Women of Courage (52 page)

‘Companeeeee! Prepare to salute! Preeezent ... arms!’

A cloud of rooks rose, flustered, from a treetop four fields away. Nearer at hand, as it had to, the head of the young British Army captain turned right to see what was happening.

He was being paid a compliment. The entire company, fifty men of the Ulster Volunteer Force, were saluting him in the traditional style of the British Army. Charles, Sergeant Cullen, and his half-dozen officers all had their right hands raised to their caps. The men in the ranks stood, ramrod-straight, one foot behind the other, with their rifles held vertically, directly in front of them.

Brand-new, totally illegal, German rifles. Better than the ones the British soldiers had. Held out, straight in front of them, in a position no one could possibly pretend to ignore.

As a salute. A loyal gesture of respect.

Charles could not quite keep the smile from his face. He guessed that there were probably several other smiles in the ranks behind him, as well.

He watched the young British Army captain. What do you do now, boy? he asked him silently.

For a moment the young man looked away, and Charles thought: by God, the puppy, he’s going to ignore us! If he does that, the brat, I’ll march behind him, all the way down the road to Ballygowan, and arrest him at the crossroads!

But the habit of military courtesy prevailed. The young man was, after all, being saluted not only by a force vastly superior to his own, but by a commander wearing the cap of a Colonel. The order came ringing back over the hedge.

‘Platoon! Eye-es . . .
right!’

The order was slightly superfluous. All the British Army soldiers were already gazing to their right, but now they had permission to do it. In the traditional response to the salute, they marched past the saluting UVF men, their eyes looking rigidly at them over their right shoulder, the young Captain with his hand raised stiffly to the peak of his cap in salute.

In Charles’s left hand, he felt the white handkerchief crushed firmly in his fist. Fifty yards away, hidden in the ditch, his three best marksmen watched the scene, grinning to themselves over the sights of their guns. One of them could just see the young captain’s eyes, tiny black dots at this distance, over the foresight at the tip of his barrel.

25

T
HE LOUNGE of the Imperial Hotel was comfortable, warm, extensive. An ample coal fire blazed in an impressive grate, surrounded by a fireplace of pink and grey marble. On the walls, solemn portraits of city dignitaries alternated with pictures of railways, docks, and shipyards. The room was full of armchairs and chesterfields, screened from each other by luxuriant potted palms and aspidistras. Waiters flitted discreetly between them, ministering to small groups of earnest businessmen and gossiping wives.

Werner sat in an armchair in a corner by the window, where he could look out into the street and keep an eye on anyone who came in through the main entrance. A newspaper lay unread on the low table in front of him, a cigarette smouldered in his left hand. A thin smile crossed his lips as he watched the solid citizens of Belfast moving and chattering between the potted plants, like beasts in a jungle. I am like a hunter here, he thought, hidden in the foliage, waiting for the perfect shot.

He flicked his ash into the ashtray, blew a smoke ring, and watched.

A young man entered the lounge.

He was very slim, in blue blazer and flannels, with a straw hat in his hand. His brown hair was cut fashionably short, and his profile, as he glanced around the room, was classically beautiful. Broad forehead, regular aquiline features, smooth rosy skin. He moved through the room with casual grace, like an athlete, a gazelle amongst hippopotami. At last he saw Werner, strolled towards him, and sat down on the sofa opposite.

‘I couldn’t see you. Were you hiding?’

‘No.’ Werner took a long drag at his cigarette, exhaled, smiled. ‘Just watching.’

His manner, the long slow look from the unsettlingly cold blue eyes, irritated Simon Fletcher. He looked away, out of the window, to reassure himself that no one had followed him here. ‘Well, I hope it amuses you.’

‘Oh, it does.’ It was the first time Werner had seen Simon in civilian clothes. Close to, he noticed that the blazer was slightly threadbare around the cuffs and elbows, the straw boater faded. This relieved him. He didn’t want Simon becoming too wealthy; too independent. ‘Would you like coffee?’

‘Why not?’

Werner raised his hand to beckon the waiter and order. While they waited, he said: ‘Our last interview was very useful. I was much praised for my articles in the
Neue Zuricher Zeitung
. My editor is coming to regard me as something of expert on Ulster affairs.’

‘How nice.’ Simon lounged back comfortably in the sofa raised an eyebrow ironically. ‘That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? But then, I expect these things seem a little different from the perspective of Zurich.’

‘Of course. Most of my readers are satisfied with a very superficial understanding. But for my own self-respect, I like to maintain higher standards. I need to know more.’

The waiter arrived and put a tray with silver pot and cups on the table between them. Werner paid, bent to pour the coffee carefully with his left hand, then put the pot down and passed the cup to Simon with the same hand. Simon made no move to help him. As the young man took the cup Werner noticed him gazing contemptuously at his damaged right hand, the one he could never use for such delicate operations.

Simon sipped his coffee and smiled, looking perfectly relaxed, perfectly at ease, casually aware of his own good looks. He said: ‘I could tell you more, of course, if you like. If the pay was right.’

Werner finished pouring his own coffee, balanced it carefully beside him on the left-hand arm of his chair. ‘The pay would be the same as before. The newspaper is quite happy with that.’

‘I might need more.’

Simon let the words hang in the air between them, and watched a flicker of surprise cross the other man’s face.

Werner felt a surge of anger, fuelling the contempt which he had felt ever since he had met this young man. But he controlled it, quickly. Simon Fletcher was the most useful informant he had found so far in Ulster. For the past two months they had been meeting regularly in different places, always with a straightforward, mutually profitable exchange of information for money. As ADC to one of the leading UVF commanders, Simon had access to and understanding of some of the most important plans of the organisation. As a talented young man of poor background with no moral principles, he was prepared to sell some of this information for money. On condition that it was published in Switzerland, attributed to no one, and shorn of certain precise details which might give the informant away.

Those were terms which Werner could happily comply with, since the most crucial details of Simon’s information were not intended for publication at all. Instead, they went straight into the reports which Werner wrote for von Falkenhayn in Berlin. Any extra money Simon received would come straight out of the coffers of the German Chancellery.

I suppose they can afford it, Werner thought. The only question is, how much this smooth-faced little whore deserves.

The vital thing that Simon Fletcher did not know was how Werner had worked out that he would be a useful informant in the first place. Simon had no idea that Werner had known Charles Cavendish at school. And even less idea what that schoolboy relationship had been like.

Werner smiled and said: ‘Why more, Simon?’

‘It’s becoming difficult. We’re better organised now, better armed and equipped. There are more people around all the time, more checks on everything, more security. It’s quite possible the government will move against us any day, so we have to be careful. And if anyone was to think I was a police spy . . .’

He left the sentence in the air, but he did not shudder or look frightened at the prospect. Werner had the impression it was just something the boy said, for bargaining purposes only. There’s real steel at the heart of this boy’s selfishness, he thought. He’ll take care of himself if he has to.

‘All right, then. How much more?’

‘Fifty pounds.’

Twice as much as before. Werner thought. More than half a year’s wages for a dock labourer, as this boy’s father had been. He frowned. ‘That would depend on whether you could tell me what I want to know.’

‘Which is?’

A middle-aged lady and three young girls settled themselves noisily into the chairs and sofas immediately behind Simon, and for a moment Werner did not answer. But there was a screen of thick-leaved foliage between the back of Simon’s head and the young women, and when they were busy with the waiter Werner leaned forward and said quietly: ‘I need to know about Sir Edward Carson.’

Simon looked surprised. ‘What about him, exactly?’

‘Well . . .’ Werner hesitated. I’ll try and do this as a journalist first, he thought, but if it doesn’t work, there’s always the other. This is the time to use what I know, if I have to. It’s safer if he still thinks I’m a journalist, though. ‘Carson was over here in Ulster shortly before the gun-running, wasn’t he? I saw him making speeches. And your unit was guarding him.’

‘Some of the time, yes. So?’

‘Well, as you say, it’s quite possible the government could attack you at any time. Or even arrest Carson. You must have thought of that.’

‘Of course. That’s why we guard him.’

‘Quite. Well, my editor would like an article on that. The security aspect and so on. How exactly you organise it, how many men are involved at each stage, where he sleeps, what you think the major risks are, that sort of thing. It would be an interesting article to read; it would make clear to everyone what an important man Sir Edward Carson is, and how seriously you people take things.’

Simon frowned, thinking. ‘Well, I suppose I could tell you in general terms . . .’

Werner shook his head. ‘No, you don’t understand. In general terms I could write it myself, already. Any journalist could. To make it authentic I need to know the exact details of his next trip to Ulster — dates, times, the units involved, everything. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t publish it until the day after his trip was over, to safeguard you. But I need to have accurate details in the first place. That’s what would really give colour to the article, make all the difference. It would help my career. After all, it’s only going to be published in Switzerland. None of your colleagues are ever going to read it.’

Simon hesitated. The girls behind him looked at the plate of cakes the waiter had brought, and one exclaimed: ‘Ooh, Mummy, you shouldn’t!’

Simon said: ‘I don’t know. I think the best thing would be if I told you everything about how we guarded Carson last time he was here, before the gun-running. That would give you colour all right but there would be no risk to us.’

‘No.’ Werner stubbed his cigarette out decisively in the ashtray. ‘That’s no good at all. You don’t understand the newspaper business. If I tell my editor what happened last month it’s no use to him at all — it goes straight in the bin. It’s only today’s news, or better still, what’s going to happen
tomorrow
that he wants to know. It’s got to be Carson’s next trip or nothing.’ He took out a notebook. ‘I imagine there will be a round of speeches soon to celebrate the safe landing of the guns. When is he coming over from London?’

‘This Saturday, I think.’ Simon hesitated, watching Werner write it down.

‘Good. Where, what time?’

‘I don’t know. I’d have to check. You know these things have to be secret.’

‘If it wasn’t secret, I wouldn’t have to ask you.’

‘I know.’ Simon sat very still for a moment, his soft hazel eyes fixed on Werner’s. There was a slight flush on his cheeks. Don’t try to pretend you’ve got principles now, boy, Werner thought. It’s too late.

Simon said: ‘I don’t think I can tell you that. It’s too risky.’

‘Think of the money, Simon. I might even pay more than you ask.’

It was the wrong thing to say. A tight, hard look came across the young man’s face, and Werner glimpsed for the first time the cruel little guttersnipe hiding behind the perfect features. And mixed with the cruelty, suspicion and cunning. It was a look he had seen on the faces of boys at Eton, long ago.

‘I don’t believe you want this for a newspaper article at all, do you? You’re in the police, aren’t you? Either that or a German spy.’

So the journalist idea has failed, Werner thought. He said, coolly: ‘And if I am?’

‘It would have to be a lot more money.’

‘I can pay.’

The two men stared at each other in silence, recognising the change in relationship. One of the girls behind Simon said: ‘You meet such interesting people here, don’t you, Muriel? That’s why I come.’

Keep him here, whatever you do, Werner thought. If he gets up to go now you’ve lost him. He said, carefully: ‘I always wondered how a young man like you could fit in with the Orange movement.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Simon stared at him, his voice low and urgent with tension. ‘
Are
you a spy or not?’

‘Sssssh.’ Werner put his finger to his lips, nodding significantly in the direction of the young ladies a few feet away behind the potted plants. ‘Never mind who I am for the moment. I’ll tell you that in a minute when you’ve answered my question. Don’t worry, I’m not insulted.’

Werner’s coolness, the odd menacing light of amusement which flickered in his eyes, disconcerted Simon. ‘Answered what question, exactly?’

‘How an intelligent young man like you can work and survive in a military organisation dominated by a fundamental religious movement, the Ulster Presbyterian Church.’

‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything. I go to church like other people. Anyway, the Orangemen are just cannon fodder, rank and file. They provide the bodies and the organisation, and industrialists provide the money. But the UVF is actually run by professional soldiers, aristocracy. Men of the upper crust. Mostly Anglicans, actually.’