Dorchester Terrace (27 page)

Blantyre sighed. “I suppose you sleep better, for whatever that is worth? But I’d rather not spend my entire life emotionally asleep, however intellectually absorbing my pursuits.”

Pitt watched silently as the steward poured more of the dark Burgundy into their cut-crystal glasses; the light burned red through them.

“But this is not why I asked you to come,” Blantyre said, his face emptying of all pleasure. “Events seem to have taken a new turn. A man named Erich Staum has been seen in Dover, apparently working as a road sweeper.” He stopped, watching Pitt closely. “He is known to certain political authorities in Vienna as an assassin of unusual skill and imagination.”

To give himself time to think, Pitt sipped more wine. It was extremely good, a quality he was totally unused to. Perhaps it would have been familiar to Narraway.

“I suppose you are sure about this?” he asked with a smile, looking at the wine in his glass.

“There is doubt,” Blantyre admitted. “But very slight. He has a
face that is not easy to forget, especially his eyes. The man in question was dressed in ill-fitting and dirty clothes, with a broom in his hands; but if one imagines him upright and shorn of the submissiveness, he is too like Staum to ignore the probability. He has used the guise of a railway porter before, and also a hansom cab driver, and a postman.”

“I see,” Pitt said quietly. Dustmen pushed carts with their equipment, and collected rubbish. No one gave them a second glance. It was the perfect disguise to carry explosives. People take no notice of a road sweeper, not to mention his cart. “Why Duke Alois?” he asked, looking up at Blantyre again. “We still have not answered that.”

“Staum is for hire.” Blantyre shook his head very slightly, barely a movement at all. “Anarchists don’t always select victims for any reason. But you know that better than I do.”

His hands clenched on his knife and fork. “Things are getting worse, Pitt, more dangerous every year. Violent socialism is rising, national borders are moving around like the tide. There seems to be unrest everywhere and wild ideas and philosophies multiplying like rabbits. I admit, I am afraid for the future.” There was no melodrama in his voice, just a foreboding and the darkness of real fear. It shadowed his face, making his features pinched, more ascetic.

Because Pitt respected him, he felt the weight of his responsibility settle even more heavily on him.

“We’ll protect Duke Alois, regardless of whoever’s after him, and whatever the reason,” he said grimly.

Blantyre let out a sigh. “I know. I know.” He reached out and poured the rest of the Burgundy into their glasses. He did not offer a toast.

P
ITT HAD NO DIFFICULTY
reaching the Foreign Secretary. Clearly Salisbury had been as good as his word. However, as far as canceling Duke Alois’s visit, nothing had changed.

“I’m sorry,” the Foreign Secretary said grimly. “It would be quite impossible to cancel the visit now. Such a thing would signal to all Europe that Britain cannot guarantee the safety of a member of a foreign royal family visiting our own monarch.” His voice became
even sharper. “It would be a flag of surrender to every predator in the world. Surely you see that it cannot even be considered?”

Reluctantly, Pitt had to agree. He could imagine with horrible clarity the results that would follow.

“Yes, sir, I do see,” he said quietly. “I would very much like to know who is behind this. I will not let it go until I do.”

I
T WAS LATE AND
Pitt was tired, but he felt that he must speak with Narraway; however, he was torn, because to do so was a kind of yielding, an admission that he needed advice. He hesitated even as he walked along the cold street, his breath making wispy trails in the air.

But not to speak with him was to set his own vanity above the lives of the men and women who would be killed if there really was a train crash. Not to mention the all-but-crippling damage to the service to which he was sworn.

He reached Narraway’s door with no indecision left, and when the manservant let him in, he accepted the offer of supper and hot tea. Blantyre’s wine at luncheon had been more than he was used to.

“Any progress on Serafina Montserrat’s death?” he asked Narraway as they sat by the fire, Pitt leaning toward it, warming his hands after the cold walk.

“Not yet,” Narraway answered. “But you didn’t come just to ask me that.”

Pitt sighed and sat back in the chair. “No,” he conceded. “No, it is something rather bigger than that.”

“Pitt, stop beating around the bush,” Narraway ordered.

Briefly Pitt told him what he feared about a possible rail crash and what Blantyre had said at lunchtime about Duke Alois’s visit.

“If it’s Staum,” Narraway said quietly, “then there’s a lot of money involved. He has no loyalty to anyone, and he is expensive. If he has ever failed, we don’t know about it.” He thought for a few more moments in silence, staring at the fire.

Pitt waited.

“Staum has no loyalties, no interests,” Narraway said at last. “A
rail crash, with all the civilian casualties, is very extreme. Even anarchists are not usually so indiscriminate; this could kill scores of people.”

“I know.”

“Either the target is someone so well guarded they cannot reach him any other way—but that profile doesn’t fit Duke Alois at all—or else it is a decoy.”

“I’ve thought of that!” Pitt said more sharply than he had intended. It was not anger speaking but fear.

“Any rumor of something else that might be happening, however slight?” Narraway asked. “What else is vulnerable?”

Pitt gave him a thorough update on every issuse, even the most trivial and seemingly irrelevant. They were all issues going back to Narraway’s own time as head of the Branch, so there could be no question of confidences broken.

“Who else is traveling with the duke?” Narraway asked when he had considered them all and come up with nothing.

“No one who seems important,” Pitt replied, feeling the sense of helplessness twist even more tightly inside him. “And time is short. We have little more than a week before he comes.”

Narraway sighed. “Then my best guess is that the rail crash is a diversion, because the assassination will happen before they ever reach the train. Staum will get Duke Alois somewhere in the streets of Dover. He won’t know that we have anyone who can recognize him.”

“That’s true. In fact, how did Blantyre recognize him, do you think?” Pitt asked.

“Austrian connection, I presume,” Narraway replied. “Staum has committed a few assassinations in Europe, but never here before, so far as we know.”

“Blantyre could be wrong,” Pitt said.

“Of course he could. Are you willing to take that risk?”

“No. We don’t have enough men to guard all the streets in Dover, especially if it means drawing them back from the points and the signals.”

“Which they are counting on,” Narraway agreed.

“If they blow up the main street of Dover, they’ll kill scores of people, and they might still miss Duke Alois—”

“They won’t,” Narraway cut across him. “They’ll cause a diversion at the last moment, an overflowing drain, an overturned cart, anything to force him to go down a side street, or else stand around as a stationary target while they clear the way. In those situations you must keep moving. Have several alternative routes. Never allow yourself to be cut off and have to stop.” Narraway’s face was deeply lined, almost haggard in the firelight. “You haven’t much time, Pitt.”

“Find out who killed Serafina, and why,” Pitt urged.

“You really think that what she was afraid of telling someone had to do with this? She was rambling …”

“Do you know of a better reason someone is willing to go to this length to kill Duke Alois?” Pitt asked. “Or someone else in his retinue?”

“I think he could be incidental, just the excuse,” Narraway reminded him, his voice gravelly with weariness and the tension of knowledge and fear. “Special Branch is important, Pitt. It’s our defense against all kinds of violence from slow treason to anarchy that kills in minutes. If I wanted to cripple England, I would try to get rid of Special Branch first. And if I can think of that, so can others.”

“I know.” Pitt stood up slowly, surprised how his muscles ached from clenching them. “I’ll start again tomorrow morning.”

E
ARLY THE NEXT DAY
at Lisson Grove, Pitt and Stoker went over every detail of Alois’s visit from the time he stepped aboard the steamer at Calais until he boarded it again at Dover to leave.

The office was warm, the fire beginning to burn well in the clear air after the sluggishness of rain, but there was no ease in the room.

“He’ll be bringing just four men with him,” Stoker said, pointing to Calais on the map spread across Pitt’s desk.

“What do we know about them?” Pitt asked.

“All part of his family’s regular household retainers,” Stoker replied. “As far as we can tell. Nothing we can find that would make them vulnerable to betrayal. None of them gambles or has debts out of the ordinary, no love affairs with anyone of suspicious background or politics. No one drinks more than average, which is pretty high.” He pulled his face into an expression of distaste. Pitt had no idea whether it was for what he imagined these men in particular to be like, or for foreigners in general.

“They’re just what you’d expect of hangers-on of a minor royal duke,” Stoker went on. “Decent enough, in their own way, I expect.” He looked up from the map to meet Pitt’s eyes, but his own were unreadable.

“Competent to guard him from an attack?” Pitt asked.

Stoker shrugged. “Can’t say, because they’ve never had to. Honestly, sir, he’s not somebody anyone would bother to attack. Are we going to put someone in with them?”

“Yes. It’ll need to be someone who speaks German, if possible.”

“He speaks good English,” Stoker replied.

“Good. But we need to understand what they say to each other as well,” Pitt pointed out.

“We’ve got Beck, sir, and Holbein. They’re both pretty good.”

“We’ll use them,” Pitt agreed.

Stoker raised his eyebrows. “Both?”

“Yes, both. We can’t afford to fail, you know that.”

Stoker stiffened. “Yes, sir. Whatever happens to the Duke, it bloody well won’t happen while he’s in England!” He bent to the map again, intense concentration in his face. “The ferry leaves Calais at nine in the morning, weather permitting. It should arrive in Dover at noon. He’ll be the first to disembark. He has a special carriage set apart for his use.” He looked up at Pitt. “What about this man Staum, sir? Are we sure it’s him? How do we know it isn’t someone who just looks a bit like him? His face can’t be that memorable, or he’d have been caught by now.”

“No, we’re not certain it’s him,” Pitt conceded. “But using such a man makes more sense than creating a train crash that kills scores of people.”

“Depends what this person, or people, hope to gain,” Stoker said bitterly. “Anarchists don’t usually make that much sense. That’s why they’re so damn difficult to predict.”

“I know. And people who don’t care whether they are caught always have a kind of advantage over those who do. But I don’t envy them. Who the hell wants to have nothing worth living for?”

“I can’t imagine what that’s like.” Stoker shook his head, his expression puzzled and sad. “I suppose that’s why we find them so hard to catch. We just don’t understand them. What about this duke, sir? Do you think he’s going to do pretty much what we tell him? Or will he want to show everyone how brave he is, and behave like a fool?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “I’m still trying to find out more about him, and the rest of his men.”

Stoker swore gently and colorfully, under his breath.

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Pitt agreed, surprised at the width of Stoker’s imagination.

Stoker colored. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be.” Pitt smiled briefly. “I am thinking much the same, but I can’t put it as concisely as you do! Your vocabulary makes me think you spent some time in the navy, but I didn’t see it on your record, at least not the one they showed me.”

“No, sir.” Stoker was clearly uncomfortable. “It was … not quite official …” He stopped, lost for an explanation.

“Learn anything?” Pitt asked.

“Yes, sir, quite a lot.” He stood still, waiting for the rest of the interrogation.

“Then it wasn’t time wasted,” Pitt answered. He was determined to ask Narraway one day what Stoker’s story was. It would be wise to know, but it did not matter now.

“Sir—” Stoker began.

“Doesn’t matter,” Pitt cut him off.

“Sir … I was going to say that if you want me to go to Dover and travel on the train with Duke Alois, I’ll do that.”

“You don’t have to,” Pitt replied. “It’ll be dangerous.”

“Aren’t you going?” Stoker challenged.

“Yes, I am.”

“Then I’m coming too, sir. Anyway, I could use the bit of extra pay.” He smiled slightly.

“Really?” Pitt spoke lightly. “Saving for something, are you?”

“Yes, sir.” Stoker straightened his shoulders a little. “I want to buy a cello, sir.”

Pitt could think of no possible answer to that, but he felt inordinately pleased.