The activity at the base spoke volumes: a doubling of the guard; platoons of sepoys deploying to defensive positions; and lorry-loads of troops mobilising in a haze of exhaust smoke. We ignored them all and headed for Admin Block 6.
‘They’re putting the fort under lockdown,’ I said. ‘Dawson must have brought the prince back here.’
‘Looks like we arrived just in time,’ said Surrender-not. ‘Two minutes later and we might not have made it through the gate.’
I slammed on the brakes outside Section H’s office and jumped out. The entrance was barred by a gorilla in uniform, holding a rifle with a nasty-looking bayonet affixed to it.
‘We’ve been ordered to report to Major Dawson,’ I said, shoving my warrant card in his face. ‘It’s critical we speak to him.’
He shook a tree trunk of a neck. ‘Not possible, sir. We have orders. No one in or out.’
I didn’t have time to discuss the matter civilly.
‘Listen to me, son,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever seen Major Dawson in one of his rages, but believe me, it’s not a pretty sight. He’s expecting to hear from me in the next five minutes, and if he doesn’t he’s going to be furious, and he’s going to want to know why. Now unless you’d like to spend the rest of your military service cleaning latrines, I suggest you let me and my colleague pass.’
Once I’d explained it to him, it didn’t take him long to realise the wisdom of acceding to my wishes. He stood aside and, with a nod of his head, gestured to the stairwell inside, but by then, Surrender-not and I were already past him.
Taking the stairs two at a time, we made it to the second floor and along the corridor to the large office that housed Section H. Dawson was inside, pipe in hand, surrounded by three of his men and poring over a map laid out on a desk.
‘Where’s the prince?’
Dawson looked up. ‘Wyndham?’ he said in exasperation. ‘You’re like the proverbial bad penny –’ but before he could continue, an explosion rattled the windows of the room.
I rushed to the window as an air-raid siren began to wail. A plume of greyish smoke was rising from a building nearby and soon came the sort of screams that I’d last heard on a battlefield in France.
Dawson was beside me.
‘Mustard gas,’ I said. ‘The devices he set off in town were smoke bombs. These are the real thing. Gurung’s after the prince.’
Dawson’s pipe fell to the floor. He shook his head, unwilling, or unable, to accept the facts.
‘But how? How did he get in?’
‘There’s no time for that,’ I said. ‘Right now we need to get to the prince.’
‘He’s in the senior officers’ apartments. One of the buildings near the St George’s Gate,’ said Dawson as we raced down the stairs and out of the building. I jumped into the car as Dawson made for the passenger seat.
‘We’ll need gas masks,’ I said, as Surrender-not and Dawson’s man, Allenby, sat in the rear.
Dawson pointed the way. ‘The stores are located near St Patrick’s Chapel.’
It didn’t take long to confirm that this was the real thing. The scene resembled a battleground. A squad of men in gas masks stretchered one poor sepoy, his eyes covered with makeshift bandages and his shirt open to the navel, revealing the most horrendous purple burns. Writhing in paroxysms of pain, his cries carried over to us till they were drowned by distance and the droning of the siren. We passed others, the walking wounded, being led away by their comrades towards a line of trucks which then sped off, I presumed to the fort’s infirmary.
A mass of troops jostled outside the equipment store as a harassed-looking lieutenant tried to impose some order. Beside him, a sergeant and his men were busy setting up a distribution system. Dawson and Allenby jumped out and made for the head of the queue, returning with five gas masks – one for each of us, and one for the prince. As they hopped back in there was a second explosion. I looked to Dawson.
He handed me a gas mask. ‘That came from the direction of the officers’ quarters,’ he said.
‘Gurung’s figured out where the prince is,’ I said.
The good news, if there was any, was that he was only a few minutes ahead of us. I put on the gas mask and pointed the car in the direction of the explosion.
We drove into white mist, a thick fog of poisonous gas, past men, some already burned, fleeing the other way.
It was difficult to communicate with the gas masks on, and I relied on Dawson pointing out the direction he wanted me to take. He held up a hand and ordered me to stop outside a nondescript three-storey building. We got out and ran towards the entrance. Two men lay prostrate at the open doorway. Surrender-not bent down beside one of them and checked for a pulse, then touched a hand to the chest of one of them. He looked up, then raised a hand with bloodstained fingers.
The guards had been shot. I drew my revolver, as did Dawson and Allenby. Surrender-not picked up the rifle of one of the dead sentries and followed us in. Not much of the gas had penetrated past the doorway, and once through the hallway, Dawson removed his mask.
‘How did he manage to shoot the sentries?’ he asked. ‘They’d been warned not to let any Gurkhas near the building.’
‘He’d have been wearing a gas mask,’ I said. ‘They wouldn’t have known he was a Gurkha.’
Dawson shook his head. ‘They were my men. They would have challenged him as soon as he approached.’
‘The inquest can wait,’ I said. ‘Now, where’s the prince?’
‘Top floor,’ he said, pointing to the stairs.
A shot rang out and the plasterwork behind my head exploded into a hail of splinters. The shot had come from the top of the stairs.
The four of us scattered, taking what cover we could. Another shot rang out and I tried to locate the gunman.
‘It looks like we’ve found our man,’ I shouted to Dawson. ‘Is there another way up?’
‘Two more stairwells,’ he said. ‘One at either end of the building.’
‘You and Allenby take one of them. Get up there and secure the prince’s quarters,’ I said. ‘We’ll deal with Gurung.’
The Section H men rushed off along the corridor and I turned to Surrender-not. The sergeant had taken shelter behind a doorway. ‘You think you can keep him occupied?’
Surrender-not’s response took the form of a shot fired up the stairs towards the first-floor landing.
‘Good,’ I said, as Gurung let off another volley in reply. I prepared to rise from my crouched position. ‘Get ready to give me some covering fire.’
Surrender-not shot back at him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to outflank him,’ I said. ‘Ready?’
Surrender-not nodded, then fired two shots. I sprinted from my position to the corridor which would take me to the stairwell at the opposite end of the building from the one Dawson and Allenby had made for. Gurung saw me and fired, the bullet crashing into the wall behind me.
I made it to the corridor and ran. Doors on either side lay open, the rooms deserted. Behind me came the sound of more gunfire. I reached the door at the end and burst through to the stairwell, then raced up to the first floor.
I gently pushed open the door on the landing, which I hoped led to a corridor that would take me back to the central stairwell where Gurung was holding out. Peering round, I spotted him, rifle in hand, lying flat on his stomach and taking potshots at Surrender-not downstairs.
I crept slowly into the corridor with my gun drawn, and hoping that Gurung was too occupied to notice, I made it to the first open door. I entered the room, and from the relative safety of the doorway stuck my head back out into the corridor. Gurung, still prostrate, was no more than thirty yards away.
Taking a breath, I raised my revolver and stepped out into the corridor.
‘Drop your gun, Gurung!’ I shouted.
The Gurkha swivelled round, and in one fluid motion turned onto his side and pointed his rifle at me. I fired before he could pull the trigger, hitting him in the leg. Stunned, he cried out in pain, then regained his composure and fired back at me. I ducked back into the doorway as he fired another shot, splintering the door jamb. But before he could do much else, a shot rang out from the lower floor.
I leaned into the corridor and fired, hitting nothing but air. Leaving a smeared trail of blood behind him, Gurung was dragging himself across the floor, making for one of the rooms. I fired another shot. This one found its mark, hitting him in the chest. The rifle fell from his grasp. I walked up and, with my revolver trained on his head, kicked his weapon away. He was still alive – just. Over the sound of his ragged breathing, I called out to Surrender-not who came running up the stairs.
‘See what you can do for him,’ I said. ‘I’m going to find Dawson.’
Two shots rang out on the second floor, then another.
Surrender-not and I turned to each other in horror.
Gurung tried to speak. ‘You’re too late,’ he rasped, then coughed blood.
The stairwell began to spin and a black dread began to form in the pit of my stomach. If Gurung was here, why the gunshots upstairs?
‘Stay here,’ I shouted as I made once more for the stairs. ‘And keep him alive!’
The second-floor landing looked like a battlefield. Three men, all in uniform, lay dead. Two had had their throats slit. The third lay face down, his back despoiled by multiple stab wounds. Stepping over the bodies, I headed in the direction from which the gunshots had come. It wasn’t hard to find the prince’s room. Two sentries lay dead on the floor and beside them sat Allenby with a hole in his head.
Inside the room, someone was talking. It wasn’t a conversation, just a rambling monologue.
With my revolver raised, I stepped into the open doorway. Dawson was lying wounded and unconscious on a sofa, but that was the least of my worries. In front of me stood a uniformed British officer holding a gun to the head of the kneeling prince. His cheeks were wet and it looked like he was trying to explain something to his prisoner. The prince though didn’t seem to be listening. His face glistened with sweat and he looked shell-shocked: like a man unable to grasp what was happening to him.
Involuntarily I took a step back as I realised I recognised the officer. I’d seen him that morning, mainly through a pair of binoculars.
‘McGuire?’ I said, not quite believing what I was seeing.
He snapped out of his soliloquy and turned towards me, his eyes red and half mad.
‘Don’t come any closer, Wyndham. I’m warning you, I’ll kill him.’
I didn’t doubt his sincerity.
‘Put the gun down, Colonel,’ I said calmly. ‘We can sort this out.’
He gave an odd laugh. ‘It’s a tad late for that, don’t you think?’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘The same reason as Gurung – poison gas took my son as it did his. I watched his son die in agony – in my hospital – burned beyond recognition. Killed by experiments carried out under my watch. I’ve relived that death a thousand times since. Have you ever seen a boy die from mustard gas exposure, Wyndham? My own boy must have suffered the same way. Someone has to pay for that.’
‘You’ve had your revenge,’ I said. ‘Dunlop, and the others, they’re all dead. No one else needs to die.’
‘Revenge? Do you know what it is to lose a son? Do you think the king does? Of course not!’ He shook the prince by the scruff of his neck. ‘This little bastard didn’t even go to the Front. He was too precious to risk! But it was OK for my boy to serve and to die. And in whose name do you think butchers like Dunlop create their wretched weapons? It’s all done for king and country! Well, the king’s going to feel my pain – a father’s pain.’
The man was unhinged; destroyed by his grief. He wasn’t going to release the prince. Not while he had an ounce of strength left in his body. I tightened the grip on my revolver. Wrapped my finger round the trigger.
He noticed the tensing of my arms and took a step to one side, revealing a metal cylinder with an improvised trigger mechanism at one end attached to a cord. It was the final missing canister.
I’d spend a long time reliving his next actions, analysing them to see if there was something I could have done, but the truth is, he had a gun to the head of the Prince of Wales and I didn’t stand a chance. In one swift motion he pulled on the cord, then swung his revolver from the prince’s head to his own and fired. The cylinder ruptured with a crack as McGuire’s lifeless body hit the floor. A wisp of yellowish smoke began to seep out, infiltrating the room.
Instinctively I rushed forward. Wrenching a heavy curtain from its hooks, I threw it over the canister, then grabbed the prince who was doubled over, coughing, and hauled him out of the room.
‘Are you all right, Your Highness?’ I asked.
The prince continued to cough, but looked up and nodded.
Leaving him there, I took a deep breath and ran back in, this time to rescue Dawson. My lungs began to ache as I dragged the wounded spymaster into the hallway before turning and shutting the door.
The major had lost a lot of blood. ‘Help me get him down the stairs,’ I said to the prince, and between us, we carried him down to the first-floor landing where Surrender-not was still seeing to Gurung’s wounds.
The next few minutes passed in a blur and my memory became a mere tableau of images: helping the Prince of Wales with his gas mask; putting on my own; driving him to the nearest checkpoint; sending a detachment of men in gas masks and a medical unit back to the officers’ quarters. An hour later it was all over bar the shouting.
Surrender-not and I were held for questioning. Not in the dungeon Dawson had placed me in two days earlier, but in a nice, walnut-panelled office with thick carpets and a picture of the king-emperor on the wall. Surrender-not was held in a waiting room while a very pleasant chap called Smith with neatly parted hair and a well-pressed suit questioned me rather affably for longer than seemed necessary, given that we were on the same side. A debrief he called it, not that there was much I could tell him, seeing as I was still trying to make sense of it myself. I told them that the best person to ask would be Rifleman Lacchiman Gurung, who, the last time I’d seen him, was still alive, and who, according to Surrender-not, had been taken under guard to the infirmary five minutes after Major Dawson. In the end, the debrief became more of a warning. A message delivered in no uncertain terms that Surrender-not and I weren’t to discuss what had transpired with anyone, not even each other.
‘Is there anything we can do for you, Captain?’ asked Smith, bringing our conversation to an end.
‘I’d like to question Rifleman Gurung as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘He’s wanted in connection with a series of murders in Calcutta and Barrackpore.’
Smith did his best not to laugh in my face, which was nice of him, then stood up and walked to the door. ‘I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible, Captain,’ he said, opening it. It was my cue to leave. ‘All those matters will be dealt with by Section H.’