James McGee - Rebellion

“You’ll be provided with identity papers and travel document ation and a point of rendezvous from where you’ll be taken to meet with our correspondent, who will then familiarize you with the salient details of our . . . deception. All I can tell you at this stage is that this could be of paramount importance with regards to the course of the war. If the plan is successful, there is no question that a great number of lives will be saved. Naturally, there is a proviso.”

“There is?” Hawkwood said. “Who’d have thought it?”

Brooke ignored the remark. “If you were to be apprehended, this department would deny all knowledge of your existence. You would be on your own and left to your own resources. You comprehend me?”

“I’d say you’ve made that part of it perfectly clear,” Hawkwood said. “How long do I have?”

“How long?” Brooke echoed, puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“To decide.”

“Ah, perhaps I didn’t make that clear, either. Forgive me. I’d be obliged if you could let me know your decision before you leave this room.”

There was an uncomfortable silence before Hawkwood said, “That long? And there I was thinking you’d want to know this very second.”

Hawkwood turned and looked at the map.

“So, where is this correspondent of yours? That’s another thing you’ve neglected to tell me.”

Brooke followed his gaze. “Is it? That was remiss of me. He’s here –” Brooke reached out and stabbed the map with his finger.

And waited.

“Well, there’s a coincidence,” Hawkwood said softly. “I’ve always wanted to see Paris.”

Chapter 4

“Well, you were right,” Brooke said, raising the coffee cup to his lips. “He’s certainly a recalcitrant devil.”

“That’s been said before,” James Read responded wryly. Brooke took a drink and set his cup down.

“He achieves results,” Read said. He took a slow sip from his own cup. “That’s the main thing.”

“Set a fox to catch a rat, eh?”

“Indeed.”

The two men were seated at a table in the first-floor coffee room in White’s. They were by the end front window, through which they had an uninterrupted view over the narrow balcony down on to the northern end of St James’s Street. There were other club members around them but the tables on either side were unoccupied so both men were able to converse freely without the likelihood of being overheard.

“Y’know it was Sidmouth who first brought me here,” Brooke murmured absently as he gazed down the long room. “Just as well he’s a Tory. If he’d been a Whig I’d have ended up in that other place, which would have been rather amusing. Mind you, it would probably have guaranteed a decent table for supper.”Read acknowledged the remark with a polite smile. He didn’t have to look to know that the building being referred to sat almost diagonally across from them on the opposite side of the street. The premises housed a similar retreat called Brooks’s.

James Read was a private man and not, as a rule, a patron of gentlemen’s establishments. He found them somewhat claustro -phobic, though he acknowledged that they did provide a convenient forum in which to conduct business, especially business of a clandestine nature. The staff was uniformly efficient and discreet which, given both Brooke’s and Read’s professions, was a decided advantage and, despite his cynicism, the dining room could usually be called upon to produce an acceptable bottle of claret and a competent lamb chop at relatively short notice.

“An interesting fellow, though,” Brooke said, still musing. “What’s his full story? What was he doing before he took the king’s shilling? Do you know?”

“I’m not sure I’d consider that relevant,” Read said.

“But . . .?” Brooke pressed.

“You know, I was thinking that I may well stay on for luncheon,” James Read said, looking off towards the door to the dining room. “I hear the new chef serves a rather fine truffle sauce with the turbot.” He dabbed a napkin along his lips.

The superintendent, who was well aware of Read’s antipathy towards the surroundings, sighed. “All right, point taken.”

Brooke studied Read over the rim of his cup. “You knew he’d accept, though, didn’t you?”

“He responds to a challenge,” Read said. “It’s what drives him.”

“There’s no family, I take it?”

Read shook his head. “No.”

“Mmm, probably just as well, in the circumstances. Not many friends either, I suspect.”

“They’re few in number, but impressively loyal.”

“And demons? I’d hazard a guess he has his fair share.”

“Show me a man with twenty years of soldiering who hasn’t,” Read said.

“And I’ll wager those scars could tell a few stories,” Brooke said.

Read, refusing to rise to the bait, made no reply.

Brooke smiled, finally accepting defeat.

Both men took another sip of coffee.

“How much did you tell him?” Read asked.

“What we agreed. That we’d provide him with all document ation and a meeting point. After that he . . . they . . . are on their own.”

“Can I assume you did not reveal the correspondent’s identity?”

“You can. That omission was covered by the need for secrecy.” Read reached for the coffee pot, drew it towards him and proceeded to refill his cup.

“You look . . . worried,” Brooke said.

Read put the pot down. “Merely pondering upon their chances of success.”

“It sounds as if you’ve a soft spot for the fellow.”

“He’s a good officer. He’s my officer. I don’t relish placing any of my men in harm’s way if I can help it.”

“Well, he’s mine now, or at least for the duration. And the opportunity’s too good to pass up. We’d be fools if we didn’t try to take advantage.”

Read tried to quell the feeling of disquiet prompted by Brooke’s crass proprietorial comment. “I believe that’s what was said the last time this was attempted.”

“Ah, but the bugger was in Spain, remember. This time, he’s in Russia; not so close to home. It’s an entirely different kettle of fish.”

“Then let us hope it is to our advantage,” Read said. “Have you informed the Prime Minister, by the way?”

Brooke shook his head and used his fingertips to smooth a non-existent bump in the table cloth. “Not as yet.”

“Is it your intention to do so?”

“I’m of a mind to keep it between ourselves for the time being,” Brooke said. “Given that we’re still in the preparatory stages.” He favoured Read with an oblique glance. “Unless you have any objections?”

Read shook his head. “Whatever you think is appropriate.”

“I think it’s for the best,” Brooke said. “Besides, there’s no requirement for him to be privy to everything we do.”

“And our émigré friends?” Read asked.

Brooke shook his head again.

“Not even the Comité ? Their collaboration’s proved of great benefit to us in the past.”

“Indeed it has, and my department is exceedingly grateful, but you can’t be too careful. We live in dangerous times. We must exercise caution, even where our so-called allies are concerned.”

Composed of émigrés drawn from the ranks of former government ministers, senior clergymen and a coterie of aristocrats all loyal to the French crown, the Comité Français was effectively the royalist government-in-exile. Its goal was the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy.

“Besides, they’ve been rather peppery of late,” Brooke added.

Brooke was referring to the rift between the heirs to the French throne: the Comte d’Artois and his brother Louis Stanislas. Having fled France in the wake of the Revolution, both were now resident in England. Although Louis was the next in line following the execution of his brother and the death of his nephew while detained in the Temple prison, it was the Comte d’Artois to whom the majority of the émigrés looked for guidance, a state of affairs that had led to deep mistrust between the two siblings.