“Our Lansing?” Pitt asked sharply.
Stoker’s face tightened. “Yes, sir. That’s the worrying part. We thought Lansing was in prison in France, but they let him go.”
Pitt felt a sudden chill. Lansing was English, a cold, clever man with allegiance to no one, and-as far as they could tell-to no cause. Why the French had released him was irrelevant now, but Pitt would find out later. It could have been some technicality of the law. A good lawyer could often find one, and Lansing would be both willing and able to employ such a man. Or, worse, someone else might have paid for his lawyer, just to get him loose.
Pitt looked up at Stoker. “And Lansing was the one who asked about the points and the freight trains?”
“Yes, sir,” Stoker answered. “Word is that he’s an expert on transport, especially trains: signals, altering the switches on lines, diverting trains, blowing the couplings, that sort of thing. Exactly what Mr. Blantyre said.”
“Any others?”
“Not yet, but we’re still working.”
“Anything else about Alois Habsburg?”
“Nothing. I can’t see any reason at all anyone should want to assassinate him,” Stoker admitted.
“Except to embarrass Britain, and Special Branch in particular,” Pitt replied. “Which it most certainly would.”
Stoker nodded. “That’s what it looks like. The queen thinks well enough of us after the business at Osborne House, but there are plenty who don’t. And most people don’t even know about Osborne House, and never will.”
“I know.” Pitt pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, his shoulders tense. “There are quite a few who think our power is a threat to their freedom, and to their privacy. A few decades ago, people thought the same of the police.”
“Idiots,” Stoker said under his breath. “They send for the police fast enough if there’s a burglary, a riot, or even a kidnapping. We’re like the army: Nothing’s too good for us if there’s a war, and then when it’s over they want us to become invisible-until the next time.” The contempt in his face carried an uncharacteristic bitterness.
Pitt could not help but agree with him, even if he chose not to voice it.
“We need more information,” he replied. “Who is Duke Alois Habsburg, exactly? What sort of entourage is he bringing with him? I don’t care if that’s a breach of his privacy or not!”
Stoker pulled a sour face. “Difficult to find out anything much about him, except the usual, superficial things: where he was born, his parents, where he is in reference to the succession-which is nowhere. He’s not really a politician, more of a philosopher, and a dabbler in science. Very clever fellow, by all accounts, but a dreamer. He might invent something brilliant one day. Or maybe write a couple of books about existence, or identity, or something. At least that’s what his own people say. So far, he’s never done anything that makes any difference.”
“And he’s related to our queen?” Pitt pursued.
“By marriage, yes. Distantly-so is half of Europe.” Stoker’s face still reflected his exasperation. “Alois may be a favorite of hers. I’ll find out, but he doesn’t sound the sort. He’s nice enough, but she doesn’t go in for a lot of heavy thinking.” He stopped abruptly, a faint pinkness in his cheeks, aware that he had expressed his opinion rather too freely.
“He could just be looking to impress her, and perhaps he also feels like a trip to London,” Pitt replied with a faint smile. “But he may just be pretending to be an academic dreamer, when he’s really a brave man doing an important job.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Stoker conceded with obvious reluctance. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Who’s coming with him?” Pitt asked. “How many of the entourage are actually guards of one sort or another?”
Stoker sighed. “From what we’re told, they’re mainly domestic servants: valets and butlers-that sort of thing. Probably couldn’t tell a stiletto from a fire iron.” He blinked. “Doesn’t the palace supply servants for guests?”
Pitt found himself smiling. “Butlers, of course; valets are different. Each gentleman wants to have his own, who knows his likes and dislikes, probably carries all the remedies he might need, and is fully aware of his weaknesses.”
“It’s another life, isn’t it?” Stoker observed, smiling thinly.
“As are ours, to many of the people we meet,” Pitt noted.
Stoker shook his head but he was still smiling. “We’ve got to protect this man, sir, whoever he is. If he’s killed anywhere in our territory, it’s going to get very ugly indeed. Some bastard’s going to come out of the woodwork and blame us.” He winced. “Not to mention however many of our own people get killed or crippled at the same time.”
“I know,” Pitt agreed, thinking of Blantyre’s warning. “That could even be the purpose of the whole thing. Poor Duke Alois might simply be the means.”
Stoker’s face paled. He said something under his breath, but would not repeat it aloud when Pitt looked up at him.
Pitt returned to the Foreign Office that afternoon, knowing he had no possible alternative. As before, the first person he was directed to was Jack Radley. They stood facing each other in the luxurious but impersonal waiting room with its formal portraits of past ministers on the walls.
“I hope this is about something different,” Jack said. He shifted his weight very slightly from one foot to the other.
“It is about new coincidences,” Pitt replied, also unable to relax. Neither his professional responsibility nor their personal relationship allowed him any ease. He knew how deeply it would affect Charlotte if this new situation divided her from Emily. All the past experiences they had shared, the family memories and the adventures, would be shadowed by the present tearing of loyalties.
Jack’s face had tightened, turning the corners of his mouth down.
“I have much more information regarding the probability of an assassination attempt against Duke Alois Habsburg,” Pitt began. “The duke may be only a minor relation of the queen, but you don’t have to be in the Foreign Office to imagine what it would do to Britain’s reputation in Europe, and everywhere else, if the man was shot while he was here, visiting Her Majesty-do you?”
He was a little more sarcastic than he had intended, his own fear lending an edge to his voice.
“I imagine Lord Tregarron would not be indifferent to such an event, or to his own position in the matter if it should occur,” he added.
Jack stared at him in silence, but his face was distinctly paler. For several seconds he weighed the new situation.
“You’re sure you are not being unnecessarily alarmed?” he asked.
“The job is about thinking ahead, Jack. If you mean am I jumping at shadows-no. I think there’s enough evidence now to take the threat seriously. Am I certain I’m not being distracted by a deliberately manufactured plot, in order to draw my attention away from something else, something more important? No, of course I’m not. Bluff? Double bluff? I don’t know. Is Tregarron prepared to take the chance that a member of the Austrian royal family will get killed in a train crash, along with a few score of Britons? If he is, then we should replace him with somebody who is a little less free with human life, and our reputation. Someone who can see the scandal, the outrage, the reparations likely to be demanded if such an assassination were to happen. Not to mention someone prepared to explain it to Her Majesty, with full inclusion of the fact that Special Branch told you details of the possibility, and you decided it was not worth your trouble to listen.”
Jack took a deep breath, then clearly changed his mind.
Pitt smiled bleakly.
“I’ll tell Lord Tregarron what you have said,” Jack answered. “If you would wait here, I shall come back as quickly as I can.”
It proved to be a full quarter of an hour before Jack returned. The minute Pitt saw his face, he knew Tregarron would see him, but under a degree of protest.
Pitt followed Jack out of the waiting room and along the corridor to the arched door. At the word of answer, Jack opened it.
