is their problem. Concentrate on Europe. That is an order, Reavley!” He picked up a small bundle of papers from the top of his desk and held it out. “By the way, C wants you in his office in half an hour.” He did not look up as he said it.
Matthew froze. Sir Mansfield Smith-Cumming had been head of the Secret Intelligence Service since 1909. He had begun his career as a sublieutenant in the Royal Navy, serving in the East Indies, until he was placed on the inactive list for chronic seasickness. In 1898 he had been recalled and had undertaken many highly successful espionage duties for the Admiralty. Now the agency he led served all branches of the military and the high-level political departments.
“Yes, sir,” Matthew said hoarsely, his mind racing. Before Shearing could look up, he turned on his heel and went out into the corridor. He was shaking.
Precisely thirty minutes later Matthew was shown into Smith-Cumming’s inner office. Smith-Cumming looked up at him, his face unsmiling.
“Captain Reavley, sir,” Matthew said. “You sent for me.”
“I did,” C agreed.
Matthew waited, his heart pounding, his throat tight. He knew that his entire professional future lay in what he said, or omitted, in this interview.
“Sit down,” C ordered. “You are going to remain until you tell me all you know about this conspiracy you are chasing.”
Matthew was glad to sit. He pulled the nearest chair around to face C and sank into it.
“Obviously you do not have the documentary proof,” C began. “Neither, apparently, does the man who has been shadowing you, and occasionally me.”
Matthew sat motionless.
“You did not know that?” C observed.
“I knew someone was following me, sir,” Matthew said quickly, swallowing hard. “I did not know anyone had followed you.”
C’s eyebrows rose, softening a little of the sternness of his face. “Do you know who he is?”
“No, sir.” He thought of offering excuses and decided instantly against it.
“He is a German agent named Brandt. Unfortunately we don’t know much more about him than that. Where and when did you first hear of this document, and from whom?”
Matthew did not even consider the possibility of lying. “From my father, sir, on the telephone, on the evening of June twenty-seventh.”
“Where were you?”
“In my office, sir.” He felt his face grow hot as he said it. The crumpled car was sharp in his mind, his father’s face, the scream of tires. For a moment he felt sick.
C’s face softened. “What did he say to you?”
Matthew kept his voice level with difficulty, but he could not control the hoarseness in it. “That he had found a document in which was outlined a conspiracy that would ruin England’s honor forever, and change the world irreparably for the worse.”
“Had you heard anything of this before?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you find it hard to believe?”
“Yes. Almost impossible.” He was ashamed of it, but that was the truth.
“Did you repeat it, to make sure you had understood him?”
“No, sir.” Matthew felt the heat burn up his face. “But I did repeat the fact that he was bringing it to me the following day.” The admission was damning. The only thing more completely guilty would have been to lie about it now.
C nodded. There was compassion in his eyes. “So whoever overheard you already knew that the document was missing, and that your father had it. That tells us a great deal. What else do you know?”
“My father’s car was deliberately ambushed and sent off the road, killing both my parents,” Matthew answered. He saw the flash of pity in C’s face. He took a deep breath. “When I heard about it from the police, I went to Cambridge to pick up my elder brother, Joseph—”
“He didn’t know?” C interrupted. “He was closer, and older than you?”
“Yes, sir. He was at a cricket match. He lost his wife about a year ago. I don’t think the police wanted someone from college telling him. The master was at the match as well, and most of his friends.”
“I see. So you drove to Cambridge and told him. What then?”
“We identified our parents’ bodies, and I searched their effects, and then the wreckage of the car—to find the document. It wasn’t there. Then when we got home I searched there also, and asked the bank and our solicitor. When we returned from the funeral, the house had been searched by someone else.”
“Unsuccessfully,” C added. “They appear to be still looking for it. Presumably a second copy, which would suggest it is some kind of agreement. Your father indicated no names?”
“No, sir.”
C stared at him, frowning. For the first time Matthew sensed the depth of his anxiety. “You knew your father, Reavley. What was he interested in? Whom did he know? Where could he have found this document?”
“I’ve thought about it very hard, sir, and I’ve spoken to several of his closest friends, and as far as I can tell, they know nothing. When I mentioned plots, they all said Father was naive and out of touch with reality.” He was surprised how much that still hurt to say.
C smiled, the amusement reaching all the way to his eyes.
“It seems they did not know your father very well.” Then his face hardened. “Resist the temptation to prove that they are wrong, Reavley, whatever it cost you!”
Matthew swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“So you have no idea what this is about?”
“No, sir. I imagined it might be an Irish plot to assassinate the king, but—”
“Yes.” C waved his hand briefly, dismissing it. “I know that. Pointless. Hannassey is not a fool. It is European, not Irish. Mr. Brandt is not interested in the independence or otherwise of Ireland, except as it might affect our military abilities. But that is something to consider. If we are involved in civil war in Ireland, our limited resources will be strained to the maximum.”
He leaned forward a few inches. “Find it, Reavley. Find out who is behind it. Where did the document come from? For whom was it intended?” He pushed a piece of paper across the top of his desk. “This is a list of German agents in London of whom we know. The first is at the German embassy, the second is a carpet manufacturer, the third is a minor member of the German royal family presently living in London. Be extremely discreet. You should be aware by now that your life depends on it. Confide in no one at all.” He met Matthew’s eyes in a cold, level gaze. “No one! Not Shearing, not your brother—no one at all. When you have an answer, bring it to me.”
“Yes, sir.” Matthew stood up, reached for the paper, read it, and passed it back.
C took it and put it in a drawer. “I’m sorry about your father, Captain Reavley.”
“Thank you, sir.” Matthew stood to attention for a moment, then turned and left, his mind already racing.
In the upstairs sitting room of the house on Marchmont Street, the Peacemaker stood by the window. He watched as a younger man walked briskly along the pavement, glancing occasionally at the houses to this side. He was reading the numbers. He had been here before, twice to be exact, but on both occasions brought by car, and at night.
The man in the street stopped, glanced up, and satisfied himself that he had found what he was looking for.
The Peacemaker stepped back, just one pace. He did not wish to be seen waiting. He had recognized the man below even before he saw his thick dark hair or the broad brow and wide-set eyes. It was a powerful face, emotional, that of a man who follows his ideals regardless of where they led him . . . over the cliffs of reason and into the abyss, if need be. He knew his easy walk, the mixture of grace and arrogance. He was a northerner, a Yorkshireman, with all the pride and the aggressive stubbornness of the land from which he came.
The doorbell rang, and a moment later it was opened by the butler. There followed a short silence, then
