Frankie's Letter (6 page)

Sir Charles looked puzzled. ‘The 28th? That's over a fortnight ago. Why didn't you let us know? We could have had you home in half the time.'

Anthony tapped his cigarette on the brass ashtray. ‘I'll tell you what Cavanaugh said before he died. Then you'll understand why I didn't warn you I was on my way.'

Sir Charles heard him out, writing down the odd note, prompting Anthony with occasional questions. When he heard of the fate of von Hagen, he looked up with a broad grin. ‘Do you know, it really is remarkable how the Prussians venerate an army uniform. How did you go on after you got on the boat at Kiel?'

Anthony returned the grin and lit another cigarette. ‘I had a talk to the captain, who was a patriotic German, thank goodness. He appreciated how it could be necessary for a German officer to get in and out of Denmark without being seen. He provided a change of clothes and kindly offered to keep my uniform for me until I could reclaim it. He understood how Korsor might be watched and how careful I had to be, as there were spies everywhere. I mean, look at that business on the quayside as we left.'

He laughed. ‘My word, I was lucky to get away with it. It really was funny, you know. I suppose poor old von Hagen managed to explain things eventually, but I'd prepared the major to believe that everything he said was a pack of lies. The only thing I was worried about was that they might send a fast boat after us but, if they did, it was too late. I left the ship near Skjelskor in the south of Zealand, got across to Copenhagen without too much trouble, and headed for home.'

Sir Charles frowned. ‘We had no word from anyone in Copenhagen.'

Anthony leaned forward. ‘That was deliberate. In light of what Cavanaugh said, I was wary of approaching anyone. I picked up some false papers in Copenhagen and came back as a passenger on a Dutch cargo boat shipping margarine and candles. It was long-winded but I was safe enough. However, it does mean I've been out of touch for a while.'

Sir Charles's eyes widened. ‘You've heard the news, though? About the
Lusitania
, I mean?'

Anthony shook his head, puzzled. ‘No. What about the
Lusitania
?'

‘It was torpedoed and sunk by a U-boat off the coast of Ireland,' said Sir Charles quietly. ‘There's thought to be well over a thousand passengers and crew dead.'

Anthony stared at him. ‘They attacked a
passenger
ship?' Sir Charles nodded. ‘But they can't do that.'

He felt sick. He'd sailed on the
Lusitania
. She was far more than just a name to him. She was a wonderful ship, a vast, elegant Cunarder who had won the Blue Ribbon for the fastest Atlantic crossing, a ship it was a delight to sail on and whose crew felt proud to be on board. He'd been in attendance on Molly Benham's father at the time and had sat beside the old man in the lounge with its ornate plasterwork under the stained-glass skylight, while families, mothers, nursemaids and well-drilled children came and went.

A little girl had jogged his arm and Anthony spilled his whisky, marking the table top. The steward had wiped it up and next morning the table had been lovingly polished so no stain remained. And now sea water covered the polish and the green curtains were a sodden mass of slimy velvet.

In a sudden, vivid moment, Anthony could virtually see the mass of pent-up water, swamping the decks, pouring down the darkened hatchways and forcing its way through the cabin doors, through to the terrified children held by their mothers. A thousand people dead.

Sir Charles looked at Anthony's shocked face. ‘Yes, they got the
Lusitania,'
he repeated quietly. He looked down at the notes he'd taken. ‘And Cavanaugh said, “There's a ship in danger. A big ship. Passengers.” He obviously knew what he was talking about.'

‘But why?' demanded Anthony in horrified disbelief. ‘It's barbaric. Those people were civilians. Why on earth did they do it? Apart from anything else, the Americans will be up in arms about it.'

‘Only if we're very lucky,' said Sir Charles, grimly. ‘There were Americans killed all right but, as I see it, President Wilson will send the Germans a stiff note and everything will be as before.'

‘But it doesn't make sense,' protested Anthony in bewilderment. ‘The
Lusitania
wasn't a threat to anyone. This sort of thing's unprecedented.'

Sir Charles raised his eyebrow. ‘Is it?' He rubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘I wish it were. You've been out of touch, Brooke, so you won't know, but the
Lusitania
is only their largest victim so far. The gloves are off, right enough. The Germans have declared unrestricted submarine warfare and no ship is safe. A hospital ship, brilliantly lit and showing the red cross, was attacked outside Le Havre in February. In March, three steamers were destroyed off the Scillies in one day. The ships were sunk but the passengers and crew were safe. They were allowed into lifeboats and then the submarine turned her guns on them.'

‘They did
what
?'

Sir Charles nodded. ‘They fired on the lifeboats. It's nothing less than murder. The list goes on. The
Falaba
was forced to stop by a German submarine. It surrendered, the ship was stationary, the crew and passengers were getting into lifeboats, when the submarine torpedoed the
Falaba.
Over a hundred people were drowned.'

Anthony felt stunned. To attack the ships, yes. That was war, but to fire on the defenceless crew and passengers was against every rule of war, the sea and humanity.

Sir Charles saw his expression. ‘Grim, isn't it? Germany's fighting a blockade and she's using fear as a weapon.' He tapped his notes. ‘Cavanaugh's warning indicates that the attack on the
Lusitania
was planned. Do you know that doesn't surprise me? The German Embassy in Washington issued a notice to the New York press that any vessel – any vessel at all – was liable to destruction. We're fighting a ruthless enemy who doesn't recognize rules.'

He pushed his chair away from the desk and walked to the window. ‘I remember you were shocked at the idea of going into Germany to gather information. I had to persuade you to break the rules, as you saw it. You didn't –' he turned and looked at Anthony ‘– think it was a pukka thing to do. How do you feel now?'

Anthony shrugged helplessly. ‘How on earth can I recall how it felt before the war? It seems a lifetime away. I still don't like it.' He avoided Sir Charles's eyes. ‘I'd far rather follow my original notion and join the Medical Corps. I don't know how much use I was in Germany but I know I'd be worth my salt in an army hospital. Besides that, it'd be a relief to be known by my own name and not be on my guard all the time. I made mistakes, Talbot, plenty of them. I covered them up, but you can only get away with it for so long.'

Sir Charles hitched himself onto the window sill and leaned against the frame. He looked at Anthony appraisingly. ‘How old are you, Brooke?'

Anthony was puzzled. ‘How old? I'm thirty-two. Why?'

Sir Charles nodded. ‘You seem older. You've been through it, haven't you? There's more grey in your hair than I remember and you look tired. But we need you, Brooke. You don't just speak the language. You can pass for a native without question.'

‘So what?' countered Anthony. ‘Yes, I'm a good mimic. You know that.' He looked at Sir Charles, willing him to understand. ‘But this is more than a game. It's horribly real. I want . . .' With a stab of shame he heard his voice crack and he forced himself to continue. ‘God knows what I want, Talbot, but there are men dying in France, men I can help. Surely that's more important than picking up crumbs of information.' Mortified, he heard his voice nearly break once more. ‘It's not worth it.'

Sir Charles walked to the sideboard, took out a bottle and two glasses and poured a small measure of whisky into both. ‘Here, drink that,' he said and waited until Anthony, wincing slightly, drank the neat spirit.

Sir Charles splashed some soda water into his whisky and sat down at the desk, looking at Anthony thoughtfully. ‘Now the immediate danger's over you're suffering from reaction, and no wonder,' he said quietly. ‘You asked if it was worth it.'

He caught Anthony's expression of dissent and held his hand up. ‘It's just beginning to dawn on everyone, politicians and people alike, exactly what we're up against. Lord Kitchener never believed the war would be over by Christmas and made no bones about saying so. We're in for a long haul and there are no short cuts to victory.' His voice grew urgent. ‘But as that sinks in, as the casualties grow and the restrictions begin to bite, there'll be cries for peace at any price. A quick fight with soldiers to cheer off onto the troopships is what the public loves. For a time it's more fun than football and cricket and people enjoy reading about distant acts of bravery in places with funny foreign names. But this?'

He walked to the desk and stood with his hands braced on the table. ‘This is different. You'll hear a lot of talk in the coming months to the effect that the government are senseless warmongers, that all we need to do is to sit down and talk nicely to the Germans with a little sweet reason and everything will be fine.'

Anthony met Sir Charles's serious eyes. ‘Wouldn't it? Look, when I think of the
Lusitania
, I want revenge too, but can't we find some common ground? There are plenty of decent Germans.'

‘I know there are, Brooke!' said Sir Charles sharply. ‘Unfortunately those aren't the ones we have to deal with. Do you remember sending us papers from a contact called Geiss?'

Anthony nodded. He hadn't been able to read the papers but he remembered Geiss, a political insider from Berlin, well enough.

‘Geiss wasn't our only source for the information but what was said was so vital that any confirmation was like gold dust. I don't have to look it up, because I'll never forget it. It was notes of what the German Chancellor, Bethmann-Hollweg proposes in the event of a German victory. We're calling it the September Programme, because the notes we've got are dated the ninth of September, at the height of the battle of the Marne. We managed to stop them but only just. Since the Marne we've been holding on with our fingernails. Bethmann-Hollweg wants control of the whole of Europe. The French, the Poles, the Italians, the Swedes will all be under German domination.'

Anthony couldn't quite believe him. ‘That's fairly comprehensive,' he said with an ironic twist in his voice. ‘What about the neutral countries? Holland and Denmark and so on? Are they going to be part of Greater Germany?'

‘Brooke, there won't
be
any neutrals if the Germans have their way. The September Programme talks about economic control for the neutrals. All of Europe will be nothing more than a puppet state.'

Sir Charles was completely serious. Anthony felt his disbelief shifting but damnit, surely all this fight-to-the-death stuff was crazy? Surely this talk of European domination couldn't be anything more than sabre-rattling. He asked the obvious question. ‘Where does that leave us? Britain, I mean?'

‘Your imagination can supply the obvious answer, but Bethmann-Hollweg dots the I's and crosses the T's. He talks about forcing France to her knees – that's his actual phrase – so that she will accept any peace Germany sees fit to offer, which means they can impose their will on England. That, too, is a direct quote. I tell you, there won't be a Britain if we don't win this war.'

Anthony shifted in irritation. ‘That's impossible.'

‘You can't see it, can you?' said Sir Charles. ‘Very few of us can imagine what it would be like to live in an occupied country.' He leaned forward, his voice urgent once more. ‘Can't you see the arrogance, the unconscious, self-assured, dangerous arrogance of that? The Germans can occupy Belgium. Why not? It's only Belgium. France? It's foreign. You expect odd things to happen in foreign countries, but occupy us? Never. This is England. That sort of thing doesn't happen here. It's been a hundred years since this country was truly affected by war and all the fighting was overseas. It's been a thousand years since we faced a real invasion and Britain, so the thinking goes, wasn't really Britain then. The Norman Conquest is tucked away in history books and is just a date for schoolboys to learn. Well, if we don't win the war, there'll be another date for schoolboys to learn.'

Anthony had to admit that Sir Charles was right. He couldn't imagine a successful invasion. ‘What about the Empire?'

‘Which Empire?' asked Sir Charles with a lift of his eyebrows. ‘The British Empire or the empire the Germans propose to carve out of Africa?
Mittleafrikanisches Kolonialreich
, they call it. If we lose the war, that's the end of Pax Britannica. We can lose, Brooke. Believe me, we can lose. The Germans are well-armed, well-disciplined, tenacious and courageous and are horribly inventive about the weapons they're prepared to use. For years they've said that a modern war would call upon every device science could provide. That was horribly proved last month. They used chlorine gas. It's a disgusting weapon. And, just to make things worse in my opinion, the thirst for revenge is so great it'll only be a matter of time before we use it too.'

‘Do you really think so?'

‘I can't see us not doing. I'd stop it if I could, but I can't. Gas is a loathsome thing, but they started it. We can't let them have the advantage. We've managed to hold them and we've managed to shake them but we haven't managed to beat them. Considering they've had conscription for years and all we've got is our regulars, we haven't done badly. For years we've managed with a small army, a contemptible little army, as the Kaiser put it. Well, that army's swelled considerably over the last few months and we need to train it, equip it and supply it. Supplying it is probably one of the hardest things of all.' He pulled out his chair and sat down at the desk once more. He looked, thought Anthony, very tired.