The Trojan Horse (23 page)

Fisher rang the bell by the fireplace. ‘Well, I can help you there,' he said. ‘I've got an invitation card. I wasn't sending anyone, so there it is, if you want it. You're about my height. I can rig you out in a suit.' The door opened and a manservant appeared. ‘Light lunch for two at about one-thirty, Parkes. And put out some clothes of mine suitable for this gentleman to wear as a representative of the press. Now,' he said, as the manservant closed the door, ‘go ahead.'

Wilson's Wren Wharf is on the south side of the river, in Rotherhithe. My taxi set me down in a narrow, dusty street lined with warehouses. On a week-day, I had no doubt, the street would have been full of the movement of wagons and vans as the hand-cranes loaded the contents of the warehouses for transport. But now the cranes were folded back against the blackened brick of the buildings, which ran, uniform in height and appearance, the whole length of the street. In the bright wintry sunshine the place presented an appearance of desolation that the gleaming line of parked cars only served to accentuate.

It was just on three as I walked through the archway beneath one of the warehouses and caught my first glimpse of the
Thirlmere
, her superstructure and funnels towering over the concrete wharf. Iron-barred gates guarded the entrance to the wharf and here my pass was scrutinised. There were several policemen
standing about, but I could see no one who was likely to recognise me. I was passed through in the wake of a party of three, whom I judged by their conversation at the gates to be industrialists. All were dressed in sporting clothes – probably they had spent the morning playing golf. Dressed as I was in an old tweed suit of Fisher's, this was to my advantage, and, as I crossed the wharf, I closed the distance, so that, as I climbed the gangway to the deck of the
Thirlmere
, I was close behind them. It was well that I did so. At the head of the gangway two volunteers for Finland stood guard with fixed bayonets. They were dressed in mufti, but wore armlets. As I stepped on to the deck of the ship, my eyes, which I had kept lowered, noticed the hand of the left-hand guard as it held his rifle. Across the knuckles ran a thin white scar. For a second my heart leapt to my throat. I expected to hear the rattle of the rifle being raised and the sound of a challenge. Then I was walking along the deck in the wake of the three industrialists, who were talking audibly of Russia, and I knew that my fears had been groundless. Dressed in brown tweeds with a virulent yellow tie and a green pork-pie hat, it was hardly to be expected that a fellow who had seen me only three times in his life, and always in the sober garb of my profession, should recognise me. Besides, when I had shaved, I had left my upper lip. My beard is of the fast-growing variety, and though I had only been without a shave for just over fifty hours, my moustache was already quite a healthy one. At the same time, I
had allowed myself rather long side pieces and had acquired a pair of glasses.

The
Thirlmere
was a Norwegian ship designed specifically for the transport of locomotives and railway rolling stock. Doubtless she had been chosen for this particular job because she was a handy vessel for a difficult cargo. But I fancied there was another reason also. She had the necessary winch gear for loading and unloading under her own steam locomotives weighing many tons. If necessary, she would be able to unload the Calboyd torpedo boat at sea. I could see no sign of this boat as I came on board. But I noticed that a cradle had been rigged up at the after end of the big well deck, and presumed that the boat had still to come aboard. Flat against the poop stood the great girder to which rolling stock was slung, and beneath it, on the well deck, eight tanks were parked shoulder to shoulder, and lashed down with thick wire hawsers. They were coated thick with grease to protect them against the salt spray. About a dozen more stood on the wharf. Presumably they had been left until after the service, so that there was room to hold the ceremony in the well deck.

It was in this deep well deck that the crowd was gathering, facing for'ard towards the bridge. Before mingling with it, I glanced quickly towards the neighbouring wharf. Two black figures were seated on the base of one of the cranes and an empty rowing boat bobbed at the foot of a wooden ladder. I felt a twinge of conscience. Beyond the Percivale Banana Company's wharf the river curved away towards Limehouse
Reach, a broad expanse of sluggish water lined with empty wharves. No traffic moved and few ships were berthed along the huddled banks. Only barges jostled each other as they strained to the turning tide.

My gaze turned to the bridge of the
Thirlmere
. On it stood two clergymen in their white surplices and several frock-coated gentlemen, among whom I recognised Sir James Calboyd, a young-looking elderly man, with a very shiny top hat over his silvery hair and a rather ostentatious monocle. Directly beneath the bridge the choir stood facing us, and a little to one side an elderly man sat bowed over a harmonium. Glancing round amongst the crowd, which was a queer mixture of morning-dress and sports clothes, I caught sight of Sedel's short puffy figure. He was standing amongst a group of frock-coated individuals, but I saw that, though he was talking most of the time, his little eyes were darting here and there amongst the crowd. I moved as far away from him as I could. I fancied that if my eyes at any time met his, my disguise would be pierced at once. I had barely taken up my new position when the old man at the harmonium came to life. Then Baron Ferdinand Marburg, accompanied by the Finnish Minister, came out on to the bridge. As he reached the front of it, he removed his hat. His sleek, well-groomed hair gleamed in the sunlight. At once the buzz of conversation ceased. All eyes were fixed upon that massive, black-coated figure. Cameras clicked and the faint whirr of the news cameras could be heard. In that instant Marburg dominated the whole scene. That great head with
its thick black eyebrows and square jaw was striking enough beneath the sleek black hair. But, as ever, it was the eyes that drew the gaze of everyone. For one moment those deep-set sockets were alive, as he took in the scene before him, and then the heavy eyelids had hooded them and that powerful face might have been cut in stone for all the life that showed in it.

Then the service started. It did not take long. A stirring hymn, a few prayers for Finland, and finally the dedication. And when all the deadly cargo of that ship had been dedicated to the service of God, Marburg addressed the assembly. I cannot remember what he said. In print it would not, I fancy, seem inspired. In fact, what he said was probably quite banal. It was the man himself who held that crowd spellbound. Not because his eloquence gripped them, not because he wrung tears of pity from them on Finland's behalf, but because of the power he radiated. His great sombre voice boomed out across the bows of that ill-fated ship, even and monotonous, but with a terrible sense of the power of the speaker. I can remember only one sentence. ‘I am going to Finland myself on this ship,' he said, ‘to see how desperate things are and what must be done.' And the impression left was that the Russian forces would melt away at the speaker's arrival.

And when he had finished, there was a deathly silence. It was broken by the usual British enthusiasm for cheers. And so they cheered Baron Ferdinand Marburg on his way to Germany, and I stood there silent, wondering what the hell I was going to do about it.

Two things I had discovered since I had come on board. The first was that the volunteers were, as I had suspected, Marburg's own picked men. The second was that Marburg was sailing with the
Thirlmere
. That could only mean one of two things – either this was his planned exit, or it meant that his position was getting precarious. I hoped it was the latter, for then something might result from my visit to Fisher. Apart from using the statement I had given him as the basis for a story, he had promised to have copies made straight away. One was to be sent to the Chief Commissioner and another to the Air Minister himself. ‘If all this is true,' Fisher had said, ‘there are bound to be some loose threads somewhere. There always are in any big move of this sort. No one knows anything about it, until someone turns up to give the show away, and then all the little pieces fall into place. And the loose threads, the pieces of the jig-saw, will either be in the hands of the police or in the hands of the Intelligence.' That had seemed the best I could do. Fisher was Scot enough to be obstinate once he had got an idea into his head. I had not made the mistake of trying to plead the truth of my statement as though I needed to defend it. I had just told it simply to him and left him to judge its truth.

But as I stood on that crowded well deck, looking up at the impassive mask-like features of Marburg, I wondered whether there was not something else I could do. I felt the need for action. I felt the need to go to someone in authority – the Chief Commissioner, for instance, or a member of the Cabinet – and get
them to act. But I knew that, because I could convince a man like Fisher, it did not necessarily mean that I could convince a Cabinet minister or a policeman. Fisher was a newspaper man. In him the will to believe was there, for it was a story. But anyone in authority would be unwilling to believe something that placed upon his already overweighted shoulders further responsibility. And though I felt the need for action, I knew that it was best left to Fisher. The best I could hope for myself would be that they would believe me. Action was another matter, and would only be reluctantly taken after everything had been checked and re-checked. But Fisher, with a powerful newspaper behind him, could demand action and, because of the threat of publicity, might be able to get it. I had left him in a state of growing excitement. ‘It's terrific, Kilmartin,' he had said, as he handed me the ten pound notes I had asked for. ‘I'll get on to Sir John Keif – he's our proprietor, you know. He'll start things moving and we'll get action in no time.'

I could only hope he was right. In just over twenty-four hours the
Thirlmere
would be steaming down the Thames. It seemed short enough time in which to get action. True the
Thirlmere
would have a naval escort as far as Norwegian territorial waters. That gave them another twelve hours, or perhaps a little more, in which to make up their minds. In all they had, perhaps, a little over thirty-six hours. Even as I arrived at this conclusion, the Finnish minister closed his speech amidst tumultuous cheers and Lord Waign began to speak on behalf of the British Government.
And thirty-six hours seemed short enough. I had no illusions on the matter. The chances of Government action were remote, even though Fisher and Sir John Kelf used every endeavour to obtain at least the detention of the
Thirlmere
and an inquiry. The Government had given their blessing to this enterprise. And Marburg and his friends could pull strings. What, against these weighty considerations, was the fantastic statement of a K.C., however famous, who had first been reported dead and who, though now miraculously come to life, had nevertheless sent a ridiculous statement to the Yard only two days ago.

It was in a state of utter depression that, at the end of the ceremony, I wandered aft with the rest of the gathering. The captain, at the close of the affair, had given everyone the freedom of the decks, but had announced in broken English that, in view of the fact that this was a munitions ship, he had orders to allow no one below decks.

I found myself examining the powerful winch gear with a little sharp-featured man. His restless eyes met mine. ‘You press?' he asked. I nodded. ‘What do you think of this for a bloody silly business? Every editor in the Street is yelling his head off for pro-Finnish stuff. And now when a story with a big British angle breaks, everything is frightfully hush-hush. “MacPherson,” my news editor says to me, “there's a grand story here.” Grand story be damned! A lot of pious publicity-seeking drivel from Marburg. A lot more drivel from your Finn. And we're not allowed below decks. How the hell do they expect one to get a
good background story? I want to see for myself what they've got.'

I did not think he was being reasonable and said so. ‘You can't expect them to allow a crowd like this to wander all over the ship. But Marburg knows the value of publicity. If several of us applied to him tomorrow for permission to look round, I expect we'd get it.'

At that he gave a short laugh. ‘What the devil's the good of a permit tomorrow, when the ship sails tonight?'

We were walking round the stern of the ship and I checked in my stride. ‘Sailing tonight?' I asked.

‘Yes. Can't you see they've got steam up? All they're waiting for is the torpedo boat. I happen to understand Norwegian and I heard the captain discussing the sailing with his mate. They leave with the ebb.'

I felt a sudden void in my stomach. Why the change of plan? The answer seemed plain enough, but it brought me little joy. Things might not be going too well for them. In the circumstances they might well consider that my escape made it essential to get under way as soon as possible. But because they advanced their sailing date by twenty-four hours, it did not mean that Government action was imminent. In less than six hours the tide would be on the ebb and the
Thirlmere
would be outward bound. Within a little more than twenty hours the ship would reach Germany. I could not believe that Fisher and Keif would get Government action on a Sunday evening. And by dawn tomorrow the
Thirlmere
would be
pounding her way towards Norwegian territorial waters. By midday she would be shot of her naval escort. The void in my stomach was caused by the knowledge that if I wanted action I should have to provide it myself. I had a vivid picture of myself standing over the hold with a hand-grenade in my hand, threatening to toss it amongst the cargo of high explosives, and I was wondering whether I should ever be able to summon up the courage to drop it if my bluff were called.