“Exactly,” the Peacemaker agreed. “Ready to fall. It will only need a little assistance. . . .”
Mason stiffened. “Assistance?”
The Peacemaker’s eyes were burning. “If it does not happen soon, it will be very violent, worse than the revolution in France in 1789 when the gutters of Paris ran with blood. Russia needs change, and soon, before the country is torn apart. The Russian people have no stake in the war! They should make peace with Germany, pull out, gain a new government and a new order of social justice.”
“And how can we bring that about?” It was a rhetorical question. Mason did not expect an answer.
But the Peacemaker gave him one. “By helping their own reformers—revolutionaries, if you like. Every great change begins with a dream, a man with a vision of something better who inspires others.”
A memory seared across Mason’s mind of a cramped office in London in 1903, a wild energy in the air, passionate ideals of a new social order, justice, the rule of the people at last. There had been men with fire in their eyes and in their brains. The Mensheviks and Bolsheviks had split from each other, the latter unwilling to wait on the former’s moderation.
The Peacemaker saw it in his face. He was smiling.
Mason had been a journalist then, sharing his office in Clerkenwell with the editor of
“Now is the time,” the Peacemaker said, his voice little more than a whisper, as if he could be overheard even here. “We must assure that it happens while Russia is still self-contained, and the violence, when it erupts, and it will, does not spill over into the rest of Europe, and eventually the world.”
Mason struggled to accommodate the enormity of what he was hearing.
The Peacemaker held his gaze. “Once Germany conquers Russia, even part of it, it will be too late. Then it will be Germany’s problem, and we can’t afford that. Rebuilding Europe after this war will take every ounce of our strength, all our courage, skill, and resources. Our people will be exhausted, God knows how many dead or crippled. Mason—we’ve got to put a stop to it! Before it’s too late. . . .”
“How?”
“We have two possibilities,” the Peacemaker answered softly. “There are two men who could light the fires of revolution in Russia. I know Lenin. So do you. . . .”
Of course Mason knew Lenin. The passion in the man was unforgettable, once one had really looked at him. At first he might seem insignificant, another quiet worker with his head bowed in books, but meet his eyes and all thought of the ordinary fled.
“I know what he thinks,” the Peacemaker went on. “He doesn’t want war any more than the Russian people do. But he’s in Zurich now, and unwilling to leave. His fire is all in his mind, not yet in his belly.”
Mason waited. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked like a minuscule heartbeat.
“You know Trotsky as well,” the Peacemaker said, scrutinizing Mason carefully. “I need to know what he wants—revolution, of course—but war or peace with Europe. That is the only question we have to answer.”
“And if it’s war?” Mason found his voice was shaking. Even as Trotsky’s name came to his mind he could see the square face and piled-up mass of dark, curling hair, the vitality of the man. He was small, and yet the passion of him filled a room. Instinctively he had liked him more than the dry, inward-looking Lenin.
“You know the answer to that,” the Peacemaker answered, a tight, sad smile on his face. “The revolution will happen in Russia, Mason. It is as inevitable as the phases of the moon. We must have peace. Five million men are dead in Europe already. What is one more?”
Mason gulped air, his heart racing. He had seen countless dead men. He had waded through corpses. It should not matter, and yet it did. The thought repulsed him.
“Have you only the stomach for dreams, not reality?” the Peacemaker challenged.
“No.” Was it the truth? Mason had talked with Trotsky, eaten with him, even liked him. Trotsky had actually told him about his exile in Siberia and how he had escaped and come to England. “No,” he repeated. The man he remembered would be for peace. Was he still the same?
“Find him,” the Peacemaker repeated. “We can change what is to come, Mason. We can end this storm of slaughter! My God, someone has to!”
Mason was hardly aware of his hands and feet, as if he were detached from his body. He held history in his hands. He thought of the men in Verdun, of Judith by the side of the road in Ypres, and other men and women across the battlefields of Europe. “Yes, of course,” he said firmly. Suddenly there was no doubt. He would have killed an enemy soldier with regret, but without hesitation. If Leon Trotsky was in favor of war, then he must be prevented from returning to Russia, and Lenin must go in his place.
The Peacemaker was talking about arrangements. Mason barely heard his voice. His mind was stunned by the enormity of what he had agreed to do, but there was no escaping it. Please God, let Trotsky be for peace.
When Mason was gone, the Peacemaker poured himself a glass of Glenmorangie and was surprised to find his hand trembling. It was excitement, release of tension because finally he had succeeded in getting Mason back. To use him to contact Leon Trotsky was a stroke of genius. It would be the beginning of accomplishing a great goal.
He sipped the whisky and walked back to his chair, sitting down and crossing his legs. He relaxed at last. He had control again.
He had told Mason nothing of affairs at the Scientific Establishment in Cambridgeshire, not the murder of Theo Blaine, or the man the Peacemaker had so carefully placed in the heart of the work there. Mason did not need to know.
He also had not revealed anything about his concerns over the safety of the German naval code. There was nothing specific that he could name—no incident, nothing said that made him think the British had broken the code. It was just a sense of satisfaction in the manner of Admiral “Blinker” Hall, a man for whom the Peacemaker had the most profound respect. Hall should have been more worried, more anxious than he was.
The Peacemaker’s plan was already well in progress. It involved Matthew Reavley, and his attraction to Detta Hannassey. She possessed not only beauty but grace and intelligence and passion. She was unpredictable, daring, sometimes tender, a mixture of madness and sanity that was almost unique. Not surprisingly, Reavley was fascinated with her. That could be used very well indeed. At the very best, the Peacemaker would find out if British Naval Intelligence had broken the code. If they had, he would have to make sure Admiral Hall knew it was Reavley who had betrayed the fact, and that would give the Peacemaker a sharp, sweet pleasure. One day he would have to destroy Joseph Reavley, too, but that could wait. Never place pleasure before business.
It was a pity Patrick Hannassey was becoming a nuisance. He might have to be disposed of quite soon.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
It was a fine day, and Joseph decided to walk to the village and visit a few other people he knew, particularly Tucky Nunn, who was home now, and Charlie Gee’s mother, and Plugger Arnold’s father. He took the walking stick, and Hannah watched him go down the path and out of the gates. He turned around once with a wry smile, knowing she was watching him, and then disappeared along the sunlit road, Henry trotting happily at his heels.
Hannah went back to her work, forcing the thoughts out of her mind as to how far he was recovered, whether he would ever really be completely strong again. She scrubbed the floor fiercely and moved everything around in the larder for no adequate reason. There was mending and ironing to do, and she wrote a long letter to Judith.
Joseph returned shortly after two, having eaten in the village. He looked tired, definitely limping quite badly, but extraordinarily pleased with himself.
“Look!” he said as soon as he was in the door. He produced out of a large paper bag a beautiful, softly curved pewter goblet with an ornate handle. The lines were simple, the sheen on it like dark gray satin.
“Oh, Joseph! It’s gorgeous!” she said enthusiastically. “It will be perfect on the shelf in your room. You need a few things to replace those you took with you to Flanders. How old is it?” She knew without asking that it was not a reproduction, apart from the patina on it. No doubt Joseph had found it at the junk shop at the end of the High Street, where John Reavley had spent so many hours.
“It’s not for me,” he answered happily. “It’s Shanley’s birthday in a couple of weeks. I thought it would be
