by Jeff Dawson
‘It’s only a matter of time,’ assured Copeland.
She sighed.
Were you born stupid?
‘No, Detective. Men like Muller always get away… only to return somewhere else… and twice as dangerous.’
Chapter 29
Washington DC
It was crisp and cold but the sky was cobalt blue. The sun glinted on the dome of the Capitol building and the obelisk of the Washington Monument in the distance, at the far end of the trees and wild greenery of the Mall.
When Senator Abel Schultz appeared at the top of the steps that led down from the building’s west entrance, it provoked the usual clamour on the part of his fervent supporters, who waved their placards and their American National Party banners, giving vociferous encouragement. A line of policemen, linking arms, leaned their backs into them, keeping them in check.
When Schultz descended, it was with less theatricality than usual and the assembled news reporters and sketch writers – always appreciative of the colour, regardless of the message – sensed it right away. This time there was no pausing to greet the faithful, they noted, no double-handed pressing of the flesh. Instead, with his minders in tow, he strode straight to the Edison microphonic device that had been set up on the concourse – purposeful, determined, steely-eyed. He waited for calm.
‘My friends, thank you for coming,’ he began, in his measured expository tone. ‘As you know, there has been much speculation of late as to whether I, on behalf of the American National Party, would put myself forward as a candidate for the highest office in the land, that of President of the United States…’
There were shouts of affirmation.
‘…To submit my application when nominations open…’
He reached up, made a clasping gesture and pulled down.
‘…To ultimately take power in 1908 and put an end to the shameful and disreputable, imperialistic ambition that Mr Roosevelt, the butcher of Cuba, has foisted upon this country, in open violation of the manifesto drawn by its Founding Fathers.’
If his face were fixed, knew the newsmen, it had not diminished his thunder. The volume rose, the words more piercing.
‘Well, I can tell you now, I will fight with every fibre of my being to ensure that neither he nor his Corpulent Crown Prince, Mr Taft – a man whose sincerity seems inversely proportional to his girth – succeed…’
There was a burst of laughter. He nodded to himself.
‘…Nor, for that matter, Taft’s likely running mate, James Sherman, whose decisions would decimate the land as surely as his uncle’s troops tore through Georgia.’
He afforded himself a grin, the fire was back. He turned to point to the building behind him. This time he boomed.
‘…And don’t get me started on that lickspittle Democrat, William Jennings Bryan!’
Even the press were smiling now. There were more cheers.
‘But my friends, there comes a time in every man’s life…’
He was changing the mood, adjusting the tone, dropping down – the diminuendo before the rise… to the swell… the big crescendo.
‘…when he is impelled to make an irrevocable, life-defining decision.’
The men of the press were leaning in. Was this the moment?
‘It goes without saying that the first order of politics, of public service, is sacrifice. I speak not of myself, of whose tribulations have been a trifle, but of my wife – for over thirty years – and latterly, that of my three children… who have all surrendered their lives to our cause… The long, hard road that has been hoed.’
There were nods, barks of approval.
‘Which is why… after a great deal of thought… soul-searching… now is the moment… the perfect moment…!’
This was it. The declaration. The applause soared from a ripple to a thunder.
‘…The moment… for me to stand aside…’
Heads were turning. Confusion.
‘…Yes, at this critical juncture in our nation’s history, to stand aside for a new man to lead us into the sunlit uplands…’
The crowd was a-buzz.
‘And while I, Abel Schultz, shall for ever have the name of the American National Party engraved upon my heart, and will, till the day I die, work tirelessly as its most humble servant… I hereby tender my resignation as its leader with immediate effect.’
To cries of ‘Senator!… Senator!…’ he turned on his heel.
The Waldorf Hotel, New York
It seemed an unnecessary flourish to Finch, the reading out of the news item from the New York Herald confirming Schultz’s withdrawal from politics. Lady Brunswick did so in the manner of a schoolmistress, poring over every word, thrilled that one more skirmish in the epic war of attrition had been won.
It was, knew Finch, if not a Pyrrhic victory, then one that had still come at a cost. Yes, the American National Party was such a cult of personality that its chances of success had been severely damaged. On the other hand, both the NBI and MO3’s operations had been exposed. And Muller was still at large.
‘Are you enjoying the smoked salmon?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And the eggs? Eggs Benedict is a signature dish. Invented by Oscar, the maître d’. A hangover cure, you know. Very popular. Then there’s his Waldorf Salad and his Thousand Island Dressing…’
Finch muttered his approval.
‘…A very small act of gratitude. Merely a token,’ she went on. ‘Of course, we can’t begin to thank you enough for your service. You really did think on your feet. One of the reasons we recruited you, Captain.’
She gave a smile of satisfaction.
‘We apologize for the predicament we placed you in, but it was necessary for the success of the operation. You may not realize it but you were being watched every step of the way. Washing our hands of you – or at least appearing to wash our hands of you – was the only way to throw them off the scent.’
‘Throw who off the scent?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’
She set aside her cutlery.
‘Always make sure to use your knife, Captain.’
‘My knife?’
He was still eating. He didn’t imagine a private dining room at the Waldorf – or rather the whole of the lower ground-floor restaurant sealed off for their own purposes – should be something to be sniffed at. The truth was he just felt numb.
‘The Americans have a frightful habit of chopping everything up then switching their fork to the right hand, using it like a shovel. I feel there are certain standards we have to maintain.’
She winked. Try as he might, humour was eluding him.
‘Lady Brunswick, I thank you for your generosity, here as on the Baltic. It is not every day one is accorded such a privilege. But I fear you are buttering me up. Preparing me for something… something for which I have no desire.’
There was a slip in the mask of joviality, which he knew was only for public show. He was well aware what the private face was like.
She gave him a good hard stare.
‘What do you desire, Captain Finch? Whatever you wish, we can arrange it. Some rest and recuperation, perhaps?’
He gave no reaction.
‘Maybe see a little more of America before going home? A trip out West…?’
He wiped his mouth with his napkin.
‘I want to know what happened to Katia… Madeleine…’
‘I thought you might.’
She nodded to his packet of Navy Cut lying on the table. Alongside the tailored suit he was now wearing, she had made sure to leave a welcome basket of creature comforts in his new room here, including these cigarettes and a bottle of Talisker.
‘May I have one of those?’
He proffered them and she inserted it into the holder. He lit hers, then his. She referenced the engraved initials of the lighter.
‘I. F.’ she said. ‘We should have thought that through. Clumsy.’
‘Where is
she?’
‘I should imagine indulging some similar hospitality as we speak, only with her people in Montreal. She was spirited there as soon as the Deuxième Bureau got their hands on her. She is to be highly commended. A remarkable woman. We need more like her.’
She exhaled.
‘Good thing about Quebec, Captain. The cuisine’s of exemplary standard wherever one may dine. One doesn’t have to seek out places like this…’
She raised her palms at the surroundings, then mock-asided in a whisper…
‘Better here than next door, the Astoria. In my opinion, of course.’
She tapped off some ash.
‘They hate each other, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘The respective owners, the Astor cousins, William Waldorf Astor and John Jacob Astor IV. Only now their two hotels are linked by a walkway – hyphenated – the Waldorf-Astoria… effectively joined at the hip.’
She nodded again around the room.
‘All this Renaissance-style architecture in honour of their ancestral home, Walldorf – two “L”s – a nondescript little Stadt in the Rhineland.’
She looked him in the eye.
‘Ah yes, those Germans again. As I’m sure you’ve come to understand, Captain, a thousand years of high culture – Holbein, Bach, Beethoven, Goethe, even this—’
She threw her arms wide.
‘—can be undone in one errant moment, a spasm of national vulgarity. Something that seems more and more possible by the day.’
He took his time. She didn’t like silences.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘Miss Foche? I’m afraid that’s all there is to tell. It’s really all I know at this point. And that is the truth.’
She beckoned to the waiter who’d been standing over in the corner.
‘Tea, coffee, Captain?’ she asked. ‘As you will also know, the tea here’s terrible, deliberately so. America became a nation of coffee drinkers in protest at us during the Revolution. They delight in making it badly.’
‘I’d prefer something stronger.’
‘Very well. Brandy?’
‘Why not?’
‘Two cognacs, please… Rémy Martin… Large.’
He flipped his cigarette with his thumb.
‘You asked me what I desire.’
She shrugged her shoulders in a ‘go ahead, surprise me’ manner.
‘I want to get Muller.’
She smiled as if at some private joke.
‘Impossible.’
‘He’s still at liberty. What Katia said was right. He’ll pop up somewhere else causing yet more trouble. And when he does…’
‘Muller’s a gangster. He’s of no interest to MO3. Not any more.’
‘I had a telephone call this morning from Detective Copeland. Seems no coincidence that, the night of the warehouse raid – the night they killed Delgado – Jimmy Chang went missing, sprung from the asylum on Blackwell’s Island… a man whose technical know-how could have devastating consequences…’
‘Fanciful thinking.’
‘Sprung, it would seem, with Muller’s sponsorship… Were you hoping to keep that from me…?’
He could tell he’d thrown her, though she did her best to wave it away.
Finch strained to keep his voice down.
‘Then at the very least let me help bring Muller to book for the simple reason that the man got away with murder,’ he snapped, ‘including, almost, my own. And as for the Slocum bombing, and the property scam… I can’t think of a more cynical, heinous crime… a capital crime… Though it remains curious to me why the police made no mention of that on Krank’s arrest, nor indeed when I spoke to Copeland on the phone.’
The brandies arrived in oversized bowl-glasses. She whispered from behind her hand.
‘If this country’s temperance movements are anything to go by, this won’t be permissible for much longer.’
She gave a mock shudder, a deliberate distraction.
‘Please,’ Finch urged.
She dismissed the waiter and held back till he had gone.
‘Look, you should know by now how intelligence works,’ she said.
She rolled her glass and stared deep into it.
‘Information is power. It is something to be deployed judiciously; to be held back, traded if necessary. Of course, our friends in the NBI are privy to broadly the same intelligence, especially when it comes to the question of Muller’s culpability. But I ask you this, Captain, the deliberate destruction of a pleasure craft… Does revealing it to the American public serve any purpose…?’
He cocked his head to one side, unsure.
‘…To tell the loved ones that all those lives were lost not through accident, but as part of a callous criminal act… It would provoke a scandal causing untold pain, yet more grief, yet more outrage.’
She sipped. He did the same. He knew she was right.
‘No, we’ll keep that up our sleeve for the time being. It is a card best played at a more opportune moment.’
‘Did Schultz know about it… the General Slocum?’
‘It doesn’t matter. That Schultz knows that we know is a good enough start. We had a quiet word. It achieved its desired result. Plus, his links with Muller and, by association, Muller’s other criminal activities, will soon be a matter of record.’
She raised her glass to Finch.
‘He’s gone. For that we should be thankful. A case of “mission accomplished”.’
She pointed to the newspaper, the reminder.
‘Which brings me to something else, Finch.’
He had sensed it was coming.
‘No such thing as a free brunch,’ he quipped.
She ignored him.
‘As you know, the question of the USA’s military adventures, its expansionist designs, have proven controversial. But we should not overlook the fact that, just as America has been asserting its imperial ambitions, so too has Germany. Neither are in a position yet to challenge the naval might of Britain, nor even France. But the worm is turning.’
She undid the clasp on her leather handbag and produced a large brown envelope.
‘Open it.’
He unfolded its contents, the cerulean photosensitive paper of a blueprint, the white creases of the quarter folds rendered the same white as the architectural design etched upon it. It was of a warship, a large warship – a battleship – but of a size and scale, with its revolving turrets and massive guns, that even Finch could recognize as a behemoth… something more impressive than the Royal Navy or certainly the French Marine currently possessed.
‘HMS Dreadnought…’ she enthused. ‘The hull is about to be laid down at His Majesty’s Dockyard, Portsmouth. Look at the dimensions…’
Finch took a large sip of the cognac, his eyes wandered over the lines – 527 feet long with a projected displacement of 20,000 tons; 10x12-inch guns, an array of some 32 other powerful armaments; armour that was a foot thick; a speed of over 20 knots.
‘It will be the largest battleship ever built, quick too, and with enough firepower to make everything else instantly redundant. Everything. It is a game-changer. The greatest single weapon ever invented. And we have more to follow.’
She took the plan back and folded it up.
‘And so?’
‘And so, Captain Finch… nothing remains secret for very long. The French, the Americans… the Germans, will soon be copying us, building their own Dreadnoughts. In fact, we know the Germans already are – they’re in the process of designing four. We find ourselves in an Arms Race. Nothing more, nothing less.’
She leaned in. She lowered her voice.
‘Needless to say, such weapons, in German hands, are a direct threat to the sea lanes of the Empire…’
He nodded.
‘…but there’s a giveaway.’
‘There is?’
‘These vessels require extra-large docks. With their Pacific acquisitions in mind, the A
mericans are already enlarging their West Coast ports at our insistence – San Diego, and a new one at Long Beach – to accommodate our new visiting warships… and their own ones, of course, eventually.’
He sipped longer.
‘Meanwhile the Germans are undergoing a rapid colonial expansion – German East Africa… Kamerun and Togoland… German South West Africa… Then there’s Tsingtao and the Kiautschou concession in China… Samoa and New Guinea, along with the Solomons, the Carolines, the Marshalls, the Marianas and numerous other Pacific Islands. And it’s a safe bet there will be new, wide, deep-water docks built among these territories, too.’
‘I see.’
‘Only they don’t signal their intentions so easily – like to keep things under wraps, disguising their military engineering by using civilian contractors.’
She tucked the envelope back in her handbag.
‘We have to work out where those docks are to be built, Captain Finch. And we need you to find out more.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because one of the main bidders for the work, rather shamelessly, is a Pacific shipping company… a company run by an Australian gentleman named Edward Pointer. He’s already got his fingers in the Long Beach expansion and has been using his acquired expertise to embark on a world tour, drumming up more business, under the cover of this new passion for ocean liners that we’re all so guilty of.’
It took a moment for the penny to drop, but then that name hit home… Edward Pointer.
He saw her scanning for his reaction. He could tell by the flicker of a devilish smirk that she was enjoying this – tying him into an ever-expanding nexus of espionage where everything seemed interconnected; linked, in this case, to a man, moreover, he’d not only met previously, but privately loathed… not merely for his boorishness, not just for his smug countenance at being – whichever way he dressed it up over the South African conflict – a war profiteer…
‘Fortunately, we have a plant, an insider, both high up and very close to him,’ she continued. ‘Someone else I believe you already know.’
She didn’t need to say it.
Annie.
Lady Brunswick smiled, set her napkin down and moved to excuse herself.
