Lethal Pursuit Page 3

  “As you say.”

  Barker pushed his lower lip up into his mustache and his brows settled into the quartz spectacles again. “Interesting.”

  “I’m not certain we have the same interpretation of the word,” Salisbury said. “Are you willing?”

  “Perhaps. This package might be a bit of a problem. Can you be more specific?”

  “I cannot.”

  “You must be able to say something about it. Is it alive and breathing? Tell me I am not delivering a dog of the King of Italy’s favorite child.”

  The Prime Minister grunted, whether a chuckle or sound of annoyance I could not say. “I believe I can tell you with some degree of certainty that the package is not alive.”

  “Then I accept.” He looked at me. “We do accept, do we not?”

  “Of course,” I said, knowing he had asked me out of politeness alone.

  “Done, then.”

  “I suppose I should ask about our fee,” I remarked.

  Barker looked pained. He did not like to discuss fees.

  “Our agency would not charge Her Majesty’s government for our services,” the Guv said. “It is our duty.”

  The Prime Minister was not prepared for such patriotism. He looked at Barker doubtfully, as if he were making a joke.

  “Ah,” he said. “That is very good of you.”

  “Not at all,” my employer said.

  I had read in The Times about Salisbury, one of the most pessimistic men in all London. He had such a strong belief that the world was sliding into inevitable chaos that his only work was to kill any reform bill in Parliament that might represent change or progress in any form. Even if he succeeded in all his endeavors, it would make no difference. Time stops for no man, even if he is a Conservative.

  “May I ask if either of you is Catholic?” he asked.

  “I was raised Methodist,” I told him.

  “And I am Baptist,” Barker rumbled.

  Our host scratched his balding head again. Perhaps he was thinking the Guv was not only unorthodox, he was nonconformist, as well.

  “Can’t be helped, I suppose. This may surprise you, gentlemen, but Europe is in trouble. Worse than trouble; it’s crumbling. Russia, our old enemy, is slowly falling in upon itself for internal reasons, but the Germans are smelting any metal they can find into munitions. The young Kaiser, that little popinjay, is attempting to build an army and navy to threaten ours and if possible to capture some of our colonies in Africa. He may keep them, as far as I’m concerned. Damned nuisance, these little African countries, always fighting over something, or needing money best spent elsewhere. However, we took charge of them and now we cannot give them up without appearing weak. How did we find ourselves in this situation? Someone like Burton goes out in the jungle and discovers a tribe, then plants a flag in the ground for Her Majesty, and we are expected to pay for its upkeep until it becomes a modern, prosperous country, which it never shall!”

  He coughed and frowned as if we had forced him to betray his own confidences.

  “Where was I? Africa. No, not Africa, Germany! They are an association of ancient fiefdoms and vassal states loosely welded together by Bismarck. They all appear to work in concert, but that is merely how they present themselves to the world. Each of them wants to enjoy all the benefits of being a powerful country, but they want someone else to pay for it. They’ll call themselves German if it suits them, but a Westphalian always considers himself a Westphalian.”

  “Do you think,” Barker asked, “that Drummond’s death was related to this?”

  “No doubt. I despise spy work, but how else can one find the information? Purchasing it is far less reliable. It’s a quandary, gentlemen, but then, all Europe is in a quandary these days. I have an ulcer paid for by Eastern Europe.”

  “Did you trust Drummond?”

  The Prime Minister nodded his domed head. “He was among the Foreign Office’s very best. He read history at Oxford, specializing in Eastern Europe. Learned all the languages. Wrote a brilliant paper on Chancellor Bismarck and the ramifications of unification. Apparently, he was a fine athlete, a three-quarter in rugby, and he could get on with practically everyone. The Foreign Office sent him east and found it was easier to give him his lead. Then he began sending information to us, either in letter form, or sometimes in code. It was like a treasure trove.”

  It was time to make Salisbury understand that I was not a silent partner.

  “Was there any indication that Drummond’s life was in danger or his position vulnerable?” I asked.

  “Nothing from his missives.”

  “You sound as if you knew him,” Barker said from his chair. His stiff limb was out in front of him, resting from being hurried along.

  “His father was a dean when I was chancellor at Oxford. Clever lad. He left a wife and son. The only comfort one can derive is that he died on English soil and not in some godforsaken spot like Hungary where his widow would never recover his body.”

  “Does Her Majesty know about this matter?” the Guv asked.

  Salisbury frowned. “Mr. Barker, I’m afraid that does not concern you.”

  “It might if Drummond came from Germany.”

  “You are speaking of the ties between Her Majesty and the German royal family?” Salisbury asked.

  “I am, sir.”

  “Let us attempt to keep this case from royal ears, shall we, gentlemen?”

  Salisbury pushed his chair back, bent down, and set a leather satchel on his desk. It was lumpy, stained, and scuffed. It had seen better days, but appeared to still offer good service or it would not be in use. Barker stood, as eager as a pointer.

  “May I?” he asked, reaching for the satchel. The Prime Minister looked reluctant, leaning forward so that the handle was between his hands. Finally, he leaned back enough to let Barker examine it.

  “Thomas, your notebook. Gladstone bag, approximately twelve by ten by ten. It is heavy. Three-quarters of a stone or more.”

  He raised it to his ear and listened as he moved it about. “I hear shifting. Is this package fragile?”

  “It is,” His Excellency admitted.

  “We must be careful with it, then.”

  “Please do. Do you have any questions?”

  “Several. To whom will I report?”

  “To me, of course.”

  “Not the Home Office?”

  “No. They shall not be involved in this matter.”

  “Do they know that we have the satchel?” I asked.

  Salisbury leaned forward and clasped his hands on the top of the desk. His beard wagged just over them. “No.”

  Barker and I looked at each other with the same thought: In a pig’s eye. None of the agencies mentioned had a reputation for being silent. They leaked like an old boat.

  “When shall we meet you?” Barker said, continuing his last question.

  “When the bloody package is delivered. I should think that was obvious.”

  “Your Excellency, may I not investigate this fellow’s murder, as well?”

  “We have the Foreign Office for that. They are quite keen to avenge the death of one of their own. I suppose once this package is delivered, you might aid them in the investigation, but that is a matter for them to decide.”

  Barker nodded, a trifle glumly. “What about Scotland Yard?”

  “What about them?” The Prime Minister was starting to grow impatient.

  “Were I to be arrested, for example, should I keep silent about this operation?”

  “Why would you be arrested?”

  “I have no idea,” the Guv said, “the possibility exists.”

  Something was wrong here. Barker was pestering him with questions. That was the sort of thing I did.

  “Well, don’t let it.”

  “But what if—”

  “Damn it, man! Just go about your duties. I don’t care how you do them!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then I saw one end of that thick bl
ack mustache go up just a fraction. It was the Guv’s idea of a smile, but only about five people in London knew it.

  You old devil, I thought.

  “Mr. Barker, do you know what you are about? Are you prepared for this work?”

  “I am, sir.”

  I wanted to warn the Prime Minister that this was not the way to speak to Cyrus Barker. Then I asked myself why I felt the need to protect Salisbury. He had insulted the agency. I owed him no allegiance at all.

  The Prime Minister rose with finality. “There you are, then. Good luck. Deliver it as soon as possible. I believe a train leaves for Dover in an hour.”

  Barker lifted the bag from the desk and put it under his arm like a rugby ball and we turned to leave.

  “Swithen!” Salisbury cried.

  “Here, sir!” our guide said, stepping in the door, so close that I inferred that he must have been listening.

  “Show these gentlemen out.”

  “The same way they came, sir?”

  “Yes, yes!” Salisbury said, waving all of us away with the back of his hand. He turned and reached for another folder. We had been dismissed. We were led to the pantry door again without a word.

  CHAPTER THREE

  We made our way back through the tunnel. Now that I understood that it had a beginning, a middle, and an actual end, I was not as paralyzed with fear as before. Barker clutched the satchel in his hand as if weighing it, as if trying to work out what it was, as if the bag in his hands would help him decipher why he had been given this assignment. It is difficult to know what he is thinking. Perhaps he regretted taking the assignment.

  Coming out of the house marked Q, we turned into the narrow alley that was Craig’s Court. I looked about sharply. Was anyone suspicious looking? Were there youths in blue coats around? Did anyone notice the bag in the Guv’s hand? Not so far, but we were headed toward Whitehall Street. Someone, or even a group of men, could step into the alleyway as we approached and face us, carrying anything from a dirk to a Martini-Henry rifle.

  We were up to our noses in mufflers. The wind would cease for a moment as if waiting for someone to pass, then scurry along afterward like it was late for an appointment. Barker did not notice, taking all in stride: cold, heat, tempest, or flood. Even temperamental PMs.

  Reaching the corner without danger to life and limb, we turned right and then right again into Cox and Co., Barker’s bank. The building is heated by boiler and the warm air envelops one like a blanket as one enters. We had to stop while the condensation on my employer’s spectacles dissipated. Then he turned away from the row of diligent tellers and began to ascend a wide staircase. I followed after.

  When we reached the offices of Mr. Humphrey, the manager, the Guv turned and put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Sit, Thomas. I need to speak to Mr. Humphrey privately.”

  I shrugged. He gripped the satchel tighter and a secretary took him in at once. Barker has a substantial amount in this bank so close to his offices. He also had money in a half-dozen other banks as well, but they need not know that.

  I sat in the chair and attempted not to sulk. Some partner, eh? Forced to sit and wait like a truant boy? I removed my gloves and hat, scarf, and overcoat due to the heat. The latest issue of Blackwood’s Magazine sat on a table in front of me, glossy and new. It provided no diversion. I detest Blackwood’s.

  I wondered why we’d come to Cox and Co. If the Guv was going to put the satchel in a private vault we couldn’t very well take it to Calais. But then why carry it about, risking life and limb when it could sit snug and secure in a bank until the morning.

  The wait took longer than expected. A half hour of precious time slipped away. I wondered if we would be back from Calais in time for dinner. There was still something strange about being separated from Rebecca for more than a few hours. It was like slow asphyxiation. Even then I was trying to create an excuse to see my wife before we left, in and around her social calls.

  The Guv and Mr. Humphrey came out of the office shaking hands and promising some sort of fellowship that would never happen. There was no sign of the satchel, but Barker looked pleased with events.

  “That’s sorted, then,” I said when he had finished. “Was it necessary to have me wait out here?”

  “It was,” he rumbled. “There was information discussed to which you are not privy. Also, I needed to know that anyone outside attempting to take the satchel would have to get by you first.”

  I suppose that my vanity was flattered a little, not that I would accept that as an excuse.

  “Do you think someone could be that desperate?” I asked.

  “A man is dead already. Shall we go?”

  A few minutes later, we found our chambers much as we left them. Jeremy Jenkins was sitting at his desk in the outer office, but he was listing to one side, propped on an elbow. I passed into the office proper and pulled my Webley from a drawer of my rolltop desk. I opened it, saw that it was fully loaded, and put it in the waistband of my trousers against my spine. Barker nodded and filled his British-made Colt, setting it on the glass-topped desk in front of him. We sat. Then we both sighed.

  “Was it the right decision?” I asked.

  “To lock the case in the safe? Who can say, since I haven’t fully worked out what’s inside it.”

  “Haven’t fully worked out?”

  “Don’t pester me with questions, Thomas. I need to think.” He turned toward the door of the outer office and caught Jenkins’s eye. “Jeremy, be certain you are fully armed. From now until the satchel is delivered, this office may be attacked at any moment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jenkins opened a lower drawer and lifted a dusty pistol. It was an old Adams revolver, silver, with an octagonal barrel. I’d never seen it before, and I would bet a pound to a penny it hadn’t been fired in a dog’s years.

  I was watching through the doorway. My desk was on the right as one entered; his was on the right as one exited. Now he turned and looked at me. The last he knew we had received a key, but he would not ask about the aforementioned parcel. I was to explain everything later.

  Barker was already seated behind his desk. He was scratching the flesh under his chin, which he often did when deep in thought.

  “When are we leaving for Dover, sir?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. In fact, he didn’t even verify that he had heard the question.

  We all heard the outer door open, however. We jumped from our seats and reached for our pistols. The visitor had slipped into the office so quietly, so smoothly, he was like a swimmer slipping off a ledge into a pool. He was perhaps five-and-thirty, slender, clean shaven, lank haired, and bland. He nodded at Jenkins as if he’d been in our chambers a dozen times, and we were mates, but we’d never met him. He walked past our clerk and came to a stop only when he met the heavy solidity of Barker’s desk. There, he bowed his head gravely, like an actor at curtain call. He somehow knew that Barker preferred not to shake hands.

  “Home or Foreign Office?” Barker rumbled from the depths of his chair.

  “Home,” came the reply. “Hesketh Pierce, at your service.”

  The Guv reached out a palm, offering him a chair in a way I have always considered a remnant of his days in China. Pierce sat. That is, he receded into a chair. He glanced over his shoulder and nodded and so did I.

  “So, we are to work together, then,” Pierce said.

  “To be more precise, separately, but parallel,” Barker responded. “Did you take precautions not to be seen?”

  “I did. No one saw me enter.”

  “Not even someone in the Silver Cross?”

  “I just came from there. I was waiting for you.”

  The Silver Cross was a public house on the south corner of Craig’s Court. The windows wrapped around the corner and into our alleyway, so that one can get a view from the closest chair of our door across the street.

  “We were a foregone conclusion, then,” I said.

  “Y
ou were—Mr. Llewelyn, is it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pierce. How did you come to know about our involvement? I thought it was a secret.”

  “Scotland Yard told us. Am I interrupting your work?”

  “No,” Barker replied. “How may I help you?”

  “I wanted to know; that is, I need to know what hour you shall be leaving for Dover tonight. I have to prepare my men. I considered taking the same express, but I didn’t wish to disturb your operation.”

  “That is very kind of you, Mr. Pierce.”

  “I see no reason why we should be antagonistic toward each other, especially since our association will only last a few hours. What time do you intend to leave? It might be useful to join with the crowds of workers returning to Kent at five, but there are challenges, as well.”

  Barker cleared his throat and stood. He crossed to his smoking cabinet, chose a pipe and began stuffing it with his own blend from a wooden jar. He looked over his shoulder.

  “Oh, I certainly don’t intend to start today. There is plenty of time.”

  For a moment, Pierce’s urbane mask slipped. His eyes started from his head. However, he recovered quickly. Quicker than I did.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Barker. I believe the Prime Minister asked you to take it tonight. That was what I heard he told you.”

  “He suggested it,” Barker said between puffs, the flame reflected in his quartz spectacles. “However, he told me I could handle it as I please. Did he not, Mr. Llewelyn?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  What are you up to, Barker? I thought to myself. Did you pull that caveat out of Salisbury in order to give yourself space to maneuver?

  “I think it unlikely that the Vatican is champing at the bit just yet.”

  “No,” Pierce countered, “but Monsignor Bello will be waiting.”

  “I am not particularly concerned with how the Jesuits feel. Calais is a lovely port. Let them enjoy the wine, at least.”

  Wait, what’s going on? I asked myself. The Vatican? Jesuits? Neither had come up in the conversation with the Prime Minister.

  “The satchel is safe, then?” Pierce asked, shifting in his chair and taking in the room with a casual glance that I was certain was not casual in the least.