Spy’s Honour

46

Breakfast, again out in the sun, was a busy time. Lucy, perhaps suspecting her father’s beaming expression wasn’t solely due to the success of the lawyers’ dinner, was trying to get him alone. The Baroness was stopping that by sticking to Hornbeam like a leech. Dr Klapka also wanted to get Hornbeam alone for once, while Corinna was trying to arrange an urgent consultation with Klapka. And the waiters were run ragged trying to rematch the coffee cups to the breakfasters as they moved from seat to seat.

It was like the second act of a spy farce, and the spies stayed well clear of it. “Romania’s turning the screws on Bulgaria,” Ranklin translated loosely from a German-language newspaper. “Says she’ll start the war again if there’s no agreement on the new frontier … And Vienna’s still hinting at intervention – Ah: they’ve approved an increase in Austro-Hungarian artillery, one new battery per regiment. But that’ll take a while.”

O’Gilroy took a spoonful of egg. “What guns?”

“Their own, they make ’em at the Skoda works in Pilsen. Good stuff, I believe; we bought some 75s to experiment with …”

Corinna flopped into a chair opposite, quickly followed by her faithful native bearer of coffee. She grinned at Ranklin, but then she grinned at O’Gilroy, too. “I finally pinned the little shyster down. In half an hour in my sitting-room. You can drop in ten minutes later, when I’ve broken the news to him. You’d probably like it to seem you’ve been dragged in unwillingly, wouldn’t you?”

“Very thoughtful,” Ranklin acknowledged.

O’Gilroy asked: “F’why are ye saying yer doing this?”

“I don’t think I can improve on the truth,” Corinna confessed. “That, as an American citizen, I’m worried that another one is getting imbrogled into a purely Austro-Hungarian matter – with international consequences.” She glanced back at Hornbeam, who was still beaming. “If that’s what the old fool’s doing with his head in the clouds and his slippers under the wrong bed. So, your cue is forty minutes from now.”

“What’s everybody else doing?”

“The Baroness is meeting somebody coming in from Vienna, Hornbeam may or may not go along, Lucy may or may not have a touch of the vapours.” She clearly felt she could handle only one Hornbeam problem at a time.

“If the Baroness is mixed in this,” O’Gilroy said, “would we be wanting to know who she’s meeting?”

Ranklin wished he’d thought of that. Corinna said: “How?”

“Yer car’ll be along, will it? Then offer it to take her down while yer sending me on some errand. I’ll be no help with talk on the law.”

Corinna liked the thought, but: “Suppose she sees you hanging around?”

“She won’t see him,” Ranklin promised.

As the breakfast party broke up and the waiters began clearing the tables, Ranklin lit his pipe and stayed where he was. In the background, Corinna’s car rolled up, she and O’Gilroy did some stage business with papers – and probably more impromptu inventions about local High Finance – then the Baroness and O’Gilroy got in and were driven off. Seizing her opportunity, Lucy was taking Hornbeam for a purposeful-looking stroll, perhaps to talk of rumours of his behaviour last night, or perhaps to discuss her dress allowance, unless the two subjects happened to coincide. Left standing alone, Corinna’s shoulders sagged momentarily, then she braced for the meeting with Klapka and walked up into the hotel.

Already it was almost too hot, and small puffs of cloud were forming out of nowhere. Ranklin knew nothing of the local weather, but was prepared to bet on thunderstorms before teatime, and did a mental search for his umbrella. But mostly he just sat and enjoyed the warmth, and the inner glow of last night. Were they just lovers who passed in the night? Part of him yearned for it to be more than that, but another part knew how widely separated their worlds were. So much so that their bond was that they were strangers to everybody else, nobody had quite been them before. But that being so, anything was possible.

O’Gilroy had learnt to identify different types of women by their clothes in the streets of Cork and Dublin. This could not really be called a sense of fashion. However, he had gone from there virtually direct to the boulevards of Paris, where women’s clothes and the messages they were supposed to be sending were a good deal more varied and subtle. And with his talent for observation and a desire to intercept whatever messages were going, he had begun to understand the code.

The Baroness, he reckoned, was dressed about three years behind the Paris times: her hem was barely off the ground and still slightly flared, her hat very wide and decorated with silk flowers. But the newness and craftsmanship showed this was deliberate: the message was quality, good taste, value for money, not fashionableness. And Hornbeam had liked the message, so who was he to criticise?

She sat rigidly upright in the back seat of the Benz, full-breasted – not just quality but a decent helping of it – hands resting on her furled sunshade and gazing out of the window. She totally ignored O’Gilroy until he asked politely: “And which station are ye wanting, m’lady?”

“The Westbahnhof.” She didn’t look at him.

“Mebbe I’ll look up some trains meself. We should be seeing more of the country than jest Budapest.”

“There is nothing to see in Hungary. Only some castles.”

“I was thinking about trade, m’lady.”

This time she did look at him. “I believe trade in Hungary is done by Jews.”

“Is it so?” It was clear that he wasn’t going to learn anything from cosy chat; on the other hand, it was just as clear that she wasn’t interested in – or suspicious of – himself. So he chose to spend the rest of the drive reinforcing his pose as a business bore. “Did ye know that two-thirds of the machinery built in Hungary is for transport? – motor-cars, tram-cars, ships, trains and the like. Now that’s a remarkable amount, when ye consider …”

At the Westbahnhof, a simple elegant iron-and-glass structure designed by Eiffel, of the Paris tower, they both got out. “When I’ve looked up the trains, I’ll be walking to the bank,” O’Gilroy said. “So ye keep the motor-car, m’lady.”

She just managed to squeeze out a Thank you, told the driver to wait, and stalked into the station. O’Gilroy had never planned to keep the car and try to trail the Baroness in it: the sleek, high Benz was far too obvious in Budapest’s mainly horse-drawn traffic. Better to let her drive in a landmark, and if he lost her, Corinna could demand of the driver where he had gone without seeming suspicious.

“Hello, Mr Ranklin, sit down. I’ve explained what I told you to Dr Klapka – and he’s rather worried.”

Indeed, Klapka was bubbling like a fondue, fingers drumming, feet shuffling, mouth opening and closing. “It is not believable,” he burst out, waving the notes they had copied last night. “That somebody should ask … Dr Hornbeam is a great lawyer, yes, but he is not … not of our courts!”

“Oh, sure,” Corinna soothed.

“To be asked for an opinion – on the Habsburg Law – Unbelievable!”

“The Law’s secret, isn’t it?” Corinna asked.

“Yes, but lawyers know it. It is not our concern, that is all.”

Ranklin asked: “What do you think Hornbeam’s trying to do to the Law, then?” He tried to sound businesslike and detached.

“To break it! To break the new amendment! To make it so the Archduke’s wife can be Empress!” His arms waved with the enormity of it; his jacket moved reluctantly and differently, dissociating itself from the opinions of the arms.

Ranklin nodded calmly. “And can this be done?”

“I explain.” Klapka took a deep breath. “Now: when the Archduke Franzie is married, no, before, he must sign that … No. I explain.” He took another breath. “The old Article One says the Habsburg-House is the Emperor, his consort, the Archdukes and Archduchesses, la-la, la-la … you see? His consort. If he marries Sophie, only a Czech countess, she will be Empress when he becomes Emperor – and this they must change. So they make the amendment which is a list of the families in standesgemass – you would say, of proper standing – whose women may be Empress. If he marries one of them, good, if not, pffft. It must be a morganatic marriage. You understand morganatic?”

“Sure,” Corinna said. “Wife doesn’t get husband’s rank.”

“Yes. It is first meaning ‘the morning gift’ that the husband gives after … after the first night, which says ‘This is all you get from marrying me.’ Very romantic, hein? So – this amendment the Archduke must sign if he is to become Emperor, with the Prince Archbishop holding up the cross of Ferdinand over him and all the House looking and then also signing. And after three days only, he marries his Sophie and the Prince Montenuovo, Obersthofmeister of the Court, declares there must be twelve days mourning for some cousin that nobody knows, so nobody can go to the wedding.”

“That Montenuovo would be right at home in Tammany Hall,” Corinna observed. It had just struck her that she, daughter of Reynard Sherring, would not be standesgemass, was unworthy of becoming Empress, and her democratic blood was boiling. Not that she wanted to be, but …

Ranklin had put his empty pipe into his mouth so as to look even more thoughtful and detached. Now he took it out and asked: “And do you think Hornbeam can break this amendment – legally?”

Klapka’s arms flew up again. “You do not understand! You English and American – I apologise, but – this is the Habsburg Law! Perhaps legally it does not work, there may be – you say a ‘loophole’ – but what matter? They get the lawyers, the Prince-Archbishop, the cross – they make a new amendment. Now no loophole.”

They absorbed this, Ranklin less surprised than Corinna. He said: “But nobody – whoever nobody is – told Hornbeam this?”

“That is sure, yes – but still you do not understand. To ask a foreign lawyer – a great one, yes, but … to interfere in the Habsburg Law, this is bad. An insult. But to try at all to make Sophie the Empress, if this is known – ” he threw the notes onto a table, “ – then the Archduke never becomes Emperor.”

*

The Baroness was sitting at a front table of the first-class buffet, so that she could watch the door. This had made it impossible for O’Gilroy to follow, so he resorted to inconspicuous time-wasting within sight of the door. He bought a newspaper he couldn’t read, cigarettes which he hoped not to smoke, and an apple of which he ate half. He also changed his hat. He had come out wearing Ranklin’s folding straw Panama; now he pocketed that and slipped on a flat cloth cap. But he had already realised he would have to be stark naked to look conspicuous in the crowd that changed with every train: landowners in tweeds with servants and gun cases, farmers with live chickens, soldiers in various operatic uniforms and peasant girls in traditional eleven-petticoat finery. And it was only the Baroness he had to fool.

Then suddenly it wasn’t. She was out of the buffet and walking towards the street, escorted by the Military Attache who had bought the code in Paris.

As the waiter went out, Corinna surveyed the tray. “That coffee pot seems to follow me around. How does anybody like their coffee? And if you want a cake, just grab. How can anybody decide that the Archduke can’t become Emperor? I thought it was just a matter of birth …”

“You think like what you are: American. You have the rule of Law, we have the House of Habsburg. You must believe, if enough people do not want, then he will not be Emperor. And those people will be the Emperor himself, Prince Montenuovo, the Court, the House – and the Parliament in Hungary also, they do not like the Archduke Franzie. Last year, the Archduke’s young brother, he married not to the standesgemass. Now he is not an Archduke, he is not a general, he does not even have his medals. You must believe.” He took a cream cake.

Corinna shook her head slowly. She had always assumed – insofar as she thought about it at all – that European royalty survived by playing by the rules, dopey though those rules might be. Now she saw it was the opposite: survival by playing with the rules – which wasn’t nearly so dopey. She glanced at Ranklin.

He was clutching one end of his pipe and chewing the other, frowning intently in a way that always seemed faintly absurd for his boyish face. The poor man, she thought, stuck with a face that people will never quite take seriously. But not a bad face for what you really are, these days, because nobody takes your thinking seriously, either. Except me.

Abruptly, Ranklin said: “What do you know of the Baroness Schramm?”

Klapka blinked. “I do not know her at all, before this. But – if the Law comes from her, obviously she is connected with the Archduke. Or his advisers, Count Czernin, Bardolff …”

“You think they’d have the influence to get her into this job? It might still be worth asking about her. Quietly.”

Klapka looked at Corinna for confirmation; she nodded.

“And,” Ranklin went on, “what are you going to do yourself?”

Klapka blinked even harder and then waved his arms again. “To do? I must do nothing. Mrs Finn has employed me, and … and …” he seemed to cringe into the protection of his suit.

“You don’t want to be involved?” Ranklin said soothingly. “Of course not. Better to let Dr Hornbeam’s fellow countrywomen advise him that he’s playing with fire and gunpowder.”

“Of course.” Klapka expanded to fill his suit again. “That is most best.”

“And thank you very much for your time and excellent advice.”

After that, Klapka had no choice but to go, despite Corinna’s obvious flabbergastation. He was more accustomed to taking orders from men than from even the richest women.

As the door closed, Corinna turned to Ranklin and it was going to be thunder well before teatime.

He held up a hand. “I know, I know – it was unpardonable. But – so far he hasn’t thought through to the next step, and perhaps he’ll deliberately not think any more. He’ll know he’s close enough for fragment wounds if there’s any scandal involving Hornbeam. Anyway, we’re one step ahead at the moment so let’s use that moment.”

“What step?” She was far from soothed.

“Remembering the Archduke may be stupid but he’s been a Habsburg all his life. He has to know the risk he’d be running by involving Hornbeam and the Law. Why not wait until he’s Emperor, with an Emperor’s clout, and see what he can do about the Law then? I don’t think he knows anything about this at all.”

Corinna’s mouth opened slowly, but she caught on quickly. “Then the Baroness isn’t working for him but against him? And that’s why you wanted to know what her connections are – that’s pretty smart, and I forgive your masterfulness.” She pondered. “Then this – trying to break the Amendment to the Law – must be planned to leak out. How?”

“That I can’t guess. They can’t have counted on your taste for burglary.”

She grinned. “And that was pretty smart of me, too.”

“And I forgive your instinctive immorality. But it has to leak out soon: they need Hornbeam himself – an independent witness, you might say – to confirm that it isn’t just another Viennese cafe rumour.”

“Maybe he’ll announce it as part of his speech tonight: ‘I bring good cheer: Duchess Sophie can be Empress after all.’ Wow.”

“Wow indeed,” Ranklin whispered, awe-struck at the idea. But something like that seemed horribly likely: public and irrefutable.

Corinna’s mind was off on a branch line. “Solving a legal problem and making a pretty lady into an Empress, that would really be gravy to an old dormouse from Harvard Yard. And the Baroness’s beautiful white body to make doubly sure.”

“Trebly: now she’s snared him, they can threaten to tell his wife if he wants to back out. Or if you and Lucy tell him to.”

“Wow some more.” Now Corinna was being awe-struck. “This is big.”

“Destroying the Emperor Presumptive usually is, I imagine. And because that’s what we’re talking about, I want you to promise to do and say nothing: nothing to Lucy, no telegram to Paris, nothing until we know more.”

To promise inactivity was probably the hardest thing you could ask Corinna to do, but he believed her solemn nod.

Back in his own room, Ranklin pottered about looking for his folding Panama hat and trying to think of what more there might be for them to find. If the plotted “revelation” was intended to stop the Archduke becoming Emperor, then it had its risks. Suppose that Hornbeam, seeing what he had stirred up, told the whole story? Then suppose that pressure was brought on the Baroness to tell yet more? In time, the plot might well be revealed and its effect destroyed. After all, the job of Emperor wasn’t open yet.

He remembered that O’Gilroy had borrowed the Panama, put on his straw boater, and started looking for his umbrella. Suppose, then, that the plot was not so much to destroy Franz Ferdinand’s chance of becoming Emperor in the future as to throw him into temporary disgrace right now? This summer, this month, this war season. With the Archduke silenced, his influence gone, the war party would be badly weakened. Berchtold and his fellow peace-mongers at the Foreign Office might then be able to stop any invasion of Serbia, get the Army scattered back to its barracks. It would take too long to re-assemble for this season even if the plot leaked out and the Archduke regained his status.

He found his umbrella; a hot summer spent on the Continent meant he hadn’t carried it in months. Now he twirled it expertly and its comforting familiarity improved his humour even more. Because now, he thought, as he trotted cheerfully down the stairs, I need do nothing – except confirm my theory. Let the peace party have its way: who could criticise that?

Well, Corinna could, if it meant letting a distinguished American make a diplomatic incident of himself. And it did mean just that, he realised, a shade less cheerfully; the plot had to succeed. Would it be fair to ask if she would rather see Europe ablaze with war? Perhaps he should just take charge of stopping the plot – and then bungle it and apologise. Hmm.

Out in the sunlight, he lifted the furled umbrella with a flick of his wrist and the dozing cabbie across the driveway woke immediately; even his horse seemed to stand to attention. If there was one thing at which the English still unquestionably led the world, it was handling umbrellas.

47

Ranklin had forgotten the name of the cafe, so just had the cabbie put him down at the statue of Petofi. He was surprised to find how eagerly he was looking forward to a talk with Hazay. Was he overtrusting the young man’s inside knowledge and cynical judgement? Certainly he was being overdependent on one friendly source in a strange city, a recognised pitfall for a lazy spy. But time was short, and anyway, he would judge anything Hazay said on its merits.

He sat pondering over a coffee and a copy of the Neue Freie Presse. Was there any way in which he could use Hazay and his access to the public? Obviously he couldn’t give him the plot against the Archduke: that would wreck it – if the censors allowed it to be printed. But any other way? He shuddered suddenly at how cynical he himself was becoming, and picked up the newspaper. Anyway, he couldn’t use the man unless the damned man turned up. The morning was wearing away.

He had just about given up hope when Tibor came along with his bear-like shamble. “Good day, Enemy,” he grinned, leaning over to shake hands. “Stefan tells me to see if you are here. He is most sorry – ” he broke off to order a drink, “ – but he must go to Komarom to telegraph to Munich.”

Komarom? That was the next proper town up the railway line to Vienna; he remembered passing through it.

“There,” Tibor explained, “he misses the Budapest censors.” Of course: the telegraph line followed the railway line in every country.

“But,” Tibor added, shrugging, “the censors in Vienna will see it anyway. He asks me to give you this.”

This was a page from a notebook covered in hasty handwriting. Ranklin deciphered it carefully. “So the Archduke went to Vienna the day before yesterday to see Count Berchtold at the Ballhausplatz.” That was the Foreign Office. “And tomorrow Berchtold goes to Bad Ischl to an audience with the Emperor – sorry, King. How far is that?”

“Half a day,” Tibor shrugged. “More, perhaps.”

The Emperor spent much of the summer in the little mountain resort near Salzburg, playing (it was said) at being just an ordinary citizen and being surprised when everyone stepped aside and bowed.

“So Berchtold,” Ranklin deduced, “will advise the Emp-, King, whether or not to accept the new frontiers in the peace treaty.” He hastily indicated the newspaper, to excuse his knowledge. According to it, the treaty was almost ready for signing in Bucharest, but Austria disliked the way Serbia was gaining land to the west. It was another step towards seizing a port on the Adriatic – where a Russian fleet might one day drop anchor.

So there was a ready-made quarrel with Serbia – if the Emperor wanted to take it up. And the Archduke would have been urging Berchtold to advise the Emperor to do just that. If they let the treaty be signed without objecting, the excuse for war was gone by default.

“And is that what Hazay is telegraphing to the Munich newspaper?”

But Tibor was frowning suspiciously. Ranklin offered his cigarettes and Tibor took one, but it didn’t stop him wondering why a business adviser was so interested in the detail of Balkan politics. But then a waiter arrived with two glasses and Tibor scattered some coins in return. Ranklin hadn’t realised the order had included him, and distrusted small glasses of almost clear liquid.

“Szilva,” Tibor explained: plum brandy. “Egeszsegere!” He swallowed half in a gulp; Ranklin sipped cautiously. “’Why do you like to talk with Stefan?”

“He knows more than he can get printed. And my employer – you know who I mean?” Tibor nodded, thinking he did know; “ – well, he doesn’t pay me to tell him what he can read for himself.”

“He wants to know all about this?” Tibor waved a hand at the newspaper.

“I’ll tell you what he wants to know, perhaps you can answer him,” Ranklin said boldly. “Is there going to be a war? When? Who’s going to be involved? And who’s going to win?”

Tibor sat back in his chair. Then he said: “Capitalists.”

“He’d agree. What about the peasant with half a dozen gold pieces buried under his hearth? He wants to know whether to move his money, too.”

“But the peasant does not care if everybody else knows also,” Tibor said shrewdly. “The capitalist wants to know in secret, to move before others move. He wants truth, but to hide it for himself. But – ” he finished his brandy; “ – Stefan does not telegraph about the treaty, it is about Colonel Redl.”

“Ah.”

“You know about the Colonel?”

“What I read in the papers – and Stefan was talking about him yesterday.” He daren’t seem too interested: what would Sherring care about an intelligence scandal?

But, perhaps for the same reason, Tibor insisted on “boring” him with what Hazay had uncovered. “He has learnt of a meeting between the Archduke Franzie and General Conrad, after Redl has shot himself. Franzie talks to him as if he is a common soldier.” Tibor relished that. “He makes him stand to attention and tells him he is a pig-head to make Redl kill himself and not answer any question. That now they cannot know what Serbia, what Russia, knows about their Army and its plans. And also, that it is wicked to make a good Catholic do a mortal sin.”

Now that, a complete irrelevance to Ranklin’s non-Catholic mind, had the truth of a detail nobody would think to invent. “Really?” he said, his uninterested tone hiding his thoughts. If true, if true, that confrontation meant the Archduke was well aware of the danger in starting a war here and now. So could he really have been advising one?

“So now,” Tibor said, “you will tell your Capitalist this truth also?”

“Perhaps – but only if the censors stop it being published.” And he could see just why those censors wouldn’t want such dissension in the high command made public. “Why is Hazay taking such a risk? – it must be a risk.”

“They cannot shoot him for it. And he does it for truth, so everybody will know, not just capitalists.”

Ranklin nodded absently and sipped his brandy. “Would you ask Hazay to telephone me at the Margaret Island hotel?”

“He says he will see you tonight, if you go to the American’s speech.”

“He’ll be there?”

“All journalists are invited.” So somebody wanted to make sure that Hornbeam got well and undeniably reported.

“All the same, I’d like to talk to him as soon as he gets back from – from Komarom. I might have some extra truth he’d be interested in,” he added as bait.

Tibor stared at him without expression, then said: “All right – Enemy.” He lumbered away and Ranklin watched without really seeing.

Damn, he was thinking. And damn again. This may change everything.

Dr Ignatz Brull’s stern-but-kindly expression changed into one of astonished horror. “You are telling me that Professor Hornbeam will announce that the Habsburg Law can be broken? – to make Duchess Sophie become Empress? Du Liebe Gott!” Although the British Consul, Brull’s origins had obviously been German-speaking. His accent was now just a constant mild flavour – except when he got astonished.

“I fear the papers his daughter found allow of no other conclusion,” Ranklin said sadly. He had cleaned up the details of the discovery.

“And you say that the Archduke himself sent a copy of the Law to Dr Hornbeam? Then surely he must be mad. He will destroy himself.”

“Er – no; I said it could appear that the Archduke was behind it all. For myself, I rather doubt that. I fear it may be a move to discredit the Archduke, destroy his influence … But I’m probably wrong. As Consul here you know far more about such matters.”

Dr Brull acknowledged this with a nod and then sat frowning with thought. Apart from the length of his moustache, he looked like a – no, the bank manager of a county town: comfortable, reliable, knowing his job and knowing his table would be kept free at his lunchtime restaurant. He did not look as if he dabbled much in international intrigue, but he was all Ranklin had.

Budapest was a Consul-General’s post but was awaiting a new C.-G. being sent from London; Dr Brull was just keeping the seat warm for his new chief. It was, Ranklin feared, a reasonable guess that he wouldn’t want that chief to find the seat too hot.

Dr Brull took off his thick-lensed spectacles and tapped them on the table. “I believe you are correct, Mr Ranklin. The Archduke’s advisers – and he would have to communicate with Professor Hornbeam through them – would never permit him to do anything so foolish.”

“But to the man in the street,” Ranklin said, “to the reader of tomorrow’s newspapers, that thought might not occur.”

“It might not occur to the Emperor, either,” Dr Brull ruminated. “And some of his advisers might not hurry to point it out. The Archduke seems to be in good standing with the Emperor at the moment. There is a rumour – I trust you will not pass this on – that the Emperor plans, on his birthday next week, to make the Archduke the Inspector General of the Army.”

Which would give him the right – officially, not just as a Habsburg – to curb General Conrad’s ambitions. Ranklin said: “But that would go by the board if …”

“I fear so.” Dr Brull put his spectacles back on and focused on Ranklin. “You did right to bring this to my attention.”

“My patriotic duty,” Ranklin simpered hopefully.

“But of course, this is none of our concern.”

Ranklin stared. “But – don’t you feel that this is political news that should be sent to the Ambassador in Vienna? Or even direct to London?”

Dr Brull smiled indulgently. He was used to agitated British citizens coming in with “news” (usually cafe gossip) that should immediately be telegraphed to the Foreign Secretary personally. Like a good bank manager, it was his duty to be polite – but firm.

“But what news, Mr Ranklin? Nothing, as yet, has actually happened. It may not happen – ”

“But if this is an attempt to destroy the Archduke’s influence at this time …”

“Many would say that was not a bad thing, Mr Ranklin. The Archduke has a reputation for advocating warlike solutions to political problems.”

“But the …” No: there was no point in bringing up the Redl affair. You learnt this from a friend of a journalist who’s trying to get it published in Munich, Mr Ranklin? Well, well; we’ll just have to wait and see, then, won’t we?

“May I ask,” Dr Brull said, “if you have sent this news to your employer?”

That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Ranklin thought impatiently – and then realised that Brull meant Reynard Sherring.

“He, ah … his representative …”

“I see,” Ranklin saw, too: Brull suspected him of using the Consular Service to spread rumours so that Sherring could make a killing in the stock market. Just as Tibor had suspected. It was really rather hard when all you were trying to do was a decent, honest bit of spying.

Ranklin found O’Gilroy in his bedroom, staring down at the gravel forecourt. “Are you feeling all right? What are you doing hiding away up here?”

“Yer wicked past’s caught up with me,” O’Gilroy said gloomily. “Ye recall the Austrian Major I sold the code to in Paris? – well, ’twas him the Baroness was meeting this morning.”

“Oh dear me.” Ranklin sat heavily on the bed. “Did he see you?”

“No, and might not be knowing me ’cept for me voice.”

There was the snag: Irish accents were rare in European society. Most Irishmen rich enough to travel had only got that way by adopting English attitudes and accent.

Ranklin nodded. “What happened, then?”

“I followed them across the bridge heading for Castle Hill. I was in a cab. Then we lost them, but found the car outside of the officers’ mess at the barracks on the Hill. I couldn’t be following when they came out, but he’d changed into plain clothes and left his luggage so that’s where he’s staying, thank God, and not here. I came on back quickish.”

“Yes. Damn. But I suppose it fits: him in Paris on a temporary attachment to meet Hornbeam and see him doing his lecture at the Embassy, then coming here for the Grand Finale – No, of course, you don’t know about that. Talking to Klapka the lawyer …” He brought O’Gilroy up to date on the morning’s doings and discoveries, ending up: “So there’s no hope of any advice from Uncle Charlie. We’re on our own.”

“Ye think so?” A car crunched the gravel below and Ranklin peeked cautiously around the window frame to see the Baroness and the lithe, moustachioed Major step down from the hired Benz.