“He’s not a man who welcomes publicity. Bacchus had a hard time flushing him to the surface. Edited out? Suppressed? The man moves about the world—you’d think someone other than a society magazine would be able to catch him.”
“They own the press—or much of it—on both sides of the Atlantic, Joe. Charity balls, yacht races, opening nights at the opera—those are the only occasions they allow their image to be put before the public.” Kingstone’s expression was impossible to fathom as he looked again at the photograph of the young Natalia and asked calmly, “Is this how they do their recruiting?”
“One of their ways, I expect,” Joe replied. “I’d guess men of this consequence have a range of effective techniques available to them.”
“And we’re thinking we can dent the armour of men like these?” Looking down at the seven faces, for a moment Kingstone was doubtful.
“Every suit of armour has its chink,” was Lydia’s cheery contribution to a conversation she was trying to understand. “But it’s a very tedious business searching for it. I’ll tell you what you have to do if you want to destroy an organisation: you have to attack it in two places. Think of it as a weed. You have to dig out the roots and chop off the seedhead before it has a chance to germinate and scatter its spores to the four winds.”
“Got that, Cornelius? Will you take the roots or the head?” Joe affected a light tone. “Lydia, thank you for your horticultural insights. Always a pleasure. But …”
“You want me to let you get on with your planning. Right-oh. I’ll leave you with these magazines. I don’t know how you do your job, Joe, without reading them. Half the country’s villains are to be seen disporting themselves on the pages every month. Even the occasional policeman makes an appearance.” She explained to Kingstone, “Joe’s the only good-looking one they have on the books and he’s never unwilling to risk his reputation on the dance floor so he gets snapped quite often.”
“ALL THE SAME—SHE’S probably right, you know, and my question was a serious one,” Joe picked up when Lydia had left the room. “I volunteer to take the roots because that’s the level I operate at. Down where it’s dark and dirty. My men will have been busy over the weekend.” Joe’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “My desk will be piled high with fingerprinting data, surveillance reports, interview notes … I’m planning to put my uniform on, barge my way into that so-called health clinic, turn it upside down and generally do my job as a policeman. And I shall do it without asking advice or permission. I don’t want to risk a refusal.
“You, Cornelius, can take shelter under the nose of our king and our prime minister, no less. Monday. The first day of the conference. You may be bored silly but I want you to stay put right there in the hall where you’ll be safe enough, every day for as long as it lasts. Security in the hall will be as tight as it ever gets. Bacchus or I will take over for what remains of your day. I’ll slide you back into the Claridge’s system and into the care of Armiger. If you’re quite happy with that arrangement?”
Kingstone was hardly listening. “Well, that’s the roots taken care of. Look, Joe, you’re going to have to listen to me and—yes—trust me when I say something that might sound a mite strange to you. I’ll take the seedhead.” He put up a hand to deflect any objections. “For the very good reason that—I am the seedhead.”
CHAPTER 23
“Sunday! Blissful Sunday! And Joe tells me you’ve decided to make an early start back to London on Monday morning, so you have a whole day to relax.” Lydia poured out a cup of coffee for Kingstone. “Have you made any plans for today? Going out ratting with Brutus?”
“I turned him down in favour of a quiet hour or two with Marcus. We thought we’d take a reach of the river and tickle up some trout.”
“Excellent preparation for the days of boredom to come. Listening to the rehearsed, line-toeing speeches one after the other, all saying the same thing, won’t be very entertaining.”
“Oh, it’s not a foregone conclusion, Lydia …”
“You’re not kidding!” Marcus harrumphed from behind a copy of Saturday’s Daily Mirror. “You’re going to get fireworks! There’ll be staged walkouts at the very least! The French are probably packing their bags as we speak. We should have taken a look at this yesterday! Cook hands me her copy to read the racing page when she’s finished with it but, never mind the back pages, look here! On the front! Oh, my God!”
Marcus waved the headlines in front of them and then read out:
Surprise Message from Washington This Morning:
UNITED STATES ISSUES DEBTS REMINDER.
The United States Government has issued a reminder to all governments of the war debt payments due on June 15th. President Roosevelt is having difficulties of his own in America and the British Government will not willingly aggravate them.
“It goes on to say that our ambassador in Washington has been instructed to make a proposal to the president: an offer of a token payment.”
Marcus hardly ever lost his easy good humour but Joe recognised the signs of rising anger. “The shame! The indignity! Three days to cough up. He gives us three days. The country’s bankrupt, for God’s sake! We’ve been paying this debt back for fifteen years, dutifully, with interest, amounting now to far more than the original sum. We’ve spent our last pennies bailing out Belgium, resupplying starving Germany on Churchill’s initiative. We’re down to our last tin of corned beef and what does this new chap decide to do at the outset of the most important meeting the world has ever held on economic problems? He holes Europe below the waterline! He demands payment with no chance of deferment for the privilege of having saved the civilised world from barbarity.”
“Marcus, my dear, our guest will think—”
Bit between his teeth he rumbled on, shaking the newspaper like a terrier. “To save Roosevelt’s face, we ‘propose a token payment.’ What’s that supposed to mean? How imprecise! And how typical! We don’t want to be seen to inconvenience our paymaster. As a Magistrate, I lecture debt defaulters from the bench after every big race and I send the ruthless leg-breakers who threaten them to jail. It’s the same thing on a bigger scale, that’s all. But the Germans—oh, they have no scruples! Did you know? They’ve just decided to welsh on their debts and print money—issue national bonds they say—to pay for the grand projects they have in mind. And we let them get away with it! American bankers encourage them. Cornelius, surely you see this!”
“May I?” Kingstone took the paper from him and read the article for himself. He replied to Marcus’s outburst with calm concern. “The timing, I agree, is unfortunate. But look here—the key to all this is in the line, The President is having difficulties of his own in America. Poverty and unemployment from east coast to west; disaffected soldiery kicking up, ready to march on the country’s capital; lines forming at soup kitchens and starving children on the front pages of every newspaper. As bad as anything here in England. And always the voices around him advising, demanding, deriding, giving him a hard time.
“I need to get back,” he finished firmly. “I mean—all the way back. To Washington.” He fixed Joe with a look of growing unease. “It’s started, Joe. And it’s started without me. I’ll have to climb back aboard and see if I can catch up. Put things right from the inside.”
Joe’s interest flared. “How will you do that? Are you implying that you’re in contact with these people?”
“The mechanics of communication are in place,” Kingston replied carefully.