Albert - Some proper bonding time for Kevin and his comrades, as well as a Mancunian catch-up with Beery. Boy, did things escalate quickly after that! Lucky thing the morning patrol went without incident, or Huns.
I don't know what's amiss with the early warning communications. Are the forward Observers just having rich tea and smoking all day? Conteville sure got a proper thrashing. Amazing the scope of repairs the NCOs and men can pull off overnight.
Kevin is McCuddenesque in his dispatching of the enemy 2 seaters, and not so bad with those Fokkers neither. Well done saving a squad mate. Congrats on 10. I suspect a special guest may be coming to visit Kevin soon. Cigar ash and Tulle...Be on your guard man!
Fullofit - Gott Im Himmel! Klaus definitely has a case of itchy neck. Or maybe he's eating all the vegetarian's red meat rations. Either way, if he wants to live long enough to wear the Blue Max in bed, he needs to turn for home when the ripping noises start...or he could attack a 2 seater and have a gun duel with the Observer. Yikes! Enemy tracers were going
between the center struts. Between them, man!
As to WinningstadT, I noticed that some time back. I liked it better when I thought you were making clever reference to Oliver's naming ceremony from last May when Strugnell was calling him that.
Raine - Some tough sledding there in the foul weather. Nice work dispatching the Fokker. It seems the enemy appearing overhead seemingly out of the aether is how it goes now. Mac did well extricating himself from that bounce. 53. Well done!
Lou - Nice to see you back on the forum. Hope a Freddy sighting isn't far off.
Carrick - Another engine failure. Henri needs a real Hispano Hispano. One more victory and he's in the club. Henri must be smart. Nothing crazy now.
NR - Great to see you back. Dean must be out of his mind after so much time in hospital. Shame he didn't get into any trouble with the nurses, or did he?
MFair - Hope to see your new man this weekend.
____________________________________________
À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 8818 May 1918Royal Automobile Club
Pall Mall, London
Spent much of the day walking about, going over the plan again and again. Tried in vain to shop for Eliza but couldn’t decide on anything. My mind was scattered. Stewart's words from long ago leapt from memory:
“To those who study it closely enough, the limitless open sky becomes as good a place to lie in wait for an unsuspecting passer-by as a darkened alley off a sleazy street, and the sudden act of violence, when it comes, can be as deadly.”
I must turn that statement back to the original geography. Everything hinged on the sudden act of violence. The blow a man doesn’t see coming always lands the heaviest.
Light training in the gymnasium. My speed is back and the grabbing sensation in the left shoulder is nearly gone.
The Savoy bar at 7.00. Appearances must be maintained. Jimmy made me a flavored soda of some kind that looked just like champagne. I needed a clear head for what was coming. Rules at 8.30. As before I paced about the front as though waiting for someone. In the end I threw up my hands in exasperation and headed inside. Let them make of that what they would.
Dinner began with a beef consommé followed by a solitary beefsteak which through supreme effort of will, I took my time consuming. The waiter was gravely concerned when I declined both the scalloped potatoes and the creamed spinach. To allay suspicion and draw out the meal I ordered a small plate of cheeses but left it untouched. At the appointed time of 10.00, I left Rules and affecting drunkenness staggered my way across Maiden Lane then right toward the Bedford Intersection. Weaving along slowly, I paused in the light and bent over doing my best impression of a dry heave before moving unsteadily along and turning into Exchange Court.
I sprinted down the passage and ducked into my spot.
From my position behind the two stacked crates at the jog in the alley, I was cloaked in shadow. The top crate stood 3 inches off the wall giving me an observation slit through which I could see the narrow entrance to Exchange Ct. I wasn’t there more than 30 seconds when a nondescript man of medium build entered the alley. Moving cautiously at first, he stopped in the light briefly then proceeded toward me at a normal walk. His hands were empty.
If he continued at a walking pace, I could hit him a good one. If he moved past at speed, I’d have no choice but to grapple and try to get the Japanese strangle on him. After that I could drag him to the taxicab if necessary. My heart was hammering in my chest. I had to remind myself to breathe. He was very close …
Here we go!I swung just as he passed the back edge of the crates. My right hook impacted the side of his neck just under the right ear. I felt my middle knuckle touch the hard underside of the jawbone. Amazingly, he didn’t go down but staggered backward from the punch and faced me unsteadily, leaning his back against the opposite wall of the narrow alley. The contact steadied him. He took half a step toward me and threw his left arm up protectively. The swinging kick with my left leg struck true, catching him square in the liver. He collapsed writhing on the ground. Two more hard right hands smashed his nose and rendered him insensate.
The man looked to be in his 40s. His hat was knocked away and his balding head suddenly reminded me of Professor Murray. A hasty search of his groaning person yielded nothing of interest. No tattoos on the wrist at least. I opened his jacket. There was a small revolver tucked in a holster under his left armpit which I removed and set aside. I felt toward his breast pocket. The thin leather gloves that shielded my knuckles made my fingers clumsy and the wallet kept catching on the pocket lining. The bulge within the leather felt solid. I’d just about worked it free when a shout ran down the alley.
“Fortesque! We have him! Where are you?”
The light from Maiden Lane silhouetted two men at the entrance to Exchange Ct. The bend in the alley behind me on the Strand side kept me in shadow but I wouldn’t be concealed for long.
Dammit!Nothing for it but to retreat. I slipped off quickly toward the Strand, silently praying that Mr. Andrews’ taxicab was just around the corner. If not, I could race across the Strand to the Savoy and lose myself there. Andrews was there with the motor running. I leapt into the cab and we raced east down the Strand.
Complete failure. Realization dawned on me then of what a fool I’d been. For all the plans I’d set in motion to flush my watcher into an ambush, I’d not thought clearly enough about the endgame. Even if I’d had time to drag him to the Taxi, what then? Was he going to reveal all his nefarious schemes like some dime novel villain? Fortesque was his name. That was all. I learned nothing of value and now I’d tipped my hand to the watchers. If only I’d had time to examine his wallet.
The entire exercise was pointless. I took an extreme risk with my life for no reward whatsoever. Stupid, Oliver. Very, very stupid.
19 May 1918Royal Automobile Club
Pall Mall, London
Wrote last night's entry then tried and failed to fall asleep. Nervous energy kept me awake for two hours then all at once it burned away. Oblivion. My stomach thwarted any attempt to sleep late. Whether last night’s combat or my very light dinner, I was ravenous. Uncertain as to my safety after last night's adventure, I resolved to spend the day at the RAC. I needed to think things through but not on an empty stomach. I breakfasted heavily on a double helping of scrambled eggs and a ham chop accompanied by a raft of toast and biscuits. The butter was rich and perfectly salted. The apricot and blackberry preserves were the perfect sweet to balance the ham.
A magnificent meal. Sated to the borderland of gluttony, I went back to bed.
No training today. I went for a swim then settled in for a long spell in the Turkish bath, thinking over my options. The Tepidarium was sufficient to stop me perspiring but left me feeling warm.
Still full from breakfast I made for the Reading Lounge which was surprisingly deserted. I settled into the corner chair and caught up on the newspapers.
“May I join you?” said a tall man in black standing before me. I had not seen his approach.
The entire room is empty and he wants to sit here?I extended a hand to the facing chair across the low narrow table. “Please,” I said and returned to my newspaper. When I looked up again 30 seconds later, he was staring at me.
“My name is Tennyson,” he said. “I understand you are acquainted with my mother.”
Hiding my shock, I examined the man before me more closely and knew that he spoke the truth. The resemblance was striking; aquiline nose, noble brow and a head of wild black hair tamed by the narrowest of margins. His full beard was immaculately groomed though like his hair it fought to curl. Most disturbing were his deep black eyes which bored inward in their gaze as though plumbing the very depths of my soul in dispassionate judgment. I found it difficult to look him in the eye for any length of time.
“Rhea,” I said speaking my thoughts aloud and trying not to turn my eyes away.
This man was undoubtedly her eldest son, the one who inhabited some murky directorate of the War Office.
He nodded imperceptibly before continuing.
"Captain Winningstad, do you know this man?” Tennyson slid a photograph across the table.
Beetle eyes, jet black hair parted in the middle. The inflated scarlet features of his rage when Clarissa slapped him were nowhere to be found but it was the same man I’d seen then, and again a few nights ago at Murray’s.
“No, but I have seen him twice before. Last October he confronted a lady in a most ungentlemanly manner. Four days ago, he was in Murray’s Cabaret Club.”
Tennyson’s lip twitched minutely in the tiniest hint of a grin. One of his bushy eyebrows flicked upwards briefly.
“His name is Arthur Maundy Gregory. Among his many sordid occupations he is dealer in sensitive information. In addition, he is in the covert employ of His Majesty’s government where his main occupation is selling honours and peerages to raise money for Mr. Lloyd George and Liberal party, much as he did for Mr. Asquith. He also engages in forgery, blackmail and less savory endeavors in which people tend to disappear. Whether through these good graces, or through extortion he has the ear of the Prime Minister.”
Was Maundy Gregory the man Parker mentioned? Was he Hades?! “Most pertinent to our conversation is his ongoing role as the head of an intelligence network operating here in London; a network in the service of one who enjoys sending you expensive bottles of Champagne from time to time, a man named Basil Zaharoff.
Mr. Zed. Zed Zed?! Parker warned me about him. Was he the man in the car?“Who is Basil Zaharoff?” I asked.
“An arms merchant, and other things. The newspapers call him the Merchant of Death. He is that and much more, but I digress.”
“What has this to do with me?” I was suddenly on alert. “I’m an aviator, not an intelligence agent.”
“You are at this time a person of considerable interest to no less than three intelligence services, one of which is very much in the service of the Kaiser. The other two have, shall we say, more ambiguous allegiances.”
“I find that hard to believe.” I scoffed.
“You would be unwise to take this matter lightly, Captain Winningstad. Whatever skills you may possess, you are now, through unfortunate circumstance, caught up in a game which surpasses your understanding, and more to the point, your present ability to survive it, given your ignorance of the rules, stratagems, major players and ultimate goal.”
“The goal is to win the war, I should think.” I replied.
“No. The goal is wealth beyond imagination. Power. World Domination.”
He saw my look of incredulity.
“You are a student of the Classical world, are you not?”
How does he know that?“Do you remember your Cicero?
Nervos belli…” he ventured.
“pecunium infinitam,” I finished.
The sinews of war, infinite money.“Have you ever given thought to the sheer mass of materiel and resources necessary to wage a modern war, and to who the infinite monies flow? I will tell you. Arms merchants, bankers, industrialists. The war creates profits, billions of pounds, and for this reason, it is allowed, even encouraged to continue.
“What you do not know is that many of the great decisions of government do not originate entirely from Whitehall, the Quai d'Orsay, Berlin or Washington, but rather they are subtly influenced from New York, London, Amsterdam, and Geneva. More recently from Pretoria and Shanghai. The Gods of old no longer intervene directly in the lives of men. In their place, stand captains of finance, commerce and industry, who may move a Prime minister, a President, even a king, all for their own purposes. At times they contest with one another, but they form alliances too, all to preserve the old order which provides them such wealth.
They are men of no nation and do business with all belligerents in time of war. To that end they created an arms race, then provoked a war in 1914. Now, they aim to prolong the war to the greatest extent possible. Some might call them a secret elite, I see them more as opportunists, very dangerous amoral opportunists.”
“Financiers and industrialists started the war?” I asked, incredulous. “Has Europe not been a tinder box for the past 20 years? Have you forgotten the Kaiser? The alliances? I think you exaggerate, sir.”
“Do I? Does the name Jean Juarès signify?
“No,” I answered. “Who is he?”
“Ask rather who he was. I’ll let you work that out for yourself.”
“You say this elite wish prolong the war for their own profit. How is that possible? What proof do you offer?”
Tennyson fixed me in his uncomfortable gaze. I was trying his patience, that much was clear. My intransigence visibly annoyed him and no doubt forced him into revealing more than he’d intended. He gave a sigh of exasperation and went on.
“This war could have ended in 1915 with the complete defeat of Germany.”
“What?! How?” I interjected.
“Had French armies destroyed the iron mines in the Briey basin in 1914, or in a subsequent offensive recaptured them or subjected them to bombardment, Germany would have long ago run out of the iron and steel necessary to wage war. Yet, the one officer who ordered such an attack was nearly court martialed. To this very day, the mines at Thionville provide Germany with 70% of her iron and steel, yet they remain untouched despite their location mere kilometers behind the front line.”
“This is quite a thrilling tale, Mr. Tennyson but what you claim beggars belief.”
“The knowledge is public, my dear Captain. French newspapers debated the Briey matter in December of 1916.”
While untold thousands of their sons were dying at Verdun mere miles away? Could it be true?“Assuming what you say is true, I ask again, why are you telling me all of this? Why do you open your mind to a complete stranger in this way?”
“Even as the generals plan the Fall Offensive, their leaders prepare for the final drive and ultimate conquest of Germany in the Spring or Summer of 1919. However, the revolution in Russia changes everything and renders those plans moot. The Entente cannot act decisively until one question is answered, and that question is the state of Germany. How much longer can Germany endure the current blockade and accompanying starvation before a revolution occurs? Can she continue to wage war into 1919 or is a revolution imminent?”
“If the former, American manpower will create an overwhelming advantage for the Entente, and enable the military conquest of Germany, thus eliminating once and for all time the threat of Prussian militarism on the continent.”
If the latter, then the war must end this year, before the cancer of Bolshevism can take root in the heart of Europe.”
“Which brings me to this.” He slid a gold coin across the table.
Impossible! It was an Elizabethan sovereign identical to the one Clarissa had given me, right down to the hole for the chain.
“Have you examined the one she gave you? Did you notice any alterations on the obverse?”
I had indeed. I picked the coin up and scanning the obverse there they were.
I’ll be damned. The same small beads dug out. One under the letters C, L, R, S and A. Around to the right, under the second letter ‘C’ two beads were missing. It was something a child might do.
I thought they were the same as the coin she’d given me but I couldn’t be sure. I loosened my tie, unbuttoned the collar and drew the clinking array of my ident tags over my head. I’d tied Clarissa’s coin on the same twine but farther up so it wouldn’t hit the ID disk or the medical tag showing my allergy to Benzocaine. Eliza’s St. Jude remained hidden away on its own chain.
My sartorial gymnastics drew a raised eyebrow from Tennyson but he said nothing as I compared the two coins side by side. The markings were identical. I donned my tags again and redressed my shirt and tie.
“What does Clarissa have to do with all this?” Is she in danger? She told me she was going away. Where is she?”
Tennyson paused here, either for effect or debating if he should continue.
“As to her location, I am not at liberty to say, but yes, Clarissa is in the gravest danger. She is one of those who may help answer the great question. We have not heard from her through the usual channels. I suspect the worst.”
I was trying to remain calm in the face of this latest intelligence. Clarissa was ‘over the wire’ Gods alone knew where conducting some manner of espionage. Tennyson knew much more than he was telling, d*mn him.
“Where is she?!” I demanded.
“Has she attempted any communication with you?” asked Tennyson, ignoring my outburst.
“No. She told me not to write. She was going away and wouldn’t get the letters. This was at the New Year.”
“If she does, it is vital that you contact me immediately.”
“And how will I do that?”
“I will provide you with the means," he said reassuringly.
"Very well."
"There is one additional matter, Captain, that being last night’s escapade.”
The familiar cold knot of fear took root in my gut and spread its frigid tendrils upwards.
“You set the trap with considerable forethought and no small amount of cunning. Your visits to The International created quite a stir amongst those very intelligence agencies tracking your movements. As to your quarry he did indeed take the bait. It is unknown if he planned to murder you but given the weapons on his person, I believe it so. Fortunately for you, we apprehended him and two of his associates before they entered the alley. These men are now in our custody and will soon prove cooperative.
“Apprehended?! Then who …”
“The man you disabled was Special Branch, currently working for me.”
“He was a policeman?! Gods below!”
“Indeed."
“I left him alive. He is recovering, yes?”
“That he is. However, it would be best in future if you did not assault those assigned to protect you.”
“What do you mean, protect me?!” I snapped. “I’ve been stalked like an animal for the last two weeks.”
“For much longer than that, my dear Captain,” he said drolly. “Since last October in point of fact.
Your actions then thwarted a move against me by Maundy Gregory, thereby attracting the unwelcome interest of some very powerful men. Members of that very same elite I mentioned earlier. That was when you came to my attention as well.”
“Two men came to take Clarissa. I stopped them.”
“You did more than that,” he said flatly. “Neither survived the encounter.”
Mr. Right hanging on the fence, gurgling out his lifeI suspected all along that I’d killed the two, but to hear it confirmed was still a shock. All pretense of nonchalance evaporated then. I took a deep breath as Smokey taught me and let out a long slow exhale.
Breathe, Oliver. “I assume you saw the Dragon’s Eye tattoo on their wrists when you searched them. They were men of no consequence, top level ruffians for hire, nothing more,” said Tennyson. “Since that time, you have been under my protection when in London. It has proven a useful arrangement after all.
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” Who watches the watchers?“You used me as bait?!” My voice was a loud shout of outrage. “You used me as bait!” I repeated more quietly, this time in a low hiss.
“Yes. Tracking those who followed you produced a treasure trove of information. I should like to continue employing you in this fashion. May I count on your restraint toward any watchers?”
Rage. The hot burst of wrath, then the icy clarity that speeds the thought. I envisioned an ancient dusty plain under the high walls and in my hand the strong ash spear. I made no vain cast…
“You are looking at me in the most predatory manner, Captain Winningstad,” he said, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “I almost think you intend me harm.”
“I wonder if you can feel the touch of the pitiless bronze,” I said.
His eyes grew wide and with both eyebrows now raised he favored me with an appraising look. Again, the ebon gaze drove inward, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. I refused to look away, and immediately wished I had. When he spoke, I felt the air grow cold and despite my anger and flushed state from the Turkish bath, I shivered.
“You were meant for another age, Captain Winningstad. We have that in common.”
He smiled briefly then training the black eyes upon me, he continued, “she chose you well, I see that now.
I may yet require your service before this war is over. Clarissa may need you as well. I wish you good fortune, Captain. When you storm into the struggle of flying horses, and fateful portions of death which lays men prostrate are set upon the scales, may your death day ever prove the lighter.”
He stood and walked away without another word. I sat there frozen in place, dumbfounded by what I’d just heard.