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.
And it also occurred to McColl—as it obviously hadn’t to Reischach—that von Schön could have sent McColl the warning. If so, he owed the German his life.
So much for the personal side.
Who were Rieber and Reischach? If they were diplomats, why weren’t they using the safer channels open to them? If they weren’t, then why were they discussing their government’s policies and illicit activities in the United States? And if they were government officials making use of unofficial channels, then who they were trying to bypass—their enemies or their friends? The more McColl thought about it, the more convinced he became that these were two intelligence agents operating outside the diplomatic cocoon.
In the end he didn’t suppose it mattered much. Whatever positions they held, they held them for the enemy.
What had he learned from the two letters?
First, that the Germans had supplied Har Dayal with two arms shipments, one of which was reaching Singapore in five or six weeks’ time. The DCI might know all about that already, but if they didn’t, then Cumming would be more than pleased.
Second, that the Germans were also sending arms to the IRB but were not expecting an immediate return. Their guns to the republicans would match those already smuggled into Ulster and might indeed see use in an Irish civil war. But if war broke out in Europe, they could be used to wrest independence from a fully engaged Great Britain.
Third, and most worrying, was the news that “joint action on enemy soil” was “under consideration.” By whom? And what exactly were they considering? It couldn’t be conventional military action; it had to be some sort of terror attack. A strike at Britain’s morale, like blowing up the King or Parliament. Or was he getting carried away?
If Cumming were to make a judgment, he would need a full copy of de Lacey’s letter. But did he need the full text of Reischach’s? Because it occurred to McColl that Cumming might balk at offering full-time employment to an agent the Germans had already unmasked.
On reflection he decided that was overly pessimistic. The empire had other enemies beside the Germans, and he could, in any case, change his name and appearance. Cumming’s favorite agent, Sidney Reilly, was always turning up in the society columns, and it didn’t seem to make him any less effective.
He would copy out the second letter as well. Once Cumming saw the German admission in writing, he might arrange help in New York.
Needing paper and a table to write on, he walked back up the train. The poker game in the club car had run its course, and Father Meagher had disappeared, presumably to bed, hopefully without checking his suitcase. McColl continued on to the stenographer’s office and shut himself in with the sun blind down on the door. Copying the letters took him almost an hour, the envelopes another fifteen minutes. He had used up the six he’d taken and most of those left in the desk before he was satisfied with his copies. He was probably being overzealous—people weren’t that observant when it came to other people’s handwriting—but there was no point in stinting on effort.
It was almost one-thirty by the time he was finished, and the only remaining occupant of the adjoining club car was asleep in his chair. The snow swirling outside the windows reminded McColl that they were spending the whole night traversing the Rockies and most of the next day crossing the plains.
The other men in his compartment were all asleep, and more quietly so than on the previous night. He laid himself out without much hope and thought that only minutes had passed when a yell from outside woke him up. His pocket watch said ten past six, and a look around the end of the curtain told him the train had reached Laramie. After twenty minutes of trying, he gave up on getting back to sleep and repeated his trick of the previous morning, carrying coffee back to an empty observation car. This time there was no sunrise to color the land, only snow-draped valleys and tracks receding into mist.
At a quarter to eight, he made his way forward to the end of the dining car and, after checking that neither Caitlin nor Father Meagher had yet arrived, walked quickly through to the next carriage, where he ensconced himself in a convenient toilet. He gave them twenty minutes, then walked back to the dining car’s doorway for a quick look inside. They were in the same seats—Caitlin with her back to him, staring out the window, Father Meagher looking down at his plate with a decidedly hungover expression.
McColl strode swiftly back to their car, where the corridor was empty and the metal shim worked its magic on the lock. The suitcase was still on its cradle, and there was no discernible rearrangement of the contents below the clothing. He put the two letters back in the same order and slipped out through the door into the still-empty corridor.
And then things began to go wrong. Try as he did, he couldn’t get the shim to relock the door, and after what seemed a couple of minutes he began to consider leaving it as it was. If Father Meagher found it so, he would doubtless go straight to the letters, but once he’d found them where they should be, there would be no reason to open them. And he was more likely to blame a lax car attendant for the unlocked door than a British agent. Being suspected himself would still be a damn sight better than being caught in the act.
But then Pao-yu, the girl from the Blue Dragon, wormed her way to the front of his mind. She was enough for his conscience to carry without adding a sacked car attendant.
He was trying again when a middle-aged couple suddenly entered the corridor. Pushing himself up aga
inst the door, as if making space for them to pass, he managed to conceal the shim, and they walked on through to the next car without ever looking back. But it was too risky. He gave the shim one last twist for luck and almost burst out laughing when the lock clicked shut.
Now all he needed was a second sojourn in a toilet, so as not to meet Caitlin and Meagher on their way back from breakfast. Even this proved a close-run thing—suddenly hearing her voice, he ducked through a convenient doorway with only seconds to spare. He supposed he could have found some explanation for being at this end of the train, but he was tired of lying to her. Not that hiding in a toilet felt much better.
The train was pulling in to a snow-covered Cheyenne, and he went to get some breakfast. He’d done it, he told himself. He should be feeling triumphant, but he wasn’t.
After a shave at the barber’s, he walked back to the observation car, where he found Caitlin scribbling in what looked like a diary. As he sat down beside her, she packed it away in her bag.
“It only just occurred to me,” she said, pushing back a stray lock of brown hair, “but I never asked whether you were booked through to New York.”
“I am.”
“On the 20th Century.”
“Of course.”
“Thank God. Do you have a sleeping compartment?”
“Just a seat, I’m afraid. San Francisco was more expensive than I expected.”
“It doesn’t matter, I have one. And here’s the good news—Father Meagher is spending a few days in Chicago, so we won’t have him for company.”
“That is good news. How long are we in Chicago? Do you know?”
“An hour and forty-five minutes, if we arrive on time. I know because I’m meeting an editor who might be interested in hiring me.”
“A job in Chicago?” he asked, thinking how far away from England that would place her.
“Yes. It’s a great city.”
“I’ve never been.”
“And I’ve been thinking it’s time I left the family nest.”
“You could come to England.”
She smiled at that. “One day, maybe. But this is my home. I understand how things work here.”
“I know what you mean,” he admitted. Through the rear window, the Rockies still straddled the horizon and the receding line of telegraph poles stood stark against the snow and clouds.
They talked for most of the morning, about everything from suffragettes to the Catholic priesthood. “They’re not all like Father Meagher,” she insisted. “Our priest when I was growing up was a wonderful man—kind, wise, committed to helping the poor, the sort of man who gives the Church a good name.” She told McColl how she had wanted to be a nun when she grew up and seemed mildly offended when he looked surprised.
They moved on to their younger brothers and the concern each of them seemed to feel. She worried that Colm had poor taste in friends and was too easily led astray. “And sometimes I feel responsible,” she said. “Aunt Orla was so bound up in Finola and me that she didn’t have time for Colm. She left him to my father, who was hardly ever there. When he was, he just laid down rules, which no one else ever enforced. Colm … well, he’s a good boy, but he has no judgment. He never knows when to stop.”
McColl saw a little of Jed in her characterization of Colm, but only a little. His brother had grown up quite a lot on this trip, and not just in ways involving whorehouses and opium dens. What worried McColl was what came next. “If war comes,” he pondered out loud, “then Jed will be first in line at the recruiting office. And even if I could persuade him otherwise—and I’ll try my damnedest to do so—the boys in his age group will be the first ones conscripted.”
A steward brought the latest batch of newspapers, which had come aboard at Cheyenne, and each of them found one item of real interest. The Saverne Affair had reached its conclusion, with the guilty officers escaping punishment. And, almost mirroring that story, the American radical Joe Hill was still behind bars, despite a growing campaign to secure his release. He had been arrested in January for a murder that Caitlin was certain he hadn’t committed. “I’ve met him,” she said. “He’s not that sort of man. If he hasn’t been framed, I’ll eat Father Meagher’s biretta.”
She told McColl about meeting Hill in a Brooklyn labor club and how during his second set he’d dedicated a song to her. “It’s called ‘The Rebel Girl.’ He wrote it for Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, but he said it was mine for that evening. I know the last lines off by heart: ‘And the grafters in terror are trembling / When her spite and defiance she’ll hurl. / For the only and thoroughbred lady / Is the rebel girl.’ ” She laughed. “Who wouldn’t want to hear herself described like that?”
Most women, McColl thought, but then she wasn’t most women.
“I have to meet the father for lunch,” she said without enthusiasm. “I don’t suppose you’d consider joining us?”
“Why not?” McColl said. He didn’t want to lose her company and was anxious to evaluate the priest’s disposition—if Meagher had read the letters or noticed their temporary absence, surely it would show on his face. The priest didn’t strike him as a born dissembler. He needn’t have worried. Meagher looked like someone who had lost a lot of money at the poker table and was quietly obsessing about winning it back. He picked at his lunch, spoke to Caitlin in monosyllables, and hardly seemed to notice that McColl was even there.
After lunch Caitlin and McColl agreed to meet at seven and went their separate ways. She had work to do, and he had a cable to compose. Lacking the time to encrypt the two letters in full, he settled for a summary of the salient points and a promise to forward the copies on the first available ship. He was en route to hand it in for dispatch at the next available stop when the view through the corridor window changed his mind. A blizzard was raging outside, and some telegraph poles seemed to be swaying rather too violently. He would wait for Chicago.
In his compartment the Pearsons were asleep in their seats, and as no one had taken the place of the departed officer, he laid himself out on the opposite seat and followed their example. He awoke feeling groggy about three hours later, to find the Pearsons gone and the blizzard still blowing outside. As he passed the car attendant’s booth on his way to the washroom, the man leaped out and handed him two cables. “I didn’t want to wake you, sir.”
McColl tipped him and read them, one from Jed boasting that they’d sold six cars during their week’s sojourn in Chicago and one from Cumming that wasn’t in code and advised him to contact “an interested party” at a New York address.
Once a hot shower had restored him to life, he went to meet Caitlin in the buffet car. She arrived a few minutes later, with the news that Father Meagher was already back at the card table.
“Can he afford it?” McColl wondered out loud. He rather hoped the priest was losing Clan na Gael’s money.
“I neither know nor care,” was Caitlin’s assessment. “Let’s have dinner.”
After sharing their first public meal on the train, they went back to her bed and made love, once with the fierceness that seemed their natural meeting place and then with a tenderness that seemed to surprise them both. He had no idea how long they’d been lying entwined in the narrow bed when they both heard the key in next door’s lock.
“I’ll go when we hear him get into bed,” McColl said quietly.
“If he’s lost again, he may throw himself out the window,” she whispered back.
A few minutes later, they heard the springs creak as the priest lay down, and McColl levered himself onto the edge of the bed to get dressed. He felt nostalgic for the long nights they had spent together on the Manchuria and unreasonably annoyed with Father Meagher for unknowingly sending him back to the Pearsons. Once he and Caitlin had kissed good night and he had slipped quietly out through the door, the sense of resentment led him, through several mental twists and turns, to the matter of the priest’s other suitcase, the one he’d carried away with him from the Ghadar office on Valencia.
It had to be in the baggage car, which McColl remembered was at the front of the train. The car was probably locked or guarded, but there was no harm in taking a look.
As it turned out, the only disincentive to entry was a solid-looking door, which opened when he pushed on the handle. McColl closed it behind him and turned on the overhead lights, which revealed two rows of floor-to-ceiling racks filled with luggage. Since each item was labeled and stored in alphabetical order, he had no trouble finding Father Meagher’s suitcase and was about to pull it down when the recklessness of what he was doing finally stopped him short.
He went back to the door, cracked it open, and listened for a few moments. Reassured, he pulled down the suitcase, and applied his metal shim to the lock. It opened easily, to reveal more of the priest’s wardrobe and about two hundred copies of the Ghadar newspaper.
It was tempting to throw them overboard—the good people of Nebraska, or whichever state they were crossing at this moment, would doubtless be thrilled by Har Dayal’s politics—but Father Meagher would notice they were missing and perhaps start wondering about the letters.
McColl relocked the suitcase, put it back in its place, and let himself out.
Ten minutes later he was lying in his bunk, listening to the Pearson chorus and rebuking himself for running such a risk. He knew only too well it wasn’t a game, and if he wanted Cumming to take him seriously, he should stop acting as though it were. If he’d been discovered in the baggage car, all his good work with the letters might well have been for nothing and the chance to foil the Germans lost.
And that seemed to matter more than it had before. Like most people, McColl felt attached to his homeland—in his case London as much as the Highlands or Glasgow—but that didn’t mean he trusted its government. If he were to relish involvement in the struggle between England and Germany, he needed to believe that a German-run world would be worse than the one he already lived in. And he was pretty sure that he did. Becoming a target for the Kaiser’s hired assassins was one thing—he could accept the Germans’ anger with him, if not their extreme reaction—but the Saverne Affair, so fortuitously served up by von Schön, was something else again. It confirmed McColl in all his prejudices against the Kaiser’s Germany. There might be liberals and socialists in the Reichstag, and there might be decent young businessmen in Tsingtau, but Saverne showed only too clearly that the horrors of South-West Africa had not been an aberration. And a Germany grounded in arrogance and contempt for everyone else really was worth resisting.
Jack of Spies Page 16
