“Go ahead.” The R.T.O.’s voice began to crack under the strain. “Shoot his wife too. And the children, bloody orphans, get rid of them, won’t you?”
“Ah! Talking sense at last!” Hackett said. “Now do we get breakfast?” The R.T.O. nodded. “And transport to the aerodrome?” Another nod. “You tell the boys,” Hackett said. “They’ll love you for it.” He bent down and fired and shot the spur off the R.T.O.’s right boot. The bullet ricocheted off the station floor and sang its way to nowhere special. The R.T.O. stumbled, almost fell, recovered. “That’s bloody idiotic,” he said. Now his voice was stumbling too.
“Of course it is. In France an SE5 squadron near us had a C.O. who did the same thing to some fart just like you. Now you can ride on half a horse, and I can die happy. Lead on.”
Griffin was waiting for them. “Found the H.Q. Locked. Empty.”
“The captain will oblige us,” Hackett said. “Only too willing.”
The R.T.O. took the pilots to a military canteen and stood watching as they drank hot coffee and ate fried-egg sandwiches.
“He changed his tune very smartly,” Oliphant said.
“We found that we went to the same school,” Wragge said. “After that, he couldn’t do enough.”
“We heard a shot. Thought maybe you decided to have him put down.”
“What? Shoot the best slow left-arm spin bowler that St Jennifer’s ever produced? Not cricket, old chap.”
“St Jennifer’s. I didn’t know there was a Saint Jennifer.”
“Not many do. A small school, but with very high standards. You’d never have got in, Olly. Not a hope.”
The R.T.O. came over. “Two lorries,” he said. “Waiting outside. You haven’t heard the last of this.”
“Well, you know where to find us,” Hackett said. “Up in the clouds, duelling with death.” He took the last sandwich and bit into it.
“Have a word with the management,” Wragge told the R.T.O. “Worcester Sauce is what this place needs. Otherwise… well done. Bully for you.”
“My report will go directly to the general.”
“Of course it will. Worcester Sauce. Make a note of it.”
The Royal College of Embroidery had occupied a building in the centre of Grosvenor Crescent, Belgravia, since 1783. Few Londoners knew it existed; nobody polished the small, discreet nameplate. But the house was only a short cab-ride from all the major offices of state, and on a bright but chilly afternoon in March 1919, men from most of those offices were standing in its Reading Room. They were watching the Prime Minister, the Right Honourable David Lloyd George, who was talking quietly to his chief adviser. As they watched, they were thinking their various thoughts.
Charles Delahaye from the Treasury was thinking about tax. Paying for the war had been relatively easy, you just borrowed from the Americans, who, God knows, were happy to lend. But how was the P.M. going to sell this painfully expensive peace to the people?
General Stattaford from the War Office, six feet two in his socks, was thinking how short the P.M. was. Midgets were taking over the world. Even the Grenadier Guards had lowered their height requirement. Tragic, really. How can you have a short Grenadier?
Sir Franklyn Fletcher, Permanent Private Secretary at the Foreign Office, was thinking the P.M. looked awfully tired. All this rushing back and forth to France for the Peace Conference. Suppose President Wilson had to go back to America, suppose the P.M. went down with this terrible flu which was spreading everywhere — that would leave Clemenceau running the show and then we’re really dans le potage…
James Weatherby, from the Home Office, was thinking Lloyd George looked like a small greengrocer. What did women see in him? The man had all the charm of a walrus and more sex than a goat. The British newspapers were squared, nothing to worry about there, but what if the truth appeared in the foreign Press? The old goat might sue for libel. Weatherby shuddered.
Lloyd George nodded goodbye to them all, and left.
His chief adviser, Jonathan Fitzroy, sixty, was built like a blacksmith, face like a turnip, mind like a razor, and morals of a stoat. Or so people said. He gestured at the armchairs, arranged in a wide circle. For himself he chose a large cane chair. It gave him a height advantage.
“Gentlemen: you probably know each other. However…” He quickly introduced everyone, ending with General Stattaford. “I shouldn’t be here,” the general said. “Forgot my petit-point.” He smiled when they chuckled. One up to the Army.
“An unusual rendezvous, I agree,” Fitzroy said. “We’re here because, first, my sister runs the College, and secondly, it’s completely private. Free from gossip. And that matters because our agenda has only one, very delicate, item: Russia. The Prime Minister feels the public needs to be reassured. Some aspects of our Russian involvement may be causing confusion. It’s a matter of communications. Why are we in Russia? A simple and easily understood message is what the P.M. seeks. He looks to you for help.”
“Two words. Strategic necessity,” General Stattaford said. “Bolsheviks pulled Russia out of the war in the east. Common knowledge. Obviously we had to go in and start it again, otherwise the Boche would hammer us twice as hard in the west. Damn near did, too. Strategic necessity, gentlemen. Any fool can see that.”
“The Foreign Office looks uneasy,” Jonathan Fitzroy said.
“I can see what the general means, but…” Sir Franklyn frowned. “We never actually got the war going again in the east, did we? And anyway, the Armistice changed all that.”
“I don’t know anybody who believes we’re still in Russia because of the German war,” James Weatherby said. “That’s ancient history. Frankly, the Home Office doesn’t give a toss what their Bolsheviks did last year.”
“Doesn’t it? I do,” the general said. “Betrayed the Allies! Made peace with the Hun! Opened their doors, told him to help himself! I call that treachery. Despicable vermin. A lot of good men died on the Western Front, gentlemen, friends of mine, just because the Bolsheviks threw in the towel. If I’d been given my way, the minute the Boche surrendered I’d have ordered them to about-turn and march east and not come back until every Bolshevik was cold meat. You may smile, gentlemen, but if my strategy had been applied, Russia wouldn’t be a problem for us today, would it?”
“I’m not saying the Bolsheviks don’t matter,” Weatherby said patiently. “Far from it. The Home Office is very concerned about Bolshevik interference here. Rioting in Glasgow and Belfast was definitely provoked by Communists. Blood was shed, a few men died. Typical Bolshevik tactics. Destroy from within.”
Silence. Then Jonathan Fitzroy said: “So… is that our advice to the P.M.? We’re in Russia because that’s where the threat comes from?”
“No other country wants to get really involved,” Sir Franklyn said. “Not on Britain’s scale, anyway. Not Italy. France went in and pulled out. America thinks it’s done enough. We’re on our own. It’s rather a lonely crusade, isn’t it?”
“A crusade against an international conspiracy,” James Weatherby said. “Lenin’s own words. Communist world domination.”
“Red tentacles,” the general said helpfully.
“The man in the street wouldn’t know a red tentacle from a black pudding,” Sir Franklyn said. “Britain has fought a lot of foreign wars, some popular, some not, and I can tell you what the man in the street recognizes. It’s victories. Success proves we must be doing right. The best message the P.M. could give the nation is a thumping victory in Russia. Unfortunately…” He raised an eyebrow at Fitzroy.