murders he had committed, and made other people commit, for the loss of John and Alys Reavley, and the betrayal of Sebastian. But he could understand the dream of avoiding war and the slaughter of hundreds of thousands across the battlefields of Europe, the ruin of a generation, the grief of millions. It was the price that choked him—the price in honor. Was betrayal ever right, even if it saved a million lives? Ten million?
Perhaps every one of them was loved as much by somebody as John and Alys Reavley had been by him.
He closed his eyes and drifted off into a half-sleep, aware of his arm throbbing, and his leg, and longing for the time he could turn on his side without pain.
CHAPTER
THREE
Calder Shearing looked up from his desk as Matthew Reavley came into his office. “How is your brother?” he asked.
“Lucky to keep his arm,” Matthew replied. “He’ll be several weeks before he’s fit to go back. Thank you, sir.”
“I suppose he will go back?” Shearing questioned him. He knew something of Joseph and had a deep respect for him rooted in his extraordinary actions a year ago.
“His conscience would crucify him if he didn’t.” Matthew sat down as Shearing indicated the chair.
Under his heavy, black brows, Shearing’s expression was bleak. “The sabotage is getting worse,” he said grimly, all pretense at courtesy abandoned. “How much longer before we can act?” There was an edge of desperation in his voice. “We’re being bled to death!”
“I know. . . .” Matthew began.
“Do you? The French are being massacred at Verdun. Last month the Seventy-second Division at Samogneux was reduced from twenty-six thousand men to ten thousand. The Russian Front is unspeakable. Sturmer, a creature of Rasputin’s, has replaced Goremykin as prime minister.” His face tightened. “Our people there estimate that a quarter of the entire working age population is dead, captured, or in the army. The harvest has failed and they are facing starvation. We are fighting in Italy, Turkey, the Balkans, Mesopotamia, Palestine, Egypt, and more than half of Africa.”
Matthew deemed it pointless to declare that they had finally succeeded in extricating themselves from the disaster of Gallipoli, and without losing a single man. The actual evacuation had been a military masterpiece, though nothing could make up for the fiasco of the attempted invasion that had cost the lives of over a quarter of a million men. On the worst days the reconnaissance aircraft had reported the sea red with blood.
Shearing was staring at him. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion and a deep, corroding knowledge. His emotion dominated the austere room in which there was nothing of his home, his past, or the man he was outside these walls.
Matthew was compelled to offer all the brief information he could about his own specific task. “The fact that they are putting smoke bombs in the holds of the ships, in among the munitions, so the captains have no choice but to flood the holds, can be deduced easily enough; it doesn’t need any explanation,” he said. “To trace the money to pay for the bombs themselves and the agents who plant them, all the way from Berlin to America, needs several people. We can fabricate bank clerks, officials, and so on, suggest bribery and betrayal, a degree of carelessness, but it all has to be verifiable.”
“I know that!” Shearing snapped. “You’ve got men—do it!”
He was referring to Detta Hannassey, the Irish double agent the Germans were using to test whether their vital naval code had been broken. It was Matthew’s job to convince her, and them, that it had not. Otherwise they would change the code and Britain would lose one of the very few advantages it maintained. All communication from Berlin to their men in the neutral United States hung in the balance. “I am doing it. I can’t just lay it out in front of her. I have to wait until she asks, or something happens to make it natural to talk about it. I’ve got a story about someone turned from their side to ours, but I need a cover to make it believable.”
Shearing kept his impatience under control with a visible effort. “How long?”
“Three weeks,” Matthew estimated. “Two if I’m lucky. If I rush it, she’ll know exactly what I’m doing.”
Shearing’s face was pale.
“How is our status in Washington?” Matthew asked drily. He had little hope of change. Even rumor of a Japanese base in Baja California and all the violence and chaos in Mexico under Pancho Villa had made no real difference.
Anger and self-mockery lit Shearing’s eyes. “About equal with that of the Germans,” he said sourly. “President Wilson is still aspiring to be the arbiter of peace in Europe. Teach the Old World how it’s done.”
Matthew would have used an expletive had he not been in his superior’s office. “What will it take to make him change?”
“If I knew that, I’d damn well do it!” Shearing told him. “Work hard, Reavley. It can’t be long before they take the next step up and start actually sinking the munitions ships. It only takes an incendiary bomb instead of smoke.”
Matthew was cold. “Yes, sir, I know.”
The nightclub where Matthew had arranged to meet Detta was crowded with soldiers on leave. There was a hectic gaiety about them, as if it took all their energy of mind to absorb every sight and sound to remember in the days to come. Even the young women with them caught the mood—elegant, romantic, a little wild, as if they too knew that tonight was everything, and tomorrow might slip out of their hands.
There were only three musicians on the small platform: a pianist; a slender, wispy-haired man with a saxophone; and a girl of about twenty in a long, blue dress. She was singing a haunting lyric from one of the popular music hall songs, but altered every now and then to be sadder, harsher, full of the reality of death. Her smoky voice added passion to it, belying the innocence of her face. Her hair was short, and she wore a band around it, over her brow.
Matthew found a place at the bar and sat down.
He had nearly half an hour to wait, and he was surprised and annoyed with himself at how tense he became. He listened to the music; all the tunes were familiar, from the madcap “Yacka Hula Hickey Dula,” popularized by Al Jolson, to the heartbreaking “Keep the Home Fires Burning.”
He sipped his drink, spinning it out, watching couples dancing. It was natural that he should be anxious to see Detta in order to further his work convincing her that the code was unbroken, but his disappointment was personal. The emotion of the music, the fear in the eyes of the young men around him, made him overwhelmingly aware of loneliness, separation, clinging too hard to the present because the future was unbearable.
Then he heard a slight commotion in the doorway, a momentary silence, and Detta came down the steps. She was not tall, but she walked as if she were, with a unique kind of slow grace, as if she would never stumble or grow tired. She was wearing a black dress, cut low at the bosom, a red rose at her waist. The skirt was lined in satin so it rustled very slightly as she moved. It made the flawless skin of her neck seem even whiter, and the cloud of her dark hair accentuated her eyes. One of her brows was a little different from the other, a blemish to perfect beauty that gave her a vulnerable, slightly humorous look.
As happened every time he saw her, no matter how much he guarded against it, his pulse raced and his mouth went dry.
At first she did not appear to have seen him, and he hesitated to stand up and draw her attention. But then she turned and smiled. Walking elegantly past the young men who had crowded toward her, she approached Matthew. As she seated herself, she spoke to the bartender first, as if that were what she had really come for, then turned to Matthew.
“I haven’t seen you for a while,” she remarked casually. Her voice was low, and the soft Irish lilt gave it a unique music.
It was five days since they had last met, but he did not tell her he had been counting. He must not let her know it mattered so much, or she would be suspicious. Whatever he felt—and it was far more than he wanted to—it must never affect his judgment. He could not afford to forget for an instant that they were on opposite sides. She was an Irish Nationalist, with sympathy for Germany, and perhaps any other enemy of England. Only here, in the
