The Aquila Project (8 page)

‘Maybe she will, Pat,’ Box replied, ‘but then again, maybe she’ll wear them this winter, and not catch pneumonia. You’ve got to do
something
for people like Kitty Fisher.’ The sergeant shook his head doubtfully, and left the office.

Colonel Kershaw needed to see the contents of Kitty’s parcel that very day. He felt in the inner pocket of his jacket, and brought out the spill of paper that he had taken unbidden from Colonel Kershaw’s cigar case when he had met him at Burlington House. He unrolled it, and read what was written upon it.

He placed the slip of paper carefully on the glowing coals in the grate, and watched it curl, and then fly up the chimney in a little flurry of sparks.

Palace Hill Reservoir occupied a 400-acre site on high ground a few miles beyond Hampstead. Arnold Box found himself in what appeared to be an immense wilderness of flatland, clothed here and there with plantations of pine and larch, in the midst of which lay a vast artificial lake of water, diverted in channels from the nearby River Mead.

Box presented himself at the door of a fine redbrick pumping station, where he was received by an elderly, bewhiskered man wearing an Afghan Campaign medal on his uniform tunic. Box introduced himself.

‘Mr Box?’ said the uniformed man, ‘You’re expected, sir.’ He opened a door at the rear of his dim office, and motioned to the inspector to follow him.

They climbed an iron staircase which brought them out on to a railed embankment following the left-hand side of the reservoir. Although it was a hot July day, a stiff breeze blew across the water, sending a thousand ripples scurrying across to the opposite bank.

‘Do you see that tall, narrow building down there, Mr Box, rising up from the lip of this embankment?’ said the elderly man. ‘You’ll find him in there. He’s waiting for you.’

Without another word, the man turned round and walked slowly back to the main pumping station. Box set off to walk the quarter of a mile along the walkway to Colonel Kershaw’s meeting-place.

Box found the colonel in a light and spacious office occupying the first floor of the tower. He was standing at one of a range of tall windows looking out across the reservoir. He turned as Box entered the room, and without preamble asked him a question.

‘What news have you brought me?’

For answer, Box produced the little parcel that Kitty Fisher had given to him, adding a few words of explanation as to its
provenance
.

‘Well done, Box!’ cried Kershaw, after he had opened the parcel and spread its contents on the office table. ‘At last, word from Grunwalski. I told you, didn’t I, that I had given him your name? He must be quite desperate to have written to me. He knows our rule about communicating by word of mouth only. Have you read it?’

‘Only enough to ascertain what it was, sir. Then I brought it straight to you.’

‘Well, sit down there, and the two of us shall read it together. Thank goodness that little girl had the sense to do as she was bid.’

Colonel Kershaw put the note down on the table, and relapsed into thought. Box waited, content to gaze around the room, noting the array of burnished brass valves and dials fixed to the walls. Presently, Kershaw spoke.

‘I suppose, Box,’ he said, ‘that these people are part of The Thirty – the fanatics who have ambitions for an independent Poland. Whatever they intend to do with Grunwalski’s aid will be directed against Russia and the Tsar. So, when the time is ripe, we must follow them, isolate them, and render them harmless.’

‘Because of the Balance of Power?’ Box hazarded.

‘Yes, broadly speaking. This is not the time for any deliberate upsetting of the uneasy amity between the great nations of Europe. There are ramifications, Box. If anything happens to the Tsar, and Russia acts as I suggested, rushing troops across the Polish territory towards the borders of Germany, any resultant conflict will wake other sleeping monsters further east.’

‘You mean—’

‘I’m thinking of threats to India, Box, if we came into any conflict at this time on Prussia’s side – as we
would
do. That would be inevitable. India’s borders are inviolable and beyond negotiation, but Russia would defy us if we openly sided with Prussia. Yes; I could see more than just the possibility of a massive conflict. There are other factors, too; things that Sir Charles Napier will know more about than I do. And then, again, there’s Grunwalski….’

Kershaw shifted restlessly in his chair. He picked up the note, and immediately threw it down again on the table with something like disgust.

‘“Do not try to rescue me”, he writes. Have you ever
encountered
a police officer whose devotion to duty was something akin to fanaticism? Well, Grunwalski was always like that. I don’t
suppose he has any great love for Russia, and he might take it into his head to espouse the cause of his captors. Still, it’s too early for me to be making judgements yet about the man.’

‘What will you do, sir?’

‘I shall communicate with Sir Charles Napier immediately, as this matter of Grunwalski is of direct concern to his Foreign Office intelligence regime. This town – Polanska Gory – is quite unknown to me, Box, but Napier will know about it. I expect he’ll be able to see us tomorrow – I take it that you want to come?

‘Yes, sir,’ Box replied, ‘I’ll be there.’

Sir Charles Napier chose to receive his visitors sitting behind his vast mahogany desk in his room at the Foreign Office. A number of books and papers lay where his secretary had deposited them half an hour earlier. The books had neat slips of paper inserted to mark various pages. Neat comments in red ink adorned the papers, all of them printed documents in English, German and Russian.

Napier stole a glance at Colonel Kershaw, who was standing at the window, apparently absorbed in the antics of a group of
children
disporting themselves beside the lake in St James’s Park. Wily old fox! He’d lost one of his precious agents, and here he was, asking for professional help in finding him!

‘This Grunwalski,’ he said, with the suspicion of an amused drawl in his voice, ‘is he some kind of mercenary, or one of your own people?’

‘He’s no mercenary, Napier, I can assure you of that.’ Kershaw moved away from the window, and sat down near the Under Secretary’s desk. ‘I plucked him out of his regiment to perform certain tasks – very dangerous tasks – which he did to my complete satisfaction. Well, maybe not complete, but near enough.’

‘And this man Grunwalski will soon be on his way to Polanska Gory? Well, that’s something of great significance, don’t you think?’

‘No, I
don’t
think, because I know nothing of Polanska Gory, as you well know! So come now, Napier, tell us all about it. Mr Box and I are all ears.’

‘Polanska Gory, Kershaw, is a modest but exclusive spa town, not so very far from Lublin, on the way to Chelm. It was founded by Catherine the Great, who claimed that its mineral springs were beneficial to her health. Very soon, therefore, the boyars found that it was very beneficial to
their
health also, and they paid ritual visits to the place in the summer. That is the origin of Polanska Gory. This book, which I have procured for you, gives a succinct history of the spa, and contains a number of fine engravings.’

Napier pushed one of the volumes across his desk towards Kershaw. ‘It’s in Russian. You read Russian, I think?’

Colonel Kershaw smiled, but refused to rise to Napier’s bait. ‘The engravings are very nice,’ he said, glancing briefly at the book. ‘What else have you got to tell us?’

‘Just this. The Tsar’s kinsman, the Grand Duke George Constantine, has built a villa at Polanska Gory, and the Tsar has taken to visiting it privately several times a year. Tsar Alexander is not in good health, and he finds the spa waters as beneficial as did his ancestress, Catherine the Great. I say private visits, but this month he is to make a formal visit to the town, scheduled for Saturday, 21 July, in our calendar.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Kershaw.

‘I asked the Second Secretary at the Russian Embassy to give me sight of the Tsar’s engagement book, and he was only too happy to oblige. I gave him the kind of reason for wanting to see it that diplomats can easily concoct, and that other diplomats pretend to believe. And do you know why the Tsar’s making a formal visit? It’s to open a new bridge across the River Gor.’

It was pleasant to sit back and watch Kershaw’s stunned
reaction
to his statement. In their continuing battle of wits, he, Napier, was to have the upper hand that morning. He picked up one of the
documents annotated in red ink, and handed it to Kershaw, at the same time motioning to Box to come over to the table.

‘There it is, gentlemen,’ said Napier, ‘the Catherine Bridge, which the Tsar will formally open on the 21 July. That picture is the architect’s engraving. And here, in this folder, I’ve obtained some photographs of the bridge taken during its construction. As you can see, it’s a modest, elegant construction, with fine balustrades bearing cast-iron lamp standards. But look below the bridge. What do you see?’

Box and Kershaw examined the photographs, while Napier, his teasing of Kershaw finished, watched them. Had they seen the stone inclines leading to what looked like store rooms built under the new bridge, and half hidden by vegetation? Tsar Alexander and Empress Dagmar would cross that bridge in an open carriage….

Arnold Box recalled the frantic figure of Anders Grunwalski sprinting up the incline to the Tower Bridge from the boiler rooms, as though all the devils in hell were behind him. At the moment when the Prince of Wales’s carriage had crossed on to the bridge, Grunwalski had brandished a pistol. Was he being spirited away from England to this obscure Polish town to do the same thing, but to more deadly effect?

‘Well done, Napier,’ said Colonel Kershaw quietly. ‘You’ve excelled yourself with this morning’s piece of work. Grunwalski’s antics on Tower Bridge were merely a rehearsal for what is to take place on the twenty-first at Polanska Gory. He has been hired to assassinate the Tsar by pistol, possibly during the diversionary exploding of a bomb. The twenty-first – that’s just over a fortnight away.’

‘Exactly,’ Napier replied. ‘Your man Grunwalski is in the clutches of The Thirty, who have now embarked upon what they guardedly refer to as The Aquila Project, which I believe is nothing less than the assassination of Tsar Alexander III. I have suspected as much since May, when I was in Berlin, and I have already alerted the Russian authorities to the danger.’