Box searched for something pertinent to say. Kershaw remained as still as ever. He was looking slightly shamefaced and abashed, as though he had just owned up to a lapse of taste. He drew on his cigar, waiting for Box to speak.
‘One of your people?’ said Box, finding his voice at last. ‘Did you—’
Colonel Kershaw held up a hand to stem Box’s projected flow of speech.
‘No, Box, I did not dynamite a police station in order to set Grunwalski free! I could have easily arranged for his release from custody by less spectacular means. I’ve no idea who blew up the police station in Weavers’ Lane in order to get Grunwalski out. And I’ve no idea where they’ve taken him. Do you want to hear more?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Box replied. ‘I very much want to hear more.’
Box’s daily work was fraught with dangers, but there was something especially thrilling about Colonel Kershaw’s invitations to co-operate with him. This man, the head of secret intelligence, often held the whole safety of the nation in his hands. He was answerable only to the Queen, who would place the great organs of the State at his command when the need arose. And it was this man who, on certain occasions, had sought the help of Box, a mere Scotland Yard detective inspector, to be his companion on adventures that could affect the very peace and prosperity of Europe.
‘Well done, Box,’ said Kershaw. ‘I knew that I could rely upon you. If you and I have to follow the chase wherever it takes us, you can rest assured that your way will be smoothed for you at Scotland Yard. But first, let me tell you about Grunwalski.
‘Anders Grunwalski is a former officer in the Rifle Brigade, or the City of London Regiment, as it’s often called. He’s a champion shot with pistol and rifle, and with many trophies to prove it.’
‘And he’s one of your people?’
‘He is. I lured him away from Hounslow Barracks two years ago, and employed him very effectively to quell the French-inspired mutiny aboard HMS Dagmar in Portsmouth harbour. You may remember that business? The Fusiliers wanted him back after that, but I wouldn’t give him up. I kept him as one of my people.’
‘I’d no idea that you were involved in the HMS Dagmar affair,’ said Box. ‘As I recall, the mutiny was fomented by the second mate, a man called Freeman, who had forged links with the European socialist movements. When he realized that his position was hopeless, he shot himself on the bridge of the Dagmar, in full view of the mutineers, and that was the end of the mutiny.’
‘Well, that’s the effect we hoped to achieve, Box. In fact, Freeman was shot dead by Grunwalski, who was posted on the roof of one of the dockside buildings. Now, you’re to keep that to yourself, Box, do you hear? You look shocked, but there are times when these things have to be done. There was far more to that affair of the Dagmar than a mere mutiny.’
Box said nothing. He knew that preserving the safety of Britain and its peoples required a special type of patriotic duty.
‘At the age of twenty,’ Kershaw continued, ‘Grunwalski distinguished himself in the Afghan War, and was mentioned in despatches. He’s thirty-five now. He’s of Polish origin, but his family have been British subjects for generations.’
Colonel Kershaw reached into his pocket and produced a small photograph, which he handed to Box. It showed a young, clean-shaven man in military uniform, with the flame-crowned badges of the Royal Fusiliers on the collar. The stern face revealed nothing of the man himself, but Box recognized the likeness: it was the same man as the one in Superintendent Mackharness’s photograph – the terrorist on the bridge.
‘That’s Grunwalski as he really is,’ said Kershaw, ‘and in a moment I’ll tell you what he was doing on Tower Bridge last Saturday, and why he brought with him a carefully doctored and harmless bomb. But first, Box, I must give you a broader picture of what this business is about.’
Colonel Kershaw stubbed out his cigar in a Benares brass vase, and carefully unfolded a great map of Europe, which he spread out across the table.
‘Let us look for a moment at this political map of Europe, which I have brought here especially to show you. How would you describe the proportions of that map, Mr Box? Incidentally, it’s a German map, and the man who made it sees Europe through German eyes.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Box, ‘I’d say that the map-maker has shown all the major lands of Europe as being crushed up together to the west of the Continent in a dangerous kind of huddle, with Kaiser William’s Germany at its centre…. There’s France, tinted a nice pale buff, rubbing shoulders with the German Reich; and there’s Austria-Hungary, crowding up against Germany’s flank. And what’s that little country, penning Germany in to the south? Switzerland. Yes, sir, they’re all huddled together, and the German Reich in particular looks as though it might explode at any moment to find itself more living-space!’
‘Excellent, Box!’ cried Kershaw. ‘Really, you ought to have been a political strategist. You’ve read the past history of Europe in those remarks of yours – and, who knows, you may have seen the future as well. Now cast your eyes beyond the eastern borders of Germany and Austria. What do you see?’
The Empire of Russia…. A vast, seemingly boundless land, which the cartographer had tinted a sober greenish grey; a land that stretched down from the Arctic seas to the borders of the Turkish Empire. Far away to the east, at the farthest extent of its Siberian lands, its thriving modern port of Vladivostok extended beyond the landmass of China, and faced the burgeoning islands of the Empire of Japan.
‘I can see Russia, sir,’ Box replied. ‘Rather a large kind of place, isn’t it? It’s practically falling off the map at the right-hand edge. No lack of living-space there!’
‘As you say, Box, it’s a large kind of place. And if you look back again to the west, at that part of the vast expanse of green bordering on Germany, you’ll see what was once Poland, a mere name on a map – “Polen” in the German language – without boundaries or identity of its own. Poland, at this moment in history, is simply a part of Russia, and the Tsar no longer bothers to call himself King of Poland. The same depressing reality applies to Finland, and Lithuania, and other little Baltic states whose names are now almost forgotten.’
Box recalled the words of Peter Rosanski, spoken on the previous day, hours before his murder: ‘There is no such place as Poland! It’s a political fiction…. Poland is simply part of Russia, and the so-called “King of Poland” is the Tsar Alexander III. Any other view of the thing is mere romantic fantasy.’
‘Poland was a great power, once,’ Kershaw continued, ‘instrumental in driving the Turk away from the gates of Vienna. But that was centuries in the past. Just on a hundred years ago, in 1794, Prussia and Russia divided Poland between them, awarding part of it to Austria, in order to maintain the balance of power. From that moment Poland ceased to exist.’
‘I seem to remember being told at school that Napoleon did something about Poland,’ said Box.
‘He did. In 1807 Napoleon created the Grand Duchy of Warsaw, but that disappeared in 1815. Despite various abortive risings, and much bravery from the Polish remnant, the country suffered from weak and badly trained armies, which made it an easy candidate for partition. The nation of Poland no longer exists. At the present time, it is merely long-annexed parts of Russia, Prussia, and Austria. A dead land, Box, with no hope of resurrection.’
‘Very interesting, sir,’ said Box. Almost despite himself, he added, ‘Very educational.’ Colonel Kershaw smiled.
‘Yes, Mr Box,’ he said, ‘I expect you’re wondering what all this history has got to be with the business in hand. Well, let me tell you without more ado. I had a man permanently posted in the town of Memel, a place that just manages to cling on to the German shore facing the Eastern Sea. From there, it’s literally five minutes’ walk into Russia.
‘In March this year, this man of mine reported that an elusive group of Polish nationalists had come into being in Warsaw, a group dedicated to the recreation of a Polish kingdom by means of terror and coer
cion. They had found willing allies in the German city of Danzig, and in other formerly Polish towns in Russia and Austria. My man informed me that this group was assembling a team of seasoned anarchists to launch some kind of assault on an unnamed head of state that would plunge Europe into war—’
‘What would be the good of that, sir? How could a European war benefit the Poles?’
‘Well, you see, Mr Box, the “unnamed head of state” in this context could only be the Tsar, because if the Tsar was to be assassinated, and the assassins were seen to be Poles, then the Russians would send a vast punitive expedition to teach its Polish subjects a lesson. But any such massing of Russian troops so near the borders of Germany would send the Kaiser into one of his panic-rages, and very soon there would be what are euphemistically called “military exercises” in the region of Breslau and Posen. It would lead to war between Prussia and Russia – do you want me to go on? You’ve heard all this kind of thing before, when you and I were involved in the Hansa Protocol affair and its very dramatic aftermath.’
‘Please go on, sir,’ said Box. ‘You have the gift of what I call the larger vision, and it will do no harm to share part of the vision with me.’
‘Very well. And I appreciate your remarks about my vision, Box. I need at all times to see the many machinations behind the external scene in Europe, and deal with what I see in the only ways that I know. I value you for your objectivity, and your ability to see details that a man of my stamp lacks. But let me continue.
‘I say there would be a war between Russia and Prussia. Now, in 1888, the Grand Duke Nicholas of Russia visited Paris, and began there a process that has led to what they call an entente cordiale, which is, in fact, a military and economic alliance. Last year, 1893, there was a secret military convention between France and Russia, in which each country guaranteed the other’s borders. If Germany were the aggressor, the French guaranteed 1,300,000 troops to rebuff her, and Russia would throw 700,000 men into the field. So you can see, can’t you, what would happen if the Russians sent an aggressive force to the German border as a result of this Polish adventure?’
‘Yes, sir, I believe I can. Prussia would invade Russia, and then France would send her huge army to Russia’s aid. And then, I suppose—’
‘And then, you suppose, Box, that Britain would be drawn into the conflict. Well, you may be right. We’ve no open alliance with either Germany or Russia, but if it seemed that Prussia was to disappear under a pincer movement, and the balance of power in Europe destroyed, then, I think we would be forced to act.’
‘What would we do?’
‘Well, some kind of hasty alliance with Austria-Hungary would be botched up, and in we’d go. That’s what Sir Charles Napier told me last week when I visited him at the Foreign Office. As a nation, we’d gain nothing from the exercise. There would be thousands of deaths. The usual European story. When it comes to the push, Box, Europe and Britain have nothing in common. Our destiny lies elsewhere.’
‘And what would happen when the war ended?’
‘There would be a settlement, Box, in which the idea of recreating Poland as a buffer state, its borders guaranteed by the Great Powers, would be a serious possibility. In fact, the idea has been mooted in the chancelleries of Europe for the past five years. Prince Orloff – you remember Prince Orloff, the Russian Ambassador? – Orloff spoke quite enthusiastically of the idea when I saw him last month at the Queen’s Dra wing-Room.’
‘But I thought the Tsar wasn’t interested in Poland?’ said Box.
‘He isn’t, but you’re forgetting, Box, that he will have been assassinated like his father Alexander II before him: that would be the spark that ignited the power-keg of conflict. There would be a new tsar in St Petersburg, and you can be quite sure that promises of French gold and French arms would make the new tsar see sense. Russia would retain her growing friendship with France, and, to balance that, Britain might at long last forge a military and naval alliance with the Kaiser, in order, as always, to preserve the balance of power. The Kaiser would be delighted.’
‘The larger vision,’ said Box softly.
‘Yes, Box,’ said Kershaw. ‘It’s the way I have to think. Your strength, as you know, is your ability to sift through the minutiae of a situation and bring important facts to the light of day. Now, let me tell you about Grunwalski.
‘In February of this year I began to prepare Grunwalski for his mission to infiltrate this amorphous group of hotheads. I didn’t know who they were – I still don’t – but I knew that they’d be very interested in a man of Polish origin who was rapidly acquiring a reputation as a desperate anarchist. He had been furnished with a history, which included his involvement in a number of unsolved assassinations of minor figures in various regions of the Russian Empire. All fiction, of course, but fiction of a very persuasive kind. My own particular rumour mill spread his fame abroad, and stressed the fact that he was a crack shot, particularly with a pistol.’
‘Was your man in Memel part of that rumour mill?’
‘No, Box. You see, my man in Memel was stabbed to death in his house, which was then set on fire. No one was brought to book for his murder. One day, I have no doubt, his death will be avenged. Something similar happened to one of Sir Charles Napier’s people, a man called Paul Claus.
‘When I called on Napier recently, he told me that this Paul Claus, his contact in Berlin, was able to confirm that this Polish conspiracy undoubtedly existed, and that a group of people known as The Thirty were associated with them. Claus also mentioned a plan of theirs, “The Aquila Project”. That’s all anybody knows about this new threat to the peace and stability of Europe.’
‘And what happened to this Paul Claus?’
‘He was stabbed to death in Berlin on 17 May last. First my man in Memel, then Sir Charles’s man in Berlin. It’s all part of a familiar and depressing pattern.’
‘What did you do with Grunwalski when you were ready to deploy him?’
‘I caused Grunwalski to surface into his particular underworld in the middle of April. He took lodgings in Bethnal Green, and set about acquiring a reputation as a dangerous ruffian. To my intense satisfaction, he was approached almost immediately by agents of this group of potential assassins. He was very discreet, but was able to pass information to me by contacting one or two of my nobodies – you know the kind of people I mean. I knew, by the middle of May, that he was to be used to make an attempt on the Tower Bridge.’
Colonel Kershaw sighed. He looked out of the window, and began drumming on the table with his fingers, his eyes apparently fixed on the Civil Service buildings on the other side of Burlington Gardens.
‘And then, on Saturday last, Box, it all began to go wrong. Grunwalski walked into a police trap, and was taken into custody. I think it’s your turn now to tell me a few things.’
‘Sir,’ said Box, ‘when Grunwalski set up his stall in Bethnal Green, he found himself on the patch of my friend Inspector Fitzgerald of “J” Division. Mr Fitz, we call him. He saw through your man Grunwalski at once, I’m afraid. He knew he wasn’t a latter-day Fenian, and he suspected that the man rang false. And so, he—’
Box stopped speaking. Was it in order for him to betray Mr Fitz’s peculiar ways of working to Kershaw?
‘He what, man? Come, now, tell me what he did!’
‘Mr Fitz uses unorthodox ways of working, sir, ways that will get him into serious trouble one of these days. He employs a group of sneak-thieves whom he pays out of his own money to do jobs for him. The “light fantastic boys”, he calls them. It was the boys who carried out an illegal search of Grunwalski’s premises and uncovered all his written arrangements for the attempt on the bridge – diagrams, maps, notes. Mr Fitz read them, and had them put back where the boys had found them, but after Grunwalski was arrested, he brought them all to me at King James’s Rents.’
‘And what did you think of all those notes and diagrams, Box?’
‘I thought that they were signs that
there were accomplices of these anarchists in the bridge engineer’s office. Later this week, I would have asked Mr Mackharness to make enquiries. But now I see that the plans must have been provided by the engineers at your request.’
‘You’re right, Box. Did you see the drawing of the bomb? That was designed with the idea of confusing investigators as to its origin. A very eclectic kind of bomb. Did you like it? It was built at Woolwich Arsenal.’
‘Yes, sir, it was very nice. Perhaps I should tell you now exactly what took place at the bridge last Saturday, sir, though of course you already know that the bomb had been deliberately built not to explode. Let me tell you now what happened….’
After Box had finished his account of Saturday’s events, Colonel Kershaw sat in silence for what seemed like minutes. His mild face betrayed no emotion, but Box saw how his eyes gleamed with something approaching excitement.
‘Mr Fitz, you say?’ he asked at last. ‘Inspector Fitzgerald? What kind of a man is he, Box?’
‘He’s a very patriotic man, sir,’ Box replied. ‘It’s his hatred of traitors and the like that first got him to break the law in pursuing his official enquiries. He’s an expert on the Fenian outrages.’
‘Is he? Is he really? And he’s not above bending the law a little to meet his requirements? Well, well. Very interesting. I’ll bear Mr Fitz in mind.’
‘And what will you do about Grunwalski now, sir? Whatever his showing at Tower Bridge, his masters thought highly enough of him to blow up a police station in order to free him. There was something he did there that pleased them mightily.’
‘Do you know what I think happened there, Box? I think the whole attack on the bridge was a rehearsal, a rehearsal for something quite different! The bomb was never meant to go off, of course, but Grunwalski was meant to sprint like mad up the incline, drawing that pistol which I stole for him, and brandishing it in the air.’
‘A rehearsal! Well done, sir!’ cried Box. ‘And perhaps it was also a test of Grunwalski’s courage. So we may be faced with an attempt on the life of the Tsar by a solitary pistol shot—’
The Aquila Project Page 7
