“You don’t think our Irish act worked, then?”
“Of course not. Sir Basil may pretend to believe it, if he wants to concede the game to us and needs someone to blame, but if he decides to come after us . . . then God knows. But we’ll find out soon enough.” He paused, then went on in the same conversational tone: “I’m afraid I blame you for most of this evening’s problem. You weren’t alone – but you were in command.”
Quite properly, he wasn’t going to roast an officer in front of juniors. But also, Ranklin realised, he was making O’Gilroy Ranklin’s subordinate rather than a member of the Bureau in his own right. But this was one of those never-explain-never-complain situations.
Dagner went on: “If you must behave as if you’re abroad on a mission, and I’d far prefer that you didn’t, then don’t do things by halves. If you ever again decide to charge into some house ready to shoot somebody, then bloody well get on with it – and then be off like a scalded rabbit. Don’t go near the police at all. As it is, you seem to have gone one way and let O’Gilroy go another – and all the rest followed from that. So now the shooting of one tu’penny Italian bandit threatens the secrecy, even the future, of our Bureau. And I will not have that. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, sir.” The ‘sir’ was pure instinct.
“And do you agree?”
“Yes, sir.” And I do, Ranklin thought miserably. I tried to be half secret agent, half solid citizen, and the two halves don’t add up.
“On the other hand,” Dagner said, “I think Certain Quarters may have got the message that the Secret Service Bureau, while perhaps not as legendary as legend has it, is still not to be trifled with.”
But they’d only been rescuing O’Gilroy, hadn’t they? Ranklin was about to say this, then didn’t. It was his fault that any rescue had been needed.
21
“It isn’t in the papers, and may never be,” Major Kell said pointedly, “but did you hear that a group of Irish desperadoes stormed the Gray’s Inn Road police station early this morning and freed one of their number who was being held on a murder charge? A man called Gorman.”
Dagner pretended pretend interest. “Really? Should I have heard of him?”
“I just thought you’d be interested. Sir Basil Thomson certainly is. Indeed, I’d go as far as to say that he’s in a mood to spit blood and would like it to be yours.”
“Yes?” Dagner said, as if inviting him to get to the point.
“One of his policemen was shot.” Kell paused to see if that brought any reaction. When it didn’t, he continued: “Through the helmet. Sir Basil was talking of raiding this office and demanding that every one of you come up with an alibi for between three and four this morning.”
“Most extraordinary.” But Dagner still seemed only mildly interested. “However, I’m sure cooler counsels will prevail. I, for my part, would not permit him to know who is on the staff of this Bureau, let alone demand alibis of them. And I hope he bears in mind that any such raid will be upon a non-existent Bureau answerable only to the First Lord of the Admiralty.”
Kell looked at him thoughtfully. “However, I think he might be assuaged if you just handed Gorman back.”
Dagner seemed to consider this, but as if it were a strange and fanciful idea. “No, I don’t think so.”
Kell took a deep breath. “Major Dagner, do you really consider your service to be so far above the law that-”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.” Dagner leant back in his chair. “Because if it isn’t there, it’s nowhere. So there is no question of my handing over one of our agents for judgment by that law – and that’s quite apart from any questions of loyalty and morale. But I don’t think it should harm your relationship with Scotland Yard if they realise you have no control over this service. Unless, of course, you’d led them to believe you had.”
Kell clenched his face but said nothing. He took a paper from an inside pocket, and unfolded it on Dagner’s table. It was a police ‘wanted’ poster for Thomas Gorman. There was no photograph, but the description was good – as it should have been, given that they’d had him in custody for several hours. Dagner read it with apparently mild interest.
“Those,” Kell said, “will be distributed throughout the Home Counties unless I return either with your man or your promise to surrender him.”
He had the feeling that Dagner was staring straight through him at some distant memory. “Most interesting – but it doesn’t alter my position. May I keep this?”
Rich and lordly as the Naval Intelligence Division seemed from Whitehall Court, inside the Admiralty it ranked – to judge from its offices – on a par with bilge-scraping. Even the civilian stores clerk, to whom Ranklin’s NID friend introduced him, lived in grander style. The Nelson touch, perhaps: Trafalgar had been won with stores, not spies.
The introduction was terse: “Here’s the chap I was telling you about, the one asking about the missing pistol. He’s Army, so fob him off with any old stuff.”
The clerk greeted Ranklin with wary courtesy. “Are you really from the Secret Service?”
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“Gosh.”
Ranklin added quickly: “But just the paper-shuffling side, not one of the stealing-the-Kaiser’s-code boys.”
“Ah.” The clerk looked disappointed, then realised that a real spy obviously wouldn’t admit it, so went back to wariness.
“Could we . . . ?” Ranklin suggested, gesturing at the nearest stack of paperwork.
“Of course.” He shuffled through a pile of papers. “You were asking about a certain Webley pistol, serial number so-and-so . . . Here we are: a court of inquiry established that it was lost overboard from HMS Gloucester during a storm in the Adriatic last April. No disciplinary action, but the loss has been paid for. And everybody’s living happily ever after.” He looked up with a bright smile.
“I rather thought it would be something like that. However, for a heavy pistol, it seems to have floated remarkably well, and due to some oddity of tide and current which perhaps you’d understand better than I, it was washed up in Clerkenwell yesterday.”
“Oh dear.” A slow grin spread across the clerk’s face and he consulted the report again before saying cheerfully: “Well, the paperwork’s all in order. So if you want to take it any further, you’ll have to talk to somebody in the Naval Branch-”
“No, no, I don’t want to stir things up and get anyone into trouble,” Ranklin assured him. “I’m not interested in the ‘how’ of it, just some idea of where it really went missing.”
“Are you quite sure of that serial number?” Then the clerk reconsidered. “Sorry, that was rather a silly question: you’ve found a pistol and we’ve lost one . . .” He went back to the report. “How about the last port of call before the ‘washing overboard’?”
“Where was that?”
“Trieste.”
The atmosphere in the agents’ office was like the last day of term. Lieutenant H waved the ‘wanted’ poster at Ranklin, grinning as if it were a report of how the school had just beaten Greyfriar’s 60-nil. “Have you seen this?”
Ranklin said: “Oh Christ,” and went straight to Dagner’s door, leaving H standing bewildered.
“Exactly,” Dagner said, seeing the poster in Ranklin’s hand. “We have to get him abroad. Where the devil have you been? You’d better get down to Brooklands.”
“Naval Intelligence. Right away.”
Dagner strode to the door, pulled it open and called: “Somebody get Captain R a taxi-cab.” He came back, muttering: “Like a bunch of . . . never mind. At least get him under cover-” he unlocked the safe against the wall and rummaged inside; “-and when you’ve done that, try and find out how Senator Falcone is. I can’t go telephoning the hospital without some explanation.” He spilled a small bag of sovereigns on to the table and began counting them swiftly.