Shoulder the Sky (18 page)

A sane man did not kill for such a reason. But where was sanity here when a score of men could be killed in a night, for no worthwhile reason at all? Everything was exactly the same the day after, most times not a yard lost or gained. And it was all meaningless mud anyway, poisoned and violated beyond any conceivable use.

Yet looking at Cullingford's face, Judith saw the fear in his eyes was perfectly real he believed Hadrian could be guilty, and it hurt him, with grief for the fact, and fear of what it would mean in the future.

She made herself smile. "I don't think so," she said with a conviction she imitated from him, thinking of him assuring injured men, lying with supreme ease. "He's too military to do anything so rash. He'd have had to leave his own post. He wouldn't do that on the night of a raid."

He smiled back at her, forcing himself to relax as well. "No. It was a foolish thought." He picked up his glass and sipped the rough wine. "I didn't like Eldon, but his death is ... painful. I cannot return to England for some time, with things as they are. My sister, Abby, is a widow, and she is going to find this very hard."

Judith became aware of how acutely it embarrassed him to admit to such emotions. "You would like me to take some message to her?" she asked, to save him having to.

Then she was afraid she had presumed!

He looked at her with luminous candour. "Please? You know what grief is like. You could speak to her without being sentimental, which she would hate. Loss needs honesty. Nerys, my wife,

would not He stopped, unable to finish the sentence without committing a betrayal. "She does not know a great deal of the reality of war." His hand fiddled with the small salt spoon on the table. "There is no need to harrow people with details of violence and suffering they cannot help. And certainly not of.. . of your brother's suspicions. It would add ... to Abby's pain. She needs to think of Eldon as what he might have become, not what he was."

His words were very spare, but she saw in them an outline of loneliness. What part of his life did he share with Nerys if he could not tell her of the horror he saw, the fear, the overwhelming physical discomfort of the trenches; or the jokes, the friendship, the sacrifice and the sheer kindness as well? Now, of all times, what was there left of meaning in the trivia of life, the things that floated past the windows of the soul, but never touched the inner being, pictures without substance?

"Of course I'll go and see Mrs. Prentice," Judith said quickly. "I can tell her as much or as little as you like. I can say I met him several times, and that he was dedicated to his job, and brave enough to do it without fear for his own safety. I can tell her what it is like here or conceal it, as you think best."

"Thank you." He broke a piece of bread off in his fingers and ate it slowly. He looked at her with intense gravity. "I shall leave it to your judgement what you say to her. I ... I haven't seen her much lately. I .. ." he gave a shrug so slight his shoulders did not even pull his uniform. "I should have given her more time, especially after Allen died." He made no excuses.

"I can go the day after tomorrow," Judith offered. "If you give me the address and perhaps a letter to explain to her who I am, so she does not think I am simply intruding."

"Of course."

She thought he wanted to say more, but he was uncomfortable enough with asking her for help, and he was torn between loyalties. Everyone felt guilty for disliking the dead, especially when they were young, and the grief for them was something you ought to share, and couldn't.

"Thank you," he said softly. "It will make a difference to her."

They finished the meal without speaking again, but the silence was companionable, as if understanding made further words redundant.

Matthew closed the door behind him and looked at the four men sitting round the long, polished table. One of them was his own superior at the Secret Intelligence Service, Calder Shearing; another was the head of British Naval Intelligence, Admiral "Blinker' Hall, white-haired, fresh-faced, with the nervous habit that had given him his nickname. The third was Brand, a man with receding brown hair and nondescript features, an assistant to Hall.

The fourth man was dark-eyed, dark-haired, of medium height, and at present he looked so tired his skin had a withered," almost parchment-like quality, shadowed around the sockets of his eyes and pinched near his mouth. The humour that was usually so clear in his expression was gone, as if stripped from him by shock.

"Come in, Reavley," Shearing directed. "Sit down. You know everyone here."

"Good morning, sir," Matthew answered, acknowledging Admiral Hall. He glanced around the table. "Kittredge not here yet?" The answer was obvious, but he was looking for an explanation. He looked again at the dark man with the ravaged face. He was wearing civilian clothing, a shirt that looked crumpled and an old Harris tweed jacket, too warm for the time of year.

"Kittredge is not coming," Shearing told him. "This is a closed meeting."

Matthew was startled. Kittredge was one of three other men recruited to the SIS at the beginning of the war as a cryptographer. Before that he had been an academic at Cambridge. Language and codes were his specialties. Matthew took his seat in the place indicated, and waited for them to begin. He knew what he was here for: the fourth man, Ivor Chetwin, had just returned from Mexico. The United States and its neighbours were Matthew's field of responsibility in SIS.

Of course Shearing did not know that Ivor Chetwin had once been a close friend of John Reavley, until profound differences over the morality of espionage work had divided them. It had driven John Reavley into the dislike and distrust of all intelligence work that had lasted until the evening he had telephoned Matthew to tell him of the Peacemaker's document given him by Reisenburg. He had been murdered the next day. It was only Chetwin's brilliance at gaining information, and his undoubted personal courage, that made it bearable to Matthew that they should work together.

Admiral Hall seemed to be in charge of the meeting. He was courteous to Shearing, but he deferred to no one. At the beginning of the war, on the night of 5 August 1914, Britain had sent out a ship that had picked up the transatlantic telephone cable, so all communication between Europe and America since then had had to be made by radio. Germany routed its messages to its diplomatic staff in the United States and Mexico through various neutral countries, particularly Sweden. Naturally it used code.

That code had been captured by British Naval Intelligence, and the fact that it had been broken was one of the most closely guarded secrets. Any action based solely upon information gained that way would betray to the Germans that their diplomatic exchanges were known, and the code would instantly be changed. All its value to Britain would be lost. Secrecy was vital. The German assumption that their codes could never be broken also helped.

"The situation," Hall prompted Chetwin.

"Even worse than the reports," Chetwin replied, his voice gravelly with exhaustion from weeks of fitful sleep, poor food, constant harassment moving from place to place, only a step ahead of suspicion and arrest. "The whole of Mexico is in chaos," he went on. He spoke slowly, almost without emotion, as if it were exhausted in him. "Zapata and Pancho Villa have gone crazy. They're dancing in the presidential palace like so many apes. They have no control over anything. Armed men roam the countryside looting and killing. They steal cattle, grain, horses, anything that can be moved. Bodies swing from the trees like rotten fruit."

No one interrupted him.

He ran his hand, neat and strong, over his brow. "There's nothing left to eat. Villages have been razed to the ground, roads and bridges have been torn up. There's death everywhere, like a pall over the earth. The cities are crawling with typhus and black pox, and there are more firing squads than queues for food."

"The Germans?" Hall reminded him.

Chetwin sighed. "Pouring in guns and money."

They all knew what that meant. If the Mexican armies crossed the Rio Grande the United States would mobilize all its forces to defend itself. There would be nothing left of men, munitions or passion to consider what was happening in the rest of the world.

"How close?" Shearing asked.

Chetwin shook his head. "Not close enough," he answered the question they had not asked. "I told Washington everything I could, short of giving them our decoded messages. They've got explanations for half of it, and don't believe the rest. Nothing will persuade them that Germany is seriously behind the arming of Mexico, or the projected building of a Japanese naval base on their Pacific coast."

Shearing pursed his lips. You know the Kaiser, Chetwin. Is he serious about the Yellow Peril, or is it just one of his ramblings?"

Hall jerked his head round. "You know the Kaiser? Personally?"

"Yes, sir," Chetwin replied. "I spent a little time in the court in Berlin, before the war."

Did Matthew imagine it, or was there a faint, quite different discomfort in Chetwin as he answered? Something in his eyes had changed. His looks were no longer direct in exactly the same way, as though he were guarding an emotion, something in which he felt a vulnerability.

Matthew watched more closely, his attention personal as well as professional. Chetwin had been John Reavley's friend, and, in a sense, enemy also. Unquestionably he had known him well. If he had been in the court in Berlin, not only had he apparently known the Kaiser himself, he could have known Reisenburg. He was a man of acute intelligence and profound political knowledge, and possibly had a personal connection to the British royal family as well. John Reavley had believed him willing to use any methods,

ethical or otherwise, in order to obtain the ends he believed in. That was the cause of their original quarrel.

The possibilities careering through Matthew's head made his stomach lurch as if he might be sick. He couldn't say anything. Dare he trust Shearing? Who else could he turn to for help? Hall would think him a lunatic. All he would achieve would be the loss of his own job, not only crippling him so he had no access to information with which to prove the Peacemaker's identity, or to block his future plans, but even to prevent any good he could do in his work with America. That was a measure of the Peacemaker's brilliance: his enemies were isolated from each other by distrust.

Hall and Chetwin were talking about the Kaiser, his personality, his erratic mixture of desire to be liked by his cousins King George V of Britain and Tsar Nicholas of Russia, and his terror of being surrounded by enemies who intended war against his country. He veered between intimate, almost passionate friendship, and then outraged attack.

"I've no idea whether he will do it," Chetwin was considering. "Seems since he got rid of Chancellor Bismarck he's about as predictable as the English summer. Last year was sublime, but I've seen snow in June."

Matthew listened as Chetwin told the rest of what he had seen, recounting his discoveries in Washington as well, but all the time his mind was racing over the possibilities of Chetwin's own complicity in German plans to have Mexico invade the United States, in the promise of regaining their old territories in the south-west, the reward for keeping America out of the European War.

If Chetwin were the Peacemaker, then Germany already knew that British Intelligence had their code. Perhaps all the information gained was doubly compromised. What if it were the most magnificent double bluff in the history of espionage? It was not impossible. The uses of such a deceit were almost endless. Nothing they believed now was real!

As soon as the interview was over Matthew was obliged to return to his own office and reconsider all his information in this light. Most of the ammunition used by Britain was purchased from America, all of it, of necessity, coming by sea. Sabotage was rife, loss to submarine warfare was a growing threat.

It was late afternoon before he could make an opportunity to speak alone to Kittredge.

"I've heard Chetwin's report from Mexico," he said casually, stopping by Kittredge's desk. "It's as bad as we thought, possibly worse."

Kittredge looked up from the sheets of paper he was studying. He was thin and dark, in his early thirties, a man from the Peak District of Derbyshire, used to wild hills and the steep-streeted villages in his childhood, then the sudden intellectual liberties of university. He had not lost the keen edge of idealism, nor the richness of his provincial accent.

"What do you know about Chetwin?" Matthew asked.

"Don't you trust him?" Kittredge looked surprised.

"Of course I trust his honesty, or we couldn't use him," Matthew replied. "I'd like a second view on his judgement."

Kittredge considered for a moment or two before replying. "Well, of course he speaks fluent German, but you know that or you wouldn't have sent him into Mexico posing as a German. Did you know that before the war he was engaged to a German girl? Countess or princess, or something."

Matthew guarded his surprise. "No. I imagine Shearing knew, but he didn't mention it to me. Why didn't he marry her?"

"Sad business," Kittredge replied. "She died. Fever, or something. Don't know exactly what. He was very cut up about it. Beautiful girl, apparently. In her early twenties."

"But Chetwin must be nearly fifty!"

Kittredge shrugged. "What difference does that make? He's very well connected. One of his sisters is very beautiful, married to some descendant of Queen Victoria, and they all get along very well. And, of course, at his age has proved his capacity to make a career and earn the respect of his countrymen. Without the war, he could have run for Parliament, or found a pretty decent job in the diplomatic service. Anyway, he was the one she wanted. It was a match of passion on both sides, and her family were quite agreeable. He got along very well at the court in Berlin. He has great wit and charm, you know, and he's a marvelous raconteur." He smiled a little self-consciously "They say the Irish have the gift of the gab, and can charm the birds out of the trees, but I've yet to see anyone beat the Welsh. And for all his sophistication at times, Chetwin's heart is in the valleys of Wales. The music of his own language is always there."