was twitching and gurgling, choking on his own blood. Grattan and Fairbrother were dead. The smell of cordite was thick around them. ‘Stay where you are, Davison,’ said Political nervously.
‘Untie me,’ growled Appleby, looking over his shoulder at Political. ‘Now.’
Max kept his gun trained on Political as he moved down to where Appleby was standing. He had to step over Hughes to reach him. There was blood pooling on the stairs and dripping down from tread to tread.
Max risked a glance at Appleby as Political fumbled with the rope fastening his wrists. There was a cut and bruising over his left eye. He did no more than nod in acknowledgement of what Max had done. Political seemed to take an age to untie the rope. But at last Appleby shook his hands free and stepped clear of Hughes’s crumpled form. He slowly stooped and picked up Grattan’s gun.
‘Are you all right, Davison?’ he called up to the young man on the landing. ‘You saw Grattan shoot Fairbrother?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Davison mumbled.
‘What?’
‘
Yes, sir
.’
‘So, you know now what I told you was true, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Political’s in my custody.’ Appleby looked at Political. ‘Aren’t you . . . sir?’
Political cleared his throat. ‘What do you intend to do?’ he asked, his voice recovering some of its steadiness.
‘I’m going to telephone C on the direct line only people at your level know the number for and give him a report of what’s happened. And he’ll decide what to do. You have the photographs, Max?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the negatives?’
‘Safely stored elsewhere.’
‘Good. I imagine C will want to put deciphering in hand as soon as possible. So, the number, Political, if you please. There’s no time to lose.’
Political looked Appleby in the eye. ‘Are you sure that’s how you want to play it, Horace? I was going to take you to Lemmer. If I don’t turn up, he’ll know something’s gone wrong. He’ll leave the rendezvous immediately and drop out of sight. But if we go there now, he’ll be waiting. You’ll never have a better chance to catch him. Do you really want to throw it away?’
Appleby hesitated, assessing the prospect being dangled in front of him.
‘Well, do you?’
APPLEBY THOUGHT HARD
for about half a minute before accepting Political’s offer. Max did not feel the need to point out it might be a trap. They both knew that. But the prize was too great to resist.
‘I want consideration for this, Horace. I want a guarantee I won’t face criminal charges. Immediate retirement with no loss of pension in return for full cooperation. How does that sound?’
‘Like more than you deserve or are likely to get. But helping us catch Lemmer will count for something. It’ll be for C to decide.’
‘We don’t have time to consult him.’
‘I agree. Shall we go?’
They went, leaving Davison to telephone HQ and report what had happened. They took the car Grattan and Hughes had arrived in, though Appleby fetched something from the other car before they set off. Political seemed incurious, dazed, somehow, by the disaster that had overtaken him. He mumbled directions as Appleby drove through the London night. They were heading west through Chelsea. His answers to Appleby’s questions were grudging and unrevealing.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘Why did you betray your country?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘I’m not about to unburden myself to you.’
‘You’ll be made to unburden yourself in due course.’
‘Then I’ll wait until I am.’
‘How long have you worked for Lemmer?’
‘Long enough.’
‘And now you’re willing to betray him as well?’
‘It’s a question of self-preservation.’
‘No principles to call your own?’
‘None worth dying for.’
‘So, where
are
we going?’
‘Cross the river at Putney Bridge.’
‘And then?’
‘And then you’ll see.’
The house was one of several gated and gabled villas in a leafy close. They stopped some way short of the entrance and looked at it through the trees. There were lights burning in most of the ground-floor windows and the gates to the drive stood open. There was no sign of caution or watchfulness.