Around him, middle-aged lovers hugged and kissed farewell, while in more than one compartment similar lovers studiously avoided each other’s gaze, lest someone would recognize them and so carry back tales of illicit week-ends in far away cities.
He reached the centre of the train, and the second batch of first-class coaches. A group of young officers, slightly tipsy, with bottles poking from baggage, prepared to summon up courage for a return to the front by making the journey at least memorable. The train was by no means crowded – a compartment which contained a hard-faced woman with a small boy who looked miserable, two business men, gold chains curving over their waistcoats, cigars misting the compartment, settling down to put the financial world to rights. Then: Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity.
The rest of the compartment was empty, while ‘The Fisherman’ – Charles’ quarry – sat, newspaper open, propped in a window seat. Now he had him: hook, line, sinker and gaff.
He continued to walk the length of the train, counting the coaches, boarding it at the last moment – climbing into the most forward carriage as the whistle blew and the station master waved his green flag.
Then, as the train swayed out of the station, Charles slowly made his way back towards the carriage in which – he knew – ‘The Fisherman’ sat, oblivious to the danger that was upon him.
At first, he thought that, perhaps, he had mis-counted. There was no sign of the man in the compartment. Charles continued walking the length of the train towards the rear, passing through the restaurant car in the hope of seeing him there, pushing past men and women crowded in the third-class corridors, until he reached the far end of the train, with its sealed off guard’s van.
Once more, Charles walked along the tilting drunken corridors, as the train began to build up speed. Again, no sign of the big, scarred man with the stiff leg.
At last he was sure. ‘The Fisherman’ must have been flushed from the train. He was certainly not here now. Charles knew of an agent’s sudden anxieties, the intuition that bids him change his mind, play safe, move. Trust nobody. Weave. Duck and dive. Always look as though you have purpose and confidence. Change plans at the last possible moment.
Charles sensed the frustration of the hunter who suddenly loses the deer he has stalked all morning.
Resigned, he found an empty compartment in an almost deserted carriage, and settled in for the lengthy run to London. He would report to Kell on arrival, so that Wood and Partridge could be alerted.
They were coming up to Carlisle when the carriage door slid open. Charles looked up and his stomach rolled, for there was the man – the schoolboy’s comic drawing of a spy, in his black coat and brimmed hat, all the details, including the Mauser automatic pistol engulfed by his huge paw.
For a man of his weight and bulk, ‘The Fisherman’ was exceptionally agile. The door slid open, then closed again with a click, the Mauser’s eye never leaving Charles as the man’s other arm moved swiftly to pull down the three blinds over the windows which looked onto the corridor.
Then, still smiling, ‘The Fisherman’ slowly sat down opposite Charles.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous…
They went through Carlisle, and on into that long open run before Manchester.
‘Mr Charles Railton, I believe?’ The voice had no guttural inflexion, no foreignness.
Charles stared at him, his eyes wandering between the pistol barrel and the face, with its dreadful map of fire, the cartography produced at Glen Devil Farm.
‘I’m afraid you have the advantage of me…’ melodramatic, but he needed to play for time. ‘My name is Rathbone, Leonard Cyril Rathbone.’
‘Really? I think it’s Railton – in fact I know it is.’ ‘The Fisherman’ was calm, the voice reasonable, ‘and I should know it. You’ve been following me all over Scotland, and I’ve watched you at it. I even watched you in the Central Hotel this morning.’
Charles’ face must have shown a twitch of surprise, for he continued, ‘Don’t they teach you that a disguise is no good unless it’s complete? The herring-bone pattern of your suit, Mr Railton, the cut of the jacket, the hat. A moustache and spectacles alter the face, but the clothes make the man. The clothes and the shoes.’
Charles remained silent, holding ‘The Fisherman’s’ eyes in his; then breaking his silence with an acknowledgement of the weapon. ‘Not your style, sir. Where’s your white scarf today? Or your explosives? Or the axe you used in Ireland, all that time ago, when I first saw you?’
‘The Fisherman’s’ laugh was not unpleasant. In fact, he was almost likeable in manner. ‘I might ask you the same thing, Mr Railton.’
‘Oh?’
‘Our mutual friend, Fraulein Haas. She went with a white scarf, but I did not do it. What about you?’
‘Not guilty, as you must know.’
‘Mmrnm.’
A pause as the train clacked over some points, the rhythm changing. Then Charles asked if he was to be shot.
‘By me?’ Again the laugh. ‘I doubt if I need to do such a thing. It’s my understanding that we’re on the same side. Those are my instructions, but, as you seemed intent on disguises and the chase, I felt we should at least talk.’
‘About what?’
And ‘The Fisherman’ began to tell Charles more than he even knew himself. He spoke of Hanna Haas, of Marie and von Hirsch, and, not least, the information Charles had passed to ‘Brenner’. ‘The Fisherman’ laughed again, ‘You know the joke in Berlin? They call you “The Brenner Pass”.’
Because of what the man knew, and what Charles knew of ‘Brenner’, and other duplicities, it slowly dawned on him that he could never win any round. If he killed ‘The Fisherman’ and owned to it, ‘Brenner’ would know, and Charles’ own situation would be intolerable. He saw clearly how the plot was woven, though could not think why; for there was no motive. He wondered if there was time to rid himself of this man, and decided there was – just. So he allowed ‘The Fisherman’ to talk on, steepling his fingers and shifting his body so that when the move came it would be natural.
‘The Fisherman’ went on, and now began to ask questions. Did Charles imagine his own treachery would, in the end, bear fruit? What were his real motives? A hatred of England? A disillusionment? A fear of what would eventually happen to the Empire and the country?
‘Cigarette?’ asked Charles, his hand dropping casually towards his right thigh.
‘Why not?’ The eyes mocked, and Charles kept his gaze locked as he propelled himself forward, across the space dividing them, avoiding the pistol hand, his chest hitting ‘The Fisherman’s’ chest, but, for a second, clear of the Mauser, as he tried to pinion his victim.
He later recalled little of the struggle, except the man’s enormous strength, and the one moment when they grappled for the Mauser as he tried to bring it to bear. He did remember his own right hand desperately scrabbling for his Webley, feeling the butt, trying to drag it clear, and then, pressed hard body to body, the shot, and the sudden sense of a human being alive one moment, dead, sagging and belching blood the next.
Somehow, he caught the Mauser before it reached the floor; and saw ‘The Fisherman’s’ hand opening – not closing – to reach out in his last spasm, as though to staunch the blood. He knew about pulling the trigger a second time. The second bullet must have hit the heart, but ‘The Fisherman’ was dead before his fingers, in reflex action, even touched the wetness.
Charles moved with exceptional speed, catching the folds of the man’s jacket, and using them as a trap for the blood, his eyes automatically searching the seat back, to be certain one of the bullets had not passed through the body.
The train swayed more violently, and he had a little difficulty in opening the door, which smashed back, driven by the train’s slipstream. But there was no problem in disposing of the body. He waited, braced in the doorway, the corpse dangling and rolling half in and half out of the train. As they pas
sed over a small bridge, Charles kicked. He thought afterwards that it was true, that a man did have twice his normal strength when faced with a matter concerning his own survival. What ‘The Fisherman’ had told him left Charles in no doubt about the necessity of avoiding suspicion in this business. The body flopped out, curving spreadeagled; and he saw the peg-leg flap up like an obscene appendage as ‘The Fisherman’, with some irony, fell into what appeared to be a swift-flowing stream.
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
With abnormal care, Charles cleaned and tidied the compartment, putting his bag next to ‘The Fisherman’s’ valise. There was a little blood, but he thought most had soaked in the man’s clothing.
Then he went down the corridor to the lavatory and cleaned the blood from himself and his clothing as best he could.
At Euston he booked into an hotel near the station, retaining his disguise, and there went through ‘The Fisherman’s’ valise, uncovering all the secrets. His own name and ‘Brenner’s’ appeared in several messages and documents, which he burned. He sat awake all night, leaving the hotel in time to return to the station and made sure the night train was in, and that neither Wood nor Partridge was on board.
He then visited the ‘Wash & Brush-up’, as it was quaintly called, removed the moustache and glasses in a private cubicle, retrieved his dressing case from the bag, shaved, and took a cab to Cheyne Walk.
There, in the privacy of his own room he packed a larger case placing the suit he had worn at the bottom, planning to burn it at Redhill, for the scorch marks from the Webley would never be hidden. He took another holster, cleaned the revolver, reloaded it, and went down just in time to see a delighted Mary Anne about to leave for the hospital.
He told her he was taking William Arthur to Redhill for the week-end, and sent word to Nanny Coles.
‘Brenner’, he thought, would wait until Monday. Sleep on it. Think on it. Somewhere there had to be an answer.
He could not get Richard III from his mind. As I am subtle, false and treacherous. Not since he first spotted ‘The Fisherman’, yesterday in Glasgow.
Chapter Nine
Charles travelled to Haversage late on the Friday afternoon. It was a golden day, warm, and with an incredible sunset viewed by Sara, Richard, Charles and Colonel Bradley Farthing, from the top of the rose garden.
Sara then went up to see Nanny Coles and William Arthur. In the meantime, the men sat outside with their drinks.
Brad Farthing was particularly interested in Charles, asking questions, it seemed, under the guise of finding out how MI5 operated. Charles neatly fielded some of these queries and, after about half an hour, excused himself, went indoors and, from The General’s study, put in a trunk call to Vernon Kell’s private home number.
Kell came on the line and, as soon as Charles spoke, asked when he had got back.
‘I’m speaking from Redhill, Vernon. Got into London this morning. I told you I was coming on the night train.’
‘You weren’t on it, Charles.’ The voice was cold; more, hurt.
‘Of course I was on it. Not under my own name, naturally. Not with everything that’s been going on.’
‘What name then? You weren’t under Rathbone.’
‘Vernon? What the devil is this?’
‘What name, Charles?’
‘Picked it out of a hat. Harker. Mr C Harker.’
‘What was it you wanted?’
‘I’m at Redhill, and a mite worried. Dick has his uncle here. Colonel…’
‘Bradley Farthing, yes?’
‘That’s him. He says he has authority to investigate our security and intelligence methods.’
‘That’s true enough. Nice chap. Seen him myself.’
‘Just wanted to know the official line, that’s all.’
There was a long pause before Kell told him to be careful. ‘Stick to generalities. Technique. Don’t go into specifics. Don’t name names, or quote cases. Right?’
‘All I wanted to know. See you on Monday, Vernon.’
Kell did not reply, neither did he mention – then or during the following months – the discovery of a body, lying in shallow water, a mile or so from the railway line, in open country well North of Manchester.
On the following Monday, Charles reported to Kell and was put on General Duties, which meant he was effectively confined to desk work over the next few months.
*
About the same time as they sat down to dinner, on that Friday evening in July 1917, at Redhill Manor, Giles Railton was entertaining his favourite grandson, Ramillies, at dinner in Eccleston Square.
Denise took her meal upstairs in her room, for she had been constantly nervous and in need of rest ever since her return. Malcolm, by this time, had left – now with a commission in the Royal Navy.
After the meal was over, Giles and Ramillies retired to the Hide. They were there for almost four hours. During that time Giles talked. Ramillies answered questions.
‘In all your dealings,’ the old man told his grandson, ‘do not forget that I have met them, spoken to them all at length – Ulyanov, who now prefers to be called Lenin; Kerensky, Trotsky, Sverdlov, Zinoviev and all those who follow in their wake. Take care, every one of them is like a shark, and leadership can change in a second.’
As the young man left the house, his grandfather said, ‘Now, it will be quiet soon, Ramillies.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re as prepared as you will ever be. If, by chance, they send you quickly and I do not see you again, good luck. Follow my advice; do as I have said, and the future is secure.’
In fact, Giles was to see Ramillies many times before C sent him on the mission which Giles had prepared him for. Certainly Ramillies spent more and more time moving between C’s office and the Hide at Eccleston Square.
Now, at C’s Headquarters, a very large segment of time was being taken up with events unravelling themselves in Russia.
Already, the fears of the collapse of both Kerensky’s government and the Russian Army, the inevitable descent into open rebellion, and of a path made clear for the Bolsheviks, were fast becoming a reality.
C, in close collaboration with the British Government, made gallant efforts to shore things up. Agents – including Somerville, in reality William Somerset Maugham, who had worked for C in Switzerland – were dispatched to Russia with funds for Kerensky. Maugham, in fact, carried a personal message back to the Prime Minister, and prepared to return to Moscow. But in November 1917 Kerensky’s government was a thing of the past.
The British Embassy staff were evacuated early in 1918, their place taken by an unofficial mission headed by Robert Bruce Lockhart, who sacrificed a brilliant diplomatic career – and almost his life – in order to provide intelligence regarding the Bolsheviks, and, incidentally, place agents within their ranks.
In London there was almost as much chaos regarding intelligence as there was political uncertainty in Russia. The Bolsheviks had moved their headquarters to Moscow, and now Ramillies waited daily for orders to leave. As he pointed out on many occasions to C, he had been hand-picked for just such an eventuality. But C failed to deliver the orders.
Several agents were tipped into the confusion. Many disappeared. There were attempts on Lenin’s life, purges in which counter-revolutionaries perished, and Bruce Lockhart was finally arrested, escaping execution only by diplomatic moves in London. He arrived back, with other members of his mission, in early October 1918.
Two days later, C called Ramillies to his office.
‘Well, my boy, you’ve been pestering to go. Now it’s time. Our official people are out, but we’ve left several agents in place, and there’s some liaison with the White Russians. Before you get your full orders, there’s one man I want you to meet. Bit of a rogue, adventurer, undisciplined, inclined to carry out private and complicated operations of his own. Likeable enough, and you may well run into him again because like as not I’ll be sending him back. Name of Sidney Reil
ly. He’ll give you certain pieces of information which may help.’
Indeed, Reilly seemed, to Ramillies, a charming, tough man, but it was difficult to tell the fact from fiction with him. Reilly spoke of the minefield Ramillies would be going into. ‘Trust nobody absolutely,’ he said. ‘The shift in events can be so sudden that a friend becomes an enemy overnight.’ It was much the same as his grandfather had taught him.
They gave Ramillies three names and three identities, papers, gold which he carried in a belt, a German pistol and a knife, and made him commit certain contact names and addresses to memory. His job was to get as much information as possible, regarding the aims and intentions of Lenin’s Revolutionary Committee. He was to be taken in by way of Helsinki. Once in Russia, Ramillies, or Vladimir Khristianovich Galinsky as he was to be called, would make for Petrograd. He was a student, politically literate, from Moscow, who had been displaced by the earlier fighting, wounded slightly (C had arranged this with the medical people in February and Ramillies was confined to a hospital bed for a week) and now making his way to assist the comrades in the final struggle.
‘That’s your story. Your uncle’s given you a lot of help,’ C told him. ‘We can get you in. We can provide you with the means to get information out. The rest is up to you.’
Ramillies thought, The rest is silence. Which in many ways was true; for less than twenty-four hours after he left England, his grandfather suffered a seizure.
Denise, worried that her grandfather, a man of habit in household matters, had not come down to breakfast, sent Robertson to Giles’ room. The servant found him, part-dressed, lying on the floor.
His speech was slightly impaired, but the doctors thought, with rest, he might even regain that. He was as strong as the proverbial ox, and could outlive them all yet.
*
Ramillies entered Russia on 14 October 1918, and it took him nearly two weeks to make his way to Petrograd where he found lodgings near the Smolny Institute. On the morning of 29 October, he loitered at the end of Gorokhovaia. He had the Railton build, slim and tall, though the fair hair was covered by a fur cap, the face by a thick beard, and his body by a sheepskin jacket with leather trousers tucked into heavy boots. In his right hand Ramillies carried a simple workman’s trowel. His way of moving, and that certain stillness which seemed to show even when he walked, could never be changed. But neither Andrew nor Charlotte would have recognized him.