James Maxted 03 The Ends of the Earth

by Robert Goddard

  ‘No.’

  ‘1888. Drei achten, drei Kaiser, as the schoolchildren say to remember their history. Three eights, three emperors. Wilhelm’s father only reigned for a few months. He died of a throat cancer. That was lucky for me. A new young kaiser was my opportunity. I showed him what could be achieved during my time with the embassy here. After that, he trusted me. He believed – still believes, I assume – that the Tsarevich escaped death by my design. Sabotage Russo-Japanese relations, but leave cousin Nikolai alive, though not unscathed. Clever, no?’

  ‘No one will ever doubt your cleverness, Fritz. Sending me to the Orkneys to talk Commander Schmidt into handing over the Grey File was a masterstroke.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And plotting to sell your network of spies to the Japanese lock, stock and barrel. That was clever too. A fresh start. A new employer. Another world to conquer.’

  Lemmer smiled. ‘Retirement wouldn’t suit me. I have no aptitude for it.’

  ‘Perhaps you should try to develop one.’

  ‘Because of Appleby’s ultimatum?’

  ‘We want their names, Fritz. The names of all your spies.’

  ‘I can’t give you them.’

  ‘You must.’

  Lemmer shook his head. ‘No. You ask me to surrender my life’s work – the levers of my power. It’s too much. I won’t do it.’

  ‘Your son’s life depends on it.’

  ‘Appleby won’t kill Eugen, Max. You and I both know this. His greatest weakness is his lack of ruthlessness. It’s a bluff. He will not do it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As sure as I need to be. But what he may do is keep my son from me. Alive, but apart, no longer under my control. I can’t have that.’

  ‘Give us the names, then. And Tomura’s secret. And the Terauchi–Zimmermann letter.’

  Lemmer closed the newspaper and folded it neatly in half, pressing his hands down heavily to crease it. He looked fixedly at Max. Neither man flinched. ‘This is my offer to you, Max. Cable Appleby. Tell him you’ve learnt Eugen isn’t my son. He’s holding an innocent boy. He has to let him go. Then I will give you Tomura’s secret. And the letter. That will enable you to buy Morahan and his two friends out of prison. As for my spies, I keep them. But you – you, Max – learn at last what your father died trying to achieve. And then you have the chance – and the means, which I’ll give you – to achieve it.’

  ‘You know I won’t agree to this.’

  ‘Think about it. That’s all I ask. It’s the middle of last night in Europe. It’ll be another six hours before there’d be any point cabling Appleby. Take those six hours to consider very carefully what you should do.’

  ‘The answer’s no. You take those six hours, Fritz. You consider very carefully what you should do.’

  ‘You know I have the secret. Here.’ Lemmer tapped a finger against his temple. ‘The mystery can be explained. If you accept my offer. Are you armed, by the way?’

  Max wondered if there was a tell-tale bulge beneath his left arm, where his gun rested in its shoulder-holster. The Shanghai tailor had assured him there would not be. ‘What if I am?’

  ‘If you are, I invite you to draw your gun and hold it to my head and threaten to fire. Then you’ll see what I’m willing to tell you to save my life.’

  ‘You’d tell me nothing.’

  Lemmer nodded. ‘This is true.’

  ‘And I expect you’re armed yourself.’

  ‘I don’t need to be. The names of my spies; the nature of Tomura’s secret; you wouldn’t want to erase so much valuable information, would you?’

  ‘How did you get the truth out of Dombreux?’

  ‘I didn’t. I deduced the truth. Only he could have told you about Eugen. Why did he tell you, Max? Why didn’t he kill you?’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s dead.’

  Max should have felt neither surprise nor sorrow. Yet, oddly, he felt both. ‘It wasn’t his fault. He was unlucky. And then … he had to give me something.’

  ‘Why do people who try to kill you always seem to be unlucky, Max? Those fellow countrymen of mine who flew against you in the war. Norris’s marksman in Paris. Tarn, the master assassin. Fontana. Grattan. Dombreux. There are a lot of heads for you to hang on your wall.’

  ‘Nothing like as many as there are for you to hang on yours.’

  ‘Well, you and I aren’t the sort who collect souvenirs, are we, Max? We make mistakes. But more often we don’t. Tell Miss Hollander, by the way, that Monteith has paid for his mistake with his life.’

  ‘I never met the man, but I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure Malory will be too.’

  ‘Yes. The sentimental Miss Hollander. An admirable woman, in her way. But it seems to me she carries too many regrets with her. And regrets aren’t helpful, are they?’

  ‘Maybe they’re inevitable.’

  ‘Some, perhaps. You’ll certainly regret rejecting my offer. If that’s what you decide to do. The secret, Max. Your father’s secret. Your secret. You can have it. You can avenge Henry and Kuroda and Jack Farngold and …’ Lemmer spread his hands. ‘You can do all you’ve dreamt of doing and more besides.’

  ‘The message you gave Malory for me, Fritz. What did you mean by it? I was born in Tokyo.’

  Lemmer smiled. ‘No. You were not.’

  ‘My birth certificate says I was.’

  ‘Certificates can be forged. Just as photographs can be faked.’

  ‘Where do you say I was born?’

  ‘I don’t. I say nothing. Until you accept my offer and send the cable and we hear that Eugen has been freed.’

  ‘What makes you think Appleby would take my word for it that the boy isn’t your son?’

  ‘He trusts you. And you will tell him Dombreux has admitted lying to you. I have rejected your demands. I have denied Eugen Hanckel is my son. And Dombreux has confirmed he isn’t. That is what you must say. Remember: I was here in Japan in May 1891, when you entered the world. I know your mother and your father. I know exactly what happened. I know everything.’

  ‘I won’t do it.’

  ‘You should. You really should. Because otherwise you’ll get nothing from me. Nichts.’

  ‘We have your son, Fritz. We have him and you’ll never see him again if you refuse to give up your spies.’

  Lemmer let his gaze dwell on Max for a moment before he responded. ‘Then I’ll never see him again,’ he said quietly.

  And Max believed he meant it.

  LEMMER’S IMPLACABILITY SHOULD have come as no surprise to Max. The man was immune to normal human frailties. The logic of what he had said niggled away at Max as he made his way through Ginza to Shimbashi station. Appleby could not have what he wanted. But Max could have what he wanted, or part of it, at any rate – the secret part that was close and personal to him. ‘You were not born in Tokyo.’ He would not give ground. But he was tempted to. And Lemmer knew it.

  Max turned into the station, bought a ticket and went up on to the southbound platform. Then he turned back abruptly, intending to retrace his steps to the crowded ticket hall. It was a ruse to flush out anyone who was following him, though somehow he did not think Lemmer would have set a tail on him.

  Then he saw her, halfway up the stairs he had just started back down. A tall, thin, narrow-faced European woman with ash-blonde hair, wearing a striped, pleated dress and a long pale coat. She was just as Malory had described her.

  ‘Herr Maxted,’ Anna Schmidt said. ‘We must talk.’

  ‘You followed me from the Kojunsha Club?’

  ‘Ja. It is important. Can we … go somewhere?’

  ‘I can’t imagine we have anything to discuss, Frau Schmidt.’

  ‘But we do.’

  ‘Did Lemmer tell you to come after me?’

  ‘Nein.’ She shook her head energetically. ‘He does not know I am here. Please. Can we talk?’

  They went to a café close to the station and
found a secluded booth. Anna Schmidt shakily lit a cigarette and ordered a large brandy with her coffee. She looked around anxiously, as if afraid they had been followed. Max noticed how breathless she was. Whatever her motives, she was acting without Lemmer’s consent, a breach of everything she had long lived and worked by.

  ‘What was the answer he gave you?’ she asked in a furtive undertone.

  ‘The answer?’

  ‘To your … demands.’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Please, Herr Maxted. Tell me.’

  ‘He won’t give up his spies, Frau Schmidt. I’m sure you realize that. He values them more highly than his son’s life.’

  ‘Mein Gott.’ She swallowed hard. ‘You met Lothar in Orkney. What did he say … about me?’

  ‘That you worship Lemmer. That you believe he can do no wrong.’

  ‘Ja.’ She nodded. ‘I believe that.’

  ‘Then why are we here? What do you want to say to me?’

  ‘I cannot bear it.’ She took a gulp of brandy. ‘It is … zu wiel.’

  Something was too much for her. But she seemed reluctant to say what it was. Instead, without another word, she took an envelope from her handbag and placed it on the table in front of Max. The flap bore the name and crest of the Imperial Hotel.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked.

  ‘Der Preis.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She did not answer. He tore the envelope open and removed the contents: several sheets of Imperial Hotel notepaper covered with writing in slanting capitals. It was a list, arranged in two columns. On the left-hand side were words of German, of no obvious meaning. On the right-hand side were names – surnames followed by Christian names. One leapt out at him immediately: GRIEVESON, NICHOLAS ARTHUR. Grieveson was Political, one of C’s senior lieutenants, exposed as a spy working for Lemmer and killed by Nadia in London to stop him revealing what he knew.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Die graue Akte.’ Anna Schmidt stared directly at Max. ‘There is no double code. There is his memory and my memory. That is all. Those are the names. Britisch. Französisch. Amerikanisch. Italienisch. Russisch. Chinesisch. Japanisch. They are all there. Every one.’

  Max could hardly believe she meant it. Yet the names were there before him. Lemmer had said the file was double-encoded to defy decipherment. But Bostridge had speculated about a further private code between Lemmer and Anna Schmidt. And here was the proof of it. They had both memorized the identities that matched the pseudonyms. Lemmer’s reference to a double code had been a blind. It was simply a list only two people could read. Until this moment.

  ‘I will give you Count Tomura’s secret when you free Eugen. You will free him, won’t you, now you have the names?’

  The bargain was as irresistible as it was incomprehensible. ‘Yes,’ said Max, awed by the significance of what she had given him. ‘We will. But … why have you done this?’

  ‘I cannot let my son die.’

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘Ja. Eugen. Lothar is not my child’s father.’

  ‘Lemmer is?’

  She bowed her head. ‘Ja.’

  ‘We were told … Eugen’s mother had killed herself.’

  ‘That was to stop anyone looking for her.’

  ‘And Lothar? He knew?’

  ‘He has known always.’ She shook her head dismally. ‘He would do anything for Eugen, even though they are not the same blood. He does not know about the school in Switzerland or the name we chose for him: Hanckel. It was to make Eugen safe when the war ended. But it did not make him safe, did it? Dombreux found out. And Dombreux told you.’

  ‘He’ll be safe now, Frau Schmidt. I promise.’

  She nodded. ‘Danke.’

  ‘His release will take a little while to arrange.’

  ‘But you will arrange it?’

  ‘Yes. I will.’

  ‘Danke schön.’ She swallowed some more brandy. ‘That is all I want.’

  Max was left with a bewildering mixture of elation and unease by his encounter with Anna Schmidt. They had agreed to meet again at the same café at the same time the following day. By then Max should have been able to settle with Appleby how, where and when Eugen was to be released. Max would also have cabled the complete list of names to C using the embassy’s cipher. Appleby had appointed new, entirely trustworthy code clerks at HQ, with standing orders to communicate incoming messages directly to C himself.

  At that point Max judged Anna could be persuaded to take the next step and reveal what Lemmer had offered to tell him about Count Tomura. But did she actually know what that was? Something in her manner made him doubt it. And she had not even mentioned the Terauchi–Zimmermann letter. He foresaw Appleby would resist taking the final step of freeing Eugen until they had everything they wanted. And Max supposed that was the rational, hard-headed way to deal with Anna Schmidt, moved though he had been by her desperation. He did not enjoy playing the role allotted to him, but he knew it served the greater good. It had to be done.

  Meanwhile, he had to supply C with the names and Appleby with the news of what had happened. Transmitting the names was the most important step of all. It was the coup de grâce in the battle with Lemmer. But precautions had to be taken. Max could not afford to act hastily.

  There was a public telephone inside Shimbashi station. He called the British Embassy from there, using the pseudonym that was now second nature to him.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Greaves,’ said Hodgson stiffly, when he answered his extension.

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Meet me at your apartment in half an hour. Make any excuse you like for leaving the office. This is all-important.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘You’ll be there?’

  ‘Er, yes. If … you think it’s necessary.’

  ‘It is. Do you have a typewriter?’

  ‘A typewriter? At home? No.’

  ‘Could you borrow one from the embassy?’

  ‘I … suppose I—’

  ‘Bring a machine with you, Cyril. And don’t be late.’

  BEFORE LEAVING SHIMBASHI station, Max telephoned Malory and told her she and Sam should sit tight for twenty-four hours. ‘The tide’s turned in our favour,’ he reported.

  ‘Has he agreed to do as we ask?’ Malory’s tone was disbelieving but hopeful.

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Max replied. ‘But I think we may win this. Just try to be patient.’

  ‘Easy for you to say.’

  ‘I know. But do your best. I’ll be in touch as soon as there’s news.’

  Max was waiting in the lobby of Uchida Apartments when Hodgson arrived, panting and perspiring. He was not accustomed to hurrying through the midday heat of Tokyo carrying a typewriter in its cumbersome case.

  Mrs Hodgson had not responded to the bell, Max explained as they went up. This did not surprise her husband. ‘Friday … is a … shopping day.’ And Max was not sorry to hear it. He preferred them to do what had to be done in her absence.

  Hodgson was initially incredulous when Max showed him the list. The number of names appalled him. ‘All these people … are traitors to their country?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Max. ‘But not for much longer.’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’

  ‘Cable the entire list to C. After we’ve made a copy. That’s what the typewriter’s for. We’ll send the cable this evening, when most of the staff will have left the embassy. Do you know which cipher clerk will be on duty?’

  ‘It’ll be … Duckett.’

  ‘Let’s hope his name’s not on the list.’

  ‘It can’t be. He’s virtually a child. No more than twenty-two or twenty-three.’

  ‘All right. We’ll see him later. Now, shall we get on with it? I’ll read. You type.’

  Hodgson made no immediate move.

  ‘Cyril?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course.’ Hodgson
sat down at his desk and rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter. ‘Fire away.’

  While Max’s dictation of names proceeded at Hodgson’s apartment, a door slid open at Sugamo prison and three prisoners were marched into a large, tatami-matted room, where a shoeless Westerner in a light suit, carrying a briefcase, was awaiting them.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ the man said. ‘My name’s Gordon Trumper. I’m with the American Embassy.’ He was a tall, thin, balding, slightly stooping fellow with glasses, a moustache and a bureaucratic air about him. ‘You’re Thomas Morahan, Grover Ward and Gazda Djabsu, right?’

  ‘We are,’ said Morahan, speaking for the others. Unshaven, unwashed and clad in dull red yukatas worn thin to the point of transparency by repeated use, they did not cut imposing figures. ‘Sorry we’re not looking at our smartest.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’ Trumper spoke in Japanese to the guards who had escorted them in and they left, closing and locking the door as they went.

  There was a low table to hunker down round, but they were content to stand and so, it appeared, was Trumper. He set down his briefcase and opened it, pulling out a notebook and some packs of cigarettes. He handed a pack to each of them.

  ‘American,’ said Ward. ‘How’d you get these?’

  ‘Consignments come in from San Francisco. We have a fixed arrangement.’

  ‘I’ll bet you do.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Djabsu, lisping slightly on account of a swollen lip, following another fracas with a fellow inmate.

  ‘D’you want to complain about your treatment at all?’ Trumper asked, flicking open the notebook.

  ‘No,’ said Morahan.

  ‘How’d you come by those bruises?’

  ‘Some of the inmates are a little pugnacious.’

  ‘They have the more bruises,’ said Djabsu.

  ‘Well, I’m here to make sure your rights aren’t being abused.’

  ‘What rights would those be, Mr Trumper?’ asked Ward.

  ‘Ah, to be fed and clothed and … not tortured.’

  ‘Then it seems we’re basking in the full enjoyment of our rights as guests of the Japanese penal system,’ said Morahan.

  ‘I could name a few worse places in Chicago,’ said Ward. ‘Though the food would be better there.’