James McGee - Rebellion

“Your time in the Peninsula served you well,” Brooke went on. “You speak Spanish, yes?”

He appeared undeterred by Hawkwood’s reluctance to respond to the previous enquiry.

This time, Hawkwood nodded. Brooke seemed intent on changing course every five minutes. Sooner rather than later, Hawkwood supposed, the superintendent would get to the point.

“In fact,” Brooke continued, “you’ve quite a flair for languages. You’re fluent in French, as well, I hear?”

“I’ve been fighting the bastards for twenty years. There was a general once; he said you should know your enemy.” Hawkwood shrugged. “Learning the language seemed as good a place to start as any.”

Brooke’s eyebrows lifted. He looked genuinely startled by Hawkwood’s reply. “You’re a student of Sun Tzu?”

“Sun what?” Hawkwood said. He had no idea what Brooke was talking about.

Brooke sat back in his chair. “Not what; it’s a name. Sun Tzu – T, Z, U. He’s your general. He was Chinese. He lived over two thousand years ago. He wrote a book on military strategy known as The Art of War . It’s been used by military leaders down through the ages. He wrote: ‘If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.’ They do say Bonaparte’s a devotee,” Brooke added, with what might have been a hint of admiration. Then, intrigued by the expression on Hawkwood’s face, his brow furrowed. “What is it?”

Hawkwood was thinking of Chen, recalling how the Chinaman had scrutinized Bruiser Billy Boyd disporting himself with his previous opponents, then swiftly defeated him. Hawkwood wondered if Chen had heard of this Sun Tzu. He’d have to ask him. He had the strong feeling that the answer would be in the affirmative. He shook his head. “I wasn’t aware of his name.”

“Then it appears we’ve both learnt something today,” Brooke said serenely. He studied his notes. “I see you fought alongside Colquhoun Grant.”

Another name; this one known, however. Although it was from the more recent past, it was not one that Hawkwood had been expecting to hear.

“Not exactly.”

“What?” Something approaching alarm showed in the super-intendent’s eyes. “Are you saying I’ve been misinformed?”

“I was in the mountains when Captain Grant joined Wellington’s staff. I reported to him when I delivered information back to the general’s headquarters. It was after I left Spain that the captain became Lord Wellington’s chief exploring officer. He inherited my informers and he was able to make use of the guerrilleros I’d been working with.”

“Ah, in other words, he was your successor,” Brooke said, sounding relieved.

Hawkwood nodded. “That would be a more accurate description, yes.”

“Well, you clearly made a favourable impression, whichever way it was. He provided the references that enabled you to join Bow Street, no?” Brooke threw Hawkwood another questioning stare.

“Captain Grant had friends in high places,” Hawkwood said.

“Had?” The reply came sharply.

“He was captured,” Hawkwood said heavily. “Six months ago. The French finally managed to track him down and Bonaparte ordered him hanged as a spy. Another thing that Corsican bastard has to answer for. Now, forgive me, sir, but would you mind telling me what I’m doing here?”

Brooke leant back in his chair, his face severe. He remained silent, as if pondering his decision. Finally, he gave a curt nod. “Very well. What do you know of this department?”

“According to Magistrate Read, you’re part of the Home Office.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes,” Hawkwood said. “You hunt subversives.”

Brooke looked slightly taken aback by Hawkwood’s forthright response. Then he frowned. “Subversives? I do declare that’s a word I’ve not come across before. Though I must say it’s a good one, and remarkably apposite. From the French, possibly?” He regarded Hawkwood with renewed respect. “Is that all?”

Hawkwood hesitated.

When he’d seen the brass plaque to the side of the front door, the name “Alien Office” had triggered a faint memory that went deeper than his confessed store of knowledge. He wasn’t sure what it was a memory of, exactly, other than the vague remembrance of whispered conversations and rumours voiced in dark corridors about even darker deeds. It was probably best to claim ignorance. That way, at least, any information he did receive would be straight from the horse’s mouth.

“Perhaps you ought to tell me, sir.”

From the look in Brooke’s eye it was clear the superintendent suspected that Hawkwood was being deliberately obtuse.

The moment passed. Brooke nodded. “As you wish. Well, Magistrate Read was quite correct. We do indeed fall under the aegis of the Home Office, though we operate independently from it.”

“And what do you operate on , exactly?”

“Oh, all manner of things,” Brooke replied, showing his teeth. The effect was not so much jocular as disarmingly menacing. “You know it was your Chinese general who said that a hundred ounces of silver spent on intelligence can save a thousand spent on war. You might say it’s my duty to try and prove him right.”

“And how do you do that?”

“By spreading confusion among our enemies.”

Brooke pushed himself away from his desk and stood up. He shot his cuffs and began to pace the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

He looked over his shoulder. “As a police officer you are, no doubt, familiar with the workings of the Alien Act?”

Hawkwood nodded.

The act had been inaugurated in ’93, long before his arrival at Bow Street. It required all foreigners to register with the customs officials at the port where they landed or at a police office. Despite the latter stipulation, to Hawkwood’s knowledge there had been no direct impact from the legislation on his own duties as a Runner. Up until now, that was.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Brooke said. Eyes front, he continued to pace. “However, what you may not know is that the Act was actually prepared in response to advice from the émigrés themselves. That was how this office came into being. The Prime Minister was becoming increasingly concerned by the number of refugees arriving on our shores, having fled the Terror. There was no knowing who we were letting through, no guarantee that some of them weren’t agents who’d smuggled themselves in to spread dissent among the populace.”

The superintendent performed an about turn. “The last thing this country needed was for the seeds of republicanism to start germinating on this side of the Channel. God forbid there should be a mob laying siege to the Tower! So, subversives, revolutionaries, agitators, spies – call them what you will – it was and is the Office’s task to root out the bad apples. And I’m happy to report that we have enjoyed considerable success in that regard.”

Brooke stopped pacing. He was standing before a map of Europe. He stared up at it, his eyes narrowing. “Then came the war.” The words were spoken softly, almost wistfully. It was as though Brooke was thinking aloud.

Collecting himself, he continued, “It was my predecessor, Wickham, who took the initiative. He decided it was time to give the French a taste of their own medicine. He proposed that we set up a web of correspondents throughout Europe, using our embassy in Berne as the collecting house for information.”

Brooke reached out and ran the flat of his hand over the map’s surface. “The intention was not only to gather intelligence about the revolutionaries on their own soil but also to find ways of discrediting them. The best way to do that, he believed, was to initiate contact with royalist sympathizers who’d infiltrated republican organizations in the hope of disabling the régime and restoring the Bourbon monarchy. We were already in league with the royalist government in exile over here, so it made sense for us to continue taking advantage of their expertise. It also helped that Wickham had been appointed our ambassador in Switzerland.” The superintendent tapped the map with the end of his forefinger.