Gavin Lyall: Spy’s Honour

This display enraged the Secretary. “How dare you, sir!” he erupted. “You’re nothing more than a damned bandit !”

The pistol jabbed towards his stomach. “Do not make me angry,” Peter said. “I need you for my plan but I can make a new plan.” It was the very lack of anger that made them all, even the Irishmen with their own guns, hold their breath. They might kill if it meant something, Ranklin thought; Peter will kill because it means nothing.

The Secretary swallowed and shut his mouth. “Sit yourself,” Peter ordered, waving the pistol to include Ranklin. They sat in deep chairs from which sudden movement was impossible.

The other two went out; Peter stationed himself by the fireplace holding the pistol – a pocket-size semi-automatic type – loosely by his side. “You,” he said to Ranklin, “you are a captain of artillery. What do you do here?”

Ranklin remembered to be properly reluctant and sparse in his answer. “I’m here to inspect the guns in the forts.”

“And then?”

“I report back to my superiors.”

“Report what?”

“I don’t know yet. I only got here this afternoon.”

Peter nodded, not really interested, and then looked at the Secretary, who clenched his mouth firmly. Peter smiled. “I do not ask your secrets – I know them already. I just tell you what you must do. I tell you, and you will have time to think how to cheat me. Think carefully. Think how, when you try to cheat me, you can stop me killing you. All of you: him, the servants, the sentries at the gate – yes, I know of them – the men who bring the gold. All of them. We have enough bullets.”

The gold ? Ranklin felt his ears peaking like a rabbit’s. What gold? Whose? – presumably the Navy’s, certainly the government’s – But where, how …?

He hadn’t controlled his expression and Peter was smiling at him. “Yes, Captain: you did not know about that. Twenty thousand gold sovereigns for the fleet out there. You think your big guns rule the world, but no: it is small guns – ” he gestured with the pistol, “ – and gold.”

The butler came in, high-coloured and highly indignant, ushered by the black-bearded man who was now carrying the rifle. He held it with familiar ease at the high port position, finger clear of the trigger – and that way, Ranklin remembered who he was. Or had been. This time, he kept his face expressionless, but nobody was looking at him anyway.

“They’re all locked up,” the man reported, “and the maid so sniffling scared she’d have the footman wrapped round her like a blanket and welcome – if Mick wasn’t watching. I’ll be taking the Captain now, then.”

Peter nodded. “Yes, take him … Ach, Captain: as an officer, it becomes your duty to be sure the other prisoners stay quiet – and alive.”

As Ranklin was marched out, Peter began giving instructions to the Secretary and butler: “Remember now, I am Count Viktor de Bazaroff of the Imperial Russian Embassy, asked by your Foreign Minister to give information – most secret – to the Admiral who sails with the fleet …”

The only basement room with a proper lock was the wine cellar, lit by a single unshaded light bulb and, of course, unheated. The kitchen maid, pale, wide-eyed and tear-stained, sat huddled in a nightgown and a blanket at the end of a rack of dusty bottles. The footman, in his shirt sleeves and collarless, leapt up from his seat on a wine box as Ranklin came in. He was little more than a boy and it was only the audience of the kitchen maid, Ranklin guessed, that was keeping him calm.

And perhaps only these two who are keeping me calm, Ranklin’s thoughts confessed. But of course he had to take charge of them: it was expected of him, no matter that they weren’t his servants and the situation wasn’t of his making nor understanding. No matter how badly he did it.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he announced, then corrected himself. “Nothing that worrying will improve, anyway. We just have to wait – and keep quiet. I’ve been nearly twenty years in the Army and I know there’s times not to try and be clever. This is one.” He realised he was speaking mostly for the two Irishmen behind him, and hoped they were listening. “Now, lad, if that’s a case of brandy you’re sitting on, get out a bottle. There must be a corkscrew around somewhere, so we’ll all have a tot to keep us warm.”

“A thoughtful deed, Captain,” the black-bearded voice said over his shoulder. “Though when was drinking permitted in cells?”

“Just a mouthful. And for yourself?”

“Thank ye, Captain, but I’ll get by a while without. Step into the corridor when ye’ve finished dispensing rations.”

The corridor was just as dimly lit and a waggle of the shotgun – they had swapped weapons again, and “Mick” with the rifle had gone back upstairs – suggested he shut the cellar door behind him. They stared at each other.

“Well, now, Captain …”

“Well, Private O’Gilroy.”

A long sigh. “So ye remembered – only it was Corporal and an honourable discharge wid two good conduct stripes – afterwards.” Was it odd that a man could be so flagrantly outside the law and yet remember, with precision and pride, his loyal Army service? Perhaps not: they had been things he had set out to do, and done; real achievements.

O’Gilroy took a paper packet of Woodbines from a pocket and tossed them to Ranklin. “Light me one – and yeself, if yez a mind. I fancy I owe ye more’n one, not counting the ones we rolled of tea leaves.”

Ranklin lit two cigarettes and placed one delicately in the muzzle of the shotgun offered towards him. O’Gilroy transferred the cigarette to his mouth, then leant against the flaking whitewashed wall and breathed smoke for a while. “Garrison Artillery, is it now? Isn’t that a bit of a comedown?”

“As pure gunnery it’s a step up, all barrel wear and air pressure and magazine temperatures – ”

“ – and beer and more beer; I’ve seen them, bare able to stand for the weight of their bellies even whiles they’re sober. That’s garrison gunners.” He breathed smoke for a while, then said slowly: “I don’t know what to be doing wid yez, Captain, and that’s a fact. I’m not fool enough to take yer parole, nor yet believe ye’ll forget me face oncest we’re gone – so I jest don’t know.”

“Is it your decision? The foreign gentleman upstairs seemed to be doing the deciding.”

O’Gilroy’s face was shadowed in the dusty light, but Ranklin saw him stiffen. “Jest helping, Captain, as a friend of Ireland.”

“Really? He’s certainly a friend of gold.”

O’Gilroy lifted his face to show his frown, but said nothing. Ranklin went on carefully: “I’ve seen his photograph on posters in London. He’s wanted in Russia, as well, and maybe France and Portugal. I don’t think he was helping Ireland in those places.”

“I’m no child to think we’re the only ones in the world wid troubles – nor yet that I’d be better off a Russian peasant. He’s talked of them, and I believe him. But there can be friendship in adversity; I fancied ye knew that yeself oncest.”

“There can be pilfering and hoarding and swindling, too, that doesn’t get into the heroic stories in the newspapers and official histories, and you know that . What’s he taking as his cut?”

“Are ye trying to spread disaffection in the ranks, Captain? He’s taking no cut.”

“And that doesn’t make you suspicious? The labourer’s worthy of his hire.”

O’Gilroy had smoked his cigarette down to a glowing fragment; now he flicked it against the wall and said firmly: “And I think that finishes everything in orders for the day, Captain, so if ye’ll be getting back to cells …”