Chapter Fourteen

Joe was standing in an open doorway, staring down into a pit of blackness.

It was a blackness that was warmer than the night air around him, a blackness full of silence and a faint and unpleasant smell. It reminded him of something. Was it the smell of the hospital room where he had come back to life after the surgeon had finished sawing off the bottom half of his leg? Or did it go farther back than that? Much farther. To the last minutes of his father’s life? His father, who had fought off death, inch by inch, yielding at last with a grunt of annoyance. Exactly the sort of grunt, thought the boy who was watching, that he would have given if he had come home and found that supper was not ready.

And why was he standing there thinking about his youth, instead of going forward into the darkness?

“Get on,” said Joe. “Nothing to be frightened of.”

The early stages of his approach had been easy enough. The five houses on the north side of the Crescent each had a handsome garden, the first two being separated by a narrow path, which ran up to the garden of the crematorium house. This was bordered, not by a hedge, which would have been awkward for a one-legged man, but by a simple post-and-nail fence. An easy way in. Even more important, an easy way out if he had to leave in a hurry.

To reach the back of the crematorium building he had had to cross an open space in full view of the windows of the house. Although, at two o’clock in the morning, Mr. Robb and his servants would surely be asleep, he had taken no chances but had snaked across the intervening space with his nose inches above the grass.

The remaining question had been: could he open the crematorium door?

He had watched Mr. Robb go through it twice, once accompanied by his gardener, once alone. On neither occasion had he stopped to unlock the door. But this proved nothing. The door might be unlocked by day, locked by night. Against this contingency, he had provided himself with a ring of keys; but when he turned the handle, the door had opened with a series of heart-stopping creaks.

“Get on, you dope. Are you waiting for a huge black thing to jump out and grab you? Once you get the bloody door shut behind you, you can use your flashlight, can’t you?”

This seemed sensible advice. He stepped forward cautiously and swung the door to. Then, by the light of his flashlight, he was able to inspect his surroundings.

On the right was the great iron furnace, a monstrous contraption crouching in the corner, ready to spring.

Joe put this thought behind him and continued with his inspection.

Ahead of him was a platform against the wall that divided the crematorium from the chapel. It was a movable platform – easily movable, as he discovered when he put one hand on it to steady himself. It would carry the coffin up to the furnace.

Overcoming the illogical feeling that he might find human remains inside it, Joe opened the heavy iron door of the incinerating chamber. The narrow space inside was lined with firebricks, the ones on the floor being spaced to form a grid. As Joe shut the door, he noticed that, though heavy, it moved easily.

Ahead of him, a short flight of steps led down.

On the chapel side, there were two doors, neither of them fastened. The first one contained the electric control boards, an efficient-looking collection of fuse boxes and switches. These were labelled “Chapel Main”, “Chapel Sides”, “Crematorium Lights”, “Crematorium Power”, “House Lights”, and “House Power”. The first four were off, the last two were on.

The second door opened onto a small workroom. There was a bench at the far end with a light suspended over it, and in a rack against the wall, as fine a collection of metal saws, probes, and cold chisels as he ever remembered seeing.

“A surgeon’s kit,” he said; “sharp enough to cut through bone,” and as he stepped forward to examine them, something touched him on the back of his neck.

He tried to jump around – not a sensible manoeuvre for a one-legged man – and found himself on his face on the floor. The flashlight, which had fallen beside him, was still working. He put a hand out, picked it up, and turned the light upward. What had touched him was the end of a long, thick spider web.

Joe laughed weakly and scrambled back into an upright position. Doing so, he placed one hand flat on the floor and winced as he cut it on a sharp edge. The flashlight showed where this new attack had come from: On the floor, in front of the bench, were scattered a number of flintlike splinters.

Joe had had enough. The splinters might be important or they might not. He put three of them into his pocket. Then he turned thankfully back, out of the pit that seemed to stink of death up and out into the clean night air.

Half an hour later, he was in his own bed. Having taken the precaution of downing half a glass of neat whiskey, he had not slept too badly.

The next morning he was out of bed by nine o’clock – an unusually early hour for him – and after a hurried breakfast took himself along to the house in the Crescent. He wanted to tell Luke about his excursion.

He took the splinters from his pocket and laid them on the table.

“Look like bits of very hard coal,” said Luke. “I’ll let the old man have them as soon as I can get away this evening.”

Ben said, “My German class finishes at four. I’ll stand in for you for the last spell if you think it’s important.”

“I’ve got beyond thinking what’s important and what isn’t,” said Luke dolefully. “But I’ll accept your offer and thank you.” And to Joe, “Is there anything else you’d like to tell him?”

Joe thought about it. In daylight, among friends, it was almost impossible to describe the impression that the cellar had made on him. He said, “Only one thing: the place smelled odd.”

“Odd?”

“I can’t explain it. Except for one thing: there was a sort of smell of coal.”

“Not unexpected in a coal cellar.”

“It wasn’t a coal cellar. The crematorium runs on gas and electricity. There isn’t a coal fire in the place.”

Luke thought about this.

“Maybe coal’s been stored there some time for the house.”

“It’s got gas on tap and electric power—like I saw …” He explained about the switches. “I wouldn’t think there’s a coal fire in the house either.”

It was a mystery, but a minor one. Luke said, “I’ll put it in my report. He stirred the slate like splinters with one finger. “I’ll leave it to better brains than mine.”

When Ben finally took himself off, Joe hobbled downstairs with him, to continue the interesting discussion they had been having.

“So how’s it going?” said Ben.

“Fair to middling,” said Joe. “Hard work, but some results. What I really wanted from her was a list of all Goodison’s customers. I had to tell a lot of taradiddles to explain why I wanted it, but nowadays she just does what I say and doesn’t ask questions.”

How splendid, thought Ben, to be able to twist a girl around your little finger like that. He said good-bye and headed off up the Crescent at his best pace. He was due at the language school at midday, and Mr. Mills liked his students to be punctual.

The army officer, who seemed to be having trouble with his motorcycle and was bending over it making some adjustment, straightened up as Ben came past. The officer had evidently managed to locate and correct the fault, and by the time Ben was out of the Crescent and on Abbey Wood Road, his machine was functioning again. He mounted it and rode slowly along, giving Ben an ample start and keeping his distance until Ben turned into Fendike Road.

When this happened, he killed the engine, parked the machine, and went forward on foot, keeping a discreet distance from his quarry. When he saw Ben turn in at the gate of the language school, walk up the front path, and ring the bell, he stood quite still.

It was perhaps as well that no passer-by glimpsed his face. He might have reported to the police that there was a homicidal maniac at large in the area.

For a few seconds only. Then the good-natured army mask clicked back into place.

Vernon Kell was sitting in his office, his pince-nez glasses wedged onto his thick nose and a look of painful concentration on his face.

He had cleared his table of all routine matters and was staring at three reports, each in its neat folder. If he looked at them hard enough, could he wring from them the inner truth he was sure they contained?

“Not only must they mean something,” he said, speaking too softly for his secretary in the next room to hear him and spread the rumour that he was going mad, “but taken together, and rightly understood, they must tell me the truth.”

The first one was from Major Cooper-Key, to whom Kell had sent a letter two days before. Major Cooper-Key wrote:

You were kind enough to enclose in your letter a copy of the report submitted by Pagan, together with three flintlike shards. Reading between the lines, it seems to be the result of a highly unofficial visit paid by his colleague, Narrabone, to the East Plumstead Crematorium. Illegal, but enterprising.

There are, as I expect you know, two different types of furnace used by such places. In the modern type, a temperature as high as two thousand degrees can be produced by mixing steam and burning coke. Its drawback is that it needs regular stoking. The older, simpler type – which seems to be the one in use here – relies on a number of concentrated jets of ignited gas. It can simply be turned on and left to itself. The temperature produced is lower, and it takes longer to do its job, which is, putting the matter simply, to transmute the dead body into carbonic acid gas.

I mention these points because they underline the possible importance of the shards that were found in the cellar. These are fragments of anthracite, popularly known as stone coal. This is used primarily in blast furnaces and the boilers of ships but is not a normal household fuel.

The writer of the report has clearly noticed the significance of this, since he found no coal fires in the crematorium building and thought it unlikely that there would be any in the house. I agree. And if there had been, soft coal would have been used, not anthracite.

Kell had hoped that the writer would put forward his own answer to this conundrum. He was disappointed. The writer stated the facts, but drew no conclusion from them.

Turning to your inquiry about possible explosives, you must bear in mind that in this country all forms of explosives have been strictly regulated since the activities of the Fenians were checked at the end of the last century. You told me yourself of an instance in which Russian terrorists were forced to manufacture their own dynamite under the guise of making soap – a most interesting incident that, with your permission, I intend to include in a paper I have been invited to read to the Royal Society.

The truth is that if anyone requires a supply of explosives powerful enough to arm an infernal machine or machines, he is really driven to import it from some country that is laxer in its regulations than we are. Norway, Sweden, and Belgium are the most likely candidates. If your suspect, Goodison, is the importer, the explosive could easily be concealed in or among the tankage, lead piping, and brass balls that are part of his normal imports.

If he is a regular dealer, his stuff would be allowed through without any, or any careful, examination.

Kell paused for a moment to think about this. Certainly the possibility existed. The most suspicious customs officer would be unlikely to probe into the component parts of a lavatory. Well, that was a loophole that could be closed.

The report concluded:

Which brings me to the question of the type of explosive.

Bearing in mind that it has to stand rough treatment in the course of loading and unloading, 1 think the answer is probably cordite – 58 percent nitroglycerin, 37 percent guncotton, and 5 percent mineral jelly. It is a powerful explosive, but unusually stable. In a recent test, a bullet was fired through a compacted mass of cordite without detonating it. Any other help I can give you, please let me know.

Helpful, certainly. But not entirely conclusive.

The second report was the one from Luke Pagan that Major Cooper-Key had referred to. The only additional items in it were the result of the watch they had been keeping on the crematorium. Nothing in it that was not normal and above board. Except—what was it?—yes, the mailman. On a second occasion, he had delivered three heavy parcels. Was that important?

At the back of his mind, while he was reading these reports, lay the three messages that Lieutenant Burnhow had riddled out. He had no need to think about them consciously. He had read them so often that they were part of his subconscious memory.

The third one was straightforward. It had enabled them to locate Goodison and Robb and had established the connection between the coal merchant and the crematorium. The first two were more difficult. The key to understanding them, as he was beginning to realise, was to differentiate between the “special product” and the “suitable supplies”.

When he had first read the messages, he had assumed that they were the same thing. Now he was not sure. “Let 105 know special product on its way to you.” This meant that Robb had been worrying that regular supplies of the “special product” might not be reaching Goodison from his foreign supplier. So what was it? It seemed, from Cooper-Key’s report, that it might be cordite.

Then Robb had started agitating again.

He was to be told not to worry. “Suitable supplies” would reach him from Goodison in time for him to “do the necessary.” So what were the suitable supplies that Goodison was to send him? Could they be in the six large parcels that had been observed? Very possibly. But what were they?

A further thought: if Robb was in a constant fret about the availability of special products and suitable supplies, was it possible that he was in charge of the whole enterprise? That the blame would fall on him if it failed? That he was, in fact, der Vetter? How could he have been more deeply and safely buried than by establishing him as head of a crematorium?

Yes, it was possible. Kell turned now to the third document, which was an odd postscript to the others. It was from a Lieutenant Samuels, R.N., port control officer at Dun Laoghaire, and was a copy of a letter that had gone to Superintendent Patrick Quinn of the Special Branch. It said:

A curious problem, which might have repercussions at your end, has recently cropped up here. As you will know, since the outbreak of war, all persons entering or leaving Ireland have been very carefully checked and noted. Two weeks ago, a Captain Marriott, R.E., left by the daily steamer from here to Holyhead. It seems that he had been spending part of his leave with friends shooting in County Wicklow and was on his way back to rejoin his unit. His papers were in order and aroused no question. But this odd point has now arisen. It appears from the routine checks we make from time to time that there is no record of his entry into Ireland. We have searched back for two months, which should be more than sufficient to cover a few weeks’ shooting leave. We are puzzled by this discrepancy and feel that Captain Marriott should be located and questioned. A copy of this letter is being sent to Customs and Excise and to MO5.

Kell sighed. If Captain Marriott was, as Lieutenant Samuels clearly suspected, an enemy agent, landed by submarine, he would have been supplied with two or more different sets of papers and would by now be Captain – or Major – or Colonel the Lord knows who. The Special Branch, as part of its duty of guarding important visitors, was expert at picking up the trail of dangerous infiltrators. They might be lucky enough to lay him by the heels.

It did not seem to be part of his own problem.

Annette O’Hegarty was worried.

When her father had got her the job as secretary, typist, and general assistant to Mr. Portlach – which he had seemed able to do without much difficulty – his instructions had been clear: she was to arrange her own desk so that she could hear anything said to, or by, the editor. If on the telephone, no problem. The line came through her. If in person, the door left open an inch or two should be good enough.

Routine espionage. Any girl could do it.

Until today, nothing very interesting had transpired. This morning, it was different. The two men who had arrived were oddly formidable. They had given her a card, to take in to the editor. As far as she could see from a quick glance, it contained only a set of initials in one corner.

When she handed the card to Mr. Portlach and started to explain about the two men, he had cut her short and had come out with her into the anteroom. Both men were standing. One of them said, “Mr. Portlach?” The editor nodded. “We have something to tell you. Since it’s confidential, could you ask this young lady to remove herself to some other part of the building?”

She had seen, with astonishment, that the editor was not prepared to refuse this outrageous request. He had smiled weakly and said to her, “Perhaps you could sit for a bit in the conference room. You’ll be quite comfortable there. I don’t suppose we shall be long.” That was where she had sat for nearly half an hour, alone with her thoughts and fears, until she heard the footsteps of the two men departing.

When Mr. Portlach came to get her she thought he looked like a man who had had a severe shock. But there was something else there as well. It was as though the shock had released a spring and restored an element of unsuspected determination. His voice was quite steady when he continued the dictation of the letters that the arrival of the strangers had interrupted.

Then he said, “I’ve two more letters to do. I’ll be writing them myself while you are typing the others. They’ll be ready for you by the time you’ve finished. Then I’d like you to take them all straight down to the post office.”

One of these handwritten letters was, she noted, addressed to the chairman of the Irish Citizen at his Dublin office. The other was to Mr. Portlach’s solicitor – his lawyer. She would dearly have liked to have read them and had, on more than one occasion, managed to open a badly fastened envelope to inspect the contents. But on this occasion, as she explained to her father, the envelopes were firmly fastened down and sealed with the editor’s private seal.

Her father was more interested in the men than in the letters. He said, “What did they look like? Do you think they were policemen?”

Not exactly policemen, she had thought. Men with some sort of authority.

A colleague of her father’s, a squat Irishman called Nick Mansergh, said, “If you ask me, it’s plain as pie. They scared the poor bugger out of his wits and he’s quitting. And once he leaves, you won’t see him for dust.”

“You may be right,” said O’Hegarty. “And if you are, maybe, before he goes, we ought to impress on him the virtues of silence.”

“A short, sharp lesson to take away with him,” agreed Mansergh with a grin.

That was on Wednesday.

At four o’clock on Friday, Mr. Portlach informed the two members of his staff – his secretary and a cleaning lady – that the office would not be reopening on Monday. He handed each of them a month’s salary in cash, with a further month in lieu of notice and when they had departed, placed his few remaining papers in the stove. As soon as they were well alight he went out, locking the inner and outer doors of the office behind him. The keys went into an envelope, which he had prepared, addressed to his solicitor, and this he posted in the box at the end of Stag Court, together with a brief note addressed to Daryl Forbes c/o Mrs. O’Malley, Watersmeet Bungalow, Walton-on-Thames, informing him that any future contributions should be sent directly to Dublin.

He felt a lightening of his heart as he performed these closing ceremonies.

The shortest way to his flat on Neville Court was across Gough Square and along Pemberton Street and Harding Road. These were small and little-used byways, and he met no one until he emerged onto Great New Street. This, being a shortcut between Farringdon Street and Fetter Lane, was more used, and he was not surprised when he found a group of three men engaged in conversation and blocking the pavement ahead of him. Looking back, he saw a fourth man emerging from Harding Street. Mr. Portlach had been subconsciously aware of footsteps behind him ever since he had left the office, but he had been too busy with his own thoughts to pay much attention to them.

The men ahead of him stopped talking as he came up, but made no move to let him pass. Two were on the pavement, one in the roadway. The only other people in sight at that moment were a man and a woman on the opposite pavement, and a small boy who was amusing himself by clattering a stick along the railings.

Mr. Portlach stopped. He had no alternative. The way ahead was blocked. One of the men said, “Off on holiday, mister?”

Mr. Portlach muttered “None of your business” and edged out onto the road. He had a cold feeling that he had run into something it might be difficult to get out of. He saw that the man and the woman had turned their backs and were moving off fast. Whatever was going to happen, they wanted no part of it. The small boy had stood his ground. He thought that some sort of excitement might be coming up.

It was O’Hegarty who had spoken. He gestured to the two men, who stepped out into the roadway after Mr. Portlach. One of them put out a hand, grabbed his tie, and gave it a sharp tug. As the editor jerked forward, he kneed him in the stomach.

“Gently,” said O’Hegarty. “Gently. We don’t want to take him to bits. This is just a reminder of the value of a man keeping his lips buttoned. And of what might happen if he opened them too wide.”

“Like this?” suggested Nick Mansergh and slapped the editor’s face with his open hand.

“Or this?” said the third man and kicked him on the shin so hard that he uttered an involuntary cry and folded forward onto his knees. Upon which the second man, feeling perhaps that he had not made his point sufficiently forcefully, swung his boot. The kick landed on the side of Mr. Portlach’s face.

“Now, just you stop that,” said a new voice.

The Irishmen had been so intent on what they were doing that they had not noticed the arrival of another character. This was a slight young man, dressed in corduroy trousers and jacket, bareheaded, and carrying a light cane. He repeated, “Just you leave him alone.”

O’Hegarty stared at him for a moment and muttered, “Christ, what are you doing here?”

“Seeing fair play, Pat.”

At this moment, two men erupted from the side road. They were Kirchner and Durkin, whose job it had been to follow and protect Mr. Portlach. The reason they had got so far behind was simple and discreditable. They had run into a young lady known to both of them and had stopped to exchange compliments with her.

Now they made up for lost time.

Both carried short sticks with heavy heads. Kirchner, without pausing for an instant, hit Nick Mansergh hard on the head. As he went down, O’Hegarty shouted from the pavement, “Run for it!” and belted off. The two men in the road paused for only a second before following him.

The small boy looked upset. The felling of one man and the arrival of two others had levelled the odds at three-all. Just right, he thought, for vigorous action. He felt short-changed.

The young man now came to help Durkin, who had an arm around Mr. Portlach and was trying to get him back onto his feet.

“Got one of them anyway,” said Kirchner, prodding the prostrate Mansergh with his toe.

“If you’re interested in the others,” said the young man, “I can give you their full names and their addresses. I fancy that’s a policeman just turning the corner. Let’s hand over this fallen warrior – his name’s Mansergh, by the way – and give the police particulars on the others.”

Mr. Portlach was swaying on his feet, the blood running down his face.

“Aggravated assault, or some such charge.”

When Captain Lewin, formerly Marriott, approached the Abbey Wood Tutorial Service on Fendike Road, he did so quite openly. His arrival attracted no attention. Before the war, many army officers had been pupils there. Most of them were now busy elsewhere.

The maid who admitted him said that Mr. Mills had received his telephone message and was expecting him. The captain smiled gratefully. An officer and a gentleman, as she told her friends afterward.

As soon as the study door was shut behind him, the captain marched up to Mr. Mills, who had scrambled to his feet, bent his head forward, and said, very quietly, “I take it that this room is soundproof.”

“Certainly. Even if there was anyone interested in eavesdropping. I see no reason why there should be.”

“Good,” said Erich Krieger, pulling up a chair and seating himself. He had made no move to shake hands, and his manner was that of a senior officer addressing a subordinate. “I am paying you this personal visit because Operation Asgard is nearing its climax and there are one or two points to be settled before the whistle is blown. First, as to the disposition of Tyr and Vulcan.”

Mr. Mills, who was a careful user of language, thought that the word “disposition” accurately expressed what was in Krieger’s mind. He thought of Robb and Goodison as parcels to be forwarded somewhere.

He said, “Yes. They have done good work. They will have to be looked after.”

“Very well, then. Here is an envelope for each of them. They will find in them identity papers, including a passport, money, and instructions as to where to go when they reach Ireland. Now, as to you—”

“I see no reason to run. Safer to sit still. Movement attracts attention.”

“A sound army principle,” agreed Krieger, “with one proviso: that there is no single scrap of paper, in the coal shop or the crematorium, that connects you with them.”

“There could be nothing with Goodison. He knows nothing about me. Robb is different. He has been my sole contact with the rest of the group. All messages have gone out and come back through him. It is quite possible that he has papers that mention my name. However, I assure you that he will see that every scrap of paper is collected and destroyed before he leaves.”

“Together with the spy who has gotten so close to you?”

Mills stared at him.

“You were not aware, then, that a young man who has connections with British Intelligence has inserted himself into your school?”

“You are talking about the chemist, Ben Lefroy?”

“I am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure that he has connections with British Intelligence? Yes. I saw him recently in conversation with one of their operatives. But whether he joined your school to spy on you or simply to learn German – of that I am not sure. But it is a matter on which we cannot afford to take chances. Youngsters have sharp ears. He may have picked up some suspicion of your connection with Asgard. If he has, a further vital question poses itself: has he passed on these suspicions? If he has not done so, then once he and every incriminating scrap of paper have disappeared, you will be as safe as you were before. If he has passed on his suspicions, you will be in danger. Extreme danger. Had you not better change your mind? I have papers for you. You could vanish with the other two.”

Mills said, “No.” He said it with the firmness of a man who had thought it through, had made his mind up, and was not to be shifted. “I cannot desert my post. Not at this moment. You know, of course, of the action that is planned in Ireland.”

“I not only know about it. We have been affording it all the help in our power. Arms, ammunition, explosives. And the service of a helper who has been organising volunteers in our prisoner-of-war camps.”

“If I stay here, I, too, may be able to help them. Help them in their work of pulling down the British bullies who have been treading on our necks for six centuries. I would count personal risk as nothing compared with the chance of playing the smallest part in that crusade.”

“A fanatic,” thought Krieger. There was no room in his cold mind for fanaticism, but he could recognise it and use it when he met it. He said, “Very well. I respect your decision. One final matter: when does Lefroy next come to you?”

“On Thursday afternoon. From four to six.”

“Excellent timing. On this occasion, could you offer him a little extra instruction? Say, until eight o’clock?”

“I could. But why?”

“Because by that time it will be getting dark.”

He saw, from the look on Mr. Mills’s face, that he understood what was meant.

“Consider,” he said, “the work that you and your two associates are engaged in.” He was still speaking softly, but the steel edge was showing now. “If it is successful, it may mean the difference between winning and losing the battle that is now impending on the Western Front. Even if we win, the numbers of our young men who will die will be counted in thousands. If we lose, in tens of thousands. How heavy does one life weigh on such a scale?”

Mills shook his head. He could find nothing to say.

“Very well, then. I will explain exactly what I have in mind.”

He spoke, uninterrupted, for ten minutes and did so with the assurance of a man whose own plans are well in hand. He was attached, temporarily, to the B Mess at Woolwich and was due to leave, on that Thursday, with a party of other R.E. officers joining their units in France. He was happy at the thought that he would be on the other side of the Channel when Operation Asgard reached its final bloody conclusion.

Before Mr. Blundell, in the East London Magistrate’s Court.

The King against Patrick O’Hegarty, Dennis Macardle, Nicholas Mansergh, and Patrick Dunphy. Charged with committing grievous bodily harm: contrary to Section 18 of the Offences Against the Person Act of 1861.

Being an application to commit the case to the High Court for hearing.

Counsel:	(To the witness) Your name is Arthur Merriman and you are currently serving in France as a second lieutenant in the Royal Warwickshire Regiment.
Witness:	Lieutenant, actually.
Counsel:	I apologise. I should have said lieutenant. And at the time of this offence you were on fourteen days’ leave?
Witness:	Correct.
Counsel:	Before you joined the army, in September 1914, you were in charge of Loading Pier No. 5 in the London Western Dock and the four accused had worked under you for some time?
Witness:	For six months in the case of Dunphy. For more than a year in the case of the other three.
Counsel:	And you identify all four of them as having taken part in the assault on Frederick Portlach. (To the Magistrate) An assault, sir, that the medical evidence has shown to be a savage one.

Counsel for the defence, being asked if he had any questions, indicated that he would reserve his questions for when, and if, the accused were committed.

The magistrate, having found a prima facie case established, remitted the case to the Central Criminal Court. He said that the application that had been made for bail would be refused. He then pointed out that there was one important point to be considered. Addressing the witness, he said: “I am informed that in view of the pressure on the calendar it is unlikely that the case will reach the Central Criminal Court before late June, or possibly July, by which time you will have served for several further weeks in France. I have no doubt that an application for your attendance in Court will be readily granted. What I have to consider is the possibility—Mr. Blundell hesitated—that you will no longer be available.”

Witness:	You mean that I may have copped a packet.
Mr. Blundell:	That is the possibility I had in mind. And that is why you should consider making a formal deposition. The Crown solicitors will assist you with the wording.
Witness:	(Apparently delighted with the idea) Then it can be read as my funeral oration.

Joe’s waking in the morning had, by now, become a well-established routine. At about seven he would be roused, unwillingly, from the depths of sleep by the sound of Ben, who had the next-door room, getting up. Then Joe might catnap until he heard feet clattering downstairs and the clack of the front door. After which he would turn over in bed and sleep until conscience, or hunger, got him out of bed at about nine-thirty. Recently, they had taken two steps to simplify life: they had reduced the watching team from two men to one, covering the twelve hours of daylight in two spells of six hours. This gave each of them one complete day off out of three and enabled Joe to preserve his comfortable morning routine except on the day on which he had the first spell of duty. Also, they had not now so far to go. They had moved into new lodgings, on Paroma Street, halfway between the attic observatory and the language school.

On this occasion, Ben had sent out none of the usual signals, and when Joe stomped down to breakfast there was still no sound from his room. No reason for him to be up. He did not take over from Luke until midday. But a worm of uneasiness had begun to stir. It had been Joe who had lured Ben into MO5, and he felt a corresponding responsibility for his welfare. He had not been happy when – at Ben’s own insistence – the protective screen of Richner, Durkin, and Merchiston had been withdrawn. As soon as he had finished breakfast, he went upstairs to look into Ben’s room.

His fears crowded back. The bed had not been slept in.

It took him less than ten minutes to reach the attic observatory, where he found Luke, sitting at the window, his eyes glued to a pair of binoculars.

Before Joe could speak he said, “Something’s going on. Ten minutes ago, I saw that gardener-handyman drive off, and he had a trunk in the cart and the old woman with him. And yes – there goes the young one. Something wrong there.”

“I’ll say there’s something wrong,” said Joe savagely. “Ben’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Never came back last night.”

The note of fear in his voice sobered Luke. This was a crisis. He was in charge. Must think. He said, “There’s a telephone downstairs. Get hold of our heavies. Any of them who are there. Bring them here quick.”

During the half hour that it took to get Kirchner and Durkin, he never took his eyes off the chapel and the house. He saw no sign of movement. Joe said, “Go the back way. The way I went before.” Luke nodded.

The windows of the house were shuttered, and the silence was so absolute that Luke found himself whispering. He said to Kirchner, “You watch this door.” It was the door leading into the chapel from the back. “Joe, you take a look in the cellar.”

“For anything in particular?”

“Yes. Have a look at those power and light switches. If they’re all off, we’ll know they’ve left.”

The cellar door was unlocked. Joe kicked it open and, armed with a small pocket flashlight borrowed from Kirchner, went carefully down into the darkness.

When Luke and Durkin reached the front of the chapel, they saw a van parked in the forecourt. There was a pile of luggage in the back. The big west door was ajar. Luke eased his way through, into the small antechamber. It contained only a few chairs and a notice board, with a list of services on it. Examining it quickly, Luke saw that there had been two on the Tuesday and one on the Wednesday. Thursday, and all the days after it, were blank.

Luke turned to point this out to Durkin, who was standing in the doorway. He said, “If there’s no service, why’ve they lit the bloody furnace?” It was true. A belch of black smoke had started to rise, slowly but steadily, out of the chimney.

Luke stared at it for a few moments, trying to rearrange his ideas. Then he walked across, opened the door that led into the chapel, and went in.

At the far end, between the front row of chairs and the altar, was a platform on wheels, which ran up to an opening in the wall between the chapel and the furnace room and was closed by a steel shutter. On the platform lay one of the simple plywood coffins of the type used in cremation. But Luke had eyes only for the man behind the platform. It was Andrew Robb, but not the English businessman; not even Anders Raab, the German. This was Tyr, son of Odin, god of war. The first look had been surprise, but that had disappeared. There was nothing now in his engorged face but rage and defiance.

As Luke and Kirchner walked forward, he touched a switch in the wall and the steel shutter slid up, letting in a gust of overheated air.

“You can feel it?” said Robb. “Yes. You can feel it, because the furnace door is now wide open. I have only to press down this lever and the rollers will send the coffin through into the fire. They are stronger than you are. Nothing you can do will stop it. You understand me?”

Luke nodded. The coffin, he could see, was clamped down onto the rollers.

“And you wish to save the life of the young man who is in it? Alive, I assure you.”

Luke nodded again. He was unable to speak.

“Then I make you this offer. I require five minutes’ start. Only five minutes. How many years has this boy to live? If you give me your word, I will accept it and you shall have your friend back.”

Luke saw that Robb’s hand was on the lever. He had no doubt that he was speaking the truth. The rollers and damps would send the coffin through with a power they could not counter. He was about to say something – anything – to postpone the decision, when the door at the back opened and Joe came through. He gave a thumbs-up sign and said, “Don’t worry. I’ve turned off the power.”

For a moment, Luke could not grasp what Joe was saying, but Robb understood him and backed away from the platform. Kirchner, who had produced a clasp knife, inserted the blade under the thin cover of the coffin and levered it up clear of the pins that had been holding it. They could see Ben, cradled in a nest of papers and most clearly dead.

For a moment no one moved.

Then Robb, seeing that Joe had left the door open, spun around and darted toward it. Joe, who was holding an iron bar in his right hand, allowed Robb to go past him and then swung it in a vicious backhanded swipe, driven by all the strength of his arm and backed by all the fury in his heart. It hit Robb at the top of his spine with such force that it nearly severed his head from his body.

Kirchner, more used to violence than the other two, was the first to move. He came around the end of the platform and looked down at Robb, who lay in a slowly oozing puddle of blood. He said, “Killed trying to escape. Right?” Leaning forward, he picked up the envelope that had slipped onto the floor. The passport had fallen out of it. He said, “Give him the five minutes he was asking for and I guess you wouldn’t have seen him for dust.”

“But who?” said Luke. “How did he? When did this happen?” He was finding it difficult to speak.

“If I might make a suggestion,” said Kirchner. “Have a quick look through the papers this type was trying to burn and you’ll probably find the answers.”

That same morning, Kell was having one of his weekly meetings with Basil Thomson. It was clear that Kell was pleased with himself. “Two strokes of luck,” he said. “First, we’ve got rid of that gang of Irish bullies. For a good long time, I should say.”

“Good luck for us,” said Thomson. “Bad luck for them. That they should have run up against the one man who could identify them.”

“And someone they couldn’t hope to intimidate.”

“Right. You said two lots of luck.”

“For some time now, we’ve been examining the letters in and out of that newspaper office. The very last one that the editor mailed gave us the address of Daryl Forbes in Walton-on-Thames. The local police have now got him under discreet observation. He seems to have settled down very nicely. They’ll tell us at once if he tries to move on.”

“It’s even better than that surely. Now that the English edition of the paper has folded up, he’ll see no point in writing further articles. It was England he was preaching to, not Ireland. He’s lost his pulpit.”

“Two up and one to play,” said Kell. “It’d be game, set, and match if I could only make out what Robb and Goodison are up to. But the damnable thing is”—he indicated the pile of documents on his table—“that it’s all there. Under my eyes. If only I could read it. The key’s in those first two messages. I’m sure of that. I spent two whole hours yesterday thinking about them. Have you ever tried thinking about one thing for two hours?”

“Certainly not,” said Thomson. “After ten minutes my thoughts would be going around in a circle, chasing each other up their own posteriors. So what conclusion did you come to after that feat of mental gymnastics?”

“I came to this conclusion: to find the answer, you’ve got to take a general view of the matter before trying to pick out the details.”

“Wholesale first, retail later,” suggested Thomson.

“It was rather that you had to look at the background before you could focus on the foreground. You understand me?”

“No. But don’t stop.”

“Right. The background is in Germany. No question about it. I can see the hand of Steinhauer pulling the strings to make his puppets dance. What’s more, he can send them messages, through Zeeman, in Switzerland, to Goodison in London. He must have sensed that Robb was getting fidgety. Were things going quickly enough? Would he be ready in time? Goodison is told to calm him down. Tell him that the ‘special product’ is already on its way to you. And tell him that you’ll be letting him have ‘suitable supplies’ in plenty of time for him to do his bit.”

“That’s tolerably clear,” said Thomson. “It would be clearer still if we had any idea what things he was talking about.”

“I’m more and more convinced that the ‘special product’ is some form of explosive – probably cordite. I could ask Customs and Excise to make a special examination of anything coming from Zeeman. But I don’t want to alert Goodison until we’ve got the whole picture.”

“Very well. Let’s assume that the ‘special product’ is cordite. In that case, what are the ‘suitable supplies’? Am I being simplistic if I point out that Goodison is a fuel stockist? In the ordinary way what he would supply would be coal.”

“Heaven preserve my wandering wits,” said Kell. “Of course. Not just coal. Anthracite.”

The words seemed to sound an echo.

“Slivers of anthracite. A bench of tools. Robb was working on lumps of anthracite that Goodison sent him. That must be right.”

“Not forgetting,” said Thomson, “that Robb, in his youth, had been a sculptor. What he was producing was a novel sort of bomb.”

The two men looked at each other. Before either of them could speak, the door burst open and Hall was in the room. He was white with fury, so angry that he could hardly speak.

He said, “While we’ve been piddling and twiddling here, they’ve done it again.”

“Done what?”

“Destroyed another ship. The Princess Irene, with most of her crew and some dockyard men who were working on her. You may be happy to sit talking. I’m not. I’ve brought half a dozen of our own dockyard policemen, and if you won’t get off your bottoms and pick up that sod Goodison and twist him till he squeals, why then I’m quite ready to do it myself. And my men won’t be gentle. They had friends on the Irene—”

“As a matter of fact,” said Kell, and the coldness and heavy calmness in his voice took some of the steam out of Hall, “we were planning to go around there ourselves. We’ve just worked out what we’re likely to find. We’ll explain as we go.”

When the two naval tenders squealed to a halt outside the coal merchant’s shop there was no stopping or delaying the wave of men who broke over it. The youngster who opened the door was swept aside. Any door that was shut against them was kicked open. Goodison was alone in his office. He started to say something, then stopped. Tried again and failed again.

Hall said to the naval contingent, “Take this place to pieces. Particularly the fuel stocks. You know what to look for.”

As they streamed out of the room, Hall marched up to Goodison, who was on his feet now but silent. When Hall spoke, their faces were only inches apart. He said, “The laws of England contain one section that you may have overlooked. The crime of treason is still on the statute book. It includes damaging or setting fire to His Majesty’s dockyards or the ships in them, and punishment for it is specified in the act. Not an honourable death, in front of a firing squad. That’s too good for traitors. The penalty for treachery is hanging. You understand? To be dropped through the floor with a rope around your neck, your arms strapped to your side, and a hood over your face. And if we could cut you down and hang you twenty times it would be less than payment for the work you’ve been doing.”

Goodison backed away from the fire and fury in Hall’s voice. Kell thought he was going to faint. But he managed, somehow, to get back to his chair.

At that moment, a sergeant came in, followed by two men. Each of them was carrying, with extreme caution, a lump of anthracite, roughly the size and shape of a small pineapple. “I think this must be what you’re looking for, sir.”

Kell said, “Let me have it. And lend me your knife.”

He inserted the blade gently, and the two halves of the lump came apart. Both halves had been hollowed out, and both were empty.

Hall said, “Cordite in one half – sent from Stockholm by Zeeman – sulphuric acid in the other – stolen for them by their Irish friends from that chemical works. A thin membrane to separate them, which the acid would eat through in due course. If inserted in a furnace, the heat would destroy the membrane and activate the cordite at once.” He weighed the lump of anthracite thoughtfully in his hand. “As pretty a little time bomb as ever slid unsuspected into the boiler of a ship.”

“Or of an ammunition factory,” said Kell. “Take this man away. Handcuff him and throw him into one of the vans.” He grabbed the telephone. There were so many people he had to contact urgently. The Royal Arsenal, the powder factory, the premises at Slough, all dockyards, all ports in which coal-fired ships might be found. If any had received fuel from Landsells, their furnaces would have to be raked over and every lump of coal, in furnace or in store, examined.

“We can only pray,” said Hall, “that we aren’t too late.”

“Well,” said Luke flatly, “so now we know.”

The first two or three papers from the coffin had shown them the truth. Der Vetter, Wotan, the director of Operation Asgard, was the soft-spoken, intelligent, helpful head of the Abbey Road language school, David Mills, into whose hands outrageous chance had delivered Ben. Now that all the papers had been removed, from around and under him, he looked small and lonely.

Joe, after glancing at him, had not spoken a word but had wandered off, out of the chapel and into the anteroom. When the others joined him, they found him sitting, cross-legged, on a chair and staring at nothing in particular. Luke, spotting a telephone on the shelf above his head, said, “Is it working?” Joe said, “No,” but it was clear from his tone of voice that he meant that he didn’t know and didn’t care. His mind was far away.

Luke found that it did work, was put through to Kell’s office, and listened to it ringing interminably. Finally, a girl answered. She said, “There’s no one here but me. They’ve all gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

The girl said she didn’t know. They’d pushed off with a crowd of sailors. She then replaced the receiver firmly.

Luke was still staring at the instrument when Kirchner said, “If I might suggest it, don’t you think we ought to be getting after Mills? If he’s been supplied with a set of papers like the other one, he might be difficult to stop. My van’s parked around the back—”

Luke said, “While you’re fetching it, I’ll have a word with Inspector Horniman. He can take over here.”

As they were driving the short distance down Abbey Road to the school, all four crammed together in Kirchner’s tiny vehicle, Luke said, “We’ll be too late. He’ll be gone.”

Durkin said, “I wouldn’t be on it. He’ll be there and he’ll put up a fight—I hope.”

Kirchner said, “He’ll be there, but he won’t fight.” Joe continued to say nothing.

Kirchner came nearest to the truth.

When Mills saw them pile out of the van and guessed what they had come for, he opened the drawer of his desk, took out a service revolver, placed the barrel carefully in his mouth, and pulled the trigger, scattering his brains over the wallpaper behind his desk.

It was only after a week of mixed and strenuous work that Kell found time to sum up for his two young assistants. Four of the anthracite bombs had been found in the last delivery of coal to the Royal Arsenal – two each in the coal stores at the powder factory and Slough. Clearly, they had been intended to detonate at the same time, if possible. An explosion in any one of the three places would have been a disaster.

Kell said, “If all three had gone up it wouldn’t have been a disaster. It’d have been a catastrophe. A close-run thing. Closer than I like to think about. However, now that you have disposed of Robb—”

Joe, who seemed to have recovered some of his spirits, said, “Yes, I disposed of him.”

“It has been accepted that he was trying to escape and that you had no option. Mills has killed himself. Goodison is being held on charges that will, almost certainly, lead to a capital sentence. With the removal of Wotan, Tyr, and Vulcan we may assume that Operation Asgard has gone into – what shall we say? – involuntary liquidation. However, there’s one man who would have been a more valuable prize than those three together: Erich Krieger. Palmer in Canada, Richards in Portsmouth, Marriott in Ireland, and Lewin – as we’ve recently discovered – at Woolwich. From which he left for France a week ago with a party of officers who were rejoining their units.”

“No doubt he’s back in Germany by now.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as that. Let’s say he’s certainly back across the Channel, absorbed safely into a million other soldiers and perfectly camouflaged.”

Luke and Joe looked at each other. There was a note in Kell’s voice that seemed to offer a hint of the opening they were looking for.

Luke said, in as casual a tone as he could muster, “Didn’t you once tell us that a number of your men had been drafted into the Intelligence Police in France?”

“If I said that, it was, regrettably, true. I have lost a lot of good men.”

Joe gave him a look that said, “Go on. Don’t fluff.”

“We did wonder,” said Luke, “whether an attachment, a temporary attachment, might be arranged for us.”

“It might be. But why?”

“Well, sir, you said that Krieger would be a valuable prize.”

“And you think that you might be able to locate him.”

“He won’t have been able to change his appearance all that much. And we examined him, night after night, at his card table in that house above Gilkicker Point—”

“The last time I saw him,” said Joe, “he was fiddling with his motorcycle outside that house in the Crescent. He had his back to me and was bending over the machine, so I didn’t recognise him, but I’m sure it was he—”

“Oh, why?”

“Because he recognised me. Must have done. And saw me talking to Ben, and that’s why—”

“Stop that!” said Kell sharply. “If anyone’s to blame, I am. I picked out that language school for him. All right. I agree there are few people more likely to spot Krieger than you two. I’m not making any promises, but I’ll think about it. And I’ve got a piece of news for you: Hall tells me that the navy has scored a fine success in the North Sea. It’s not been announced yet, so don’t splash it about. Two of our cruisers engaged and sank the German armoured cruiser Kobold. She went down with all hands.”

“Über and unter,” said Luke softly.