The train was stretched out on the Oakland quay, ready to leave. The weather had cleared again overnight, and the sunlight sparkling on the waters of the bay almost offset the chill of the wind. McColl’s compartment was towards the rear, his three fellow-sharers already in occupation. A dark-haired man with a long and bushy moustache introduced himself as William Pearson, and a younger replica as his son Gabriel. ‘Pearson and Son,’ he added, as if to stress that business came before family. The third man was a young naval officer named Bragg, who offered McColl the choice of upper or lower bunk. Unsure of how much nocturnal rambling his trip would entail, McColl opted for the latter.
He had caught a glimpse of Caitlin on the railroad ferry, wearing her rose-coloured scarf and hat, and had started walking towards her. She had noticed him and quickly shaken her head, adding a slight tilt of explanation in the direction of her companion. Father Meagher, resplendent in long black cassock and biretta, was too busy arguing with a railroad official to have noticed McColl, and she obviously liked it that way. He felt a pang at being spurned, but knew he was being ridiculous. Doubtless she had her reasons.
Once his suitcase was safely wedged under the lower bunk, he moved back into the corridor to watch their departure. A shrill blast of the locomotive’s whistle and the train clanked into motion, pulling away from the quay but keeping to the edge of the bay. Two battleships were anchored close to shore, reminding him of the morning he had fled Tsingtau.
He walked forward in search of the club car, found it still empty, and took possession of a leather armchair facing west across the bay. After ordering a beer from the steward he noticed a fan of newspapers on a table at the end of the car, and went to choose one. As he returned with an ancient dog-eared copy of the London Times the steward arrived with his drink, and proudly pointed out the electric reading lights which hung above each chair.
He read through the paper, occasionally pausing to return a new arrival’s greeting or admire the changing view of the bay. In recent months he had acquired the habit of scanning a newspaper for signs of change in the international weather, but on this occasion nothing leapt out at him – no reports of bloodthirsty speeches or frontier incidents or suspicious war games. The Kaiser obviously hadn’t wedged his foot in his mouth in recent weeks, and the Balkans seemed as quiet as the Balkans could be. It might be the lull before the storm, but maybe the governments that mattered had finally begun to see some sense.
The one story that did draw his attention concerned fellow spies. A British husband and wife had been arrested in possession of ‘documents relating to the Navy’. Who they were spying for was not mentioned, but the woman had been caught heading for Brussels and a meeting with someone called Petersen. The police had discovered as much after laboriously reconstructing a note which she had torn to shreds in one of their vehicles. Why no one had stopped her was not explained.
The moral of the story, McColl decided, was burn or memorise.
By the time he’d finished the paper, the train had reached the Carquinez Strait, and was being divided for loading aboard what the railroad company proudly proclaimed the ‘largest ferry boat in the world’. The Solano was certainly enormous, with two towering chimneys flanking the paddlewheel, and four tracks running the length of the vessel to hold the segmented train. The strait was about a mile wide, and the crossing itself took much less time than the manoeuvres which preceded and followed it.
The train together again, their journey resumed. McColl took lunch in the buffet car, then walked back down to the observation car at the rear. All the seats were occupied, but one opened up as he stood looking in, and he gratefully took possession. The upholstered armchairs, like their leather cousins in the club car, all faced inwards, which seemed a strange decision, in that observation had to be conducted through the gaps between those sitting opposite. But the arrangement did have the added advantage of preventing an approach from behind, which, in view of his recent experiences, McColl found somewhat comforting. As did the fact that all the babbling voices sounded distinctly American.
He wondered if the Germans would persist in their efforts to kill him. There seemed no reason why they shouldn’t; spies weren’t like grouse – there was no official season for bumping them off. The Germans could just keep trying until they succeeded, which was rather a chilling thought.
Then again, there had to be some sort of limit – surely he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life evading the Kaiser’s minions. Perhaps Cumming could arrange some sort of deal, offer to abandon an ongoing British vendetta, if such an animal existed. Cumming would have to do something about McColl’s predicament, if only to show he could protect his agents. In the meantime, McColl would have to be careful.
It was still a nice day, the sun accentuating the rich colours of the Sacramento Valley. Soon after two they reached the state capital, where a second locomotive was added for the long climb ahead. As the line ascended the valley of the American, the river itself receded beneath them, until only a silver ribbon was visible, at least a thousand feet below. A white blanket now covered the slopes, and as the light began to fade the train drummed its way through a series of snow sheds and tunnels.
The novelty had clearly worn off, and the observation car had almost emptied out, leaving only McColl and two old women at the other end. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts turn, as they often had in the last couple of days, to what Fairholme had said about the perils inherent in continuing his romance with Caitlin.
The man had meant well. More to the point, he was probably right.
But so what? McColl had never known anyone like her, and very much doubted he ever would again. Given that, he had no intention of simply throwing in the towel. A love affair with an Irish radical and a career with the British Secret Service might not be compatible in the longer term, but for a few weeks more? If this turned out to be nothing more than a glorious interlude, then he didn’t want to lose his career as well. And if by some miracle it lasted, then perhaps by another they might make it work. Because when all was said and done, there was no real conflict of interest. They didn’t even disagree about Ireland, not in a fundamental way.
He knew that keeping his work a secret was a form of lying. But he thought the man she liked was the man he really was – he couldn’t imagine her having this sort of affair with an ordinary automobile salesman. Deep down – unconsciously, as Freud would say – some part of her knew that he was more than he seemed.
He asked himself who he was kidding, and the answer was no one. But he still wouldn’t choose between her and the Service.
It really was dark now, and time to show himself. Dinner was already being served, and after eating he lingered over coffee and liqueur in hope of seeing her. He’d almost given up when she finally appeared, with Father Meagher in close attendance. This time the priest did notice him, and seemed visibly irritated when Caitlin stopped to wish him good evening. En route to the toilet a few minutes later, she contrived to slip him a piece of paper, which he read outside in the vestibule: ‘Car 4, Compartment 5, 11 o’clock. Knock ever so quietly.’
Three hours later he was outside the door, rapping it softly as she had requested. She appeared with a finger across her lips, beckoned him into the compartment, and pointed towards the en-suite dressing room. Once inside it, she closed the door behind them, put her arms round his neck, and gave him a passionate kiss. ‘He’s in the suite next door. That way,’ she added, ‘on the other side of my stateroom – sorry, that’s a nautical term, isn’t it? But you know what I mean. And this room seems to be next door to my other neighbour’s dressing room, so Father Meagher’s bedroom must be next to mine. Either we drag the mattress in here or we’ll have to make love in ghostly silence.’
As he loosened the cord of her dressing gown, slid a hand inside, and kissed her again, the train roared its way through another short tunnel. ‘I think we can afford a few creaking bedsprings,’ he said.
They did creak, but not alarmingly so, and some time after they’d spent their passion McColl was surprised to hear other springs vibrating through the wall. ‘I told you so,’ she whispered gleefully.
He eventually put his clothes back on in the dressing room, and they stood hand in hand by the window, looking out at the moonlit fields of snow. ‘Father Meagher is taking me to breakfast at eight o’clock,’ she said. ‘Arrive a few minutes later, and I’ll invite you to join us. He won’t refuse. As far as he knows I met you in China, and you helped me out with some translation work, both there and on the ship. Tell him you’ve a wife and children at home, and how much you’re missing them.’
‘Okay.’
‘You don’t have a wife and children you’re missing?’
‘No. I had a wife once, but we’re long since divorced.’ He hoped he sounded as indifferent as he actually was.
Her hand loosened in his, but only for a second. ‘You never said.’
‘I hardly ever think about her. It was all a long time ago, and we were only together a couple of years.’
‘And you haven’t seen her since?’
‘Oh, I see her – she’s my boss Tim’s sister. But only to exchange the odd polite word. She’s married again now.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Evelyn. You’re not upset, are you?’
‘No. Surprised, perhaps, which is absolutely ridiculous. For some strange reason I just assumed you had always been single.’
‘To tell you the truth I’ve never felt anything else. And never more so than when we were married. But I don’t want to talk about her. Let’s go back a bit – what made you dream up a fictitious family for me?’
‘To deflect him, of course. If he thinks you’re interested in me, he’ll keep watching me like a hawk. So when we meet at breakfast, remember to hardly notice I’m there. There’s nothing he’d like better than to tell my father that I’ve fallen from grace. He positively revels in other people’s sins.’
‘Does he know your father?’
‘They’ve met a few times, but they’re not friends. Even my father has better taste than that.’
‘Okay,’ McColl said. ‘So I’ll see you at breakfast.’
‘Quiet as you go,’ she reminded him.
He could hear the priest snoring as he let himself out, and back in his own compartment Pearson and Son were both hard at it. He lay on his bunk cursing the two of them, but knew in his heart that they weren’t the ones keeping him awake. His conversation with Caitlin had stirred up memories he normally left alone, and now he found himself thinking about Oxford and Evelyn, and the man he had been then – a very square peg in a very round hole. Spies were outsiders too, but usually of their own volition.
*
The sleep that finally took him was fitful and dream-filled, and he woke to the first hint of light feeling barely rested. Now father and son were both turned to the wall, and the officer above him was snoring.
He put on his trousers, shoes and socks, made his way to the washroom at the end of the car and doused his face with cold water. The car steward had already brewed coffee, and McColl carried a mugful down towards the observation car, stopping to admire the sunrise when the train was on a curve. Darkness still filled the rear windows when he reached the observation car, but over the next few minutes, with what seemed astonishing speed, light flamed on the ridge tops of the receding Sierras and began to conjure all manner of colours from the surrounding desert.
The coffee was strong, but he still found himself dozing off, and finally woke with a start when the train jolted to a halt in what turned out to be Elko. The station was bathed in sunlight, but frost glistened on the ground, and as they pulled out he noticed a porter’s tell-tale plume of breath.
At eight o’clock he walked up the train, stopping only to check his appearance in one of the toilets. Not too bad for such a dissolute life, he told himself.
They were in the middle of the crowded dining car, the priest facing forward.
‘Mr McColl,’ she greeted him warmly. ‘Won’t you join us? You’ve met Father Meagher.’
‘Father,’ McColl said, taking the seat next to him. The priest had a mouthful of toast, and looked more surprised than annoyed. ‘How was your stay in California?’ McColl asked him jovially, once his order had been taken. ‘Were you on vacation?’
Father Meagher wiped his lips with a napkin while considering his answer. ‘I was on vacation, yes. Seeing old friends.’ He looked at McColl for the first time. ‘You’re on a working trip, I understand. Miss Hanley tells me you’re a salesman.’
McColl managed to look a trifle aggrieved. ‘I represent a British automobile manufacturer,’ he conceded.
‘And now you’re on your way home?’
‘On the way, yes. I have some business in New York, but then I take ship, I’m glad to say. I’ve already been away from my wife and children for far too long,’ he added, trying to look as if he meant it. ‘I miss them a great deal.’
‘As you should, sir.’
‘Indeed,’ McColl agreed, knife and fork poised above his omelette. ‘Though I have to say that on my travels I meet many men who seem to feel differently, who are only too ready – how should I say this? – to abuse the trust of those left at home.’ Caitlin, he noticed, was keeping a straight face with some difficulty, but Father Meagher was nodding his agreement. ‘As a man of the cloth,’ McColl went on, ‘you must be only too aware of human frailty.’
The priest nodded some more. ‘Too much so, I sometimes think. But I suppose it’s an occupational hazard. What man confesses his good deeds?’
McColl smiled sympathetically. ‘It must be dispiriting sometimes.’
‘Sometimes. Miss Hanley tells me you’re from Scotland.’
‘From Glasgow. My father’s parents came over from Donegal in 1851, so I’m half Irish really.’
‘So you’re a Catholic then?’
‘I am,’ McColl declared, rather too glibly for his own good. He hoped he wouldn’t be tested on doctrine.
‘Well, I’m pleased to meet you,’ the priest said, before drinking the last of his coffee. ‘Now Caitlin, what are you doing today?’
‘I have some writing to do. And you?’
‘Well, I know I could do with a haircut. And then perhaps some reading. But I can meet you for lunch at one o’clock.’
‘That suits me,’ she said, ‘but this evening I think I’ll take dinner in my compartment. The noise of the train kept me awake until dawn, and I’m sure I’ll want to retire early tonight.’
‘That suits me,’ Father Meagher said. ‘I’m sure I can find a bridge game to wile away the time. Now, Mr McColl, if you’d just let me out …’
McColl watched the priest walk out through the vestibule door. ‘So,’ he said, sitting back down, ‘am I included in the early night?’
‘Of course,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘But I really do have a piece to finish this morning. Let’s meet up this afternoon.’
‘In the observation car,’ he suggested. ‘I’ve more or less taken up residence there.’
And that was where he spent the morning, watching the desert slide by and considering his next move. He needed to search through Father Meagher’s compartment, but when would be the best time? Not when the priest was in it, obviously. Not when he might return at any moment. And not when someone else might witness the break-in. An ex-burglar on Cumming’s payroll had taught him the art of picking locks – it was almost the only training he’d had – but it wasn’t something one could manage in an instant.
There were more people walking up and down the train during the day, so there’d be less chance of his being seen at the door in question after dinner. So mid-evening, he decided, while the Father was playing cards. And it would have to be today – he couldn’t risk leaving it for the final night, when there might not be a similar opportunity.
Caitlin, though, was a potential problem. He would need an excuse for leaving her company, and would have to make sure she didn’t hear him moving around in Father Meagher’s compartment. Tiredness, he decided, would do for the first, and might well turn out to be true. The second he would just have to manage.
He made do with a snack in the club car for lunch, and returned to his post in time to enjoy the twelve-mile crossing of the Great Salt Lake. The train had a lengthy stop in Ogden, the connection for Salt Lake City, and he took the opportunity for some exercise, walking the length of the platform as he smoked a cigarette. It was bitterly cold, and by the time he reached the locomotives he was hugging and shaking himself to generate warmth.
When he got back to the observation car she was there, talking to one of the few children on the train, a boy of ten or eleven. ‘Marty here tells me that we’ll soon be seeing the Devil’s Slide and the Thousand Mile Tree,’ she told McColl.
‘And what are they?’ he asked the boy.
‘The Devil’s Slide is like a huge playground slide,’ Marty explained. ‘On the side of a mountain. It’s hundreds of feet long.’
‘And the tree?’
‘That’s a funny accent you’ve got,’ Marty decided.
‘I’m Scottish. What about the tree?’
‘It’s just a pine tree, but it’s exactly a thousand miles from Omaha. That’s where they started building the line.’
‘Okay. And how long do we have to wait?’
‘About half an hour after Ogden, the conductor told me.’
It passed quickly, the valley narrowing as the train climbed away from the desert. Marty seemed starved of conversation – he was travelling with his mother – and eager to talk about almost anything. He told them his father was a soldier, and currently in Europe attending a conference which he wasn’t allowed to write home about, in case his letters were intercepted. The boy’s father thought there would be a war in Europe, because the Europeans all distrusted each other. But the United States would keep out of it, because these days Europe didn’t really matter to Americans. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Marty apologised to McColl.
‘Don’t mention it,’ McColl told him.
The tree, when it appeared, was disappointingly small, the slide exactly as Marty had described it. He insisted on shaking their hands when he left – his mother, he said, would be wondering where he was.
‘Will there be a war, do you think?’ Caitlin asked McColl.
He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
She wasn’t to be put off. ‘I just can’t believe it could happen. Not in today’s world.’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh, so many reasons. Who would hope to benefit, for God’s sake? Businessmen would know that their profits would be slashed, and the workers would know they were risking their lives for someone else’s profit. Why would they fight? Why would German workers agree to kill French workers?’
‘They always have.’
‘In the past, yes, but now there are organisations like the Second International to put the case for peace and solidarity.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I don’t know.’
She was silent for a few moments. ‘You know what war’s really like, don’t you? You should be out there telling people.’
He gave her a wry smile. ‘I know what mine was like. But no one would listen if I tried to tell them. Any more than I would have done. Old men desperate to leave their mark and young men lusting after glory – it’s a marriage made in heaven.’
‘Or hell.’
‘Yes.’ He had a sudden mental picture of the Indian from Spion Kop. ‘Have you heard of an Indian named Mohandas Gandhi?’
‘Of course – he’s the leader of the protests in South Africa. Why?’
‘I met him once, during the war there. He’s famous these days, but back then he served in the Ambulance Corps. He was one of the men who helped carry me down off a mountain when I was injured. We talked for hours, or rather he did – I could hardly breathe, let alone talk. He seemed so positive about everything; I was still halfconvinced I was going to die, and he just took it for granted that I was going to live. I often think about him.’
‘As an inspiration?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. It would be better if men like that were running the world.’ He shrugged. ‘But they’re not.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But people do evolve. We did get rid of slavery, and women will get the vote. And men like Gandhi will win more support.’
‘Maybe. And one day organisations like the Second International might really make a difference. But it won’t happen quickly, and not, I fear, in time to prevent a major war.’
‘Well, I hope you’re wrong.’
‘So do I.’
She smiled. ‘Why don’t we go back to my suite and order in some dinner?’
‘All right, but will we have to eat in silence?’
‘He won’t be in his compartment, but no – inviting a man to dinner wouldn’t upset my aunt. It’s dessert that has to be discreet.’
The food was excellent, the lovemaking even better – long and languorous, with no distracting noises through the wall. Hating to leave, but knowing he must, McColl seized on a yawn as proof of her tiredness, and insisted she have an early night.
She voiced her reluctance, but was almost asleep by the time he got dressed. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, let himself out, and went in search of Father Meagher.
He found him in the club car, sharing an end booth with three other men. They were playing poker rather than bridge, and the priest’s face reflected the pitiful pile of chips beside his hand. He was losing, but with any luck might survive a few more hands. As far as McColl was concerned, it was now or never.
He swiftly retraced his steps to Caitlin’s carriage. The car attendant was sitting in his tiny cubicle, reading the Zane Grey novel Jed had enjoyed so much, and only glanced up as McColl passed by. There was no one in the corridor, and no reason to wait – he inserted the burglar’s thin metal tool and twisted and turned it the way he’d been taught. The lock clicked open rather more loudly than he’d hoped, and he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with more control. For a moment he considered relocking the door, but what would be the point? He couldn’t leave by the window while the train was moving at speed, and anyway there wouldn’t be time.
He turned on the overhead light and looked round the compartment. There was a suitcase on the cradle, but it wasn’t the large one in Palou’s picture – if that was on board it must be in the baggage car. He quietly opened the connecting door, turned on another light, and examined the dressing room, where three identical cassocks were hanging on hooks. There were two pairs of shoes on the floor, the usual toiletry items around the basin, and nothing much else.
He went back to the suitcase, where socks and undergarments overlaid several books, a San Francisco newspaper, an illustrated New Testament for children, and a folder full of sheet music for traditional Irish songs. Underneath the music were two sealed envelopes bearing names but no addresses. One was for John Devoy, the head of Clan na Gael, the other for Erich Rieber, whoever he might be.
Success, he thought. And then he heard sounds through the wall, a clump on the floor as she got out of bed, and then footsteps. Had she heard him? She seemed to be pacing up and down, for heaven only knew what reason.
He forced himself to ignore her. What should he do now? He could tear the letters open and read them, but only at the cost of alerting Meagher, who might well suspect him of being responsible. That wouldn’t matter in itself, but as Cumming was fond of saying, half the value of knowing something lay in the other side’s not knowing you knew. If there were plans in either letter, then disclosure would lead to their being changed, and nothing would be achieved.
He had to steam them open, and he couldn’t do that where he was. He would have to take the letters with him, and hope that their temporary absence was not noticed. The chances had to be good – Father Meagher didn’t strike him as the compulsive sort, someone who needed to check where everything was at regular intervals. The man was too sure of himself at the best of times, and judging by the amount he was drinking tonight, seemed likely to collapse at the sight of his bed. And when he woke up the priest would be too busy nursing a hangover to think of checking through his belongings. If McColl could put the letters back in the suitcase while Meagher was having breakfast, then he should get away with it.
A sudden creak next door, which he hoped was her climbing back into bed, gave way to what seemed a lasting silence. He took a deep breath and cracked the door open, half-expecting to find the priest outside. There was no one there, but he could hear footsteps. Inching an eye round the jamb, he saw the car attendant briskly walking away – a few seconds earlier and there would have been some explaining to do.
Once the man had disappeared into the vestibule, McColl slipped out, clicked the door shut, and set about relocking it. For what seemed an age the latch wouldn’t take, and by the time it did sweat was beading on his brow. Again, the click sounded terribly loud, and he almost ran to the sanctuary of the following car.
In the club car Father Meagher was still playing poker, and looked to have recovered some of his losses. There was now a whisky chaser by the side of the beer, and the priest seemed redder in the face. McColl hoped he didn’t have a heart attack, or the letters would never be delivered.
Walking on, he considered ways of steaming the envelopes open. He would go to one of the kitchens, he decided – tell them he felt congested, and ask for some boiling water to give his sinuses a face bath in one of the washrooms. It sounded a good idea, but not for very long. The envelopes were bound to look different after such treatment, and how would he ever reseal them?
As he passed the stenographer’s office a simpler idea occurred to him. Office hours were long since over, but the door was open, the typewriter waiting for anyone wanting to use it. McColl went through the bureau drawers and found what he was looking for – a selection of plain envelopes. Reasoning that he might need more than one attempt to copy the names on the originals, he took six of similar size, and walked on towards the observation car, expecting to find it empty.
It wasn’t, but the young couple at the far end were too bound up in each other to care what he was doing. With a keen sense of anticipation, he used his pocket knife to slit the envelopes open.
The letters within did not disappoint.
The one to the Clan na Gael leader was from Larry de Lacey, and ran to four pages. The letter looked dangerously high spirited – de Lacey was fond of exclamation marks, and found it hard to write in a straight line – but the content was sober enough. He began with some social news – one mutual acquaintance had got married, another had sired twins – before saying how glad he was that Devoy’s health had improved.
The niceties dealt with, de Lacey turned to the news from Ireland. He saw the workers’ defeat in Dublin as ‘an opportunity for the Brotherhood to reassert its own truly Irish agenda’. The ejection of the British was what mattered, and the Irish people must not let ‘utopian social goals’ distract them from this task, particularly at this juncture, when other events seemed to be moving in their favour. De Lacey was pleased that the Brotherhood had secured control of the recently formed Volunteers, and adamant that they should resist any attempt by Redmond’s Nationalists to usurp them.
So much, so predictable, McColl thought.
A report on funding followed. The Californian chapter of Clan na Gael had raised $1,704 for the struggle back home, a figure which de Lacey seemed more than pleased with, and several additional events were planned for St Patrick’s Day.
Relations with ‘our Indian friends’ were said to be good. ‘The British and BOI are making every effort to get HD declared persona non grata, and will probably succeed. But whether or not they shut the stable door, I think this horse has bolted! The organisation HD built up is strong enough to do without him, or at least without his presence here in the US. The focus of their efforts is already shifting home from exile, partly thanks to our joint efforts. The first shipment left here on the 26th of last month, and is expected in Singapore around the 15th of March. The second shipment is currently being organised by our other friends.’
Which could only be the Germans, McColl assumed.
‘I had quite a long talk with vB the other evening, and he more or less admitted that they weren’t expecting a great deal, but would be grateful for whatever we can give them. Which seemed realistic to me, and I told him as much. When the moment of opportunity comes, of course things will be different. They will give us the guns we need, not because they love us, but because it will be in their interests to do so. And we will give our all in return, not because we love them, but for the cause of a free and independent Ireland.
‘I also talked to GF, who says he saw you a few months ago. He let slip that a joint operation on enemy soil is under consideration, but proved remarkably coy when I pressed him on names and what was intended. Have you heard anything about this?’
Having asked this rather plaintive question, de Lacey asked to be remembered ‘to all at the Gaelic American office’, and brought the letter to a close.
Who was GF? McColl wondered. He would have to cable Fairholme and ask if any known official at the German consulate had those initials.
He turned to the letter for Erich Rieber. This was much shorter, comprising less than two whole sheets of neatly written German, headed ‘San Francisco, March 8’, and signed ‘Ernst Reischach’.
The first half of the letter dealt with the Indians. Reischach spoke highly of Har Dayal, and stressed the need to make good the material assistance ‘we previously discussed’, a reference, presumably, to the shipment de Lacey had mentioned. He added that the Ghadar organisation had been subjected to a British-inspired campaign of harassment by the American authorities, but that this had been thwarted, at least in the short term, by the unmasking and punishment of several informers.
The remaining paragraphs of the letter were a revelation, and a shocking one at that. Their subject was ‘the English spy Jack McColl’, and the German attempts to kill him. ‘As you know,’ Reischach wrote, ‘our agent was unsuccessful in Shanghai, and I regret to report a second failure here in San Francisco.’
The sentences seemed to leap out at McColl, as if intent on finishing the job. He took a deep breath and continued reading. According to Reischach, his attempted murder had proved ‘both frustrating and divisive’. The Indians had apologised most profusely for their lack of success, and guaranteed the silence of the failed assassin, who ‘knew nothing of his employers. They are adamant that none of their people sent the rumoured warning, and refused to make a second attempt until whoever it was is discovered. I suspect that only their fear of forfeiting our assistance in the other matter prevents them from openly accusing us.’
And it seemed that the Germans were divided. ‘Some of our people here were far from happy at the decision to make an example of the Englishman. RvS in particular was highly put out, and has appealed for a change of heart in Berlin. Some of our people here agreed with him, while others did not, and feelings ran quite high for a while. RvS is now on his way to Mexico, so things have had a chance to settle down. By the time you read this the whole business should have been settled – if Berlin has rejected RvS’s appeal, then our people in New York will have taken steps to greet Herr McColl on his arrival, and taken the appropriate action.’
McColl put the letter down, wondering why he still felt relatively calm. It wasn’t over – another knife, or something equally unpleasant, might be waiting for him in New York. He would need to steer clear of crowds, and be careful not to put Caitlin in danger. He had intended asking Jed to meet them, but he didn’t want to put his brother at risk either. Perhaps Cumming would be able to help.
It could have been worse. Meagher obviously knew nothing of the Reischach letter’s contents – his attitude towards McColl, and the fact that it was sealed, seemed to prove as much. If the priest ever did read the letter, he would discover who and what McColl was, and doubtless share the news with Caitlin. But if he hadn’t yet broken the seal, there seemed no reason why he should.
And it was clear to McColl that he had, at least partly, misjudged von Schön. The fact that the young German had argued against his death sentence was gratifying, not least because it showed that McColl’s original judgement of the man’s character had not been so wide of the mark. He might not have realised that von Schön was a spy, but he had correctly identified him as a decent fellow.
And it also occurred to McColl – as it obviously hadn’t to Reischach – that von Schön could have sent him the warning. If so, he owed the German his life.
So much for the personal side.
Who were Rieber and Reischach? If they were diplomats, why weren’t they using the safer channels open to them? If they weren’t, then why were they discussing their government’s policies and illicit activities in the USA? And if they were government officials making use of unofficial channels, then who they were trying to bypass – their enemies or their friends? The more McColl thought about it, the more convinced he became that these were two intelligence agents operating outside the diplomatic cocoon.
In the end, he didn’t suppose it mattered much. Whatever positions they held, they held them for the enemy.
What had he learnt from the two letters?
First, that the Germans had supplied Har Dayal with two arms shipments, one of which was reaching Singapore in five or six weeks time. The DCI might know all about that already, but if they didn’t, then Cumming would be more than pleased.
Second, that the Germans were also sending arms to the IRB, but were not expecting an immediate return. Their guns to the Republicans would match those already smuggled into Ulster, and might indeed see use in an Irish civil war. But if war broke out in Europe, they could be used to wrest independence from a fully engaged Great Britain.
Third, and most worrying, was the news that ‘joint action on enemy soil’ was ‘under consideration’. By whom? And what exactly were they considering? It couldn’t be conventional military action; it had be some sort of terror attack. A strike at Britain’s morale, like blowing up the King or Parliament. Or was he getting carried away?
If Cumming was to make a judgement, he would need a full copy of de Lacey’s letter. But did he need the full text of Reischach’s? Because it occurred to McColl that Cumming might baulk at offering full-time employment to an agent the Germans had already unmasked.
On reflection, he decided that was overly pessimistic. The Empire had other enemies beside the Germans, and he could, in any case, change his name and appearance. Cumming’s favourite agent Sidney Reilly was always turning up in the society columns, and it didn’t seem to make him any less effective.
He would copy out the second letter as well. Once Cumming saw the German admission in writing, he might arrange help in New York.
Needing paper, and a table to write on, he walked back up the train. The poker game in the club car had run its course, and Father Meagher had disappeared, presumably to bed, hopefully without checking his suitcase. McColl continued on to the stenographer’s office, and shut himself in with the sun blind down on the door.
Copying the letters took him almost an hour, the envelopes another fifteen minutes. He had used up the six he had taken, and most of those left in the desk, before he was satisfied with his copies. He was probably being over-zealous – people weren’t that observant when it came to other people’s handwriting – but there was no point in stinting on effort.
It was almost 1.30 by the time he was finished, and the only remaining occupant of the adjoining club car was asleep in his chair. The snow swirling outside the windows reminded McColl that they were spending the whole night traversing the Rockies, and most of the next day crossing the plains.
The other men in his compartment were all asleep, and more quietly so than on the previous night. He laid himself out without much hope, and thought that only minutes had passed when a yell from outside woke him up. His fob said ten past six, and a look round the end of the curtain told him the train had reached Laramie. After twenty minutes of trying, he gave up on getting back to sleep, and repeated his trick of the previous morning, carrying coffee back to an empty observation car. This time there was no sunrise to colour the land, only snow-draped valleys and tracks receding into mist.
At a quarter to eight he made his way forward to the end of the dining car, and after checking that neither Caitlin nor Father Meagher had yet arrived, walked quickly through to the next carriage, where he ensconced himself in a convenient toilet. He gave them twenty minutes, then walked back to the dining car doorway for a quick look inside. They were in the same seats – Caitlin with her back to him, staring out the window, Father Meagher looking down at his plate with a decidedly hung-over expression.
McColl strode swiftly back to their car, where the corridor was empty and the metal shim worked its magic on the lock. The suitcase was still on its cradle, and there was no discernible rearrangement of the contents below the clothing. He put the two letters back in the same order, and slipped out through the door into the still-empty corridor.
And then things began to go wrong. Try as he did, he couldn’t get the shim to relock the door, and after what seemed a couple of minutes he began to consider leaving it as it was. If Father Meagher found it so, he would doubtless go straight to the letters, but once he’d found them where they should be, there would be no reason to open them. And he was more likely to blame a lax car attendant for the unlocked door than a British agent. Being suspected himself would still be a damn sight better than being caught in the act.
But then Pao-yu, the girl from the Blue Dragon, wormed her way to the front of his mind. She was enough for his conscience to carry, without adding a sacked car attendant.
He was trying again when a middle-aged couple suddenly entered the corridor. Pushing himself up against the door, as if making space for them to pass, he managed to conceal the shim, and they walked on through to the next car without ever looking back. But it was too risky. He gave the shim one last twist for luck, and almost burst out laughing when the lock clicked shut.
Now all he needed was a second sojourn in a toilet, so as not to meet Caitlin and Meagher on their way back from breakfast. Even this proved a close-run thing – suddenly hearing her voice, he ducked through a convenient doorway with only seconds to spare. He supposed he could have found some explanation for being at this end of the train, but he was tired of lying to her. Not that hiding in a toilet felt much better.
The train was pulling into a snow-covered Cheyenne, and he went to get some breakfast. He’d done it, he told himself. He should be feeling cock-a-hoop, but he didn’t.
*
After a shave at the barber’s he walked back to the observation car, where he found Caitlin scribbling in what looked like a diary. As he sat down beside her she packed it away in her bag.
‘It only just occurred to me,’ she said, pushing back a stray lock of brown hair, ‘but I never asked whether you were booked through to New York.’
‘I am.’
‘On the 20th Century?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank God. Do you have a sleeping compartment?’
‘Just a seat, I’m afraid. San Francisco was more expensive than I expected.’
‘It doesn’t matter, I have one. And here’s the good news – Father Meagher is spending a few days in Chicago, so we won’t have him for company.’
‘That is good news. How long are we in Chicago, do you know?’
‘An hour and forty-five minutes, if we arrive on time. I know because I’m meeting an editor who might be interested in hiring me.’
‘A job in Chicago?’ he asked, thinking how far away from England that would place her.
‘Yes. It’s a great city.’
‘I’ve never been.’
‘And I’ve been thinking it’s time I left the family nest.’
‘You could come to England.’
She smiled at that. ‘One day, maybe. But this is my home. I understand how things work here.’
‘I know what you mean,’ he admitted. Through the rear window the Rockies still straddled the horizon, and the receding line of telegraph poles stood stark against the snow and clouds.
They talked for most of the morning, about everything from suffragettes to the Catholic priesthood – ‘They’re not all like Father Meagher,’ she insisted; ‘our priest when I was growing up was a wonderful man – kind, wise, committed to helping the poor, the sort of man who gives the church a good name.’ She told McColl how she had wanted to be a nun when she grew up, and seemed mildly offended when he looked surprised.
They moved on to their younger brothers, and the concern each of them seemed to feel. She worried that Colm had poor taste in friends, and was too easily led astray. ‘And sometimes I feel responsible,’ she said. ‘Aunt Orla was so bound up in Finola and me that she didn’t have time for Colm. She left him to my father, who was hardly ever there. When he was he just laid down rules, which no one else ever enforced. Colm – well, he’s a good boy, but he has no judgement. He never knows when to stop.’
McColl saw a little of Jed in her characterisation of Colm, but only a little. His brother had grown up quite a lot on this trip, and not just in ways involving whorehouses and opium dens. What worried McColl was what came next. ‘If war comes,’ he pondered out loud, ‘then Jed will be first in line at the recruiting office. And even if I could persuade him otherwise – and I’ll try my damnedest to do so – the boys in his age group will be the first ones conscripted.’
A steward brought the latest batch of newspapers, which had come aboard at Cheyenne, and each of them found one item of real interest. The Saverne affair had reached its conclusion, with the guilty officers escaping punishment. And, almost mirroring that story, the American radical Joe Hill was still behind bars, despite a growing campaign to secure his release. He had been arrested in January for a murder that Caitlin was certain he hadn’t committed. ‘I’ve met him,’ she said. ‘He’s not that sort of man. If he hasn’t been framed I’ll eat Father Meagher’s biretta.’
She told McColl about meeting Hill in a Brooklyn labour club, and how during his second set he’d dedicated a song to her. ‘It’s called “The Rebel Girl”. He wrote it for Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, but he said it was mine for that evening. I know the last lines off by heart: “And the grafters in terror are trembling, when her spite and defiance she’ll hurl, for the only and thoroughbred lady, is the rebel girl.”’ She laughed. ‘Who wouldn’t want to hear themselves described like that?’
Most people, McColl thought, but then she wasn’t most people.
‘I have to meet the Father for lunch,’ she said without enthusiasm. ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider joining us?’
‘Why not?’ McColl said. He didn’t want to lose her company, and was anxious to evaluate the priest’s disposition – if Meagher had read the letters or noticed their temporary absence surely it would show on his face. The priest didn’t strike him as a born dissembler. He needn’t have worried. Meagher looked like someone who had lost a lot of money at the poker table, and was quietly obsessing about winning it back. He picked at his lunch, spoke to Caitlin in monosyllables, and hardly seemed to notice that McColl was even there.
After lunch Caitlin and McColl agreed to meet at seven, and went their separate ways. She had work to do, and he had a cable to compose. Lacking the time to encrypt the two letters in full, he settled for a summary of the salient points and a promise to forward the copies on the first available ship. He was en route to hand it in, for dispatch at the next available stop, when the view through the corridor window changed his mind. A blizzard was raging outside, and some telegraph poles seemed to be swaying rather too violently. He would wait for Chicago.
In his compartment the Pearsons were asleep, and as no one had taken the place of the departed officer he laid himself out in the vacated berth and followed their example. He awoke feeling groggy about three hours later, to find the Pearsons gone and the blizzard still blowing outside. As he passed the car attendant’s booth on his way to the washroom, the man leapt out and handed him two cables. ‘I didn’t want to wake you, sir.’
McColl tipped him and read them, one from Jed boasting that they’d sold six cars during their week’s sojourn in Chicago, and one from Cumming which wasn’t in code, and which advised him to contact ‘an interested party’ at a New York address.
Once a hot shower had brought him back to life, he went to meet Caitlin in the buffet car. She arrived a few minutes later, with the news that Father Meagher was already back at the card table.
‘Can he afford it?’ McColl wondered out loud. He rather hoped the priest was losing Clan na Gael’s money.
‘I neither know nor care,’ was Caitlin’s assessment. ‘Let’s have dinner.’
After sharing their first public meal on the train they went back to her bed and made love, once with the fierceness that seemed their natural meeting place, and then with a tenderness that seemed to surprise them both. He had no idea how long they’d been lying entwined in the narrow bed when they both heard the key in next door’s lock.
‘I’ll go when we hear him get into bed,’ McColl said quietly.
‘If he’s lost again he may throw himself out of the window,’ she whispered back.
A few minutes later they heard the springs creak as the priest lay down, and McColl levered himself onto the edge of the bed to get dressed. He felt nostalgic for the long nights they had spent together on the Manchuria, and unreasonably annoyed with Father Meagher for unknowingly sending him back to the Pearsons. Once he and Caitlin had kissed goodnight, and he had slipped quietly out through the door, the sense of resentment led him, through several mental twists and turns, to the matter of the priest’s other suitcase, the one he’d carried away with him from the Ghadar office on Valencia.
It had to be in the baggage car, which McColl remembered was at the front of the train. The car was probably locked or guarded, but there was no harm in taking a look.
In the event the only disincentive to entry was a solid-looking door, which opened when he pushed on the handle. McColl closed it behind him and turned on the overhead lights, which revealed two rows of floor-to-ceiling racks filled with luggage. Since each item was labelled and stored in alphabetical order he had no trouble finding Father Meagher’s suitcase, and was about to pull it down when the recklessness of what he was doing finally stopped him short.
He went back to the door, cracked it open, and listened for a few moments. Reassured, he pulled down the suitcase and applied his metal shim to the lock. It opened easily, to reveal more of the priest’s wardrobe and about two hundred copies of the Ghadar newspaper.
It was tempting to throw them overboard – the good people of Nebraska, or whichever state they were crossing at this moment, would doubtless be thrilled by Har Dayal’s politics – but Father Meagher would notice they were missing, and perhaps start wondering about the letters.
McColl relocked the suitcase, put it back in its place, and let himself out.
Ten minutes later he was lying on in his bunk, listening to the Pearson chorus and rebuking himself for running such a risk. He knew only too well it wasn’t a game, and if he wanted Cumming to take him seriously he should stop acting as if it was. If he’d been discovered in the baggage car, all his good work with the letters might well have been for nothing, and the chance to foil the Germans lost.
And that seemed to matter more than it had before. Like most people, McColl felt attached to his homeland – in his case, London as much as the Highlands or Glasgow – but that didn’t mean he trusted its government. If he was to relish involvement in the struggle between England and Germany, he needed to believe that a German-run world would be worse than the one he already lived in. And he was pretty sure that he did. Becoming a target for the Kaiser’s hired assassins was one thing – he could accept the Germans’ anger with him, if not their extreme reaction – but the Saverne affair, so fortuitously served up by von Schön, was something else again. It confirmed McColl in all his prejudices against the Kaiser’s Germany. There might be liberals and socialists in the Reichstag, and there might be decent young businessmen in Tsingtau, but Saverne showed only too clearly that the horrors of South-west Africa had not been an aberration. And a Germany grounded in arrogance and contempt for everyone else really was worth resisting.
*
He was woken by the clanging of wheels on an iron bridge, and a lift of the curtain revealed an impressive river. The Mississippi, he guessed – another picture put to a name. He spent the morning in the observation car, staring out at the snow-covered fields of Iowa and Illinois. Caitlin appeared as the train entered the outskirts of Chicago, to tell him she’d find him on the 20th Century.
He didn’t see her at the Chicago terminus. After checking his suitcase, he found the cable office and sent off his message to Cumming, then consulted his fob and walked outside in search of a taxi. ‘Can you get me to the lake and back in an hour?’ he asked.
‘In twenty minutes, bub.’
‘Then show me some sights on the way.’
They drove down through a canyon of skyscrapers to the ice-fringed lake, where he got out and stared for a few moments, feeling faintly ridiculous. On the way back the taxi stopped at lights underneath elevated tracks, and the thunder of a passing train was such that he feared it might fall through. He was back at Union Station in plenty of time, and enjoyed walking down the long red carpet laid out for passengers on the famous express.
The train was still in the suburbs when she found him in his seat, took his hand, and led him to her compartment. For the next twelve hours they talked, ate, made love and slept – it was like being back on the boat, except that now the whole journey was ending. It seemed to McColl that the only subject they had deliberately avoided, on both this train and the last, had been their future, or the lack thereof.
They could avoid it no longer.
‘How long are you staying in New York?’ she asked, with a brittleness in her voice which seemed completely out of character.
‘I don’t know. A week, maybe two. Maybe even longer.’
She was silent for a moment. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked, and before he could reply, she supplied the answer. ‘We will go our own ways, as we said we would. We’ll make the most of each other until the day we have to part, and when that day comes we’ll wish each other well and try not to cry.’