Anderson tapped his finger on the table a few times in thought. “Granted, for the moment then, that you are offering your services for altruistic reasons. I’m wondering what you, with your limited resources, can do that the combined services of Her Majesty’s government cannot? Can you really believe you will succeed where we will not?”
Barker gave one of his cold smiles. “An acrobat, for all his skills, employs a net to catch him if he falls. I merely suggest that you hire me to be that net. My sources are not as limited as you might believe. I shall meet with no one but you, and if I fail-or if Inspector Munro and your own agents get in ahead of me-I shall not tender a bill for my services.”
“Munro will not appreciate your interference,” Sir Watkin put in. “How do you propose to catch the rascals?”
“By locating and infiltrating the responsible faction.”
Both gentlemen smiled. It seemed a rather impetuous plan, even to me.
“I’ve done it before,” he continued, “as my dossier no doubt attests.”
“Impossible,” Anderson said. “You are Scottish, and your assistant is Welsh. Even some of our best Irish-born agents have tried it, only to come home in a pine box. The faction cells are very close-knit. Many of the members have known one another since their school days. Sometimes they are even members of one family. What makes you so bold as to think you can succeed when all others have failed?”
“Oh, come, sir. Not all have failed. What of Lieutenant Le Caron?”
Robert Anderson jumped from his chair, as if he’d sat on a hornet. “How the devil do you know about Le Caron?”
“Henri is a friend of mine, aside from being your best spy among the Irish for the last ten years. I trained him in hand combat for a month. He’s a good man. More important, he is an example of a non-Irishman who appears devoted to their cause; in this case, a Frenchman. Or rather, an Englishman impersonating a Frenchman, since we both know that Le Caron is not his real name.”
I pricked up my ears. I hadn’t heard Le Caron’s name before. When had he known the Guv?
“It seems you know an awful lot, sir, about something that is not your affair,” Sir Watkin blustered.
“As far as I am concerned, gentlemen, it became my affair when they injured innocent London citizens and damaged public buildings. Something must be done, and I’d rather be working with the official enquiry than on my own. How long shall it be before the Irish radicals throw off their gloves and go after the Crown itself?”
Anderson gave Sir Watkin a significant glance, which Barker noticed immediately. “They have communicated.”
“They have,” Anderson said, removing a folded slip of paper from his pocket. “This was delivered to the Prime Minister in his office this morning. I must ask that you not mention this to anyone. It shall dampen your enthusiasm, I must warn you.”
Barker took the typewritten note and I read over his shoulder.
“‘Dear Mr. Gladstone, This is just a taste of what we can do. You have thirty days to propose a bill for Home Rule, or your government and the Royal Family shall fall. You have been warned.’”
“Thirty days,” my employer rumbled.
“Do you withdraw your offer, Mr. Barker?” Sir Watkin asked. “Thirty days does not give you much time to become an Irishman, join a faction, and convince them to trust you.”
Barker sat and pondered a moment, absently rubbing his finger under his chin. He did not seem to mind letting two of the most important men in England wait upon his reply. Finally, he let his hand drop to the table.
“My offer still stands, if you’ll accept it. I believe I can deliver whoever set those bombs and sent this note to you. I shall require Scotland Yard to take them into custody at the proper time. During the month, I would like both Llewelyn and me to be working for the standard fee you pay Le Caron, contingent upon whether we succeed.”
“Upon my soul, I wish we were as confident as you seem to be, Mr. Barker,” Anderson continued. “How do you propose to convince the faction cell to trust you?”
“By offering them someone they very much need: Johannes van Rhyn, the reclusive inventor of infernal devices. I understand they have attempted to recruit his aid for some time, but he will not see them. I intend to impersonate him.”
“Van Rhyn has turned down all requests to help the Home Office. We’ve sequestered him at the military base in Aldershot. How will you …” Anderson asked. “Do not tell me. You are acquainted with the German, as well as Le Caron?”
My employer said nothing but gave the spymaster a thin smile.
“You have interesting friends, Mr. Barker,” Anderson continued. “We were not aware of that. One final thing. Her Majesty’s government does not bargain with terrorists. If the two of you are captured, we will be unable to step in and come to your rescue.”
“Understood,” Barker said. “I would not wish to endanger your other agents.”
“What think you, Anderson?” Sir Watkin asked. “Shall we trust Mr. Barker and his mad scheme to hoodwink the Irish?”
“It is a slender thread, I’ll admit,” Anderson said. “But I believe the peril we are in warrants a secondary plan. Very well, gentlemen. I shall take your proposal to the Prime Minister. I cannot speak for him, but for now, it would be to your advantage to set your pawns in play.”
“What about you, young fellow? Are you up for all this?” Sir Watkin asked, as he shook my hand before we left.
“I trust my employer implicitly, sir,” I stated, but to tell the truth, just then I was wondering the same thing myself.
4
After we stepped outside into King Charles Street, Barker stuffed a finger and thumb under his mustache and emitted a shrill whistle, loud enough to make an old pensioner on the pavement flinch in astonishment and mutter about the Empire going to ruin. A cab drew up to the curb, and we clambered aboard.
“Claridge’s,” Barker called over my head, and we bowled off.
“Why Claridge’s?” I asked. What business did we have in one of London’s most prestigious hotels?
“It is the hotel of kings, and Parnell is the uncrowned king of Ireland. I must speak to him.”
Perhaps there was some savage living in the Sudan who had never heard of Charles Parnell, but the rest of the world most certainly had. He was the closest the Irish had to a real leader since St. Patrick. A Protestant, he had courted the Vatican in the hope of gaining support for Irish Home Rule. A onetime Land League radical who had spent time in Kilmainham Gaol, he was now creating a union that included everyone from the most pacifist groups to the most militant in Ireland. Though there were still many in Parliament who saw him as no better than an anarchist, he was the darling of many a soiree in London, and it was rumored that Prime Minister Gladstone himself had offered him a sympathetic ear on more than one occasion. I had heard that his framed image hung on the wall of thousands of homes across the Irish Sea.
“I understand why the bombers would attack Trafalgar Square and Scotland Yard,” I said, “but why the Junior Carlton Club, sir?”
“You must study English politics a little more thoroughly, lad,” Barker replied. “The main opposition to Home Rule will be the old dogs sitting around the fire at the Carlton making decisions, but it will be the young pups at the Junior that will dictate policy over the next twenty years. The Irish are sending them a very clear message.”