Stone's Fall

CHAPTER 1

My father is the gentlest of men, but has always been subject to periodic outbursts of insanity which render him incapable of work. He did not come from a rich family, and was brought up by his aunt and uncle, but inherited somewhere along the line enough money to ensure a modest life. He trained as an architect, the idea being that he would inherit my great-uncle's business, but illness prevented consistent application to any project. Instead, he lived quietly in Dorset, where he would occasionally build an extension to a house, or oversee the rebuilding of a church roof. For much of the time he would read, or work in the garden. As I was used to his long silences and sudden refusals to answer questions, I did not think anything of behaviour which others considered decidedly queer.

My mother died when I was very young, and apart from that I never knew much about her. Only that she was beautiful, that my father had loved her. I think her death broke his heart; certainly it was about the same time that he became ill. He recovered somewhat, but my young life was periodically interrupted by sudden disappearances which (I was told) were due to father being called away for a project. Only later did I learn that he spent these periods in a special hospital where he was slowly coaxed back to health.

I left home at eight to go to school and never really returned. My best friend – he was as miserable as I was – invited me to his home for the holidays, which was where I realised how difficult, in contrast, was my own family life. He had a father who was cheerful and playful and a mother who became the first love of my life: warm, graceful and utterly devoted to her family. They lived in a big house in Holland Park during the winter months and in a lovely Adam house in the Borders in the summer. They became my family, for Mrs Campbell all but kidnapped me, telling my father she was quite happy to have me indefinitely. He thought it was for the best and surrendered me. He was a good man, but the responsibilities of parenthood were too much for his frail constitution. I visited him every summer, but each time he was more vague, and eventually I think he stopped recognising me altogether; certainly he stopped caring whether I came or no.

Money is not something which concerns the young; that my father's hospital bills were paid, that my school fees were settled did not excite any curiosity in my juvenile mind. It did not occur to me to wonder how this was happening. I assumed that the Campbells had taken on this responsibility as well. I loved them all the more for it, and I do believe no boy was ever more devoted to his real parents than I was to these delightful people.

Nonetheless, I repaid them poorly and was constantly in trouble. I was ill-disciplined, forever fighting, indulging in escapades which were often dangerous, and frequently illegal. I would break into the headmaster's study at night, simply for the pleasure of escaping undetected; would leave the boy's dormitory to go wandering illegally through the local town; would destroy the clothes and possessions of older boys who had bullied my friends. My school work ranged from indifferent to poor and, although considered intelligent, it was clear I lacked the application ever to be a serious student.

A boy of small years must necessarily be a poor criminal; the ability to judge chances is insufficiently developed. I was finally run to ground in a housemaster's lodging – not my own housemaster, who was a decent enough man, but another who was universally disliked – apparently looting his small store of wine. In fact I was not, as I have never been a drinker. Rather I was busy trying to spike the bottles with vinegar, using a syringe of my own devising that could, I believed, introduce the contaminant without having to remove the cork. This was to be his punishment for the merciless beating which he had inflicted on a boy in my house, a somewhat diffident, frightened lad who naturally attracted the bullies to him like flies around a horse's head. I could not protect him – and felt more the injustice of the master than the suffering of the boy – but I did what I could to ensure that his misery did not go without some reply.

I should have been expelled; certainly the offence more than merited it, especially as there was some suspicion that the discovery also solved the mystery of who had locked the chapel doors and concealed the key so that the salvation of three hundred pupils was at risk until it was found four days later; punctured all the rugger balls the night before a tournament with five other schools, and committed a series of other offences against the corporate well-being. I admitted nothing, but since when did headmasters follow strictly the dictates of legal procedure?

But I was let off lightly. A thorough thrashing, detention for a term, and nothing more. A few bruises and cuts to add to the burn mark I had on my arm, received as a baby when I rashly put my hand into a fire. That was all. I did not understand it; and as the Campbells never referred to the matter, nor did I. Someone, though, was looking after me.

William Campbell's sudden death, when I was sixteen, was as great a shock as I had ever endured, and the atmosphere of despair and gloom in the house affected everyone. We – that is I and my adopted brother Freddie – were kept completely in the dark; it was our comrades at school, as kind as young boys are, who told us that he had blown his brains out because he could not face the disgrace of ruin. With great consideration they provided the details when we did not believe them.

And it was true; Mr Campbell was caught up in the Dunbury Scandal and his fortune was destroyed. That, however, was not the worst of it; it was whispered that he had been part of a fraud to deprive other investors of massive amounts. The precise circumstances were never very clear to me; the matter was hushed up – he and others involved had been in the governing party at the time – and, in any case, I was not really old enough to understand. Young men of my type are prone to be impatient of details, and give their loyalties without regard to evidence. I remembered him as the kindest man in the world. Nothing else was of any importance to me.

It was clear that my schooldays were coming to an end, though. Mrs Campbell assured me that the funds were there to continue to pay the fees, but I felt I could no longer impose myself on their goodness. I must begin to make my own way in the world, and so I began to consider how that way might be made. I was not denied assistance. It is one of the curiosities of the English that they are often excessively judgemental in the abstract yet match that with private kindness. The name of Campbell was hardly mentioned any more; amongst his friends and old political comrades it was as though he had never existed. Yet for those whose lives he had ruined, there was constant sympathy and discreet help.

Mrs Campbell herself refused to take any assistance; she remained as devoted to her husband's memory as she had been loving while he lived. She refused any offer of help that came from the opinion she was also one of her husband's victims, and took her fall with pride and defiance. She moved out of the grand house into more modest accommodation in Bayswater, where she maintained a household which ran with only two, rather than twenty, servants, and eked out a dignified, if straitened, existence for the rest of her days. I believe she had at least one offer of marriage, but refused as she did not wish to abandon the name her husband had given her. It would, she said, be the last betrayal.

I insisted that, come what may, Freddie should finish school and go to university; he was immensely talented and, more importantly, devoted to learning. My arguments prevailed; he gave up all fine notions of working to support the family, and eventually proceeded to Balliol to read Greats and become, ultimately, a Fellow of Trinity, living out his life in studious contentment, rarely straying from the narrow acreage bounded by the High Street in the south and Crick Road in the north. Eventually, his mother came to live with him and died last year, cutting an ever-stranger figure pottering around the streets dressed in the widow's weeds of twenty years ago.

For my part, I gave up the prospect of a similar trajectory with only nominal reluctance; I was not as clever as Freddie nor as disciplined, even though my love of reading was as great as his and my gift for language greater. But part of me had always hankered after something more, although I had never been able to decide what that was. I spent a few months in an architect's office, but found it uncongenial, although drawing delighted me then as it still does. I next moved to work in one of the great finance houses in the City, but discovered that while the strategy of high finance had its interest, the daily grind of counting money drove me to distraction. I might have made a splendid Baring, but as one of that family's clerks I was sorely tried.

Still, I did this for several years and gained greatly by the experience – I spent a whole year in Paris, much time in Berlin and even, on one occasion, was sent for two months to New York. At no stage did it occur to me that I was receiving remarkable treatment for a young man with no connections, unproven ability and minimal experience. I realised that most people of my sort spent their time, six days a week, in a dreary office from eight in the morning until seven at night, but I assumed it was merely good fortune on my part that I was not one of them. I was picked for one job and acquitted myself well, and so was chosen for another. And so on. The idea that any other factor was involved did not come into my thoughts.

In July 1887, though, I received a letter from a Mr Henry Wilkinson. This was shortly after my twenty-fourth birthday. A grand man indeed, Deputy Undersecretary at the Foreign Office, a post he had occupied for some twenty years. He was not much known outside the minuscule world of diplomacy, and the name meant nothing to me, but I knew that the invitation to lunch could not be ignored. And when I requested permission from my chief to absent myself, it was given very speedily. No one seemed curious about what it was all about. Which was not really surprising, as they knew perfectly well already.

I went the following Wednesday to the Athenaeum, and met the man who was to be in effect my employer until he died, still in harness, six months ago. Many people have the idea that civil servants are sleek, well-groomed and well-bred people, suave in manner and given to murmuring incisively instead of indulging in ordinary speech like the majority of the population. Such people exist, but the Diplomatic Service in those days still found a place for the eccentric, the unusual and – in at least two cases I have met – the certifiably insane.

Henry Wilkinson did not look like a senior civil servant. He was dressed in a tweed jacket, for a start, which violated all codes of conduct for his class, his employment and his club, which would have denied entry to most members who dared commit such sacrilege. He was much given to grunting and loud exclamations. His emotions, far from being closely controlled and disciplined, overflowed all over the room, and his conversation was filled with loud laughs, groans, chuckles and sighs. He fidgeted incessantly, so much so that I came to dread sharing a meal with him, because his hands were always picking up the salt cellar and banging it on the table, or twiddling his fork around while he was listening. Or he would cross his legs, uncross them and cross them again, leaning back and forward in his chair as he spoke. He never sat still, never relaxed, even when apparently enjoying himself. He also ate virtually nothing; a meal consisted of chasing a piece of meat around the plate for a few minutes before he consented with the greatest reluctance to push a sliver of carrot or a fragment of potato into his mouth. Then, a few moments later, he would thrust the plate aside as if to say – thank heavens that's over!

He was a wiry man, with a thin, foxy face redeemed only by a most charming smile. He also had the annoying habit of almost never looking directly at you; this he kept for special occasions, and when he did, his eyes bored straight through you as though he could count the dots on the wallpaper through your head. Every now and then during our lunch, some grandee would bow discreetly at him, but he waved them all aside without even looking at them.

It was not so much a lunch, more of a viva voce examination. I was discouraged from asking any questions, and when I did, they were ignored. What was my opinion of Britain's place in the world? Who were our greatest enemies? Who our rivals? What were their advantages and weaknesses? How best to exploit their divisions? How did the health of our great industries relate to the longevity of the Empire? What proper relationship with the Continent should Britain pursue? Did I think we should continue to bolster the Ottoman Empire, or connive at its downfall? My opinion on the continued convertibility of paper specie into gold? The double metal question? The effectiveness of the Bank of England in the late crisis in the American markets? The use of financial power as a proper instrument of diplomacy?

Most of these questions, I was sure, I answered badly. I was no diplomat, reading secret briefing papers from ambassadors around the globe; most of what I knew was to be found in The Times every morning. Perhaps I was a little better informed on financial matters, but, as I had been pummelled by questions for a long time without making any apparent impression on him, I was beginning to be discouraged, which no doubt made my answers less satisfactory.

'You are asked by your Government to commit a crime, Mr Cort. Do you do it or not? What factors determine your answer?'

This question came out of the blue after a response on my part to a question about whether I considered dividends of North American railway stock to be sustainable (an easy one, that: of course they weren't) and it took me so completely by surprise I hardly knew what to answer.

'It would depend on my position in relation to the Government,' I said after a while. 'A soldier invading a foreign country I suppose commits a crime, but is not held personally accountable. An individual with no official status might be in a less comfortable position.'

'Assume you are a private individual.'

'Then it depends on who is asking this of me. I assume it is a crime for the good of the country. I would have to have a very profound trust in the judgement of the person making the request. Why do you ask such a question?'

This was my second attempt, by that stage, to discover the purpose of the meeting. It was brushed aside, as the first had been.

'Your duty to your country is a matter of personal relations?' he asked, arching his eyebrows in something I took to be scorn. I was becoming a little annoyed by this stage, having endured these incessant questions for more than an hour, so that my plate lay almost as untouched as his; I thought I had been remarkably patient.

'Yes,' I snapped back. 'We are not talking about the country. We are talking about its representatives, only some of whom have the authority or stature to decide what is in the national good. Also I speak as one of Her Majesty's subjects, who has a right to have an opinion on such matters. Besides, I was not aware that our Government committed crimes.'

I glared; he now smiled sweetly back, as though I had just said how pretty his little daughter was. (I met his family once, some years later. His daughter, slightly older than I, was the most terrifying female I ever encountered: the brains of the father, multiplied by the remarkable force of character of the mother. She was not, however, particularly pretty.)

'Goodness gracious me!' he said. 'I don't believe you just said that! Of course it does. Not unless they can be avoided, of course. Let me give you an example. Suppose we learn that France, our great, civilised but entirely annoying neighbour, has advanced plans for an invasion of this country. Suppose we know how to obtain these plans. Should we do so?'

'Of course. That is a matter of war.'

'No,' he replied, wagging a finger in correction. 'No war has been declared. We would be committing an outright theft from a nation which has done us no harm, and whose Government is currently almost cordial towards us, despite popular opinion.'

'Which cordiality may turn out to be a mere deception. It is obviously legitimate to discover if someone wishes you harm. Naturally it would be permissible to steal this information.'

'And if someone tries to prevent this theft? A guard or soldier? Even a member of the public? What measures could be taken against them?'

'Any that were required.'

'Including killing them?'

'I very much hope that could be avoided. But if that was the only way of gaining information that might save thousands of lives, then yes.'

'I see. Let us reverse the question then. Suppose a Frenchman comes to this country to steal our plans for invading France. What measures could be taken against him, should his whereabouts and intentions become known?'

'We plan to invade France?' I asked, astonished. Again, he found my response amusing.

'We should,' he said with a chuckle. 'It is the army's job to prepare for all such possibilities. However, I very much doubt such a plan exists. Our generals have a long tradition of being woefully unprepared, and in any case they seem to find shooting people armed only with spears quite difficult enough. Nonetheless, such plans should exist, as it is obvious that sooner or later there will be another war in Europe, and we do not know if we will be able to stand by and watch. No matter. Assume, if you can, that the generals are better prepared and more far-seeing than they are. How to react to the presence of this Frenchman on our soil?'

'Stop him.'

'How?'

'By whatever means necessary.'

'But he is only trying to do that which you have already declared legitimate.'

'I act to save the lives of my countrymen. And would do so again in this case.'

'Lives of Englishmen are more valuable than lives of Frenchmen?'

'Not in the eyes of God, perhaps, but I have no responsibility for the well-being of the French, while I am bound to the inhabitants of my country.'

'So, that is two murders you have committed. Quite a bloodthirsty fellow, are you not, Mr Cort?'

'I am nothing of the sort,' I said. 'I specialise in the syndication of international loans.'

'So you do. So you do. And you travel widely in pursuit of your business. France, Germany, even Italy. I gather you are competent at the languages of those countries as well.'

'Yes.'

He smiled. 'I'd like you to do me a little favour,' he said, changing the subject abruptly. 'When you are in Paris next week, I'd be most grateful if you could pick up a package for me. And bring it back. Would you oblige me in that matter?'

'Plans to invade England?' I asked.

'Oh, goodness me, no! We have those already; they're really quite good. No, this is something quite different. This is of no great secrecy or importance, routine correspondence, that is all; I merely want to ensure it gets here swiftly. I planned to get someone else to do it, but, alas, he had a small accident and cannot assist me.'

'I'd be happy to assist,' I said. 'Except that I'm not going to Paris next week. I believe my employers have no plans at all to send me anywhere, at present.'

He smiled sweetly. 'So kind of you to come and meet me today,' he said. 'I have greatly enjoyed our little conversation.'

I hardly knew what to make of this strange encounter, and was eager to discuss it with my chief, Mr Hector Samson of Syndication. He, however, although normally very strict about time-keeping, never referred to my absence for so many hours and, when I raised the matter, changed the topic so swiftly I realised he did not even want to know. The only indication I had that my employers were aware of the meeting was a letter dropped on my desk late that afternoon. I was to go to Paris the following Monday to supervise the final details of the flotation of a loan for an American railway company, they of the unsustainable dividends, although naturally such misgivings were not to be communicated to the other participants. That was their problem; all Barings had to do was get rid of the stock as swiftly as possible. Anyway, it was a small matter, already settled, the centre of which was to be in London with only a small participation from one Paris bank. Barings' own correspondents in France could – and regularly did – supervise such matters, and Barings were notoriously tight-fisted about extravagances like sending people on journeys. Even I could reason out what had happened.

I filled up much of my time on my recent voyage from Calcutta reading some of those stories of espionage which are so popular these days, which amused me greatly. I sometimes wonder if those few people who suspect my activities believe that I live a life of equal excitement. I am glad to say I do not. All this running around over deserts and feats of daring against sinister foreigners and secret societies makes splendid entertainment, but I do not know anyone of sense who conducts business in such a way. All governments, naturally, can call on people who are more proficient with muscle than with brain in certain circumstances. That's what armies are for. The task of discovering a rival's intentions and capabilities is, by and large, conducted in a more civilised fashion. In general, it is as dangerous and exciting as a busy day on the Baltic Exchange.

Except, that is, for my first venture into the business, which very nearly resulted in my deciding to have nothing to do with Henry Wilkinson. Hang the Empire, was my opinion, if it depends on this sort of thing.

It happened like this: I took the train to Dover as my employers directed, crossed the Channel by steamer to Calais, and arrived at the Gare du Nord at seven in the evening. I then went to my hotel in the rue Notre-Dame des Victoires. Not a grand hotel by any means; the Baring family was far too cautious with its money to allow luxury; it was why many people hankered after a job with the Rothschilds, who had a finer appreciation of their employees' comforts. But it had running water, was clean and was only a short distance from the Bourse: I have stayed in much worse. My business, such as it was, could be dealt with in half an hour the following morning, and so I had the evening to myself. Or to attend to the note that was pushed under my door ten minutes after I arrived. It contained an address, and a time. Nothing more. 15, rue Poulletier. Nine o'clock.

Now, the hero of a spy story would have managed to discover the whereabouts of this address and get there with such ease it might not even be mentioned. I, on the other hand, took some forty-five minutes to acquire a map which even gave the location (shops never close in adventure stories; alas, they shut promptly at seven-thirty in reality) and then another hour to get there. Perhaps there was a tram which might have taken me, but I never discovered it. It was raining – a fine, persistent and depressing drizzle – and all the carriages were occupied. I had no umbrella, so had to walk, my hat getting sodden, my coat turning into blotting paper, into an area of Paris I had never even visited in daylight before.

This was the Ile Saint-Louis, an infested, rat-ridden tangle of criminality and sedition lying at the very heart of the city. It had once been fashionable and well-to-do, but those days had long since passed. Every building was crumbling and neglected, there was no street lighting (and, I guessed, not much progress had been made in installing modern sewage) and it was deathly quiet. The police of Paris never venture onto the island between sundown and sunrise; it becomes an independent country in the dark, answerable to no authority, and anyone who goes there must take full personal responsibility for his fate. Most of the revolutionaries, many of the anarchists and criminals who grace the pages of the popular press with their activities, give their address as the Ile Saint-Louis; they inhabit great houses which once echoed to the laughter of the aristocracy and now are cut up into dozens of squalid little rooms for rent by the month, the day or the hour. It is a den of cut-throats and fugitives, perfect for people who need or wish to disappear. The address I was seeking lay right at its heart, past the raddled women standing in the alleyways; past the men with narrow faces and suspicious eyes who watch as you walk by; past the long shadows, and sudden noises of something moving behind you; past the soft laughter that you hear faintly down side alleys.

It was terrifying. I have never in my life been so petrified, and if this disappoints, then I am sorry to disabuse you still further of any notions of heroism. I did not join a banking house to get my head kicked in down some malodorous Parisian alleyway. I was cursing myself and that wretched civil servant for bringing about my presence there. I could have turned on my heel and walked out, the banks of the Seine were scarcely a hundred yards away and there at least was some gas lighting. The bridge to the Ile-de-la-Cité was another few minutes' walk. Even less if you ran in total panic, not caring for your dignity. I did not take this course. Instead, I stopped at every flicker of light coming from an open window and consulted my map, wiping the rain from my eyes, and slowly made my way forward, getting ever close to my destination, keeping all thoughts of what on earth I might find there at the back of my mind. I have always had a stubborn streak in me; it can be a disadvantage, sometimes.

I could not decide whether I was being manfully determined or childishly stupid. I continued until I reached the door on the left that the curt instructions had mentioned. I gently pushed it with my hand. It was not locked. It was hardly on hinges at all, and was kept in place mainly by its own weight as it dragged on the floor and leaned against the door posts. Knocking seemed a little absurd in the circumstances, so I put my shoulder to it and levered it up and forwards until a gap large enough for me to slip through opened up.

The passage inside it was completely dark, and the musty smell of neglect and damp hung about it. I waited to see if my eyes could make something out but the blackness was so total that this accomplished little. Unlike the well-equipped agent of novels, I had no matches. There was no sound except for the patter of rain outside and the chuckle of the water as it ran down the street. The thing I was most aware of was my feet, which were soaking wet and icy cold. As standing feeling frightened and cold accomplished nothing, I gingerly made my way forward, arms out like a blind man, and bumped first into a wall this way, then into another that way. Then I caught something brushing against my sleeve as I turned, and realised I had touched a banister. There was a staircase! Carefully, I put my foot on the first step, thinking to go up quietly. That was useless; the wood gave a crack like a gun going off as my full weight came upon it, so I abandoned all notion of discretion and concentrated simply on not falling, feeling my way up, step by step until I came to a landing. There the stairs ended, and there, on the left, I felt a door. Assuming I was in the right street and the right building (about which I had no confidence whatsoever), I must have arrived at my destination. I listened carefully, but could hear nothing. I knocked; softly at first, then in frustration and annoyance, hammered on the door as loudly as I could.

I heard a low groan after my first knock and the sound of someone falling out of bed after my second, then a muttering. Next a sound like someone being sick, then urinating in a metal pot. The door opened, just a crack at first, then more widely. An oil lamp was held up, its glare preventing me from seeing who was holding it. 'Come in, then,' I heard. A gruff voice, speaking in a mumbling French I could barely understand.

So in I went.

I had never been in a room so filthy or so rank before, and my first instinct was to turn tail and flee. The occupant saw this reaction on my face but, instead of being offended, found it as funny as one can find anything when one is nursing a violent hangover. He was at least dressed, after a fashion, though not shaved and, I guessed, he had not shaved for days, for the grey stubble on his chin – he was a man past fifty – shone in the rays of thin light that came from the smoking lamp he put down on a rickety table.

He was short, broad and powerfully built, stooped over but with lively eyes that never rested long in one place. A deeply lined face, with a thin scar down his left cheek, which was otherwise blotchy from drink and hard living. But despite his surroundings and his gross inelegance, he had a purposeful air, almost one of confidence. All this was communicated in a few seconds and I cannot say that I realised any of this until much later. At that particular moment, the smell and the dirt was all I noticed.

'I've come from Mr Wilkinson for a package,' I said.

'You're the new boy, are you?' he said with the heavy sigh of the deeply disappointed. He had switched to English after he had examined me carefully with those eyes. I noticed that there was the faintest foreign accent to his voice. Not French, certainly, but his original language was so covered over by time and lack of use it was difficult to ascertain what it might have been. 'Do you have something for me?'

'No.'

'No piece of paper, no other letter?'

'No. Why?'

'Because how am I meant to believe you really do come from Mr Wilkinson? You may be working for the French Government, which would not be good for you at all.'

He said it in a quiet fashion which was deeply threatening.

'I can offer you no proof whatsoever,' I replied. 'And I am not sure I would, even were I able to do so.'

'What's your name?'

'Cort,' I replied. 'Henry Cort.'

'A curious name; not very English. Dutch? Flemish?'

I bridled a little at that. 'I can assure you I am thoroughly English,' I said stiffly. 'My father's family arrived in England from the Low Countries to escape persecution, but that was nearly two hundred years ago.'

'And your father is alive?'

'Yes, although he suffers from persistent ill health. My mother is dead.'

I sensed a faint quickening of his interest at this, although there seemed to be nothing behind it. 'And your father's occupation?'

'He is an architect when his health permits. Most of the time he is too frail to work.'

'I see. And you were born in . . .'

'Eighteen sixty-three.'

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling as he considered this piece of information. Then he leant forward, grabbed my left arm, and pulled up the sleeve of my jacket. Snorted, then banged his knees with his hands and looked up.

'My apologies for the interrogation, although not for the doubts. Unless you become as suspicious as I am, you will not live long in this game.'

'I do not intend to play any game,' I replied. 'Nor do I see how what I have just said can convince you of my honesty.'

He almost smiled at this remark. 'You must allow me to preserve my secrets. But Mr Wilkinson knows what he is doing. He sent no proof of your identity because your very existence is its own proof.'

He stood up. 'Don't look so puzzled. It's of no significance. Have you done this before?'

I didn't understand a word he was talking about. All I knew was that even the dangers of walking alone across the Ile Saint-Louis would be preferable to staying in that dingy room a moment longer.

'I understand I am meant to collect a letter of some sort. If that is the case, please give it to me and I will be on my way.'

He snorted, as though I had just said the most imbecilic thing in the world, then reached under the mattress of his bed. As he did so, I noticed a pistol jutting out from under the dirty grey pillow.

'There you are,' he said. 'Take it and go. Deliver it to Mr Wilkinson as swiftly as possible. Do not stop, do not let it out of your possession for a second.'

He handed it over, and I looked at it. 'But it's not for him,' I protested. 'It is addressed to a Mr Robbins. I know of no such man.'

He stared at the ceiling, as though invoking the Lord to come and smite him.

'Yes,' he said heavily. 'How curious. However, fortunately your job is not to think but to move those little legs of yours in the right direction until you have accomplished your task. If I say it is to be handed to Mr Wilkinson, then to Mr Wilkinson it must go. Understand? Now go away.'

He turned, and lay down on the bed with a heavy sigh. The interview was at an end.

I glared at him with all the hauteur I could muster, turned and left.

My dignity was as offended by the encounter as was my sense of smell. I marched down the stairs, thankful only to be heading for the open air once more, my mind full of all the cutting remarks I might have made to put the appalling man in his place, and remind him that he was dealing with a gentleman. Not some servant, which I tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade myself was his own station in life.

I walked towards the river and safety, going more swiftly than usual because the sooner I was off that stinking island the happier I would be. My annoyance pushed all thought of danger out of my head as I walked, and my mood lightened with every step I took.

Apart from a heavy blow on the head and the sensation of falling forward onto the pavement – stone of some sort, I noted, with weeds growing up between the cracks, one with a bedraggled purple flower on it – that was the last thing I recalled for some time. It didn't even hurt, to begin with.

CHAPTER 2

When I woke up again I felt as though my head was splitting; stars danced in my eyes, and I could feel the blood pounding through my temples. I looked around as much as I dared, considering there seemed to be a real possibility that my head might come off entirely. Mainly I saw the ceiling – from which I deduced that I was no longer in the street, but had been picked up by someone and brought into a house. What was I doing there? What had I been doing? I groaned, tried to sit up, then collapsed back again. It was the smell that made me realise where I must be.

Then I remembered. The letter. My hand rushed to my pocket and felt for the reassuring crinkle of paper. Nothing. I tried another pocket, then another, then, just to make sure, went back and tried the first once more. Nothing. It had gone.

'Oh, my God,' I said as the realisation hit me. 'Oh, no.'

'Looking for this?'

I was lying on his bed, which smelled of dog and unwashed man. I turned my head, and saw the man I had met earlier, sitting calmly in a chair with the letter he had given me on his lap. The relief I felt was indescribable.

'Thank you, sir,' I said with genuine emotion. 'You rescued me from those scoundrels. Who attacked me? Did you see them? Who hit me?'

'I did,' he said, still calm as ever.

'What?'

He made no effort to help me out.

'Why did you hit me?'

'To steal this letter.'

'But you'd only just given it to me.'

'Well noted,' he said.

To be attacked in such a manner was bad enough; to be made fun of as well was well-nigh intolerable, and I decided that it was time to give this man a lesson he would not readily forget. I had spent much time at school in boxing, and felt that I could readily overcome the resistance of a man well past his prime. So I began to rise, but found that my legs were unwilling to support me; I waved my fists in his direction and even as he pushed me lazily back on to the bed with a contemptuous look on his face, I realised how utterly ridiculous I must appear.

I slumped back down, my head spinning, and groaned loudly.

'Head between your knees, until you stop feeling sick. I didn't break the skin, you're not bleeding.'

Then he waited patiently until I was once more able to lift my head up and look at him.

'Right,' he said. 'I hit you on the head because I do not wish to die through association with an idiot. Your behaviour was not only juvenile, but also dangerous. Do you have no sense at all? You were utterly unaware I was behind you, even though I went out of my way to give you as much warning as possible. Have you learned nothing? Remembered nothing? Did you ever, even once, look round to check who was behind you? No. You strolled down a dark alley, hands in your pockets like some idiot tourist. I did hit you harder than was necessary, I am sure. I apologise for that. But I was so outraged I felt like hitting you even harder, and you should thank me for my restraint.'

If my head was spinning from the blow he had inflicted on me, it was spinning even faster now as I tried to understand what on earth he was talking about.

'I was asked to come to your lodging, sir,' I said stiffly, 'and collect a letter. That was all. Nobody mentioned anything about playing hide and seek through the streets with a murderous lunatic.'

He paused, then looked at me more soberly. 'You aren't . . . Oh, my God! Who are you? What are you?'

I told him that I was a banker working for Barings. He snorted, then laughed out loud.

'In that case I owe you an apology,' he said, with the air of a man who didn't really think that he owed me anything of the sort. 'You must think me a very strange fellow.'

'I think I could manage a better description of you than that,' I said.

'Come with me.'

He helped me off the bed, steadied me as I almost fell over again, then guided me to the door and down the stairs.

He took me to some sort of bar. It was nearly ten o'clock. He led me over to a table in a dark corner, got me to sit, then called for brandy. I was not used, at that stage, to drinking brandy but he insisted, and after a very short while I found that my head stopped hurting, and my speech became voluble.

'So,' he began once more, 'I apologise. And owe you an explanation. I was under the impression that you knew what you were about. What Mr Wilkinson is thinking of, sending me someone so unprepared is quite beyond me. He knows how I . . .'

His trail of thought came to an end as he drank his brandy down in one go, and called for another. The place we were in was the sort of establishment I would never dream of entering, or would not have done then. I imagined that every single person in it – all were men – was some sort of cut-throat, pimp or robber. I later learned that this assessment was entirely correct.

He grunted. 'My name is Jules Lefevre . . . in fact, that is not my name, but no matter. It will do. I provide certain information to His Majesty's Government which it otherwise might find difficult to obtain.'

'You are French?' I asked.

'Perhaps. Now, it is important that the information I provide reaches its destination. It is also important that it does not fall into the wrong hands, it being of a confidential nature. Do you understand?'

'I believe so,' I said.

'In which case, it is important that those people carrying these letters know how to keep them. You agree that this is important.'

'Absolutely,' I said.

'Good. So that is what Wilkinson has asked me to do with you. Teach you to look after yourself.'

'Are you sure?'

'He said he was sending someone to me to finish his training, and he would identify himself by coming to ask for a package. That seems like you.'

'I know, but no one has ever mentioned anything of this to me. I feel I should have been consulted . . .' I could tell I was sounding more petulant with every word I uttered, and decided to keep quiet. You could say that my future was decided solely by a desire not to appear silly to a man I scarcely knew.

'Well, you weren't. I suppose there was a good reason. Now, what I did to you just now could have been done by anyone. And your lack of attention could have had severe consequences. The only good thing to come out of it would be that you would be dead and unable to mess anything else up.'

My head was still spinning, and still hurt foully, even though the brandy had steadied it a little. In compensation, my empty stomach was also beginning to add its protest at being subjected to the brandy. Lefevre was eyeing me curiously.

'You don't know what this is all about?'

'No.'

His eyes narrowed, as he considered the meaning of it. Then he shook his head. 'No point trying to fathom the ways of the great and the good. That's his decision and I suppose I must live with it. It seems you are to be my apprentice, so we might as well get started. Be at the Gare de l'Est tomorrow morning at eight. I will meet you in the buffet. You will not recognise me or greet me in any way. But when I move, you follow me. Do you understand?

'I understand, but I'm not sure I agree,' I replied. 'What do you mean, your apprentice? And what's this about getting started? Started on what?'

'Learning how to stay alive, of course.'

'I was managing quite well until I met you. And what if I don't want to be your apprentice?'

'Then you don't come. You go back to your life in the bank, and fill in ledgers for the rest of your life, or whatever you do. I don't care one way or the other. Wilkinson seems to have chosen you. Take it up with him. But don't ask any more explanation of me, because I can't give it.'

He stood up. 'Make up your mind by tomorrow morning. Come, or don't come.'

'Just a minute,' I said, a little tartly.

He looked back at me.

'What about this wretched letter?' I pointed to the envelope on the table that had given me so much grief. 'You can hardly criticise me for carelessness if you are so forgetful yourself.'

He looked, then shrugged. 'It's only an old newspaper,' he said. 'It's not important. You don't think anyone's going to trust you with something important, do you?'

And he walked out, leaving me behind in that den of iniquity, which, now his protection was withdrawn, suddenly began to seem very frightening.

As discreetly as possible – which was not at all – I left as well, feeling dozens of eyes on me as I headed for the door, and the hushing of the chatter as conversations paused so people could look at me. I felt a hot flush spreading up the back of my neck, and it was all I could do to avoid bolting out of that place as fast as my legs would carry me. Pride can be a useful thing. I believe I completely hid my discomfort and my mounting fear, although the experience of the evening made me feel violently sick and my legs were still wobbling from the assault.

The night air, touched with sweet smell of sewage though it was, refreshed me considerably and, once I had leaned against a wall a while, I began to feel much improved. It was almost midnight now and eerily quiet for the centre of a major city. I was some way from my hotel and with no alternative but to walk there. My head ached, I was starving from lack of food and felt thoroughly wretched. I was also afraid that awful man would attack me once again, so could not even concentrate on my sense of having been ill used as I made my way to the bridge to cross over back into civilisation.

CHAPTER 3

It goes without saying that I got no sleep that night, even when I did manage to get back to my hotel. It was already two by then and I realised I would have to be up again early if I was to make my appointment for eight o'clock. It still had not occurred to me to miss it; my anxiety concentrated entirely on not being late, on not making myself out to be a fool once more. The turmoil of the evening and the fear of oversleeping did not drive away my weariness, merely the possibility of doing anything about it, and at six o'clock I found myself tiptoeing down the stairs once more and out into what would eventually be the dawn of a new day.

I took an omnibus to my destination; a sign on the front said it was going to the Gare de l'Est and I believed it, so at least I managed a short slumber in the twenty-five minutes it took to get there. This happy chance, however, meant that I arrived an hour early, and there was nothing to do except tramp the streets to try and keep warm, and sit next to the brazier in the empty waiting room as I grew more and more aware of how empty my stomach was. I was cold, hungry, bored and perplexed all at the same time and still I did not query what I was doing. Not once did I shake myself awake and consider heading straight for the bank and a normal day's work.

I did not follow instructions completely though; rather than waiting in the railway buffet, I positioned myself in a discreet place outside, as I somehow felt it would be subservient to be there first. I wished Lefevre to arrive and worry that I was not going to come, that he had failed to sway me. Then I would go in and greet him.

Alas, he did not turn up either. Slowly more people were filling the station, from trains arriving and for others leaving. I watched every single person who went into the buffet, and as there was only one entrance there was no chance of missing anyone. I was feeling ill. For the first time the full absurdity of the situation swept over me. I was working in a bank, for heaven's sake. What on earth was I doing here? I would have some coffee and some bread, then resume a normal life. Enough of this nonsense. It was going to be hard enough already to explain myself.

I stood at the counter waiting, next to a gentleman similarly consuming a rapid cup of coffee. We ignored each other, as total strangers do, until he had finished and paid.

'Come along then,' he said abruptly. 'Or we'll miss the train. Do you have any luggage?'

I turned to stare at him. A well-dressed man, wearing an expensive cravat and shiny top hat, immaculately brushed shoes, and a heavy grey overcoat. He bowed his head slightly in greeting as I looked. Handsome, clean shaven, about fifty years of age but with an air of strength about him. And a thin scar on his cheek. Despite his years, no one would ever consider him to be old. A faint air of eau-de-cologne hung around him as it does those who spend time and money on their appearance.

'Do you mean to say you didn't recognise me?'

It was Lefevre, now as elegant as he was scruffy before, as well manicured as he had been unshaven, as bourgeois as he had been plebeian. Only the eyes, pale and questing, and the scar seemed to remain from the person I had encountered the previous evening.

I shook my head. 'Oh, my Lord,' he said quietly. 'This is going to be hard work.'

And without any further comment, he turned and walked out onto the station forecourt. I followed, as I supposed I was meant to, getting angrier by the minute. I walked up behind him and grabbed him by the arm. He shook it off and murmured, 'Not here, you idiot!' and continued walking onto platform three, where a train stood, hissing away. Twirling his cane in a nonchalant fashion, he walked up to the first-class carriages and got in. I followed him into an empty compartment and waited while he went out to discuss his baggage with a porter. Then he came back in, shut the door, pulled down the blinds and sat opposite me.

'Don't be so angry,' he said, reverting to English. 'You look as though you are about to explode.'

'For two pins I would get straight off this train and go to work,' I said. 'You are behaving in a most uncivil fashion and . . . and . . .' I knew how childish I sounded even before I had got a few words out.

'So have a good cry,' Lefevre said, equably but unsympathetically. 'I'm no more happy about your presence than you are, I assure you. But it seems that we must work together.'

'Doing what, for heaven's sake?' I cried. 'Just tell me what I am doing here, and why?'

'Do keep your voice down, please,' he said wearily.

There was a sudden bustle on the station, and whistles. The train gave a shudder and, in a cloud of steam and with an abominable squeaking, it lurched forward a few inches, then a few inches more. We were under way – although where to I did not know.

Lefevre ignored me as the train drew out of the dingy, smoky station and into the light of morning. 'I love trains,' he said. 'I always feel safe on them. I've never understood people who find them frightening or dangerous.'

He fell silent, watching the streets of Paris pass slowly by until we came to the outlying fortifications and into the countryside beyond. Then he gave a slight sigh, and turned his attention to me.

'You are feeling indignant and angry, is that it?'

I nodded. 'Wouldn't you be, in my situation?'

'No. At your age I had been fighting in a war for nearly two years. However, as you want all of these unpleasant emotions dissipated, and I need you to be calm and able to concentrate for the next few weeks . . .'

'The next few weeks?' I interrupted in what I fear was a squeak of alarm.

'Do try and keep quiet for a while,' he said. 'I will explain as best I can. Then you must decide on your course of action. When we arrive at our destination you can choose either to get on the next train back to Paris, or you can stay with me. Mr Wilkinson evidently desires that you choose the latter option. From your performance so far I would prefer the former.

'To begin at the beginning. You have been chosen for special qualities which have not yet manifested themselves to me to become what used to be called an intelligencer, and is now rather vulgarly called a spy. Britain is alone in the world, much envied and resented for her wealth and the vastness of her Empire. Many wish to tear her down. She must be self-reliant and can count no one as her friend. She must be aware of everything, and able to sow discord among her enemies. That, in brief, is to be your job.'

I stared at him. Surely this was some sort of bad joke?

'Silence, at last,' he continued. 'You are learning. If Mr Wilkinson decides the national interest is best served by continental peace, you will endeavour – in your small but allotted way – to accomplish it. If he suddenly changes his mind and decides a war is necessary, you will try to set neighbour against neighbour. And above all you will try to discover who is thinking what and when.'

'Me?'

'Good question. A very good question. You are, obviously, unsuited. But perhaps you have some qualities that might make you useful.'

'And those are?'

'Money.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Money,' he said wearily, looking out of the window as though he was seeing a golden age going by. 'All the world is now convertible to money. Power, influence, peace and war. It used to be that the sole determinant was the number of men you could march out to meet your enemies. Now more depends on the convertibility of your currency, its reputation among the bankers. That is something I do not know and you do.'

He smiled, but it was not a happy smile. 'The world changed, in America, some thirty years ago. I suppose we should have seen it coming, but we did not. It was not won or lost by bravery, or skill or numbers of men, but by factories and gold. It was a war of industry against farmers, companies against cavaliers. The losers had fewer resources, less ability to produce the material of war. And those we thought our friends abandoned us for the sake of trade with the richer side.'

'We?'

He ignored the question. 'And what was pioneered there will be even more strongly seen here, next time.'

'You think there will be a war here?'

'I am sure of it. There must be. Because you think that it will be as before and so will not care to prevent it. It will not be armies fighting next time, but economies. Vaults of gold in perpetual contest until all are exhausted. The countries of Europe will fight until they cannot afford to fight any more.'

'I think many in the City already worry about that.'

'But they will be outnumbered by those who will make money from the business. The Vickers, the Krupps and the Schneiders. Men like John Stone and his weaponry. The bankers who provide the money for them, the investors who get their 15 per cent dividends. War and peace will be decided by the movement of capital.'

'And how does this involve me?'

'You understand that world; I do not. I do not want to.'

'You say "our" and "we" and refer to two different countries.'

He nodded. 'I am a man without country. Not French, not British, not even American, although once I was. I work for hire and give good service.'

I considered this. I was not sure I liked this man who called himself Lefevre, and I certainly did not trust him, but he had a presence which could not be lightly ignored. He could command, and it was comfortable to follow him. But I was very far from certain it was wise.

'And if someone offered more?'

'Then I would consider the offer. Men without homes must look after themselves, for they cannot surrender to the comforts of patriotism. I did that once, and will not repeat the mistake. But I am no mercenary. Part of good service is loyalty. And my masters – your masters as well, it now seems – pay me.'

I leaned back in my seat and, like him, watched the landscape outside the window pass by. The train was going fast now, and the city had long since been left behind. We were in the open countryside, heading east – to Metz, so the sign in the the station had said.

But if Lefevre saw worlds disappearing, I perceived a different analogy as I headed unstoppingly into the unknown. Why had I so easily acquiesced in his instructions? It was simple; I was bored, and wanted diversion. I was even prepared to risk dismissal from a job which I found wearisome. Had I really been placed on this earth to arrange discounts for South American railway lines? Was my mark on humanity to be the 31/8 per cent coupon on Leeds Water Works debenture stock? I had never dreamed of excitement as a young boy; unlike my comrades, my imagination was not full of dreams of marching at the head of (utterly devoted) men into a dangerous battle, emerging victorious through my courage and skill. But I had dreamed of something, and it is the more difficult to put aside dreams which are unformed, for they can never be exposed as mere childishness.

Lefevre in his squalid accommodation, with his ease among the rascals and rogues, his metamorphosis into a gentleman seemingly at will, touched a chord in me. Do not misunderstand. I was not a reckless man, and never have been. No one, I believe, brought up in the particular circumstances of my family would ever be so foolish as to take risks unnecessarily. I knew, and from an early age, how fragile is the net which prevents the respectable from falling into the abyss. The onset of illness, a misfortune in the markets, an unfortunate accident, a foolish mistake, and all can unravel. Even though my employers paid me well enough I never spent money wildly, and nurtured my pile with care and caution. I could easily foresee a time when it might be needed.

I was, accordingly, all the more fascinated by a man like Lefevre who, whatever his natural desire to stay alive, clearly approached life in a very different fashion. Not for him the caution of respectability, the fear of poverty or the desire for comfort. He was like a member of a different species, although whether superior or inferior to mine I could not tell. My sensible self told me that my way was the more responsible, that I was fitted for the age and environment in which I lived. But part of me was drawn to the irresponsibility, the recklessness of Lefevre's way. It was a contradiction in my being and, it seemed, one which Henry Wilkinson had both spotted and decided to exploit. A man more comfortable with his choices would never have been on that train.

An odd thing, memory. I remember almost every moment of that interminable train ride – the flat countryside, the stops to pick up and set down passengers, the fields of vines and crops passing by, the smell of the carriage, the lunch in the dining car, the reluctant conversation. What followed thereafter can only be recalled with an effort. It is not that I have forgotten, but that I think of it in abstract, while my memory of the journey takes me back to that carriage as if I was still there.

And yet what passed after we left the train was far more interesting, in the usual way of reckoning. Lefevre – I will continue to call him so until a more appropriate moment – began to teach me the business of self-preservation in a far more real sense. And if I never mastered all his skills, it was because never in my wildest dreams and nightmares did I ever imagine I might need them. He took me to Nancy, then a frontier town very much closer to the German border than it wished to be. Also, as he said, a good starting point for all that we had to do.

The frontier was not that closely guarded, but the area on both sides of the border was stiff with soldiers, as it was generally anticipated that the next round of the eternal conflict between France and Germany would begin there. But when? How? Would it be a considered policy, decided on high by one side or another, or would it be an accident, a few words spoken in haste, a riposte, fisticuffs, a few shots – and then whole armies on the march, the generals and politicians trailing behind, desperately trying to control a situation that had run on before them.

'People make the mistake of assuming far too many things about armies,' Lefevre told me one evening. 'They assume, for a start, that generals know what they are doing and know what is going on. They assume that orders pass down from top to bottom in a smooth and regulated fashion. And above all they assume that wars start only when people decide to start them.'

'You are going to tell me that is not the case?'

'Wars begin when they are ready, when humanity needs a bloodletting. Kings and politicians and generals have little say in it. You can feel it in the air when one is brewing. There is a tension and nervousness on the face of the least soldier. They can smell it coming in a way politicians cannot. The desire to hurt and destroy spreads over a region and over the troops. And then the generals can only hope to have the vaguest notion of what they are doing.'

'So what is the point of all this intelligencing?'

'To most people – those who even admit a man like myself exists – I am as you saw me the other night in Paris. Little better than a crook, a thief and maybe worse. In fact, very much worse. You are invited to become scum, the loathed of society. Only by disguising what you are will you maintain a respectable place in society. But you will also probe your way into the soul of this terrible continent. Think of the doctor. You do not go along to him and say, I am going to die next Tuesday, and hope he can do something about it. No; you present yourself, feeling a touch off-colour. And he looks at you, checks your heartbeat, takes your blood pressure, asks questions about your sleeping and your appetite. Do you have trouble climbing stairs? Are you eating? Having headaches? And from these fragments of individually meaningless information, he pieces together his conclusion: you have a heart condition. It may not stop you from dying next Tuesday, but it is some comfort to know.

'And that is your – our job. Do not think you will ever come across a memorandum saying "We invade next week." What you get is a sense of nerves in the barracks, a feeling that something is happening, for soldiers are the most sensitive people on earth to a change in atmosphere. Then perhaps you notice trains being cancelled. Perhaps more smugglers get caught slipping over borders. You hear of more fights in bars in garrison towns. Of leave being cancelled. And you put it all together and conclude that someone, somewhere is about to throw the dice.'

'And this is your idea, or can you demonstrate this to me?'

'Oh, I can demonstrate it. In big wars and little ones. Although I imagine you would prefer to finish your drink and have a good night's sleep before you hear me on the origins of the last war between France and the Germans. But I was there, I saw it all. And the next time will be little different.'

'But in that case, I believe, the Emperor decided to go to war and everyone backed him.'

'True. But why did he decide? Why then? Especially as a limited amount of study would have demonstrated that the Prussians would roll all over them. Because it was in the air. It was necessary. The gods had decreed it.'

He drank down his brandy in one go and nodded ironically. 'A marionette, as are we all. Your job is to report the doings of puppets to other puppets. A worthy and useful employment.

'For which you need a good night's sleep. I am going to make your life miserable tomorrow. So don't stay up writing your diary. You don't write a diary, do you?'

'No.'

'That's a blessing.'

CHAPTER 4

His loquacity and virtual good humour did not last long, alas. The next day began what I consider to be one of the most miserable, and extraordinary, six weeks of my life. He woke me at dawn and announced that my task for the day was to get bread from a town some five miles into the occupied part of Alsace. However, I was to accomplish this without any papers to give me free passage over the border, without any money and without any maps. Then I was told to steal the bust of Marianne from the town hall in the next city. Then to spend two nights in complete hiding, counting the number of people who crossed the border. Then to leave a package on a bridge crossing the Rhine, high up in the girders of the ironwork. Then to retrieve a file of papers from a bank, detailing the accounts of a man whose name he gave me. And we did it again, and again, and again. How to follow a man so he does not know you are there. How to lose a man who is following you; we chased each other around different towns for days until I became almost as good at it as he was. Then he would set me to trailing an army officer selected more or less at random. Then again, with a German officer over the border. Then to burgling his house. In between these bizarre activities, he would take me into the forests with a gun, and teach me how to shoot. This was something I never became proficient at, nor ever enjoyed. I would rather be captured by an enemy than have that noise going off in my ears. Or we would spend an evening in a soldiers' bar, buying drinks and listening to their complaints and bravado. Or he would show me how to persuade someone to become an informer; a traitor to their friends and country.

This last was, in many ways, the most terrible of all the skills he made me learn. To my surprise, I was surprisingly good at them. Although I had never before considered myself a natural criminal, it appeared that I had an aptitude in that direction. Robbing a bank or town hall was not really that different from the one-boy raids I had launched at school, and I had learned young that immense walks in the far more rugged terrain in Wales or northern England – a hundred miles or more, spread over several days, camping out at night where I could – was an effective salve for the troubles of adolescence. I discovered later that the all-seeing Mr Wilkinson knew of these activities of mine – he knew my old headmaster well – and added them all into his calculations. Schoolboy criminality, evidently, was a better qualification for his esteem than the more normal virtues associated with the civil servant.

All, bar shooting, I could do, and do well. But the evening with Virginie was different entirely. It was where Lefevre and I began to part company, and I started thinking for myself about this task which others wanted me to perform.

She was a seamstress, so Lefevre told me, of the sort that abound in the thousands throughout eastern France, eking out a small living with their hands, permanently in danger of hunger, and willing to trade all they possess for a little security. Those who are lucky find a companion, a bourgeois student perhaps, and set up house. The foolish dream of marriage, the more practical realise the liaison will be of short duration, and that eventually the respectable world will reclaim their protector. Most will then be left to fend for themselves once more, unless their former lovers can be persuaded to pay for any children that might have been produced.

Others are less fortunate and drift into a life of whoring, and the huge numbers of soldiers along the border provide ample business. Their lives are brutal and often short. It is remarkable how many remain human nonetheless; the spark of humanity is not so easily extinguished, even when there is often little to sustain it. The woman Lefevre took me to was one such. She was probably an illegitimate child who would one day generate more such as she was. She found herself in Nancy and was inevitably turning to soldiers for protection.

But she was still young and new and fresh, as the saying goes, and had ambitions above mere survival. Life burned in her and would not be easily quenched. The clarity of her vision was remarkable: she had a sophistication of thought far beyond her sex, or station or age. Listen:

'Do not think I do not understand what I am doing. I could become a flower girl, or a shop worker or labour in a factory. I might find some drunken soldier who would beat me and leave me. Or be forced to live with a man far more stupid than I am and defer to his obtuseness in exchange for security. What I do now may not prevail. I might sink to the bottom, and live out my days wheedling ever more disgusting men for a few sous. "Hello, dearie, want a good time?" I've seen it all. It is one future that may become mine.

'But only one, and it is not inevitable, whatever the moralists tend to think and hope. I might do better. I am prepared to gamble, and if it does not work, then I will at least end my days in the gutter knowing that I have tried.'

Lefevre made her a proposition. In exchange for any information she might provide, he would offer payment. Gold for betrayal; the most essential of human transactions, but he attempted to disguise it by subtle words and careful phrasing. She saw through them all immediately.

'What sort of information do you have in mind? We are in a border town full of troops. I imagine that is the sort of information you require.'

'Café gossip, tales of troop movements, training. Who is up and who is down in the army.'

She pursed her lips. Very well-formed lips, wide and curving, touched up by only the faintest art. 'That is all very well, I imagine, but hardly vital. What country do you come from? Or work for? I will not spy for the Germans.'

'We do not work for the Germans,' he replied.

'Probably the English, then. Or the Russians.' She considered. 'I think I could manage that. Depending on the price, of course. But I think you set your sights too low.'

'How is that?'

'The whole of the general staff is here. Would it not be better to have information from that quarter, rather than café chit-chat?'

Lefevre did not reply.

'You have made me a proposition, Monsieur. I will make you one. I do not want to spend my life in the company of soldiers. But to present myself to better society I need clothes, jewels, somewhere better to live.'

She stopped, for what she had in mind was clear enough.

'And how much would you suggest?' Lefevre said dryly.

'About a thousand francs.'

He laughed, then shook his head. 'I think not, my girl. I do not have such sums at my disposal and if I gave it to you I doubt I would ever see it again. You'd be on the next train out with a different name. Do you take me for an idiot?'

I abbreviate, and my memory does not recall the exact words, but that was the essence of the conversation. It was illuminating; I considered that Lefevre had made a mistake, and that I had seen one of his limitations. He did not think broadly and was cautious in his judgement. Perhaps he was right; experience had taught him that neither men nor women were to be trusted. But I believed I had seen something he either had not glimpsed or wished to disregard.

The girl was clever. I do not mean sly, or cunning, although life had taught her much of that when it was needed. But intelligent. She saw a chance for herself. She did not, I noted, threaten – did not say she would go to the authorities and report us, which was just as well for her. She judged the situation clearly.

And even in her situation – which was poor and could easily have been squalid – she somehow rose above circumstance. She dressed well considering the quality of her clothes; she sat and talked properly. There was an animation in her eyes and expression which made one forget that she was neither particularly beautiful nor favoured in life. Even Lefevre did not address her too roughly or rudely. She had character, in sum, and I believed it was a pity to waste it.

You note I talk here entirely without reference to morality. Let me rephrase it; we were talking to a whore about how to be better at her trade and I was considering seriously that we should act in some way as her pimps. Express it in such a way and it is shocking; I was already a long way from home. Yet I did not see how her life could be made worse, or her soul even more imperilled, by the course she wished to pursue. And there might be gain all round. I put my argument to Lefevre afterwards.

He dismissed it. 'A thousand francs? For a girl who charges two francs a night? Are you serious?'

'How long are we staying here?'

'Until we're finished.'

I scowled. 'Tell me.'

'Why?'

'Because I would like to talk to that girl again.'

He shook his head. 'No. I forbid it.'

I found her again the following evening, walking across the Place Stanislas. Even from a distance I could see the effect she had: men walking towards her would slow down as they passed; some nodded, uncertain whether she was signalling to them. Poor as she was, she was so far above the normal that there was doubt. She was not brazen or vulgar; she attracted through an appearance of vulnerability and delicacy. I briefly considered the fate that lay before her, how that delicacy would be trampled and ruined, and shuddered slightly. I had seen in her eyes the day before that she knew exactly how her future could develop.

A man began talking to her as I approached; I bristled somewhat at the indignity, and so hailed her in a louder voice than I might otherwise have used.

'Good evening, Madame, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.'

The effect was delightful; he froze with horror at the evident mistake he had just made, gave me one brief look and ran as fast as he could. Virginie looked at me coldly.

'You will have to pay for that,' she said.

'I intend to. Have you eaten this evening?' It was nearly eight o'clock by then and already dark and cold.

She hadn't, so I took her to a restaurant. A moderately expensive one, deliberately chosen, as I wished to see how she would conduct herself, how much she knew about manners.

Although by far the worst-dressed woman in the place, she did not allow herself to be abashed by her obvious poverty. She behaved to the waiters with proper grace, did not allow her voice to rise as the alcohol seeped into her blood, chose her food cautiously but well, ate with delicacy. And the waiters responded; she did not flirt with them, but she made herself attractive in a distant, untouchable fashion. She got better service than I did; by the end of the meal she was getting more attention from them than anyone else in the dining room.

We were halfway through the first course when I realised I had quite forgotten who and what she was, and brusquely brought myself back to earth. 'I must ask you for some information,' I said. 'I'm afraid I do not understand you at all, and that could be a grave impediment to any business arrangements between us.'

She looked at me evenly, not perplexed, as she was already far beyond that stage. At no point so far had she asked me any questions at all, which was a good sign.

'I have been thinking about what you said yesterday,' I continued. 'My associate,' we had not given her any names, 'is not interested in your proposal, but I see some possibilities.'

Much later she told me how excited she had been by this remark; so overwhelmed that she did not know how she had prevented herself from bursting into tears. All I can say to that is that her self-control was remarkable; not a flicker of any emotion passed over her face. Had I known how well disciplined she was, I would have engaged her on the spot.

'But I need some answers from you.'

'What exactly?'

'I need to know whether you will be capable of filling the role you desire for yourself. A gentle nature, and pretty face will not be sufficient. You need also to be . . .'

I paused, not knowing how to phrase it.

'Good in bed?' she asked quietly.

I almost spilled my drink. 'No. Absolutely not. Well, yes, of course. What I was going to say was possess a degree of breeding. An ability to manage in different social situations. To be someone who could be relied on not to make a fool of themselves. Who can elicit information discreetly, without anyone suspecting them. Basically, do the job without being exposed in any way.'

She nodded.

'So far, you have behaved impeccably. Which I find extraordinary in a runaway mill girl or whatever you are.'

'Were I a runaway mill girl, then you would be right,' she said with a smile.

'I understood . . .'

'That is what your friend assumed, and I did not see why I should tell him my life story. It was hardly his business.'

'So your story is . . . ?'

'Not one that I wish to tell you.'

I frowned.

'There is no need to look like that. Just take it that I have good reasons for being what I am. As for the rest, you have seen how I stand and walk and converse and eat and drink. Do you have any fault?'

'Absolutely none.'

'Do you find me grotesque, unlikely to attract the sort of men I would need to find?'

'No.'

'Do you wish to discover for yourself how good I am?'

I stared, somewhat horrified, at her.

'Come along, sir. We are talking business here. I intend to go into trade selling something, with you as an investor, so to speak. It is surely wise to ensure that the goods are of high quality.'

I was covered in embarrassment at this, at her calm as much as at her proposal. 'I really don't think that is necessary,' I muttered.

'You find me unattractive?'

'Certainly not!'

She smiled faintly. 'I see. You consider yourself a gentleman.'

'No,' I replied. 'That is becoming ever more difficult to credit. But I prefer to consider you a lady.'

The smile vanished. She looked down at the table and said nothing for a while, then looked me straight in the eye. 'I will remember that.'

There was a long, awkward pause between us, then I coughed and tried to restart the conversation. I realised only faintly that she was now in command; the willingness to shock and surprise, the delicate display of emotion, the hint of secrecy, had all so foxed me that I had allowed her to take control.

'My – ah – investment. How do you intend to spend it?'

She was as relieved as I to return to more neutral territory. 'All on clothes, with a little left over for perfume. Jewellery I can rent once I have the clothes to pass as a lady. The bourgeoisie are credit-worthy.'

'I know little about women's clothes, but I doubt they are less expensive in France than in London. I doubt you will get much for a thousand francs. I would hate to see the venture fail for lack of capital.'

'So give me more.'

'I think five thousand will be a more realistic sum,' I continued. 'I will arrange the money tomorrow.'

'You have that much money to give away?'

'Good Lord, no! It's not my money. It's the bank's.'

'The bank's?'

'A long story. But I have discretion to make some payments which do not need to be directly accounted for straight away. And I am not giving it away. However, I will need a strict schedule of payments, otherwise questions will be asked. You will be of service to many people, but the connection must be kept discreet. I should be able to lose you in the accounts.'

'And if I take the money and disappear?'

'You will not.'

'How do you know?'

'Because it is your chance. The only one you will ever get and you know it. And because one day you might accidentally bump into my friend once more.'

'How long are you staying here?'

'I don't know. Another few days.'

'And where might I find you after that?'

I gave her the address of a corresponding bank in Paris. 'You will send letters there, and I will see to the rest.'

'Then there is nothing else to discuss. I will collect your money, and spend it. You will have to hope I am as honest as you believe.' She stood up, and gathered her thin scarf. 'I am, you know, when I can be.'

I escorted her out into the cold of the night, and she slipped off into the darkness.

Lefevre was so furious with me on so many counts it is difficult to remember which loomed largest in his mind, but all his objections stemmed from his anger that I had gone against his wishes. I was there merely to learn from him, not to act independently. He raged at me for an hour, and the extent of his fury taught me much. He was a violent man, full of anger at the world, and he allowed it to cloud his judgement. He also had no understanding of people, I decided. He considered no one trustworthy, so did not try. They were to be threatened or frightened into compliance with his wishes; his methods had no greater subtlety.

To all of this I had one answer. I was not aware I was his employee, and I did not see why I should necessarily follow his orders in anything. I had not risked his money, or even Government money, but taken the risk upon myself. This was not entirely true of course, but it sounded better. I would act as broker between the woman and the Government. If she came up with any useful information, I would sell it on, and use the money to pay off the debt. If she were caught, or proved less trustworthy than I anticipated, then no one would be able to trace it to Her Majesty's Government. Better still, I would arrange for all moneys to be paid out of the Bank of Bremen's office in Paris, so that, should suspicion fall on anyone, it would be assumed the Germans were her masters. I was rather proud of that.

He was not mollified. In fact, the realisation that I had thought the matter through made him angrier still. 'You're weak, and stupid,' he screamed at me, then his voice fell. 'Like father, like son,' he hissed.

'What does that mean?'

'Your father's a weakling, always was. Couldn't look after himself, couldn't look after you . . .'

'He's ill.'

'Weak in the head. I know all about your father. Picking flowers, that's all he's ever been good for.'

I hit him. It was in better circumstances than the last time I'd tried, and I didn't even have to think about it; I just lashed out and my fist smashed into his face. With most people that would have been enough, but not with Lefevre. He was much tougher than most people. I had hurt him, but not enough to stop him. He took a step back, then came at me like a steam engine, grappling with me and knocking me against the chest-of-drawers in the hotel room. But if he had strength and years of bitterness on his side, I had agility and weeks of bubbling resentment on mine. I twisted, rammed his head against the wall and rolled across the floor. He hurled himself on me and began pounding at my face with his fists, while I instinctively kneed him in the stomach. The mirror fell off the wall and smashed onto the floor when he hurled me bodily across the room; the bed collapsed when we fell on it, my arm tight around his throat.

He won. He simply had more stamina, could take more punishment than I could. He left me, barely conscious, gasping for breath on the floor, standing over me but also only just able to keep upright, the blood pouring from his nose. The he kneeled down, and held a knife to my throat for a few seconds before stumbling out of the room.

'If I ever set eyes on you again, I will kill you, do you understand?'

I had no doubts that he meant it.

I did not see him again, not that night nor the next day. He simply vanished, leaving no note behind him, leaving me to pay the hotel bill and explain the destruction in the bedroom. In retrospect I accept that I was wrong. His life was more at risk than mine should anything go badly, and he had spent much of the last quarter century exercising caution and surviving. If he trusted no one it was not simply because of a fundamental ill-will in his nature, it was from bitter experience. And he was getting old; I reminded him of his failing powers, and how different his life had been from his earlier, more optimistic expectations. Had he been less closed, less distrustful, we might have established a useful co-operation based on mutual respect, if not warmth.

But then I was less understanding. We were now enemies on the same side and I was merely glad to see the back of him. His treatment of me in the previous few weeks had been monstrous, and contemptuous. He had cruelly and unnecessarily exposed me to all manner of hardships and even danger, had dismissed my successes and laughed at my failures, had been insulting in every way he could imagine, and I hated him more deeply than any man I had ever known before.

I refused to accept, even to consider, that he had been a very good teacher indeed.

CHAPTER 5

My investment was a success; over the next few months Virginie sent a steady stream of information – some useful, some not – which demonstrated that I had judged rightly. It reinforced my views of Lefevre and of myself. The system I had was this: each missive was forwarded from the Bank of Bremen to Barings, and so on to me. I read it, then passed it to Mr Wilkinson, who bought those he considered useful – generally no more than a few hundred francs at a time, but on one occasion mounting up to a thousand. Small sums for a government, but large for a woman making her way on the borders of a foreign country. This money I paid into the account I had opened at a third bank to work off the opening deficit and cover interest payments back to Barings. Of such small details is the world of espionage truly composed. I had no direct communications with her except when the debt was finally discharged.

But I did read her letters. In all she showed great intelligence and skill. She had an instinctive understanding of what was required, and expressed herself with dispatch. Judging by the quality of the information, I could guess that her plan to improve her standing in the world was going well. After a month, information began to come in that was supplied by a major in the cavalry, talking about exercises, and new formations that were being practised. Then came details of a new cannon, supplied by a lieutenant-colonel in the artillery. And finally she achieved her goal – a whole stream of information supplied by an infatuated general of the Army of the East who had little else to do, as there was no intention of asking the army to do anything. In meticulous detail, she confirmed other evidence that France was currently determined to avoid war with Germany because of its pressing rivalry with England and a fear that it was nowhere near strong enough yet to renew the fight.

This sort of stuff was the substance of her correspondence; of far more interest, in many ways, was the human detail she added to her narrative. She could have been the Jane Austen of France, had her life developed differently. She had an instinctive understanding of the human dramas she witnessed. The rivalry of one officer with another; the ambitions of a third; the causes of another's vulgar behaviour. Money worries, thwarted desires for promotion, political aspirations. She saw and chronicled all and her little word sketches stayed with me – perhaps too much – when I later met many of the people who paraded through her letters. General Mercier, though one of the highest-ranking men in the military and a national force in politics, I could never see without remembering her description of him trying to get into his truss every morning. Dollfus the businessman's drive for wealth came (she believed) from the imperatives of a hypochondriac wife whose presence he abhorred. Some dreamed of an aristocratic wife, others had vices so hideous that they were horribly, and potentially profitably, exposed to the threat of blackmail.

Virginie saw it all, and condemned none of it. She sketched out an entire society and passed on such a vivid impression that I read her letters not only for the information they contained but also for pure enjoyment. I later learned that Mr Wilkinson did the same, and made sure they were preserved in their entirety. Where they are now is a mystery, but the Foreign Office throws away nothing. It gives me some comfort to think that, somewhere in the bowels of that grim building, they survive, waiting to be discovered and read anew.

They came to an end after a little over nine months. I was ordered to ensure that she continued in service, but did not. Our arrangement had been honourable on both sides, and I wished it to remain so. Accordingly, I wrote to her on bank letter paper to the effect that her debt was now cancelled, the full sum of the loan having been paid off with interest, and enquiring as to her future intentions. Naturally, the bank would welcome the continued patronage of such a reliable customer.

The reply thanked the bank for its consideration, and said that, after mature reflection, she had decided to close her account. Her finances were now robust, and she no longer needed a loan facility of such a nature. Nonetheless, she remained grateful for its intervention and was pleased that the association had been so mutually profitable.

After that, I never heard from Virginie again.

That was the more cheerful side of my return to London; the less positive aspect was that I was in high disfavour with my employers, who were mightily annoyed at my disappearance. Lending me out for a few days was one thing; having me vanish for the better part of six weeks was quite another, and they saw no reason why they should pay for it. My stock had fallen so far that I was put into internal accounts for nine months, the purgatory of banking, where you sit, hour after hour, day after day, in a vast, gloomy hall, doing nothing but check columns of figures until they dance in your head and you feel like screaming out loud.

Even worse, Wilkinson saw no reason why he should put in a good word for me either, as (he said) he had not intended me to do anything other than go to Paris and come straight back again. It was all my own doing. But at least no one audited the bank before I had paid off the debit created by my loan to Virginie. It occurred to me later that, had they done so, I would have been in quite serious trouble. A brief vision flashed through my mind of standing in the dock, trying to explain to a sceptical jury that I had paid, without any authorisation, five thousand francs of Barings' money to a French prostitute. As a service to my country. Honestly, your honour. No, alas, I had no proof. Unfortunately my associate in France had disappeared, and the Foreign Office claimed not to know me at all.

On the other hand, it did drive home to me that removing sums of money from the most reputable bank in the world was a remarkably easy thing to accomplish. And eventually my gaol sentence in the counting house came to an end and I was restored to favour, although not to the point where I was allowed to go off to France again. Over the next year or so my knowledge of banking increased, as did my level of boredom. I even began to think fondly of cold nights sitting under a bridge over the Rhine, although the image of Lefevre scowling and shouting some sarcastic remark soon brought me back to common sense.

I hoped that I would be summoned to see Wilkinson again, but no word came, and I did not know where to find him; the Foreign Office denied having any such person in the building, and he seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. Eventually I decided that that particular adventure was over; I suspected Lefevre had been so scathing about me that, whatever the reason Wilkinson had had for choosing me, he had changed his mind. I was unsuitable.

I had almost forgotten about the whole thing when it started all over again. Another summons, another letter, another meal.

'I hope you're not going to ask me to be your delivery boy again,' I said after the preliminaries were dealt with. 'I'm still paying for the last time. They haven't let me out of London for more than a year because of you.'

'Oh, dear. I am sorry. But it really wasn't my fault. It's not as if I asked you to go off gallivanting around France,' he said. 'Mixed messages, I'm afraid.'

'Maybe. But before I met you I was a banker with a fine career in prospect, and a few months later I was spending my life in miscellaneous disbursements.'

'A little bored, are you?'

'Very.'

'Good. Why don't you come and work for me?'

'You must be joking.'

'I mean it. Your friend in Paris spoke highly of your skills, if not of your character.'

'I would rather starve in the gutter,' I said disgustedly. 'Besides, I was not impressed by the play-acting of M. Lefevre, or whatever his name is.'

'Mr Drennan.'

'Pardon?'

'Mr Arnsley Drennan. That's his name. He doesn't use it much any more, but there is no reason why you shouldn't know it. He is an American. He came to Europe when his side lost in their war. You were saying?'

'Play-acting,' I repeated crossly. 'Hanging around in bars, listening to tittle-tattle. A waste of time.'

'You could do better?'

'Easily. Not that I'm going to. I won't have anything to do with Lefevre. Or Drennan.'

'You wouldn't have to. Mr Drennan, ah, found a more lucrative post elsewhere.'

'Really? Isn't that . . .'

'Difficult, yes. I'm afraid he was most awkward about it. He knows so very much about things, you see. Unfortunately, we haven't been able to find him to talk things over.'

'I can't imagine he ever found anything very useful for you anyway. I thought his antics were quite ridiculous.'

'Did you?'

'Yes.'

'So what would you do differently?'

And this was the moment that changed my life forever, for with a few words I then took the first steps which made the imperial intelligence system a little more coherent – I would say professional, although that would be considered an insult. I should have kept my mouth shut and walked out. I should have decided that Wilkinson was someone with whom I would not associate. But I wanted to give in. Ever since I had seen Lefevre – or Drennan – deal with Virginie I knew I could do better, and I had found the whole business exhilarating.

Besides, I had realised that Henry Wilkinson did not preside like a spider in the middle of a vast web of intelligence officers spread out across the Empire, constantly alert for dangers and opportunities, as I had assumed. Far from being all-seeing and all competent, he was virtually blind. He had no department, no budget, no authority whatsoever. The safety of the greatest empire the world had ever known depended on a bunch of friends and acquaintances, crooks and misfits. The flow of intelligence depended on favours and requests. There was no policy, little direction and no obvious aims. It was amateurish and all but useless. They needed me, I decided with all the arrogance that a twenty-seven-year-old could muster. Far more than I needed them.

So I summarised my understanding of imperial intelligence. Wilkinson seemed quite pleased with the description.

'Yes, yes,' he said cheerfully, 'I think that sums up the current situation quite nicely. And if I did not inform you of all this, I'm sure you understand the reasons why perfectly well. If I cannot have the substance of proper organisation, then the appearance of one is the next best thing.'

'So how does all this work?'

'As best it can,' he replied. 'The Government does not believe such activities to be necessary, and in any case couldn't persuade Parliament to provide money for them. Some sort of body might be set up using funds voted to the army or navy, but neither sees the need. For the last fifteen years I have been operating without any legal basis or funding whatsoever. We have people collecting information throughout the Empire, in India and Africa and in Europe, but there is no co-ordination at all. I have to ask to see anything they have. I cannot order them to comply or even say what they should be looking for. At the moment, for example, the Indian Army is not on speaking terms with us. I'm still not certain why. They won't answer my letters.'

'So you know as well as I do that all this running around in France, collecting gossip in bars is useless.'

'Not useless, no,' he said judiciously. 'We do the best we can, but we work despite our masters, not because of them. There is nothing unusual about that. Many Government departments feel the same. I think it might be a common condition of the civil servant. You find it all unsatisfactory?'

'I find it pathetic.'

'You could do better? Considering that Government policy is unlikely to change?'

'Listen,' I said. 'I work for a bank. It is a commercial operation which, in effect, buys and sells money. It is all I know, it has its weaknesses, but it works. If you want information – real information, not tittle-tattle – I am convinced you have to buy it. My arrangement with Virginie was organised on a purely commercial basis, for mutual profit. That is why it worked. Information is a commodity; it is traded like any other, and there is a market for it.'

'How would you go about it?'

'I would set up as a broker. Find people who wish to sell, and buy at a good price. And sell it on at a price as well.'

'And that is all?'

'In essence. The difference is that such an operation would need a substantial amount of money to get it going. You get what you pay for.'

'You speak like a businessman.'

'And you, I'm afraid, need to think like one. I'm not thinking about the cost of a battleship, you know.'

'Even small sums of money have to be accounted for. You would be surprised how well the Government likes to look after public funds. Still, perhaps something could be done. Would you do me the great favour of writing down – confidentially, of course – what your proposal is, and how you would proceed? I can then, perhaps, present it to some friends to ask their opinion.'

And so I became a writer of memoranda for governments. Do I bother to draw a contrast with the flights of fancy which illuminate the pages of our novelists? Do these heroes stay up at night penning budget proposals? Laying out routes for transferring money from one bank to another? Describing methods of accounting for sums disbursed?

That is what I did. I began by describing the problem – which was to ascertain the intentions of France (although any country could have been inserted at this point), and then pointed out that we lived in an age of industry. Governments could not order armies into the field on a whim. They have to be amassed, and equipped. This takes time. I estimated that between deciding to go to war and actually doing so at least nine months was required, and that this could be monitored by watching the order books of armaments companies, the schedules of the train companies, requisitions of horses and so on. Was the government putting in place new loan facilities with banks? Was it taking on increased powers to raise supplementary taxation? Which war was to be fought could also be estimated – was money going disproportionately to naval yards, or to the manufacturers of cannon? Technical details of how weapons worked (should such information be required) might also be better acquired by the commercial route rather than by trying to suborn officers in the armed forces. And what were the stockpiles of the opposing military forces? If they went to war, how long could they stay in the field?

Much of this information, I argued, could be bought at the right price. In addition, I realised that many politicians were susceptible to a certain amount of coercion through exposure of their finances; I also proposed that money and time should be spent on obtaining detailed information about the bribes and other inducements politicians were known to accept. This could then be used to constrain unfriendly action, or to obtain any more specific information that was required. Finally, I recommended that all the money involved be channelled through German banking houses to make it seem that it was they, not we, who were indulging in this activity.

It was, if I may say so, quite impressive. All but revolutionary in fact; however obvious all this might seem now, the application of commercial logic to what had up until then been a military and diplomatic enterprise caused some consternation. Of those who saw my note, some were outraged, others appalled and a few were intrigued. Many considered my arguments vulgar and distasteful – although most of those disapproved of any form of espionage at all.

CHAPTER 6

And some people were prepared to fund the operation. I received instructions from Mr Wilkinson that friends would back me, and that I was to go to Paris, and that I was now to be a journalist working for The Times, a somewhat steep social descent after Barings. I should see the editor to find out how to do this once the man had been informed that he was to employ me. Then I was summoned to another lunch. I was expecting Mr Wilkinson; instead I encountered John Stone for the first time.

'Your chief investor,' Wilkinson said, waving at him. 'Potentially. He felt that before he put money into you, he should see if you are worth the effort.'

I studied him carefully as Wilkinson slid out of the room to leave us alone. He was about fifty, and quite unremarkable to look at. Cleanshaven, with thinning hair that was touched with grey, and dressed in a fashion that was proper and yet entirely anonymous. The cufflinks, I noticed, were of simple design and inexpensive; he wore no ring; he had none of the sleek prosperity about him that men like Lord Revelstoke, the Chairman of Barings, managed to exude. No whiff of cologne, no sign of hair oil, expensive or otherwise. He could have passed as – anything he wished. Certainly, he drew no attention to himself.

Physically, also, he was unremarkable. Not handsome especially, nor ugly. His eyes were attentive and held their subject with great fixity; his movements were slow and measured. Nothing hurried him, if he did not want to be hurried. His calm was one of confidence and – I would have said if the description wasn't ridiculous – contentment.

I had heard the name, but it had scarcely registered with me. Stone was not yet the force he has since become in British industry; his reputation as a sophisticated manipulator of money was growing, but not to the point where he could no longer hide his achievements. He was known as the man who had combined Gleeson's steel and Beswick Shipyard but there was still no reason to think he was anything other than an ambitious and competent man of industry. Accordingly, although I was polite, I was not overawed by the encounter.

He surprised me, though. For the most part these industrialists are difficult people to converse with, self-made men for whom industry is everything and who judge conversation to be the stuff of the weak. They despise bankers, on the whole, for contributing nothing to society, and for acting as parasites on their endeavours. They are either overwhelmed by the likes of Wilkinson or aggressive in showing their disdain. Stone was none of these things. He was mild-mannered, almost as though I was doing him the favour. For a long time the conversation steered around anything other than the reason for the luncheon.

'So you plan to go to Paris?' he asked eventually, as though I had let slip my desire to see the sights.

'In a week or so, if all goes well.'

'And Barings? They are not upset to let a man of such promise leave?'

'They seem more than ready to bear their loss with fortitude,' I replied, with a touch of slight bitterness. When I told Barings of my decision, they had merely nodded, and accepted the letter of resignation. Hadn't even asked for an explanation, let alone tried to dissuade me.

'I see. You cannot blame them really. Defending the Empire is very admirable, but doing it on Barings' time is quite another. Don't judge them too harshly. Banking is not a business which has much use for individuality. Even Revelstoke thinks that initiative and daring should be his sole preserve. It is a great error on his part. Mind you, I believe he has an equally low opinion of me.'

'Might I ask why?'

'Oh, he regards me as an upstart,' Stone said with a faint smile, but he did not seek to convey the idea that Revelstoke was beneath contempt as a result. Rather he reported it in a manner which was entirely neutral, even as though the Chairman of Barings might have a point. 'It is nothing personal, you understand. But he thinks I don't understand money.'

'And you think you do?'

'I think I understand people, and Revelstoke takes too many risks. He has made a great deal of money out of it and so is emboldened to take even more. He believes he is infallible, and that will spell ruin, sooner or later. Hubris, you know, can destroy a banker as well as a Greek hero.'

Now, someone criticising Lord Revelstoke, acknowledged throughout the world as one of the greatest bankers in history, made me feel a little uncomfortable.

'He is surely the greatest innovator in banking of the age,' I said.

'He is the greatest gambler,' Stone said sourly. 'And so far he has had the greatest luck.'

I tried to change the subject.

'Ah, loyalty,' observed Stone. 'Not a bad quality. But it is possible to be loyal and critical at the same time. They are two qualities I insist on, in fact. The sycophant is the greatest of all dangers in an organisation. I have never fired a man for disagreeing with me. I have dismissed several for agreeing when they knew better.'

'On that subject, what exactly would my position be?' I asked a little crossly. 'Do I run the risk of being summoned back to England because I agree with you about something?'

'I will have no say in the matter at all,' he replied evenly. 'You are to work for Mr Wilkinson, not me. I merely provide the means for you to do so. As an experiment. Obviously, if Mr Wilkinson decides the experiment is not working, or that it costs more than it is worth, then we will have to think again.'

'Why are you providing the means? It is a very great deal of money.'

'Not so very much,' he said. 'And it is money I can easily spare. I thought your approach was interesting, and amateurism annoys me wherever it occurs. I almost consider it my duty to eradicate it. And if not my duty, then my hobby.'

'An expensive hobby.'

He shrugged

'So expensive I do not quite believe you.'

'Call me a patriot, then.'

'I know little of your companies, Mr Stone. Such things are not my area of expertise. But I remember reading that you have supplied weapons to every single enemy our army and navy might face. Are those the actions of a patriot?'

It was an insulting remark, but deliberately made. I needed to find out what I was getting myself into.

'It is not the task of my companies to make Britain more secure, it is the duty of Britain to make my companies more secure. You have the relationship the wrong way round,' he said quietly. 'It is the task of a company to generate capital. That is its beginning and its end, and it is foolish and sentimental to apply morality to it, let alone patriotism.'

'Morality must apply to everything. Even the making of money.'

'A strange statement for a banker, if I may say so. And it is not so. Morality applies only to people. Not to animals and still less to machines.'

'But you are a man,' I pointed out, 'you manufacture weapons of war, which you sell to all who want to buy them.'

'Not quite,' he said with a smile. 'They must be able to afford them as well. But you are right. I do. But consider. If one of my torpedoes is fired, and hits its target, many people will die. A terrible thing. But is the torpedo to blame? It is but a machine, designed to travel from point A to point B and then detonate. If it does so, it is a good machine which fulfils its purpose. If not, it is a failure. Where is there any space for morality in that?

'And a company is also merely a machine, supplying the wants of others. Why not blame the governments who buy those torpedoes and order them to be used, or the people who vote for those governments?

'Should I stop building these weapons, and deny governments the chance to murder their citizens more cheaply and efficiently? Certainly not. I am obliged to make them. The laws of economics dictate that. If I do not, then a demand will go unsatisfied, or it may be that the money is spent on a less worthy machine, which would be an inefficient use of capital. If men do not have torpedoes, they will use cannon. If there are no cannon, they will use bows and arrows. If there are no arrows, they will use stones and if there are no stones, they will bite each other to death. I merely convert desire into its most efficient form and extract capital from the process.

'That is what companies are for. They are designed to multiply capital; what they make is irrelevant. Torpedoes, food, clothes, furniture. It is all the same. To that end they will do anything to survive and prosper. Can they make more money employing slave labour? If so, they must do so. Can they increase profits by selling things which kill others? They must do so again. What if they lay waste the landscape, ruin forests, uproot communities and poison the rivers? They are obliged to do all these things, if they can increase their profits.

'A company is a moral imbecile. It has no sense of right or wrong. Any restraints have to come from the outside, from laws and customs which forbid it from doing certain things of which we disapprove. But it is a restraint which reduces profits. Which is why all companies will strain forever to break the bounds of the law, to act unfettered in their pursuit of advantage. That is the only way they can survive because the more powerful will devour the weak. And because it is in the nature of capital, which is wild, longs to be free and chafes at each and every restriction imposed on it.'

'You justify selling weapons to your country's enemies?'

'To the French, you mean?'

'Yes.'

'And the Germans and the Italians and the Austrians?' he added.

'Yes. You justify that?'

'But they are not my country's enemies,' he said with a faint smile. 'We are not at war.'

'We may well be soon.'

'True enough. But with which country, do you think?'

'Does it matter?'

'No,' he admitted. 'I would sell them the weapons even if I knew that we would be at war with them in six months' time. It is not my job to conduct foreign policy. Such sales are not illegal and anything which is not forbidden is permissible. If the Government decided to ban sales to France, then I would comply with the law. At the moment, for example, I can see a great deal of money to be made in building shipyards for the Russian Empire. But the government does not wish Russia to have a shipbuilding industry. I would like to supply the Tsar with our new submarines, as the Russian Government would pay handsomely for them. Again, I do not.'

'There is a law against that?'

'Oh, dear no. The laws of the land are not only those on the statute book, as approved by Parliament. But I am told that my business here would suffer, and naturally I listen to such warnings. In my opinion it is a mistake. Russia will surely learn how to make battleships and submarines; all we are doing is delaying this by a few years, while also making enemies of them and denying ourselves considerable profit.'

'You are very honest.'

'Not at all. Only when there is no reason not to be.'

I considered all this, a passionate speech delivered in an utterly dispassionate, dry manner, and tried to make sense of it. When talking of capital, Stone spoke more like a romantic poet than a businessman.

'And where do I fit into this?'

'You? You will make the Government better able to take correct decisions, if you do your job well. At the same time, you will provide a better view of the future, so that I can plan more accurately.'

'Presumably you want there to be conflict.'

'Oh, no. It is a matter of complete indifference to me. I merely wish to be ready for whatever occurs.'

'And the safety of the country? The Empire?'

He shrugged. 'If I had to judge, I would say that the Empire is inefficient and wasteful. It has no purpose and little justification. Undoubtedly the country would be better off without it, but I do not expect many people will ever agree with me. Its only justification is that India deposits its gold in the Bank of England, and that has allowed the gigantic increase in our trade with the world by strengthening the pound sterling.'

I found Mr Stone an alarming man. I had anticipated working for the Government, a patriot labouring for the public good. Not for a man like John Stone. Only towards the end of our interview did I see something else in him; puzzling, and unexpected.

'Tell me,' he said as we stood to leave. 'How is your father?'

'As usual, I think,' I said. I felt as guilty as I was surprised; I had not made the journey to Dorset to see my father for some while, and as I have mentioned, every time I went, there seemed less point in doing so.

'I see.'

'You know him?'

'We were acquainted, once. Before he became ill. I liked him. You look very much like him. But you do not have his personality. He was gentler than you. You should be careful.'

'Of what?'

'Oh, I don't know. Of getting too far away from your father's nature, perhaps.'

And he nodded at me, wished me well in a formal, impersonal fashion, and left.

CHAPTER 7

Having damned all others for their ineptitude and promised an entirely new way of collecting information, I found that I was left entirely without any assistance or instructions as a result. So, show us, seemed to be the general opinion and I discovered later that there were many – of the few who knew anything of this experiment – who wanted me to fail dismally.

Saying what you will do on paper is one thing; doing it is another, and I had not the slightest idea how to proceed. Getting myself to Paris was the first step, fairly obviously. After that I would have to make it up as I went along. My official employers were somewhat more useful to me; George Buckle, the editor of The Times, accepted my sudden irruption into his life with remarkable calm and handed me over to a junior reporter called McEwen for instruction about how to write for a newspaper, as well as practical guidance on the uses of telegraph machines for transmitting any stories I might feel like writing. The fact that The Times wasn't required to pay me no doubt made Buckle more easy-going about my existence.

Then I left, arriving in Paris one Wednesday morning. My luggage had already gone on ahead, and I was little encumbered by baggage. So I went straight to the offices of The Times – offices being a misnomer, as they were in truth little more than a single room which contained nothing that might indicate its purpose except for bundles of old French newspapers on the floor. The door was unlocked and the room was empty, but on the desk was a little note addressed to me: would I be so kind as to join the writer, Thomas Barclay, in the nearby restaurant for lunch?

I was so kind; a waiter led me over to the right table, and I joined the man who was, theoretically, my new colleague.

Thomas Barclay was in his late forties at that stage, with a fine flowing beard that was russet coloured. He had enormous ears, an oddly pointed nose and an intellectual forehead. He frowned a lot to show high seriousness, a tendency he had acquired, I suspect, through spending too much time studying German philosophy in Jena, although the effect was to make him look more confused than thoughtful.

He was, fortunately, about as serious a journalist as I was, but had been in Paris for nearly twenty years by this stage. He had written a book review in the Spectator in the early seventies and, as he had shown a willingness to live abroad, had been offered the job as Paris correspondent of The Times on this basis alone. His reports were few and far between, and always couched in such vague language that it was often impossible to ascertain what, exactly, was the subject. For Barclay, the importance of an event varied in direct proportion to the importance of the person who had given him the information, for he was a most fearful snob, and could work himself into a lather of excitement over an invitation to a prestigious salon, or dinner at a senator's private house. Their words he treated like finest gold dust, but he was so discreet he could rarely bring himself to report them without wrapping his information up in so many circumlocutions that their significance was totally lost. Besides, he had of late become the President of the British Chamber of Commerce in Paris, which post he took most seriously, thinking, rather oddly, that it was a position of the highest political and diplomatic importance, rather than a mere dining club for foreign traders.

He was delighted to see me, and not in the slightest perturbed either that no one had asked his opinion about my coming, or by my utter lack of experience. 'Very few people in England have any interest in what goes on outside the Empire,' he said cheerfully, 'as long as it does not affect them. For the most part you can write anything you wish, and for all important events a straight translation from a reputable Paris paper will do excellently well. I wouldn't bother running around trying to get interesting stories, if I were you. No one will read them and they probably won't even get published. The only subject worth extending yourself over is a society scandal. They always go down well as they confirm the readers' opinions about the low morals of the French. Book reviews, if you don't mind, I will keep for myself. Theatre only if Bernhardt is involved.'

I told him that he was welcome to keep all the book reviews. 'I thought,' I said tentatively, 'I might write some stories about the Bourse.'

He frowned. 'If you wish, go ahead. I wouldn't find it very interesting myself. But it takes all sorts, of course.'

'I was given a few names,' I added. 'It would be rude not to call on them.'

'Good heavens, yes. Go ahead. Please don't think I intend to direct you in any way. As long as you write one story every fortnight, more or less, everyone will be delighted with you.'

'I'll do my best,' I said.

'I did one yesterday, in fact,' he said. 'So we're in the clear for a while. If you do the next one . . .'

I said I thought I could manage to write something in a fortnight, and he leaned back in his chair, beaming at me. 'Splendid. That's that taken care of. Now, where are you living?'

In fact, I was in a hotel and ending up staying there for the next year; it was the cheapest option, as I did not want the expense of a household, and it was perfectly adequate. Domesticity has never been one of my great desires in life and certainly was not then; a comfortable bed and decent food are my sole requirements, and the Hôtel des Phares – in reality, a few rooms above a bar, with an obliging landlord whose wife was happy to do my laundry and cook some food – provided both.

I will pass over my daily life, as much of it was of little interest and consisted mainly in laying down those webs of information and making those acquaintances which journalists and other seekers of information require. How this is done is fairly obvious, and consists primarily in making oneself as personable and harmless as possible, in creating a void which others seek to fill through conversation. From such gossip come hints and clues which lead, sometimes, to other things. I made my acquaintance widely for I found the French both charming and welcoming, quite unlike their reputation. I cultivated the traders of the Bourse, the playwrights of the Latin Quarter, and the politicians and diplomats and soldiers who scattered themselves at random across the city. They all, I believe, considered me somewhat dull and without any opinions of my own; it was not my role to have any.

And in August I went to Biarritz, where the new rich of the Republic went to mingle with old names and titles and keep themselves properly distant from the People, a group they admired in principle, but did not actually want to have anything to do with on a social level. It was a glorious sight to watch, for a brief while, a testament both to the wealth of the rich, and the capacity of the French to amuse themselves. All of French society that mattered squeezed itself into a stretch of coastline bordered by the Hôtel du Palais to the north, and the Hôtel Métropole to the south, these two separated by a mile or so of glorious beach, and many dozen villas of exuberant and fanciful design. The town was at the peak of its prosperity then; Queen Victoria herself had come to visit the year before, the Prince of Wales showed up every year. Princess Natalie of Romania lived in exile in a handsome villa up the road; the first Russian grand dukes were putting in an appearance. The English had colonised the entire region from Pau to the Pyrenees to the coast, apparently forgetting that Aquitaine was no longer theirs.

For weeks on end, all day and all night, there was an endless round of entertainment for the well connected, and even for those who, like me, could be suspected of being well-connected. My introduction to society came through the good offices of Mr Wilkinson, who arranged for Princess Natalie to invite me to one of her soirées. From that point, word went round swiftly that I was someone who should be known – although no one knew why. They were prepared to invite me so they could try and discover my secret. I was variously reputed to be an immensely rich banker, a bastard child of the Duke of Devonshire, a breeder of champion racehorses and a man with vast landholdings in Australia. All indicated that I was someone who should be invited to parties, and so I went, carefully ambiguous in my replies to all probing questions, and always insisting that I was really just a journalist on The Times. No one believed me.

The poor Princess was a drab and dreary woman, alas. A perfectly sweet temper and a kindly soul, but she had only her tragic situation and title to recommend her to the very demanding French, who expect their women to be beautiful, intelligent, elegant, charming and fascinating at all times and in all circumstances. The Princess was thoughtful, plain, serious and not given to smiling for fear of showing her bad teeth. But she was a princess, so was bound to command the respect of these devoted egalitarians.

Her reign as the most important woman in Biarritz was as insecure as her claim to the throne of Romania had been; pretenders constantly appeared to challenge her. None was more dangerous than the Countess Elizabeth Hadik-Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala, a woman of exceptional allure who was making her first trip to Biarritz that year, and who had made the town, collectively, lose its head in excitement. French society – far more than English – was remarkably good at producing such people, or at adopting them. They formed a focus for men, let other women know what they should be wearing, created gossip to fill up dinner-time conversations, and were, quite simply, admired. Some were entirely artificial creations, very little more than courtesans with terrible manners and no breeding, who burned brightly then fell to earth when boredom set in. Others – such as the countess, according to popular report – had more substance.

To be the object of fascination is a very considerable accomplishment; it requires impeccable manners, intelligent conversation, grace and beauty. It also requires that magical quality which cannot be defined, but which is easily recognised when it is met with. Presence, in a word; an inability to be in a room without everyone knowing you are there, however quiet your entrance and discreet your behaviour. An ability to spend lavishly, but without ostentation; the best of everything whatever its price, low or high. A knowledge of how to be simple when that is better, and extravagant when that is required, and never, ever, take a false step.

Such, in sum, was this countess with the impressively long name, and beside her the poor princess from Romania wilted like a flower in a drought. Not that this concerned me, of course; I was there for an entirely different reason; the social whirl was a backdrop for my activities and I paid only very little attention to it. I heard about the leading figures of the town, but conversed with only a few of them. My main reason for being there was very specific; I needed to discover something about coal. Equally, it was an opportunity to meet Mr Wilkinson, who went walking every summer in the Pyrenees; he was a great expert on the flora and fauna of the region and published a book, just before he died, on wild flowers which is now a standard text on the subject, for those who are interested in such things – which, I must confess, I am not.

But the coal was the main reason, and the justification for spending a week in the Hôtel du Palais at John Stone's expense. Britain was going through one of its periods of anxiety about the Mediterranean. It was always going through these, of course, but currently anxieties were higher than usual; the fear was that there was going to be yet another assault on Britain's position in the Near East, with the Russian Empire and the French combining to pressure our interests in the Black Sea and Egypt, and hence our communications with India through the Suez Canal. Although the Royal Navy could cope quite easily with an assault by either fleet, the fear was that the French and Russians were going to combine their efforts, and dealing with both simultaneously would be a problem. That was why, more than anything, the Government was keen to prevent Russia building a shipyard on the Black Sea and so be in a position to service a major fleet in the region. That was also why the Russians were keen to do precisely that.

So were the French thinking of sending out their fleet from Toulon? That was what I was supposed to discover. All the usual sources of information had failed; if anything was planned, word had not yet filtered down to the ranks. But it probably would not have done; I doubted anything would materialise before the following spring at the earliest, in about seven months' time. The problem was that, if Britain needed to reinforce its Mediterranean fleet, it needed to know soon, so that ships could be recalled from the West Indies, re-equipped and sent out again. This also would take several months.

Hence my interest in coal. Battleships consume prodigious quantities of fuel, and keeping them at sea, ready for action, is a major logistical operation. Tens of thousands of tons of coal are required, and supplies have to be in place at coaling stations when they are needed. You cannot just send out some ships any more; you need a lot of work in advance, for a battleship lying dead in the water, unable to move, is no use to anyone. While all navies kept reasonable quantities of coal scattered around the world, not even the Royal Navy kept that amount in place everywhere it might be needed.

Had the French navy been ordering coal in large quantities? Had they commissioned tenders from the Mediterranean merchant fleet to distribute it? Were supplies being diverted from the Atlantic ports to the Mediterranean? If I knew the answers to these questions now, I would be able to tell the Government in London not only what the French navy would be doing next year, I could hazard a guess about French foreign policy in the near future as well.

To discover all this I ended up dining one night in August with a French naval captain and his mistress. He was a sweet man who should never have been in the military; he had not a shred of the martial about him and preferred collecting Japanese woodcuts to charging over the high seas ready to board an enemy. Family tradition and an overbearing admiral for a father had determined otherwise, however. Ordinarily, I would have spent time trying to come alongside the father, so to speak, but Captain Lucien de Koletern was quite interesting enough for me at that moment. For he was a terrible failure, poor man. His lack of ability in the business of commanding others had meant that the navy, with some acuity, had refused to allow him anywhere near anything that actually floated; instead he had been given a job in Paris, in which place he spent his time trying to avoid the disappointed frowns of his father and – more importantly – organising logistical supplies, in particular coal. For this he had some considerable talent; what he lacked in dash and flair he made up for in meticulous attention to detail and an obsessive concern with filing cards.

He was an interesting conversationalist, as well; he knew he was a bitter disappointment to his family, but was quite philosophical about it.

'I know it sounds absurd, but I really do believe that what I do is where the future of the navy really lies. Not with ships at all,' he said.

'And what do you do?' I asked innocently.

'Supplies. Coal, mainly.'

'But doesn't a navy need ships?'

'Not really. If you think about it, the French navy has not actually been used for anything since the Crimean War, and there is little prospect of it being used again. If the ships never left harbour, it would make no difference.'

'But if that happened, you wouldn't have all that much to do,' I pointed out.

'Ah,' he said, waving a finger. 'But ships keep their boilers going even when they are tied up. That is enough to keep me busy. Then what happens? If the fleet ever put to sea, they would suddenly decide they wanted more. Do you have any idea how much coal a fleet needs when it sets off somewhere?'

'No. Not the slightest,' I said.

'About 2,000 tons per month per battleship. A fleet of, say ten battleships, fifteen destroyers and thirty or so other ships would need about 45,000 tons a month. All of which has to be found at fairly short notice. That's why it's a nuisance.'

'Difficult,' I said sympathetically. 'Is this making your life complicated at the moment?'

'Fortunately not,' he said, and I relaxed; I was home. 'There was talk that something was going to happen in the Mediterranean – exercises or some such. So I went to the Admiral and asked what was required of me. Nothing, he said. All just rumours; no more than that. In fact, he said I could run the stocks down a bit, just to punish the suppliers for hiking the price for good-quality coal last time they thought the fleet might put to sea.'

'Who is your admiral?' I asked. He sounded a well-informed fellow; it might be a good idea to meet him one day. Besides, I had to check that he really knew what he was talking about.

Lucien told me, bless him, and I knew my quest had ended. The Admiral was in command of the Toulon fleet, a man with good connections to the French Foreign Office. A man with a future, who knew what he was talking about, and did not make mistakes like saying something that meant the fleet would not be ready for action when required. All that was needed now was to double-check with the price movements of wholesale anthracite on the Coal Exchange in Paris, and I would be able to report back to London. I changed the subject, and began to try and win over his mistress, who was now looking quite despairing at the tedium of the conversation. She became sulky and ill-humoured and caused several frosty moments of silence to descend on our little table. During one of these I saw Lucien gazing over at another table with a faint smile of interest.

'Maurice Rouvier, with a friend,' he said with delight. The slightest emphasis on the last word made me turn to look as well. 'She's a bit old for him. I gather he likes them somewhat younger.'

Rouvier was the Finance Minister; I knew him by sight, although I had not yet met him. He was not widely liked. Apart from the whiff of indecency that Lucien referred to, he was also rumoured to be less than straightforward in his dealings with his fellow men. To put it another way, he was devious even by the standards of politicians; a long and successful career awaited him. His presence there was in itself testament to the importance of holidaying in the right places; Rouvier was a man of the south, Mediterranean in origin and thus was also associated with the disregard for proprieties generally considered to be a characteristic of such people. Still, he was (it was grudgingly admitted) a man of ability: a finance minister who actually knew something of finance, which was unusual, and with a background in banking. And he had done well on the merry-go-round of French politics; he had had a turn as Prime Minister once already, and he has popped up in ministries with great regularity ever since. He had no known political opinions; indeed his only firm conviction lay in an undying opposition to income tax. Apart from that he would support anything and anyone who would further his career.

Lucien's attention, however, was not fixed on the man who temporarily held the finances of the nation in his hands, but rather on the companion opposite at a table of about six people, a willowy, tall woman with dark hair and low-cut dress which revealed exceptionally fine shoulders and a long neck set off by a single strand of some of the most gigantic diamonds I had ever seen in my life. She was young; in her early twenties, and even from a distance made the rest of the table seem drab in comparison. All those around her were men, mainly in middle age, and it was clear that all conversation was dominated by the desire to catch her attention.

I looked at her briefly, turned away, then turned to look again.

'Rude to stare,' Lucien said in my ear with an amused chuckle. 'Quite a picture, is she not?'

His mistress, whose name I never knew, scowled and sank lower into depressed silence. Poor thing, the contrast between the two was too great to be ignored.

'Who is she?'

'Ah, what a question! Who indeed? That is the famous Countess Elizabeth Hadik-Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala.'

'Oh,' I said. 'That's the one, is it? I've been hearing about her.'

'The sensation of the season. Conquered Paris with a speed and aplomb which the Prussian army never managed. To put it another way, she has cut a swathe through polite society, broken the heart of every man who has come within a hundred metres of her, and left her rivals looking old, coarse and thoroughly shop-soiled. Every woman in the city hates her, of course.'

'I'm fascinated.'

'So is everyone else.'

'So tell me more.'

'There is a great deal of gossip and nothing of substance. She is a widow, it seems. Tragic story; newly married and husband falls off a horse and breaks his neck. Wealthy, beyond a doubt, and came to Paris because – no one knows why. She moves in the very best society, and will, no doubt, shortly marry a duke, or a politician or a banker, depending on her tastes. Does she have a lover? No one knows. She is as enveloped in mystery as – well, as you are, but (if you will forgive me for saying so) she is very much more beautiful.'

'I would like to meet this woman.'

Lucien snorted. 'I would like to take tea with Queen Victoria,' he said, 'and that won't happen either. Everyone knows of her, some have been in the same room with her, few have met her.'

'So what's the secret?'

He shrugged. 'Who knows? She is no more beautiful than many a woman. She is said to be charming and witty. But so are many people. I do not know. She is one of those people whom others wish to be with.'

'In that case,' I said with a grin, 'I will ask her.'

And I got up from the table and walked straight across to her table. I coughed to get her attention as I bowed to the Minister and smiled as she looked at me.

'Good evening, Principessa,' I said, in a discreet voice loud enough to heard by those sitting nearby. 'May I pay my compliments to the most beautiful woman in France?'

'When you discover her, you may,' she said with a flash of the eye.

There I bowed, and retired, pleased with my success, and walked back to my table.

'I can't believe you did that,' Lucien said with something between shock and reproof.

'She's a woman, not Pallas Athene,' I replied, and returned to my meal, which now tasted very much better than it had before, and spent the rest of the evening being pleasant to his mistress, who seemed grateful for my attention.

I got back to my hotel some three hours later and there, waiting for me at the desk, was an envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper on which was written. 'Tomorrow. Two p.m. Villa Fleurie.'

CHAPTER 8

'I liked the principessa part,' she said when we met. 'It adds to the mystery. It is all round Biarritz already that being Hungarian is merely a subterfuge, and that I am in reality a Neapolitan princess living incognito for fear of my husband.'

I shook my head. 'You don't look in the slightest bit Neapolitan.'

'I don't speak Hungarian either,' she replied. 'What do you want?'

Her brusqueness was understandable. I must have been one of the very last people in the world she wanted to meet.

Her circumstances had changed as much as her appearance, which is to say the alteration was total. She was living in an elegant new villa a few hundred yards from the Hôtel du Palais, in the midst of the most fashionable part of the town. This had been built some five years previously by a banker, who rarely used it and rented it out for a prodigious sum when he was not there. It was furnished tastefully and discreetly, and Virginie – or rather Elizabeth, as I must now call her – fitted into it as perfectly as did the hand-made furniture, and hand-blown glass in the art-nouveau style then coming into fashion. Neither the house, nor she, had any connection to the over-blown gaudiness normally associated with the grandes horizontales, for whom vulgarity was part of the allure.

The same went for her behaviour, which I had briefly witnessed the previous evening. Some of her sort would try to win attention by throwing diamonds across a restaurant for the pleasure of seeing the men scrabble to find them, or to see the disdain and fury on the faces of their women at the demonstration of how easily such men could be commanded. Others talked in loud voices, or stood up to dance on their own, making a spectacle of themselves through their display. They promised gratification, but for one night only. This woman implicitly offered far more than that.

Even the way she sat was impressive. Undoubtedly she was on edge, nervous, a little frightened. How could she not be? Yet there was not a sign of it on her face, or in her posture. Her self-control was extraordinary; superhuman, almost.

'I don't want anything,' I said simply. 'I recognised you and could not deny myself the pleasure. That is all.'

'All?'

I thought. 'I suppose not. I was curious. And, I may say, deeply impressed by your achievement. I wished to congratulate you, in a way. As well as renew an acquaintance.'

She allowed herself a small smile. 'And what are you doing here?'

'I am a journalist, of sorts.'

She raised a finely plucked eyebrow. 'Of sorts? That sounds as though you are really nothing of the sort.'

'No, Truly. I work for The Times. In a few days I will be able to show you a story about the anthracite market to prove it.'

'I don't believe you.'

'I don't believe you are a Hungarian countess either. We both have our secret past. Which is in the past and should remain there. Although I am curious to know where you got your name. Elizabeth Hadik?'

'Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala,' she completed for me.

'Quite a mouthful. You don't think something more straightforward might have been better?'

'Oh, no,' she said. 'The longer the name, the better it is. Besides, such a person existed, I met her mother once. She told me she had once had a daughter who would have been about my age had she lived. So I decided to bring her back to life.'

'I see.'

'I will do no more for you,' she said suddenly.

'I haven't asked you to. Nor was I going to, tempting though the prospect is. I have no doubt that my masters, if I had any, of course, would disapprove thoroughly of my weakness. But I have never had a taste for forcing people to do things. I believe my treatment of you in the past was perfectly straightforward and honourable.'

She nodded.

'Let it remain so. But I would like to know how you managed your rise to fortune since we last met. Your circumstances were somewhat different then.'

She laughed, and even though there was absolutely not one jot of difference on her face, I could sense that she was relaxing. She believed me and, up to a very limited point, trusted me. Which was justifiable; as I spoke the words I meant them. But, in the back of my mind I knew that, one day, I might have to betray that trust. I did not like blackmail, but I knew enough of the world to know how well it worked. I say in my defence only that I hoped it would never be necessary.

'Would you care for some tea, Mr Cort?'

'Thank you, Countess. That's my real name, by the way. I see no point in playing games with false ones. There, I think, we differ.'

She rang a little bell on the side table, and gave the order to a servant who appeared with great speed. I very much hoped he was not the sort of servant who listened at doors.

'Don't worry,' she said, reading my face well. 'It is very thick wood, and neither of us have voices that carry. Besides, although Simon has waggling ears, he is both well paid and has secrets of his own that are better not exposed to public view.

'As for my little subterfuge, my own name would open no doors. A title of nobility, however spurious, does so in this republican country. One does what is necessary.'

The tea arrived, with delicate china cups and a silver teapot. Very pretty, although not for the serious tea-drinker. One has to make allowances. 'Do you wish to sit outside?' she asked. 'It is a fine day, and I have an excellent view of the sea. Then I will tell you something of my story, if you wish.'

She nodded to the servant, who took the tray outside, and when all was prepared, we followed. It was delightful; the villa was halfway up a small hill which rose up from the beach, with a large and well-stocked garden, a mixture of grass and plants more used to warmer climates. There was a tall tree to provide shade, and under this we sat at a graceful metal table, looking out over the sea, which entertained with the roughness of the waves, even though it was warm and still where we were.

'Here, you see, we can be quite certain that we will not be overheard,' she said as she nodded that I might pour her tea for her. 'Curiously, there is not so much to tell, once you leave out details that you would find sordid and unbecoming. I will put it in your own language, just as I took your approach. I reinvested my profits, and accumulated capital, and then decided to diversify into a new area of operation. How does that sound?'

'It sounds highly commendable, even though it tells me nothing at all.'

'You know the early part; I worked my way up the ladder of seniority amongst the officers in Nancy, where I made a great discovery. Which was that it was more profitable to be a man's mistress than a whore. Forgive my language. Men reward their mistresses, and married men will go to considerable lengths to keep them quiet. As they have only a limited amount of time to consort with people like me, there is much time left over. Consequently, I realised that I could be the exclusive mistress of one man on Monday, of another on Tuesday, a third on Wednesday, and so on. As long as none knew of the others, all would be well. All of my shareholders, as I call them, agreed to keep me entirely, and so I gained five times as much, the majority of my earnings being pure profit. As two were exceptionally generous, I very soon accumulated enough to consider an independent existence.'

'Enough for this?'

'No. I have very little money at the moment. All my earnings I have invested once more – the jewels, the clothes, this villa, the house in Paris. I survive on a diet of debt and donations. But I no longer fear the gutter.'

'I am glad for you.'

She nodded.

'So you are still . . .'

'Yes?'

'How to put this? Juggling clients? How many?'

'Four. It is all that can be managed safely. And I do find I like time to myself; I reserve two or three days a week for relaxation and proper sociability. And, at present, I am on holiday. Of a sort.'

'Of a sort?'

'My other great discovery is that men are much more generous to women who do not need their generosity. To put it another way, generosity is relative to a woman's social situation. You, for example, lent me five thousand francs – more than I asked for, certainly, and enough to transform my life. But would you have thought you could have bought the Countess Elizabeth Hadik Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala for such a sum? She who is known to be worth at least a million.'

'Are you really?'

'I said known to be. Not that I am. Reputation is more important than reality, Mr Cort.'

'I see. And the answer to your question is no. But then, I very much doubt the idea of buying a countess would ever cross my mind.'

'Then you are unlike many men, for whom the more unattainable the prize, the more they must have it.'

'M. Rouvier?'

She held up a finger reprovingly. 'I am happy to discuss things in general, Mr Cort. But the particular must remain my secret.'

'My apologies. If my acquaintance of last night is correct, then you are fast becoming the most unattainable woman in Paris.'

'And hence the most expensive,' she said with a smile. 'And that takes money. Staying in this house for a month, entertaining lavishly, costs a fortune. But it also makes men more generous.'

'I find it difficult to believe that each interested party is unaware of the others.'

'Of course they know of each other. But each thinks he is in unique possession, while the others are merely jealous.'

'I do not see how such an arrangement can endure without some mishap.'

'Probably it cannot. But I believe that in another year it will not matter. I will have accumulated enough money to keep myself in comfort, and so will have no more need of such arrangements. I do not think that such a life can continue forever, and there are few things worse than a middle-aged trollop.'

The words made her thoughtful, and I sensed that they had also made her uncomfortable.

'I hope you will not find me rude if I say you must leave now, Mr Cort. I have work to do this afternoon.'

I rose to my feet and stammered slightly that, naturally, I quite understood.

She smiled. 'No. You misunderstand. I told you I am on holiday. I must attend the Princess Natalie. A boring and remarkably stupid woman, but I need her approval. So,' she said brightly, 'I must go and charm her, or at least, disguise my disdain.

'Please come and visit again,' she said as I prepared to leave. 'I am giving a soirée tomorrow evening here, at nine o'clock. You would be a welcome guest.'

'I am flattered. But I would have thought—'

'. . . I would want to keep you as far away as possible? Certainly not; it is agreeable to find someone whose way of life is even more immoral than my own. Besides, I think it would be best to keep an eye on you here. And I like you.'

It is strange how such a simple statement can cause an effect; from her lips, the sentence made a huge impact on me. She did not like many people, I suspected; life had taught her few were likeable and fewer still were trustworthy. Yet she offered me both. She managed to make the offer seem both generous and a privilege. Was that calculation? If so, part of the art lay in making it not seem so, but to be rather something that came from the heart.

You think me foolish, reading these words, that I could be so bemused by the wiles of a former streetwalker? Well, you are wrong, and would accept that if you had met her when she was at the peak of her powers. Not that she was gentle or vulnerable herself, however much she could appear to be so. She had learned to survive, to fight and never to give ground against a hostile world. However soft and feminine she appeared, she had a core that was as tough as steel. No one knew her, and certainly no one took advantage of her. Not twice, anyway.

She came closer to trusting me than anyone in her acquaintance. I hope I do not flatter myself by saying that I deserved it, that it was not simply because she knew my secret as well as I knew hers, although that was no doubt part of the reason. I had had the opportunity of mistreating her and had declined it. I had dealt with her fairly, and had not abused my power over her. I had treated her as her character deserved, not as her condition allowed. She was a woman of few loyalties, but when they were conferred they were boundless.

CHAPTER 9

The soirée was a great event; I could with only a touch of hyperbole say that it transformed my own position in France and (at the same time) added an important footnote to the history of the French courtesan. For much of the day I took my ease; reading the newspapers over my morning coffee, going for a walk along the beach, passing a few moments in conversation with recent acquaintances briefly encountered. And then, at lunch, I had my meeting with Wilkinson; we ate together at a restaurant in the town, and had a perfectly pleasant, though entirely useless, conversation. He went on at great length about some rare bird he had spotted in the mountains, and was so excited – apparently it had not been seen since some legendary Spanish ornithologist had recorded it in the 1850s, and Wilkinson believed that he had won undying fame in the world of bird-lovers as a result – that he could talk of little else. I told him about the coal, which pleased him, but he quickly went back to his birds once he had absorbed the information. All he said was 'Good, good. Very pleasing.' He had no requests about anything else the Government needed to know. Apparently I was beginning to be trusted to work that out for myself.

But it was pleasant enough and it saved me a good deal of weary memorandum writing later on, so I was satisfied. I also mentioned my remarkable meeting of the previous day, for I was aching to tell someone and knew that Wilkinson was about the only person in the world it was fair to confide in. He, after all, had been partly responsible for Virginie paying off her debts and launching herself on such a meteoric career. Besides, I was proud of her, and vain about my sagacity in spotting something that Lefevre had entirely overlooked.

'In that case, I must meet her,' he said gaily, and my heart sank. 'A soirée, you say? Excellent, I will come with you.'

'I really don't . . .'

'I have long desired to meet her; I feel as though I know her so very well.'

'I very much doubt she would want to meet you.'

'She does not know of our association, I hope?'

'Of course not.'

'In that case, what possible objection could she have? I would like to thank her, and I think I know the best way to do it. Don't worry, Cort. I'm not going to ruin your mascot. Quite the contrary. She might at some stage prove very useful.'

He would not be dissuaded, and I heartily repented of my sudden garrulousness. I should have kept absolutely silent; but the levels of discretion I was forced to maintain were quite unnatural. I am not by nature a gossip, but all men need someone to talk to. I had no one in France, and the sudden appearance of Wilkinson made me treat him with more trust than he should have received. No harm came of it, but I had, nonetheless, made a mistake which stemmed from youth and naïveté. I never repeated it.

At nine in the evening I picked him up from his boarding house – one which cost less per week than mine cost per night, as he pointed out – and was at least consoled to find him properly dressed. I had feared he would arrive in tweed jacket and hiking boots, but from somewhere or other he had acquired the necessary garb and, although he was not a man who could ever look elegant, he was at least perfectly presentable.

Much to my surprise, he was a brilliant performer, for these sorts of occasions are little more than theatre. Whereas my style was to remain silent and listen, Wilkinson revealed an unsuspectedly ostentatious side to his character. He spoke French loudly and badly, with many gesticulations to make up for his grammatical eccentricities; he told anecdotes of doubtful taste to old dowagers which had them gurgling with pleasure, he leaped from topic to topic with gusto, recounted tales of horses to horsemen, birds to hunters and politics to politicians. He was, in fact, a great success; even more so when he left the party for half an hour, and returned with the Prince of Wales.

I realised later that this was the whole point; this was his thanks. I should have realised that he would have known the Prince, who had arrived only the previous day, and Wilkinson was, I am glad to say, very much more dishonest than I had been. His Highness had not been told anything about who this Countess really was. He would never have been seen in public with such a person had the faintest whiff of scandal been attached to her name, although whom he tolerated in private was, as all the world knows, a very different matter. But he came, and his arrival signalled to the whole of French society that Elizabeth was utterly, totally and completely respectable. Far more than that; she could invite the most famous man in the world to her parties and he would come. Wilkinson's coup de théâtre propelled her into the stratospheres of European society. Whereas before she had managed much by her own efforts, there were some who doubted her credentials. If anyone doubted her after that, it no longer mattered. It was a generous gift, as long as that was what it was.

Even in those days, and even on holiday, the arrival of a figure such as the Prince was a matter of some pomp and ceremony; ordinarily, the fact that he was coming would be talked about for days; the hostess would make sure everyone knew about it, however discreetly the news was put abroad. Guests would wait to see whether the great man would be delivered; coaches and courtiers would drift in first to build up the excitement before he made his entrance. Would the Prince come? Would he be in a good mood? What would he wear? Such was the stuff of conversation as the clocks ticked away. And there was also the equally exciting possibility that he wouldn't show up at all. In which case the standing of the hostess would collapse; the kindly would commiserate, the less kindly would scent blood and all would depend on how she dealt with such a bitter, public disappointment. Would it show? Or would she put on a brave face? All these details were noticed, and their sum total shifted the balance of power in the small but intense world of society.

So the Prince's entry to Elizabeth's soirée was absolutely sensational. There was no warning, no prior gossip or announcements, he just strolled in, greeted her like an old friend, kissed her hand, and then talked to her in a friendly, respectful manner for a full fifteen minutes before circulating around the room, as everyone else there slowly but with deliberation jockeyed for position to be next in line for a royal word. Elizabeth later told me she reckoned it had increased her value by some three-quarters of a million francs, and she probably underestimated.

It also worked wonders for my social standing as well, for after her, I received the most attention. Not much, but I became instantly a person to know, and a person who was known.

'Cort, eh? Times?'

'Yes, Your Highness.'

'Keep it up.'

'I will, sir.'

'Splendid.' And he gave me a huge wink, to indicate that he knew exactly who I was, but which was interpreted by all who saw it as communicating some personal intimacy.

'Charming woman,' he went on, indicating Elizabeth, who was discreetly now leaving him to his business. 'Very charming. Hungarian, isn't she?'

'Yes, I believe so.'

'Hmm.' He looked momentarily confused, as though he was mentally riffling through the Almanach de Gotha but was unable to find the page he sought. 'Lots of people in Hungary.'

'I believe so, sir.'

'Well, well. It's been a pleasure.'

And he strode off to take his leave, kissing Elizabeth's hand with all the fervent attention of the true connoisseur.

She was, I must say, quite brilliant, and handled the situation with perfect balance. There was no shock on her face at all, though it must have been considerable; she did not react with an unwarranted air of familiarity, nor of surprise and delight. She received him with charm, leaving it to others to make of it what they would – did she know him, or not? What was the cause of his arrival? Was she so intimate in his circle that she could regard his arrival as that of just another guest? The shockwaves spread out across Biarritz the next day (Princess Natalie, who had declined the invitation in order to keep Elizabeth in her place, was hard put to keep her grief to herself), then across France and Europe over the coming weeks as the season drew to an end and the temporary inhabitants of the town dispersed to their usual countries, taking with them news of the new star.

'That was an unusual thing to do,' I said to Wilkinson as we travelled back to Paris the next day. He smiled.

'The Prince does love the demi-monde, and he does love beauty,' he said.

'He knows . . . ?'

'Oh, good heavens no. And if he ever discovered, I would have a great deal of explaining to do. If he ever realised I had knowingly . . .'

'Then who does he think she is?'

'Lesser aristocrat, too low for inclusion in the Almanach. Lack of birth made up for by her radiant beauty. You told me she wasn't beautiful.'

'Well, she wasn't. Not when I first met her.'

'Anyway, it wasn't really my doing. He invited me to dinner, I said I was going to this soirée, and he said he wanted to meet this woman. He'd heard of her, you see, and you know what he's like. Tell her, by the way, not to get any ideas. If she goes anywhere near him, I'll put a stop to it.'

I became quite indignant on her behalf. 'You know quite well what I mean,' he said severely. 'I know perfectly well how she makes her money. It doesn't concern me, as long as she confines herself to continentals. The Prince is a man with a weakness, and he likes to visit Paris.'

'Is that why . . . ?'

'It struck me that it might be a useful insurance policy. She is in our debt now, and part of the price is no scandal. Sooner or later they would have met in Paris; and he is like a child in a sweetshop when it comes to women. He really cannot resist. Certainly he would not have been able to resist her. You have no idea how much time the Embassy spends clearing up the mess from these affairs. I want to stop this one in advance. Tell her that, if you please.'

'Very well.'

'Besides, he is notoriously stingy. She will earn more from knowing him than from sleeping with him.'

'I'll pass the message on.'

CHAPTER 10

If I am spending a great deal of time digressing on the subject of this woman, rather than recounting the excitement of life as a gatherer of intelligence for the British Empire, it is for two reasons. The first is that she is relevant to my story; the second is that she was very much more interesting than my daily routine. For example, on my return to Paris I spent some considerable time putting the finishing touches to my investigation of French naval policy, and that involved a good deal of time interviewing people (in my capacity as journalist) at the Coal Exchange, and poring over daily lists of bulk coal trades. Fascinating? Exciting? Do you wish to hear more? I thought not.

In fact, I would even say that coal itself is a more interesting subject than the people who trade it. Each commodity and financial instrument attracts different sorts of people. Dealers in bonds are different from dealers in shares; those who trade in commodities are different again, and each commodity and each exchange – rubber, cotton, wool, coal, iron ore – has its own character. Coal is dull, the people who buy and sell it duller still. Their world is black, colourless and without pleasure. The brash young men who are beginning to sell oil and create a whole new market out of nothing are much more interesting; they have a touch of the desert about them, while the coal dealers have infused the gloom of the Picardy coal mines, or the Methodism of south Wales.

And two days a week I traded on my own account. Perhaps I should describe this, as it illustrates the true nature of espionage better than anything else can. I rented a dingy little office in the rue Rameau as soon as I arrived – chosen carefully so that there were several possible exits, and a clear view of the street below in both directions; I had learned from Arnsley Drennan better than ever he realised. It was bleak, uncomfortable and cheap, perfect for my needs. Then I registered myself as Julius de Bruyker, import/export broker, and under the name of that fictitious gentleman of uncertain Low Country origins, I wrote to a young man at the German Embassy who dabbled in intelligence matters. A pleasant, but not particularly bright fellow, he came to see me, and I offered him information about the forthcoming British naval exercises. It was interesting, although entirely safe information, but he was delighted to get it. More information followed the next week, and the week after that, until the point came when he began to wonder what I wanted.

Nothing, I said, but any information he had acquired about French troop dispositions in North Africa I would consider a reasonable payment. Such information was of no strategic interest to the Germans, so after a short period considering the matter, they obliged.

Next, I contacted an officer at the Russian Embassy, the Austrian Embassy and in the French intelligence services and offered all of them the same information. All were keen enough, and in return from the Russians in due course I acquired information about a new French cannon, from the Austrians information about French and German diplomatic correspondence and the French gave me details of German armour plating – when complete, this information was passed on to John Stone's companies, and helped make up for some of the inadequacies of British steel manufacturing.

And so it went on; I really was a broker, taking in information and selling it on. The good thing about information is that, unlike gold, it can be duplicated. One piece of information about shipbuilding in Britain, for example, could be traded for information from half a dozen different sources, and each of these could, in turn, multiply themselves many times over. So I supplied information about the new Vickers twelve-inch gun, and got in return detailed information about the German army's new howitzer, the Austrian army's requirement for horses, the Italian government's negotiating stance on North Africa and the French government's real policy towards British domination of the upper Nile. Details of the German howitzer were then traded for more information. The beauty of the system was that no individual was ever asked to provide information which would damage their own country – they were asked for material which on its own was harmless until blended with information from different sources, or which affected the security of a foreign rival. Spies are bureaucrats, by and large; they have masters to satisfy and must take that into account as they go about their lives; by supplying information I made their lives easier, and so they regarded me as a useful person to do business with. Of course, the utility of the system could only last as long as I had a monopoly of the method, otherwise the same information would have started reappearing time and again.

For a very small amount of start-up capital, so to speak, I began reaping handsome returns, and do not think that the similarities between what I was doing, and what Elizabeth was doing, escaped me. We were both trading in specialised goods, exploiting weaknesses in the market to sell the same thing to many different customers simultaneously. Success depended on each customer being unaware of the existence of the others. That was the danger which faced both of us.

So, in that period when I was trying to be fascinated by the Coal Exchange, my only real entertainment was provided by Elizabeth. I was curious about her shareholders. Not for any prurient reason, I hope, but for the sake of information only. Accordingly, when I returned to Paris I had Jules, my friendly, trained foot soldier, station himself nearby to watch comings and goings.

A useful lad, this Jules. He was the son of Roger Marchant, an ex-soldier with an incurable hostility to the discipline associated with either the army or any more normal paid work, who was employed on a part-time basis by Thomas Barclay.

'As you are going to do all the energetic work, you must have Roger to help you,' Barclay begged, although one look at the man – who was swaying slightly when we were introduced – forced me to say that I could not possibly deprive him of such a useful man. It was not Roger who was the main problem – although absolute reliability was not his watchword – but his wife and several children, whose demands for sustenance far outstripped the poor man's ability to provide for them. The petty-cash box of The Times was constantly being raided, first by Barclay and later by myself, in a desperate attempt to get the wretched woman out of the office, to which she resorted when she felt that death and starvation were only hours away. Roger was remarkably insouciant about it all. The duties of family life did not, as far as he could see, necessarily involve feeding it.

It was a flash of genius on my part to solve the problem by employing their son to be my assistant, thus guaranteeing a flow of income into the hands of the mother that could not be diverted into slaking the father's thirst, and securing for myself the services of one of the most useful people I have ever known.

I do not usually spend time discoursing on the character of sixteen-year- olds, but as young Jules is now a grand man of influence throughout France, and, as I can claim some proud responsibility for this, I feel I should divert my story a while to give a proper account of him.

He was, as I have said, the son – the eldest son – of a poor family, the father a lazy drunkard of amiable disposition, the mother a worrying fusspot, living permanently in a haze of crisis and despair. In one small room lived parents and five children, some of whom were among the worst-behaved and most revolting infants I have ever encountered. That they did not all end up in gaol or worse was largely due to the efforts of Jules, who took on the burdens of parenthood which properly belonged to others. He was, in fact, an accomplished criminal by the age of twelve, expert at filching fruit or vegetables from market stalls, milk from dairies, sausages and meat from delivery vans, clothes from department stores. He was also perfecting a good line in picking pockets until I persuaded him that this was an unwise career development.

'Very risky, and for only uncertain gains,' I told him severely, waving my wallet in his face. 'And I understand that the penalties in France are exceptionally high for this sort of activity. You are too young to spend the next few years in prison and, on the whole, it is better to avoid spending time there at all.'

He was not entirely certain how to take my remarks; I had, after all, just caught him with his hand in my pocket and had grabbed his wrist hard to make sure he did not escape. He squealed in pain as he tried to wriggle free, attracting the glances of passers-by in the rue de Richelieu, along which I was walking after my luncheon. I waited until he might realise that he was not going to get free of me, and calmed down.

'Good,' I said when the noise subsided, 'As far as I understand these things you should never, ever work alone, but need someone operating with you to distract the attention of the person whose wallet you admire. Secondly, it is unwise to try and steal from a gentleman; they are far more violent and unpleasant than ordinary working folk, and do not hesitate to call the police. You are only a man of property if you are good at keeping hold of that property. Thirdly, like most well-dressed men, I keep very little cash in my wallet, and much more in the bank. If you want serious wealth, I suggest you address your attentions over there.'

I waved behind him at the façade of the Crédit Lyonnais, just visible on the boulevard beyond.

He continued to eye me with ever more doubt, and began to shuffle uneasily from foot to foot.

'Are you hungry? You have a sort of pinched look about you. Perhaps you were stealing to buy yourself a good meal?'

'No,' he said scornfully. 'I mean, I am hungry, but . . .'

'In that case, young man, you must allow me to offer you a good bowl of soup and bread. The contents of this wallet were so nearly yours, I feel such proximity to triumph should not go without recompense.'

He looked at me with narrowed eyes once more, but did not object when I led him – still holding on to his wrist quite firmly – up the stairs to a bouillon on the other side of the road.

It was still quite busy, but there was no difficulty getting a table in the corner and I sat the boy against the wall, so he could not make a run for it with any chance of getting away. I ordered him a large bowl of onion soup and bread and water, and watched with satisfaction as he ate.

'I hope all this makes you realise that I am not inclined to call the police, nor even to inform your father of your activities. Do you wish to be like him when you grow up?' I asked gently.

He looked at me with a wisdom and sadness beyond his years. 'No,' he replied with a touch of steel in his voice. 'And I won't be.'

I pondered this as he ate his soup. He was very hungry, and ate with both noise and relish; the offer of a second bowl was accepted with enthusiasm. It is remarkable how much you can find out about someone in a short time and a few words. The boy was courageous and defiant. He knew loyalty – even though its object was undeserving. He was prepared to take responsibility, to act where others might have sat and merely accepted their fate.

'Now, listen to me,' I said seriously. 'I have not paid to pour litres of soup into you for no reason. I have been thinking, and I have a proposal for you. Do you want to hear it?'

He nodded cautiously.

'Can you write and count adequately? I know you can read.'

He nodded. 'Course I can.'

'Good. In which case you are well to leave school. It has nothing else to offer you. You need a proper job, which I am offering you.'

He gazed at me in that same, steady fashion, not reacting at all, really. Just patient.

'As you may know, I am a journalist . . .'

'I don't like the English,' he remarked, although without any personal animosity.

'Nor do you have to. In my work I need messages sent, letters delivered. I will occasionally need other tasks done. Following people, watching people without being seen. Perhaps even going into their houses and taking things.'

He frowned. 'You do that?'

'It's an odd job, journalism. And no, I do not. You do. Do you have any objection?'

He shook his head.

'The pay will be adequate, even generous, that is to say about a hundred francs a month. Does that suit you?'

He stared at me. I knew it was almost as much as his father earned.

'You will be punctual at all times, start work when I say and finish when I say. There will be no days off unless I say so.'

He nodded.

'You agree?'

He nodded again. I held out my hand. 'Then we must shake on it. Present yourself at my hotel tomorrow morning at eight.'

He gripped my hand over the range of soup bowls and, for the first time, his face creased in a broad, happy grin.

CHAPTER 11

Jules did turn up the next morning, and more or less from the moment he walked through the door, he transformed my life. I only ever had to tell him once about how to do any task, or where something was to be put. Anything I requested he did speedily and well. He was never late and was as tidy as I was messy. On his own account he began teaching himself English by borrowing a copy of David Copperfield and a dictionary, and showed a considerable flair for the language. When there was nothing for him to do, he retired to a corner and read quietly, when there was something to do, he did it without questioning.

And so, when the question of the Countess Elizabeth Hadik-Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala's shareholders began to pique me, I naturally dispatched Jules to discover who they were. As a test of his ingenuity, I did not tell him how to go about it, but rather let him discover for himself the best way of accomplishing the task.

It took him two weeks which, on the whole, was not bad going, and at the end of that time he produced a list of four names. I was impressed; professionalism in any field is something to be admired, and in a relatively short space of time Elizabeth had captured a Russian count attached to the Embassy and a banker, both married and of stupendous wealth. In addition there was a composer of a progressive hue, who made up for his limited financial success by the possession of a very wealthy wife; while the last one was an heir, that is to say the likely inheritor of a grand fortune with no personal merit of his own. By the time Elizabeth had finished with him, the fortune was considerably smaller. And that was before she had a reputation for knowing the Prince of Wales. Shortly after she got back to Paris, the composer was replaced – she was quite ruthless in these matters – with the Finance Minister in whose company I had met her at Biarritz and a few months after that the heir, his fortune now depleted, was also cast aside. Each one of these made her wealthy. All combined rapidly made her prodigiously so; each one, for example, took on the entirety of the rent on her house, paid for her servants and gave her generous gifts of jewellery, which she kept in a safebox, each piece labelled with the name of the giver so she would not wear the wrong piece when being visited. Four-fifths of her income, after a portion of her debts were paid off, was carefully banked.

By the time I received Jules's report, I had met three of these characters at various evenings to which she had invited me; and I must say that all of them behaved with such discretion that I would never have guessed the reasons for their presence. Each treated Elizabeth with the utmost courtesy and respect, and never gave the slightest hint of any untoward familiarity. If any suspected the role of the others, they again let no hint of it escape them, but conversed in an easy and polite manner as to any other acquaintance.

In return she was absolutely discreet, and never once caused them any embarrassment or awkwardness – although some at least would have been happy had they been known to have conquered her. Each individual was of high personal worth – I do not mean in financial terms although they obviously were that, but in terms of character. Except for Rouvier, whose position struck me as a strange lapse of taste on her part. Wherever she had learned it, Elizabeth had the art of choosing well. She gave them a sort of loyalty in addition to the other services she provided, and they responded.

She invited about a dozen people every week. All were men; if Elizabeth had a blind spot it was to have an almost total disregard for other women. Men excited in her no rivalry or jealousy; women did so often and in violent terms. I would not go so far as to say that she detested members of her own sex, but she had no high opinion of them. It must be said that many women returned this emotion in full force, instinctively disliking, suspecting or fearing her. Many would have been glad to bring her low; it was her vulnerable spot, all the more so because she was unaware of it – a surprising weakness of perception in one who in all other matters saw so clearly.

After a month or so I was promoted to the inner circle of admirers who spent every Thursday evening in her company. I was never offered, nor would I have accepted, a role as one of her shareholders. I didn't have enough money, for one thing, and besides, I rather liked things the way they were.

She ordered her evenings well. No subject was banned from discussion; all she insisted on was that conversation was conducted in the most civilised of terms. Argument she allowed as the essence of conversation, but any heat or emotion was utterly forbidden. I have seen many a man conduct a business meeting with less skill than she ran her evenings. She managed to persuade everyone who was invited that they were members of a special group, unusually insightful, witty and sagacious, and that these qualities came, in some mysterious fashion, from being in her presence. Certainly, I thought my own conversation far more sparkling on those evenings than at other times, my jokes better, my understanding of the world stage more profound, and I was far more cautious than most of the other people there.

It was also genuinely interesting and enjoyable. The routine was unvarying: a supper of excellent food accompanied by the best wine, which she spent much of the previous day choosing so that her chef could have all ready, followed by conversation which lasted until eleven-thirty, at which point our hostess would rise and tell us, quite simply, that it was time to leave. The evening would seem to be formless; sometimes we would break up into small groups and discuss different subjects, sometimes the conversation would involve all present. Elizabeth herself rarely gave her own opinion; rather she questioned, sometimes respectfully, sometimes in fun, making her views plain by her responses to the opinions of others. Only on the subject of literature did she give her own views, and in these she demonstrated that, in French, Russian and German, she was remarkably well read. This was, you remember, when Russian Soul and Spirituality were all the rage in fashionable Europe, and everyone had to be able to quote huge chunks of Anna Karenina by heart. Of English Elizabeth knew all but nothing at that time.

It has been said many times both that the French are the world's most accomplished conversationalists, and that the art of conversation is dying. The former is true, and if it is also the case that it has declined since the Revolution, then the conversation of the ancien régime must have been truly splendid. I came to look forward to those evenings as the summit of my week, my evening of pleasure after a week of often unprofitable labour. In winter they would be held in the drawing room of the house she had taken in the rue Montesquieu, with dozens of candles and a fire adding a feeling of comfort to the conversation. It was a large high-ceilinged room, some fifty feet long and thirty wide. On one side was a range of windows that gave on to a glass-enclosed veranda filled with palm trees and birds; on another a wide door opened into a smaller, more intimate sitting room. All around were china, cameos and silver, the walls hung with Gobelins tapestries and paintings, mainly Italian and French. Much of this had come with the house, which she rented from that Marquis d'Alençon who was then living in Mexico to escape the police. But she had added her own touches, and these had been chosen with care – again, where she learned discernment in such matters, and how she avoided the vulgarity of her fellows, I could not understand.

It sounds very artificial and in a way it was so; artificial in the way that an opera or symphony is different from the cacophonous blaring of a music hall band. Some sneer at such meetings, denouncing the formality and the lack of spontaneity; they maintain that conviction is displayed best through loud voices and violent verbal assault, that politeness ensures the triumph of the commonplace. Not so. Politeness, I learned at her salon, is a demanding discipline; to convince others without recourse to the tricks of the demagogue or bully requires a high level of intelligence, especially when the audience is learned and intelligent. Courtesy elevates thought to the highest level, especially when the subject is contentious. And the salons, which were then the principal debating chambers of the French political, financial and intellectual elites, far more important than the Chambre des Deputés, always insisted on courtesy above all other qualities.

That did not mean that the conversations were bland; far from it. Frequently they were highly charged, especially where I was concerned. This was the period – one of the many periods – in which anti-English sentiment was running high in France, and many would have been more than glad to see some sort of armed conflict to vent their frustrations at England's habitual superiority. To convince me that my country was the main source of disorder in the world was a frequent aim and I was required on many occasions to justify my country to my friends – for friends they became, despite the differences between us.

Take, for example, the opinions of Jules Lepautre, Deputy for Caen, for whom England and the English (present company excepted, cher Monsieur) were the embodiment of all evil. We had not come to France's aid in 1870 and had positively encouraged Germany to dismember the country; had lured France into a disastrous commercial treaty with the sole purpose of wrecking its industries; had bought the Suez Canal in order to strangle France's Empire before it was even properly established; were meddling in Eastern Europe, and manoeuvring to exclude France from Egypt.

I conceded many of these points, but responded by asking: what is to be done about it? Britain and France couldn't fight a war even if they wanted to.

'Why not?'

'Because you can only have a war if both sides are fundamentally similar. Where are the two countries to fight, and with what? France, I hope, would never be foolish enough to have a naval war; a small portion of the Royal Navy would suffice to eliminate all of the French navy in a few hours. And why would Britain wish to pit its army against France's? That would be as unequal a struggle, and even if we could invade I cannot see any advantage to it. Nor can I see any likelihood of France invading Britain. It has not succeeded in the past nine hundred years, and I see little prospect of its fortunes changing in the near future. So how is there to be a war? Much better to recognise the impossibility of it and then become friends. Ally France's army with Britain's navy and who could possibly stand against us?'

I mention this conversation – which began on a cold evening in late September 1890 – not because of the wisdom of my remarks, as there was little in them, nor because they accurately reflected my views, as they did not. Rather, it was because of the intervention by Abraham Netscher, then head of the Banque de Paris et des Pays Bas and an infrequent visitor to Elizabeth's house.

'I think my two friends here are shadow boxing,' he said comfortably, sipping from his glass of brandy. He was a fine man, tall and impressive in his stance, with a high-domed forehead and a piercing stare. In fact, this was because he was short-sighted and was too vain to wear his glasses in company. Accordingly he had a tendency to peer at people, and sometimes to stare a little above the right or left shoulder of the person he was addressing, a habit which was remarkably disconcerting as it gave the impression always that he was talking to someone else.

In many people such vanity would be undignified, but no one would ever have thought this of M. Netscher, once they knew him a little. He was a man of exceptional intelligence, and allied this capacity to great wisdom and immense experience, having lived through – and prospered through – several regimes and generations of politicians.

'You are both defining the notion of war far too narrowly,' he remarked, 'and in a fashion which, if you will forgive me for saying so, is remarkably old-fashioned for people who are so young.' Netscher was somewhere near his seventieth year at this point, but still had a good decade left before his failing powers obliged him to rest.

'The marching of soldiers is usually to steal territory or money from the opponent. But in this case, as you say, neither France nor England have any such designs on the other. This is not because nations are any less greedy, I fear, but because wealth no longer lies in land or treasure. France could, perhaps, invade and annexe all of Cornwall, or Scotland and Ireland, and it would scarcely damage England in any way, except in its pride. Its power lies in its accumulated wealth, and that cannot be stolen by armies. London is the centre of the world of money. It is an empire on its own; in fact the real Empire only exists to serve the needs of London. From the incessant movement of capital comes all of England's power.

'But it is fragile, this strength. Never in the whole of humanity has so much power been generated by such a feeble instrument. The flow of capital and the generation of profit depend on confidence. The belief that the word of a London banker is his bond. On that evanescent assurance depends all industry, all trade and the very Empire itself. A determined and sensible enemy would not waste his time and gold striking at the navy or invading the colonies. He would aim to destroy the reputation of a handful of bankers in London. Then the power of England would dissolve like mist on a warm morning.'

'I think such an enemy would discover that it is more resilient than you say, sir,' I suggested. 'Just because it is a power that cannot be touched or held, does not mean that it is not real or strong. The most enduring institution in the world is the Church, which depends on faith alone to survive, and it has survived empire after empire for nearly two thousand years. I would be quite content if the influence of the City of London lasted half as long.'

'That is true,' he conceded. 'Though with the Pope locked in the Vatican by Italian troops, and priests being expelled from schools across Europe, and the teaching of the Church being challenged by historians and linguists and scientists across the world, I do not find that you greatly strengthen your argument. I doubt I will live long enough to see the last church close its doors forever; but you may.'

The old man piqued my interest. I wondered for a moment whether he had even come that evening specifically to have that conversation with me, but eventually dismissed the notion. My secret life was unassailable, I was sure. No one connected me – the associate of aristocrats and princes, the dilettante journalist for The Times – with the occupant of the little office in the rue Rameau who bought and sold information from diplomats, soldiers and other spies. Nonetheless, I dwelt on his words for several days, and the more I considered them, the more I believed that his words had reflected something he had heard, or half heard.

Could such an attempt succeed? Not in the way that M. Netscher said, of course; he was exaggerating there. But it was certainly true that inflicting severe damage on the City of London would be more harmful than defeating England's army, were it ever so foolish as to join battle with any other than half-armed natives. Every week, hundreds of millions of pounds flowed through London, its banks and discount houses, clearing houses and depositories. The whole world raised its loans through the City. The decision of a banker could determine the outcome of a war, or whether that war would take place. Wars were fought on credit; cut off the credit and the army must stop dead in its tracks as surely as if it had run out of food or ammunition.

Attacking the reputation of the City could be relatively inexpensive and have no consequences if it failed. But how could it be done? I could not see it. 'If it can be imagined, it can be achieved.' Was anyone doing the imagining? I thought about it for several days, then realised that mere thinking would accomplish nothing. I had to do some work.

Discovering anything by examining the career of M. Netscher was fruitless, it turned out: he had been around for such a long time that he knew absolutely everyone, and heard everything. There was no simple solution there; so I had to go back over the last few years and discover who his enemies and rivals were; this also produced nothing of any great interest. Such musings came over the following days, however; and that particular evening ended without anything else of interest. I did, however, write a short report on the conversation and send it to Wilkinson – I was a good bureaucrat already, and realised the importance passing on responsibility for things I could do nothing about.

Thursday evening became part of my life, something I looked forward to and enjoyed, partly for the conversation, but more for Elizabeth, whose presence I came to find oddly comforting. I took pleasure in watching her in what was now her natural habitat, so to speak, the way she could conduct a gathering like a maestro, discreetly and without ever imposing herself. I watched with something close to affection as she relaxed ever more into her role, became more sure of herself, more adept at her profession. In general I quite forgot what exactly that profession was. It was impossible to think of her as anything other than that which she wished to be.

One evening, though, the salon ended differently. She had been quiet, unusually reserved all evening; her admirers appeared to feel they had been given short weight. Ordinarily, she would have risen to the challenge, drawn them out, calmed them down, flattered and reassured; this evening she seemed strained and almost ill at ease, almost as though she wished they would go away.

And eventually they all did, except for me; she signalled quietly that she wished me to remain, so I held back until we were alone, the door shut to the world outside. I wondered for a moment whether the evening was going to turn into a night of excitement, but it rapidly became clear that she had – for her – a greater intimacy in mind.

'I am afraid I feel ashamed of myself,' she said, once we moved into the little salon, which she kept for herself alone. 'When I said I would not help you in your work, I did not dream that I might need help. And now I do.'

'I, in contrast, am delighted. How can I be of service?'

'My diaries have disappeared. And so has Simon.'

'You keep a diary?' The face of Arnsley Drennan swam back into my mind at that moment, his sneering, mocking face as he congratulated me at least on not being stupid enough to keep a diary.

'It's your fault,' she continued reproachfully. 'I began with those letters I wrote to you from Nancy. I enjoyed writing them, and even after our association came to an end, I kept on writing them, but this time to myself only. I dare have no intimates, no real friends, no family. Only myself. And so it is to myself that I write.'

'You must be very lonely.'

'No,' she said, 'of course not. Why should I be?'

'Do you never wish for more?'

'I have never had a friend who has not betrayed me. Or whom I have not betrayed. So I do not permit it.'

'I am your friend, I think.'

'That merely poses the question – will you betray me? Or shall I betray you first? It will happen, you know, sooner or later. It always does.'

'It is a cold world you live in.'

'Which is why I must look after myself above all. I honour my promises, but must care for no one.'

'I don't believe you.'

She shrugged. 'It is not important at the moment.'

I thought it was the most important thing of all, but let it pass. 'These letters to yourself, then. They contain details of all you have done? Everyone you have associated with? What are we dealing with here? How big are they?'

'Large. Two volumes, with about three hundred pages each in them.'

'And they are honest?'

'A true account of my life.' She smiled. 'They deal with everything and everyone. In very considerable detail. It would cause severe embarrassment to many people. Frankly I do not care about that; it is no more than they deserve. But my life would be ruined as well.'

'And I presume it also says a great deal about my activities in France?'

'Not that much; I didn't begin them until after our arrangement came to an end. But I think there is enough to get you into trouble. If it's any consolation, I was very warm about you.'

'It isn't.'

'What should I do?' she asked.

'You said Simon has disappeared. Who is he?'

'My servant. You remember? He had many troubles with the law. I employed him because – well, I thought that one day I might need such a person. He was always loyal to me.'

'You found him in Nancy?'

'No. I have no contact with anyone from there. He is a Parisian.'

'His loyalty to you seems to have run out. He knew about these diaries?'

'I thought not. But I suppose he did.'

I tried to digest all this unwelcome news. 'Well,' I said eventually. 'The obvious thing to do, and the easiest, is nothing. If these diaries are ever published you would be very much more famous – notorious, I should say – than you are now. I imagine they would become a great literary success.'

She smiled, but only weakly. 'It is not a reputation I want. Besides, far too much would not pass the censors. If that is all there was, I might see your point. It is an age where any sort of debauchery is tolerated, as long as it brings fame with it. But I find I like being what I am now, even if it is only an illusion. I do not want to go back.'

I have rarely felt as comfortable and contented as I did sitting in that room. That may seem strange, perhaps heartless, but I must be honest on this point. It was warm, the lighting was soft, the chair I was sitting on comfortable. Elizabeth, dressed that evening in a simple costume of blue silk, was as beautiful as ever I had seen her, and her worry created a degree of intimacy between us that made even me regret my refusal of the offer she had once made and which, I knew, would never be repeated. I could easily have spent the rest of the evening, the whole night, just talking of nothing and watching the fire flicker in the grate. In my life, I think only Freddie Campbell could induce such a feeling of comfort and safety in me: of family, almost, or so I imagined, although as I never had much of a family I cannot speak with authority on the subject.

'Assuming you are correct and that this Simon stole your diaries, it will be almost impossible to find him. We will have to wait until he surfaces. Until then it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. It is easy to disappear in Paris. There are few things more simple, in fact.'

'He has already surfaced.' She handed over an envelope. 'This arrived today. It is the only reason I went to my bureau and checked. Otherwise I might not have noticed anything amiss until Sunday, which is when I usually write up my week.'

I studied the contents carefully. It was an extract from a newspaper, a funeral notice of a Dr Stauffer from the Journal de Lausanne. No date, nothing else at all. No message, no demand for money.

'What does this mean?'

She shook her head, treating the question like a fly buzzing around her, something she wanted to go away.

'It clearly means something to you.'

'He was someone I knew, who was kind to me once. It is of no significance except to prove that Simon has the diaries. This was stuck into them. He is trying to frighten me. Starting with harmless information, making me nervous about what will come next. Will you help me?'

I nodded. 'If I can. But you may have to pay heavily. I will not recommend you pay blackmail; that will merely encourage more demands. A one-off purchase is another thing, though. Are you ready to pay high?'

She nodded.

'Then I will try. The first thing will be to make contact. I will post someone outside your door just in case. And you must let me know immediately you hear anything else.'

'Thank you, my friend.' It was a word which did not often pass her lips. It sounded strange coming from her, as though she did not really know what it meant.

CHAPTER 12

The next day, I put Jules onto the task. 'Time to earn your pay, my boy. You know the Countess von Futak's house?'

Jules nodded. He should; he had already spent more time than he wanted camped outside it.

'Back there again, I'm afraid. I want you to watch the gate. Someone may deliver a letter by hand; I want to know who it is. Everyone who puts anything in the letterbox – I want a full description, times, everything. And no,' I said as I could see he was about to speak. 'I will not tell you why. If you are lucky it will only be for a day or so.'

Jules was lucky: it took a few hours. At lunchtime another letter was delivered, and Jules followed the man who dropped it quickly in the letterbox and hurried on. The description was that of Simon, and Jules tracked him all the way up to Belleville where he was renting a room in a hotel for itinerants. The letter, I later learned, was a demand for 10,000 francs, which was encouraging: he was getting down to business, and it seemed he was only after small change. Perhaps he did not appreciate exactly how valuable the diaries were. Or perhaps this was just the start.

Jules and I had lunch in my room, which he brought up from the kitchen. The hotel did have running water in the rooms, but not hot. The manager had kindly fitted a gas pipe and a little heater for me because I had taken the rooms for a year. On this I could brew my tea and heat up sufficient water for washing and shaving, as the sanitary arrangements were somewhat limited. That did not matter so much; lavish use of eau-de-cologne covered a multitude of sins.

'Listen,' I said, as Jules set out the little table by the window. 'I have another job for you. How do you feel like travelling?'

Jules brightened.

'How often have you been outside Paris?'

He thought. 'Never,' he said eventually.

'Never?'

'Well, I went to Versailles once, to find my father.'

'And did that experience of foreign climes create a desire for more?'

'Not really.'

'A pity. Because I want you to go to Lausanne. In Switzerland.'

Jules gaped. I might as well have said I wanted him to go to the moon.

'It's time you saw the world a little,' I said. 'You can't spend your entire life in Paris. It will take you a day to get there, the same to get back and however long it takes to complete the job I want done. I will give you money for the train ticket, and board and lodging when you are there.'

Jules was looking decidedly uncomfortable. He was a street urchin, even if he was one with dreams. The prospect of leaving his stamping ground, the streets and passages he knew so well, struck terror into his heart. But, brave lad that he was, he recovered swiftly. This, I could see him saying to himself, was necessary. This he had to do. I sympathised with his terror and pretended not to notice.

'When in Lausanne, I want you to find out about a man called Stauffer. I know nothing about him, except that he is dead. Start at the local paper, ask for obituaries, that sort of thing. Find out who he was. About his wife, children and relations, especially children. Any unusual stories, scandals or incidents. Anything at all, really. '

Jules nodded hesitantly. 'Can I ask why?'

'No. It doesn't matter why. Think of it simply as good practice for your life as a journalist in years to come.'

'What life?'

'Dear boy, you are made for it. When you leave me, as one day you no doubt will, you will have to get a proper job. You will be an excellent journalist, and I will recommend you to an editor when you are ready. You will have to start at the bottom; after that it will be up to you. What's the matter? Is there something else you want to do?'

Jules had sat down on the bed, his face white with shock. 'I don't know what to say . . .' he muttered eventually.

'Well, if you don't want to do it . . .'

'Of course I do,' he said, looking up urgently. 'Of course I do.'

'Excellent,' I replied. 'That's settled then. I suggest you spend your time on the train beginning to prepare yourself. Buy every single newspaper, and read them all, carefully.'

The look of pleasure on his face as he bustled about, helping himself to money from the drawer to fund his journey, was worth the generosity. In fact, the idea had only just occurred to me, and I had suggested it somewhat too hastily. But it was a good one. Jules was a natural, hence his current success. And it invigorated him and made him even more diligent in my service. I was his ticket to a new life, and he was absolutely determined that it should not slip from his grasp. He went off half an hour later to find his best clothes and set off for Lausanne.

And then I put the whole matter out of my mind, to concentrate on work. 'Recent developments in the French banking sector.' One of those wordy, ponderous articles The Times likes so much. I have never understood who it thinks might read them. I was following my hunch about the comments Netscher had made, and had briefly all but abandoned my other business.

Branching out into banking was difficult, as I had nothing to sell. I wrote to Wilkinson, but did not expect a reply. He never did if he could avoid it. It was somewhat dispiriting; I had a high opinion of my progress, but I had not the slightest idea whether anyone had noticed. So I contacted John Stone, the only other person in whom I could confide. I don't know why I did this; it was not my habit to go running to figures of authority when in difficulty, but I felt the need to talk the question over with someone, get an outside opinion, so to speak.

He was staying at the Hôtel du Louvre; he had a suite there more or less permanently reserved for him when he came to Paris for business. So I went to lunch with him, although not in the public dining area. I did not want it advertised that I associated with such people, for their sake as well as my own.

It was a pleasant meeting, much to my surprise, as I had not greatly taken to him on our first encounter. He told me how impressed he was by my progress, how Mr Wilkinson was delighted, and telling everyone in Whitehall about his young prodigy, 'For whom, of course, he modestly takes full credit,' Stone added drily.

'It's very kind of you,' I said, 'I didn't know anyone paid the slightest bit of attention to what I was doing.'

'Goodness, yes. You are considered quite an oracle already. Of course, there is still considerable opposition to the way you go about things, but no one argues with success overmuch. So, tell me, what can I do for you?'

'I'm not sure. I don't know whether it's anything at all. It may be just a will o' the wisp. It was a passing comment I picked up at a dinner party, at the Countess von Futak's salon . . .'

'You go to her salon?'

'Ah . . . yes. Well, not often. Sometimes. Why?'

'Oh, no matter. Go on. Your comment?'

So I told him about old Abraham Netscher, and his musings on the vulnerability of the City of London. It sounded very lame.

'I see,' Stone said when I had finished. 'And you think that . . .'

'Not really, not seriously. At least, it occurred to me that it would be a remarkable coup to pull off, if anyone dared try. But I have no more than that to go on.'

'I know many people in banking,' Stone said thoughtfully, 'including Netscher, who is a fine man. But I do not suppose anyone would tell me of such a scheme, even if it existed. I will listen with more care than usual. And, if you desire, I will happily provide you with some introductions.'

'That is kind of you.'

He waved it aside. 'Now, tell me of this Countess,' he said.

'Why?'

'She is the talk of Paris; I would like to know why.'

I described her as best I could, the official version, that is, and described her coup – I attributed it to her rather than to Wilkinson – in Biarritz with the Prince of Wales. I noticed I was jealous of her reputation and wanted to keep my knowledge of her entirely to myself.

'You know no more than that?' Stone said, curious for the first time in our acquaintance.

'Do you?'

'She is a Hungarian Countess, who decided to travel when her husband died. I think her family disapproved of her marriage, and she was disinclined to forgive them when he died. I met her some months ago and, like you, found her quite charming.'

He nodded thoughtfully. 'I am giving a small dinner for friends, in four days' time,' he said abruptly. 'Would you care to join me? There will be a couple of people whom you might wish to know.'

'That is kind.'

'And would you do me the great service of escorting the Countess to the restaurant for me? I am afraid I have meetings all day and cannot be sure when they will end. Although she likes to be late, she very much disapproves of other people keeping her waiting.'

'With pleasure,' I said without the slightest hesitation to betray my surprise. It was not that he had invited her, nor that she had, apparently, accepted. It was the uncomfortable, almost schoolboyish bashfulness on his face which astonished me.

CHAPTER 13

Escorting a woman like Elizabeth to a dinner is something everyone really should do at least once in their lives. I had only once glimpsed her properly in her public role, in Biarritz; this was very different. I arrived with a carriage at eight, as required, having spent the afternoon preparing myself in a way which was quite unaccustomed. I was, I believe, perfectly elegant, or as elegant as I can be; dressing up formally has never been my favourite occupation and I am quite prepared to admit that I have no sense of style whatsoever. But I looked decent enough by the end, or so I thought. I seemed to have spent hours brushing my clothes and wrestling with collar studs and cravat. I even had to get the bar owner's wife to come up and help me. Eventually I could take no more; if my cravat was squint, my coat still a little dusty, so be it.

However proud I was of my appearance, my sense of personal presence dimmed to nothing when Elizabeth descended the stairs as I waited to collect her. She was breathtaking, her hair up to reveal her long, white neck, wearing a dress of such beauty that I could not understand how it might have been imagined, let alone made.

I should explain here that she was something of a revolutionary in the matter of dress; fashion she studied as assiduously as a stockbroker studies share prices, or a gambler the form of horses. She was not simply at the height of fashion; dear me no. She defined it; and in so doing created for herself an evanescent power which propelled her to a central role in the workings of society. She was one of those few, and remarkable, people whose choices told other people what they should wear and, in a particular way, determined what beauty and elegance were.

She was, in other words, entirely professional and serious about her business, and made it seem natural, easy and thoughtless.

She always went for grey when she really wanted to impress, and that evening wore silver-grey silk edged with pearls – hundreds of them – cut almost obscenely low, sleeveless with long gloves in a slightly darker shade. The dress itself clung close to her body – outrageously so, considering the fashion of a mere nine months earlier – and it was darted with extraordinarily intricate embroidery. The whole was completed with a tight necklace of alternating pearls and diamonds, five strands thick, a delicate matching tiara and a painted Louis XV fan.

'Madame, you are exquisite,' I said and meant every word.

'I do believe I am,' she said with a smile. 'Shall we go?'

And so we did, to Lapérouse on the Left Bank, a restaurant which was fashionable enough, but not the sort of place that the great courtesans of Paris normally attended. Maxim's was – and still is – the favourite haunt of such people; Lapérouse was for politicians, and literati, with a high seriousness quite at odds with the gaudy frivolity which characterised the demi-monde.

'I didn't realise you knew John Stone,' I said as the carriage trundled along the Champs Elysées; it was already long since dark and I could only dimly see her face, even though I was sitting only a foot away and opposite her.

'You must realise by now that I know a great many people,' she said. 'I met Mr Stone on a train journey. I had taken a trip to Vienna . . .'

'To your family, no doubt?'

'Just so. In fact I was taken there by a shareholder, who then went on to the Far East. So I was alone and Mr Stone was coming back from somewhere in the Balkans. It is a long and dull voyage, unless you are enamoured of trains, so we entertained each other. I found him very civil and gentlemanly.'

I was desperate to ask, but restrained myself.

'No,' she said.

'Pardon?'

'The answer to the question you are trying not to ask.'

'Oh.'

'I like his company, as I do yours. Of my life he knows only what I have told him, which is little. I very much hope it will stay that way.'

'If it does not, it will not be my doing.'

'I know that. Have you made any . . .'

'I know where Simon is living, and plan to visit him shortly,' I said. 'If he is reasonable – that is, if he is conventionally venal – the matter should be wrapped up soon enough.'

'Thank you.' She said it simply, almost proudly, but it meant much to me. Then the coach slowed and we arrived at the restaurant. Elizabeth's whole bearing changed, she transformed herself – transfigured, I might say – before my eyes. She was about to step onto her stage.

If there were any lingering insecurities still within her, she did not show them in the slightest. Nor did she let slip even a hint of the immense strain she was under because of her diaries. She was magnificent, carefree, delightful. Every single man in the room – Stone had rented one of the private dining suites – fell under her power within seconds without her having to do anything at all except breathe. She was charming, intelligent, witty, serious as required. Never coquettish – that would have been inappropriate – but always warm and thoughtful in manner. She even managed to restrain her distaste for the other women there; to them she was polite, and it only came through once that she regarded their presence as a waste of space. Why would anyone need more than one woman in the room, when she was that woman? She made the dinner party, which was vibrant, glittering as a result, instead of the rather dull dinner of businessmen it would otherwise have been. Stone was not a natural host and I could not see what the point of the occasion was as far as he was concerned. He provided a setting in which Elizabeth could shine, and she took the opportunity to do so, performing the role without a fault or false step.

I found myself sitting at the end of the table, between the wife of a banker, and a senior stockbroker from Petiet, Kramstein, then one of the better-bottomed undertakings at the Bourse. The one was amusing, the other useful. Madame Kollwitz was immunised from any possibility of jealousy or envy by the fact that she was stout, about fifty-five years old and had never been beautiful. This allowed her abundant good humour and perception to come to the fore.

'And you have to talk to me, when you would rather be in orbit around the sun,' she said with a twinkle in her eye once we had disposed of the usual preliminaries.

'Certainly not . . .' I began robustly.

'Oh, of course you do, who would not? She is very lovely and by all accounts quite sweet. Is that not the case?'

'I believe she is very pleasant.'

'A woman whom all men love. A terrible fate for any young girl, I think. Still, I'm sure she can look after herself. Tell me, how truly besotted is Mr Stone with her, do you know?'

'I didn't realise . . .'

'You are most unobservant for a journalist,' she commented. 'She has been with him to the opera twice in the past fortnight, and it is reliably reported that both of them detest the opera. Each goes to please the other. Do you think someone should tell them that they are inflicting mutual torture for no good reason?'

'I do not intend to.'

'No. Still, it would be a prize, would it not? Another insult to France from our enemy, to have our most glittering jewel carried off?'

'I don't think . . .'

'Oh, look at him!' she said scornfully, brushing my doubts aside. 'If you make allowances for the fact that he has not the slightest idea how to woo or seduce a woman, look at the way he is talking to her. Admittedly, he may be telling her all about profit ratios on machine-gun manufacture, but look at the way his head turns towards her, look at his eyes! And look how easily she deals with it as well; not rejecting, but not encouraging, either. Poor man. It could cost him a pretty penny before all is over.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Have you never wondered where all these diamonds come from, dear boy?'

'No,' I said, with, I hope, a credible tone of surprise in my voice. 'I assumed she was rich.'

She looked at me pityingly.

'Well, um . . .'

Fortunately, my attention was taken over by the stockbroker on my right, whose conversation was less fascinating but more useful. We established our mutual credentials, with me stressing my current labours writing on developments in French banking, the evolution of the capital markets, the poor state of the French Bourse in comparison to vibrancy of the London stock market. He was surprised that a journalist should be so interested in such things.

'For example,' I said, 'French banks have never taken up the opportunities of empire. I would have thought the possibility of loans to your colonies would have stimulated immense activity in the capital markets, yet I see very little.'

Monsieur Steinberg nodded. 'We are risk averse here,' he said. 'There have been too many disasters for people to trust the credit markets. And it is all a question of trust. Not, at the moment, something our colleagues in London have to worry about. The banks in London succeed in the most outrageous operations because people think they will succeed. They have a century's worth of trust to call on. But they do abuse that trust sometimes; it will rebound on them, and maybe sooner than they think.'

'Really? Why is that?'

'Well,' he said, leaning forward just a little, 'there are strange stories going around, you know. About Barings.'

'Dear me. What are they up to now?'

'A good question. I hear Barings may be having surprising difficulty getting takers for an Argentinian loan it is floating.'

'That's not so unusual. It's part of the negotiating process, is it not? Besides, with Argentina in the state it's in . . .'

'This is a bit more serious, I think. Credit International, so I heard, is about to refuse outright to take any of the issue at all. Which is ill-mannered of them.'

'What loan is this?'

'Buenos Aires Water Supply 5 per cent.'

'And the reasoning?'

'Argentine government is falling to bits, Finance Minister out on his ear, too much debt, fiscal policy in ruins. The usual sort of thing. But that has been known for some time and it has never deterred anyone before. The question is, whether anyone will follow Credit International, or whether the magic of Barings will sweep all doubts away once more. But I have never heard of anyone even hesitating before.'

Nor had I. Nor had I heard of a bank making public – even if discreetly – its doubts about taking part in a Barings operation. As M. Steinberg said, it was ill-mannered. And generally, when dealing with Barings, a refusal was generally taken to indicate a weakness of the bank which refused.

'I find this fascinating,' I said. 'Just the sort of thing that would interest Times readers very much. Do you think the Chairman of Credit International would talk to me?'

M. Steinberg looked shocked at the very idea.

'There must be some way of finding out more,' I said. 'Will you help me? I would be greatly in your debt.'

I had realised that, as a practitioner of espionage, asking for assistance is often the most effective way of going about your job. Again, tales of adventure tend to give a false picture, of deceit and subterfuge, of clever stratagems and cunning manipulations. I hope it is clear from my account so far that, in contrast, the most effective weapons in the arsenal of intelligence are money and goodwill. If you cannot buy what you want, ask for it. If you ask the right person, it produces the right response in nearly all cases of importance.

M. Steinberg, for example, was delighted to help. Why should he not be? He wanted to know what was going on as much as I did, and as long as I promised to share with him any discoveries I might make, he was more than willing to guide me in the right direction. Within a few minutes I had the name of a senior figure at Credit International, the information that he had a great weakness for horse-racing and so could be found at Longchamp whenever there was a race on, as well as names in other banks which, in the past, had taken part in Barings' issues.

I had a day at the races to look forward to, and a feeling that I was at last beginning to make headway. I relaxed, and began to enjoy the dinner for its own sake, rather than for professional reasons. It was, in fact, an excellent occasion, largely because of the way Elizabeth conducted the proceedings; there was no doubt whatsoever that, although Stone was paying, it was no longer his dinner party. He was her guest, as much as I was. Not that he seemed to mind this; he was a perfectly agreeable conversationalist, if a little serious, when alone. But he shrank in company, giving short and gruff replies, incapable of addressing the whole table, but rather fixing his attention on one person at a time. I could see the effort involved in not giving his entire attention to the woman next to him; every time the conversation flagged a little, he naturally tended to look back towards her, waiting for her lead. Madame Kollwitz was right; he was more than a little taken. I did not know whether she had any vacancies, but if there was one Stone looked as though he would pay a great deal to get on the list. But did she like him enough? She was gay, amusing, friendly, warm, but she could be so even to people she detested, when required.

When the dinner finally came to its end and the party prepared to disperse, one of the guests, a doctor I had not talked to, mentioned he had been invited to an entertainment, and asked if anyone wished to come along.

'A séance,' he said with a laugh. 'Table-turning. Spirits. Madame Boninska. She is said to be very good.'

'I will come,' said Elizabeth. 'Why not? Would you like to take me, Mr Stone,' she asked playfully, 'so we can find out all your secrets?'

The reaction from Stone was remarkable. 'No,' he snapped. 'And you will not go either.'

Elizabeth just managed to control a look of fury that passed over her face like a stormcloud before it burst. 'I beg your pardon?' There was ice in her voice; I had known her for long enough to want to signal to Stone that he would be well advised to drop the matter, and quickly. He, however, was entirely impervious to tonal subtleties and equally incapable of reading the expression on her face. Maybe he just didn't know her well enough.

'It is charlatanry, rubbish, for fools only. Any sensible person . . . I have seen what these people do to those of a weak or susceptible nature.'

'And which am I? A fool or weak?' Elizabeth asked haughtily.

'If you believe in such things? Both.'

'Really?'

'Yes. Don't expect me to pander to your desire for fashionable amusements.'

'And what does it have to do with you?'

'You invited me, I believe.'

'Mr Cort,' said the wife of the banker who had talked to me earlier, taking me by the arm and leading me away, 'would you do me the great honour of accompanying me home? My husband has decided to abandon me and go back to his office. So I am quite alone and in need of an escort.'

'I would be honoured,' I said. Relieved was the more appropriate word, I think; I did not want to witness a fight between Stone and Elizabeth. Well, I did, of course; it was fascinating, but I realised it would be safer to be out of range. Neither, I suspected, would give way easily, and both could be unpleasant when their authority was questioned. They were behaving in a way which was unseemly, embarrassing, and Elizabeth was neither of these. Stone had penetrated to a part of her which was never, ever on public view and forced it into the open. He had exposed her, and therefore weakened her. He would not be easily forgiven. I left them as swiftly as possible – not that either was minded to notice – facing each other and, in the most polite way possible, preparing for a battle to the death.

'I thought I would extricate you,' Madame Kollwitz said after we had got into her carriage and lumbered off along the Seine. 'I am in fact quite capable of finding my own way home. I have done so on many occasions. But you were staring in a way which was quite impolite, you know.'

'I suppose I was,' I said. 'I think that will be the end of it, though.'

She sighed pityingly.

'What have I said now?'

'Do you think a woman like that would ever fight with someone she cared nothing for?'

'But he's . . . well, he's a lot older than she is. Besides, she's not – well, not the type to . . .'

'We shall see. Who knows? She may have met her match this time. Mr Stone does not behave like a lapdog when he is around her. Unlike M. Rouvier, for example. I almost think it is her duty to skin him alive, although I never thought he would be quite so foolish.'

'What do you mean? The Finance Minister?'

'Of course.'

'Isn't he married?'

She laughed again. 'Of course he's married. What I mean is that he is not rich. And rumour has it he gives her fifty thousand a month.'

'What?'

'Are you really this naïve?'

'I think I must be,' I said – very convincingly, I believe, for the pitying, scornful look came back to her face. 'I'm sure none of it can be true.'

'Well,' she said, patting me on the hand, 'that's very sweet of you.'

'But if it was, I mean, where does he get it from? Rouvier, that is.'

She shrugged. 'I've no idea. Where might the Minister of Finance get money from? Difficult one to answer, isn't it?'

'Is there anything you don't know?'

'I know nothing about you, young man. But then, maybe you're not very interesting. Perhaps there is nothing to know.'

'I don't think there is.'

'Everyone in Paris has a secret, and thinks it is theirs alone. Even my husband thinks I believe him when he says he is going back to the office for an hour.' She said it lightly, but turned her head to look out of the window as she spoke.

'Stick to journalism, Mr Cort, where you never have to understand anything. Or you will find that Paris is a cruel and pitiless place. And tell that to our mysterious Countess as well. Her novelty is wearing off, and many people will take too much pleasure in seeing her fall.'

I left her at the door to her apartment block, her words echoing in my ears. It was late and I had work to do the next morning. I wanted a good night's sleep.

CHAPTER 14

I took a gun with me when I went to visit Simon in Belleville. I have mentioned that I did not like them; I still do not. But at that stage I could not call on anyone to assist me in such matters, and Simon was (I recalled) a very big man. I was much more nimble and, I thought, probably more skilled, but if I do have to fight, I prefer the outcome to be beyond all doubt. On such occasions there is little virtue in only just winning.

The meeting, in fact, was quite simple; Simon was totally unskilled in subterfuge. All he had done was rent the room under an assumed name: that was the extent of his precautions. It was a simple matter to wait until I was sure he was at home, then go up the stairs and walk in. It was a dingy boarding house, unlit and run-down, which let out rooms to day labourers and itinerants with few questions asked. A place of hopelessness and despair, cold and depressing. Because of the time of day, it was all but deserted; only the concierge was there on the ground floor, and Simon's room was at the very top of the building, well out of earshot. I would not be disturbed.

'Good morning, Simon. I trust you are well. The Countess has been worrying about you. You really shouldn't have run off like that, you know. Not without giving her proper notice.'

He stared at me in shock, too dim-witted to understand how easy it had been to find him. My sudden appearance at his door in itself was almost enough to win the battle; he was unnerved from the start and, wisely or not, decided the best response was to say nothing at all. All he could manage, however, was a look of bovine incomprehension that made him look so stupid it was hard not to burst out laughing.

'May I sit down?' I did not wait for an answer, but occupied the only chair in the room, a rickety thing which felt very insecure. To make a small point, I took out the gun and placed it on the table. Not touching it, but making sure it was pointing in his direction.

'The Countess is concerned you were not paid your last week's wages,' I said. 'So she asked me to pay a visit and make sure you are well.'

He briefly seemed to think that he might be off the hook, despite the gun; then even he realised that there was more to come.

'And she was concerned that you may have inadvertently taken some of her possessions. She wants them back.'

'I didn't take anything.' He had a low, oddly well-spoken voice; it almost sounded as though it came from a different person entirely.

'Now, Simon. We both know that is not so. I have come to take these things back. In return, I will pay you the wages you are owed.'

He shrugged, his confidence returning. 'I have nothing. What are you going to do? Call the police?'

I considered. 'No, I think not. You know as well as I do that would be a bad idea.'

'You're out of luck, then.'

'No. I will shoot you.' I picked up the gun and made a show of checking it was loaded.

'Knees first, elbows second. Where do you want to start?'

I editorialise. I was not calm as I said all this; I was sweating profusely and I only just kept my voice from shaking. That may have helped; it did much, I believe, to convince him that I was serious. A nervous man with a gun is much more dangerous than a calm, reasonable one.

Simon was not overly intelligent, but he was good at calculating his position. He had nothing to gain from resisting. Only stubborn pride might have stopped him from falling in with my wishes.

'Where are those diaries?' I said.

'I don't have them.'

'But you stole them?'

'She's no Countess.'

'Of course she isn't,' I replied evenly. 'She's just a whore. You don't really think that anyone will pay for that, do you? Where are they?'

'Oh, there's more. There's much more than that,' he jeered at me. 'There's a lot about her you don't know.'

'No doubt; but I can't say it bothers me. Where are they?'

He grinned. 'I told you; I don't have them.'

'Who does?'

'A man. Friend of mine. A good friend. He's looking after them for me.'

Oh, really! It was late; I was tired. I sighed with exasperation and picked up the gun.

'Who is he?' I repeated.

'Ten thousand,' he said defiantly.

'Just to tell me where they are? You must think I'm a fool.'

'It's worth that to you, Mr Cort,' he said. 'I've been reading about you, as well.'

That was a mistake. I picked up the gun, thought for a moment, then shot him in the leg, the way I had been taught. Simon collapsed onto the floor, gripping his thigh, and screaming; I stuffed a piece of cloth into his mouth and held him down until he stopped, avoiding the spreading pool of blood flowing across the floor as much as possible. I was now entirely calm.

'Who is he?' I said once more.

It took a long time to get it out of him, but what he eventually said made my heart sink. Arnsley Drennan was back in my life. A man calling himself Lefevre, he said. Fifties, fair hair. Thin scar on his face. He had met him in a bar, they'd talked. He'd offered to help, he'd been very persuasive . . .

I sat down on the chair again, oblivious to his moaning. This was bad news. An opportunist thief turned blackmailer like Simon was a simple problem; Arnsley Drennan was another thing entirely. A much more formidable challenge.

'Where is he?'

Again, it took a long time to get a coherent answer. 'I don't know. I really don't,' he moaned as I raised the gun in warning. 'I told you, I met him in a bar.'

It was the bar where Drennan had taken me once. It was too much to hope he still occupied the same room, but it would be worth trying. I looked at Simon, doubt in my mind. He might tell Drennan of my visit. He knew a very great deal about Elizabeth. And about me.

The building was quiet as I walked down the stairs and into the street a few minutes later. No one paid any attention to the second shot either.

I spent the rest of the day looking for Drennan, but without success. He had long since quitted the rooms where I had first met him. This was the only other thing I learned, but I was not by then at my most effective. I was in a state of shock. I think I have made it clear that I am not a man of action. I do not like violence; it offends me. What I had done terrified me, once it all sank in, even though I tried hard not to think of the scene in that dingy room, the last look on Simon's face. My lack of emotion was the most frightening of all. I had not hesitated, had not tried to find a way around the problem, had not considered other possibilities. Simon had been in the way. A problem. A threat. He was no longer. I felt no remorse, and I should have done; I was not the person I had thought myself to be. I slept that night as well as if I had spent the evening dining in company, with not a care in the world.

CHAPTER 15

The next morning, as I went downstairs to the bar for a coffee and some bread, the bar keeper, who was also my landlord, handed me an envelope. I ignored it for a while, until enough coffee had been absorbed into my system to make me human once again, and only opened it when I felt sure that I would be able to read it through without my attention wandering. It was from Jules.

I looked up and grinned. Truly Jules was a very poor liar; but I had a sneaking admiration for his cheek.

I burned the letter, once I had read it carefully; I do not keep stray pieces of paper around if they are not needed. Then I sat and thought. The connection, from Elizabeth Lemercier to Virginie to Countess Elizabeth Hadik-Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala was easy for me to see. And if all of this, or enosugh of this, was in the diary, Elizabeth was correct to be worried. If Jules had got the story right, then she could face the guillotine.

But there was no time to do anything today, nor anything to do. I had to wait for Drennan to resurface; I was dependent on him. Still, I thought about the problem carefully as I made my way to Longchamp after lunch. I was not looking forward to it. I hate horse-racing; I have never seen the point of it. Horses I like – I used to go riding quite often when I stayed with the Campbells in Scotland in my youth – and there are few finer experiences than getting up on a good horse at dawn, and riding off over the moors. The beasts have their own personalities; they really can become your friend, if you know how to deal with them. But racing around a course, with thousands of overdressed, pampered spectators shouting them on? The animals are so much more worthy than the people, who generally have little interest in the horses at all. They are there to be there, to be seen and to waste money. My day at Longchamp was not for pleasure.

I had a frantic morning gathering more information on François Hubert than M. Steinberg had been able to give me. And I was still in a state of shock over my encounter with Simon. It had deeply disturbed me; I did not see what else I could have done, but the ease with which I came to that conclusion, and acted on it, I found unsettling in the extreme. So, with François Hubert I was sloppy; I allowed myself to pay far too much for trivial information, gave away too much, because I was in a hurry and over-tired.

My efforts at least produced enough to make me confident of success. M. Hubert was the head of the bonds department at Credit International; it was he who oversaw the bank's participation in loan issues, who determined what stake they would take. All very well; most large banks now have such people and they are growing in importance. That in itself was not a great deal of use. More important was the information that M. Hubert liked gambling far too much for a man in his position, and that he liked a whole succession of women more than a married man should. Put those together and you had a picture of someone deeply in debt and, naturally, you begin to wonder where the money was coming from. Such a person can be persuaded to answer questions with no great difficulty.

There was, of course, the problem of finding him. I had read my Zola and remembered well the scene in Nana, the description of the vast crowds, the innumerable carriages from fiacres to hay wagons, the masses, the bourgeoisie, the gratin, all in their different costumes with their different manners, milling about and brought together by the desire to gamble. I anticipated difficulties, saw myself pushing through the throngs, and never even glimpsing my quarry. I had considered asking Elizabeth to come with me so I could tell her about Simon at the same time as I looked, not that she would have accepted.

The idea had a certain charm; she was the Nana of her age, but very much more sophisticated and self-assured. Not for her the fate of Zola's whore, who was created solely so that her fall could be charted, to prove the cruelty of human life. Elizabeth had dedicated herself to proving the opposite, that the individual could triumph, that fate is not determined. I wished her well. And I worried about the warning given to me by Madame Kollwitz. And about those diaries. And about Drennan.

But Elizabeth hated horses, she had told me once, and disliked gambling. She did not take chances; that was her main characteristic. She was no Nana, consuming men for the sake of it, reducing them to poverty or suicide because she could. She belonged to a different generation, the age of business. She bought and sold, and built up her capital. Clear-eyed and certainly more intelligent than Zola's creation, and certainly less likely to die alone in a hotel room. Elizabeth did not intend to burn brightly and die young.

In fact, the problem of finding M. Hubert was very much smaller than I had anticipated. Zola (who can never resist the gaudy and vulgar) described one of the great events of the racing year, which attracted the multitudes. For the most part, though, Longchamp was very much more homespun; the daily events attracted only the truly dedicated, or the truly possessed. Some of the horses looked as though they would rather be living out their old age in a pleasant meadow somewhere, and at least three of the jockeys might have done better by their employers had they eaten a good deal less. All in all, the atmosphere was more like a village fête than a great racecourse; the crowd numbered a few hundred, and the bookies had turned up out of duty, rather than because of any prospect of making serious money. The great refreshment areas were all closed; the stands were empty; there was no buzz of anticipation. Indeed, the air was rather a melancholy one, the spectators knowing they were not going to be greatly excited, and realising all too well that they were there simply because they could not stay away. Nor was it even an agreeable day, with a warm sun to provide some compensation for the lack of other pleasures. Instead, the sky was low and grey, and threatened rain at any moment; the wind had a chill in it, which made me regret not having brought my thicker winter coat.

For the most part, the crowd was of the shopkeeper class, with an air of desperation to their neatness, faces which were never quite right – too pinched, too ruddy, their voices too loud or too quiet. I observed them all swiftly, and dismissed them just as fast. Only one man could possibly have been a senior employee of Credit International, and he stood alone, studying his racing card with the calm of the professional, showing no emotion or interest in what he was doing. He was utterly unremarkable; had there been a greater crowd I would have stood no chance whatsoever of finding him. I watched as he approached a bookie, paid over some money, heaved a great sigh and then retreated, though not to watch the race. His interest was abstract; it seemed as though he could spend the entire afternoon there without bothering to look at a single horse. He was obsessed with numbers, not with the sport.

I followed him as he walked away from the track, hands behind his back, with a slow purposeless gait, then walked up behind him and coughed. 'Monsieur Hubert?'

He turned round to look at me, but did not smile or give any reaction. He didn't even seem curious.

'Forgive me for interrupting you,' I said. 'My name is Cort, from The Times in London. I would like to ask you some questions, if I may.'

Hubert looked puzzled. 'I am sure you may not,' he replied. 'Although I cannot think what you might want to ask.'

'It is about Argentinian water.'

Hubert looked very cautious at my question. 'I have nothing to tell you whatsoever. It would be utterly inappropriate.'

'I assure you that your name will never be mentioned . . .'

'That is of no significance. Please leave me in peace.'

'. . . However, if I am unable to write this story, I might have to write another one. About Amelie Feltmann. Your debts. Things like that.'

He stared at me in total shock. This, I thought, was simply too easy; the man was pathetic. He could at least put up more of a struggle. I wasn't even going to have to pay him.

'Oh, dear God,' he said, with a tremble in his voice. 'Who are you?'

'As I say, I work for The Times. I am writing an article on French banking. And I want to know everything – I mean everything – about the Argentinian bond issue. You are going to tell me.'

I had expected a few moments of bargaining, at least, but instead he just crumpled up, hands shaking.

'I knew something like this would happen, sooner or later,' he said. 'I just knew it . . .'

'Well, you were right,' I replied brutally. 'It has. So just count yourself lucky that all I want is harmless information, nothing else.'

He glanced around him, somewhat in the way you might if you felt your employer could be hovering nearby, watching and listening.

'Come and take a little stroll,' I said. 'I do not think there is anyone who will see you talking to me. And I will never reveal anything at all. Word of a journalist, if you doubt my honour.'

He sighed heavily, and gave in. The surrender was complete, and I could see that he would now tell me anything I asked him. My opinion of him was not high. I would have thought better of him had he tried to run, or hit me first.

'So, let's begin. The Argentinian loan. Why is your bank not participating? Was that your decision?'

'Oh no. Not me. I am not sufficiently senior to decide a thing like that. I would never dare defy Barings on my own authority. I arrange the practicalities of taking up a subscription, I do not decide what we subscribe to.'

'So? Who does decide?'

'Normally there is a committee which evaluates each issue. In this case, it was a decision taken by the Chairman alone.'

'And that is unusual?'

'That is unheard of.'

'How did it happen?'

He looked around, nervously once more. 'I was told to write a letter refusing to take part. And also instructed to give no reasons why this decision had been taken. Again, this is unusual. It is normally a matter of courtesy to give an explanation, even if it is informal.'

'And, again, it was the Chairman who gave you these instructions?'

'Yes. He summoned me personally. I asked why, as in the past Barings' business has been very profitable. All he said was that this time no one was going to take part. Not a single institution in France was going to touch it.'

'Why not?'

'Exactly what I asked. Was there something wrong with it? I asked. But no, he said there was nothing particularly wrong with it. That was why Barings was going to get such a shock. And more than Barings, he said.'

'And what did he mean by that?'

'He said no more. But it puzzled me, as I can see it puzzles you. So I listened, you see, and asked questions of my colleagues at other banks. And do you know what I discovered?'

He was positively voluble now, willing to tell me things I hadn't even asked.

'I've no idea.'

'It was true. All the big banks in France will refuse to take any Barings paper. Not only that, I know of two banks in Belgium, and one in Russia, which will also turn it down.'

'How much is this issue?'

'In all, about five million pounds. A very great deal of money, but no more than many South American issues and with better prospects than many. Of course, you can argue that too much money has been put into Argentina, and I would sympathise with that view. Sooner or later the markets will have had enough. But if you want to reduce your liability, then this is a foolish way of going about it.'

'Why so?' I knew the answer to that already, but also knew that the more he told me, the more he would tell me. He hadn't even noticed I wasn't taking any notes.

'Because we hold a substantial amount of South American bonds, and our customers have bought more off us. A failure could panic the whole sector and drive down prices across the board. We could lose a great deal of money. It would be much more sensible to sell off stock first.'

'And that has not been done?'

'There has been some selling, but not enough.'

If South American bonds collapsed, then French institutions would lose money, that was true. But nowhere near as much as English ones would lose. Of all the bonds sold in the past decade, since Barings discovered South America, at least half the value had been sold in England, the rest had to be spread across Europe and North America. I could not call the figures to mind, although it was obvious that it would send a shockwave through the markets. But nothing that the City could not cope with. The American railroad collapse had been just as severe, but had been surmounted without much difficulty. And the effect would run right the way across the Continent. Why would banks connive at conjuring up losses unnecessarily? As M. Hubert said, there were much more sensible ways of getting out of markets you feared might be nearing their peak. Bringing them down while you were still fully exposed was foolish, to say the least.

But he could tell me no more. He confined his interests to bond issues, horses and his lover. He could give no reasons, nor offer any guesses. His was not a speculative mind. I ended up quite admiring him for his little peccadilloes. It showed that he was not entirely an automaton. Somewhere in him there was a little imp, urging him to transgress and, after many years, he had given in. I hoped very much he was enjoying himself, because he was not very good at it. Sooner or later, he would be discovered and his world would crash in ruins.

'Thank you,' I said when it was clear I had exhausted his knowledge. 'You see, you have told me nothing that was so very dangerous. It is a small sin in comparison to your others. And will remain very much more secret than they will.'

'What do you mean?' he asked, apprehensively.

'Simply that what I could find out fairly easily, then so others can.

And will.'

I bowed to him, and left, leaving him standing, watching me. I am glad to say – what a strange world of amorality I had come to inhabit! – that M. Hubert acted on my warning. I never got the full details, but it appears that he set about using his very considerable talents to embezzle a good deal more money over the next year. When the bank finally discovered that the accounts were not quite what they should be, M. Hubert went to Buenos Aires, and vanished for ever.

I had a great deal of puzzling to do, and I think best when I am walking. So I walked back across the Bois de Boulogne to Paris, and walked still further, through the rough houses and ever-shrinking fields which were still a part of the far west of the city then, before resting in a café. There I sat, surrounded by laughter and smoke, as I pondered what M. Hubert had told me. Clearly, I would have to inform Barings. From what he had said, the bank might know that this issue was going to be tricky, but would not yet know the full extent of the difficulties that were coming their way.

But I still could not make sense of it. These banks seemed to be acting in concert, but they were behaving like rank amateurs; almost as if they wanted to throw their money away. If, for a moment, you conceded they were not total fools (which is occasionally tempting with bankers, but rarely with the most senior ones) then there must be a reason. But what might it be? Barings issues a bond, half of which is taken up in England, leaving them with two and a half million sterling to place on foreign markets. Some of it would go, no doubt. So, assume that there is a shortfall of two million. A vast sum of money and it would cause difficulties, as Barings obviously could not cover that from its own resources. But such things had happened before, even if not quite on that scale. At the last resort there was the Bank of England, which would advance Barings the bullion from its reserves. Barings would have to pay through the nose, no doubt, but it would survive. Its reputation for canny manoeuvres would be dented, but its titanic strength would be demonstrated for all the world to see. The only result would be that everyone would have lost a great deal of money. What was the point of that?

Two large glasses of beer brought me no closer to an answer, so I resumed my walk. I enjoyed it; that part of Paris which has the Avenue de la Grande Armée running through it has become much drearier in the past decade or so. Then it was a very peculiar quarter, with great apartment blocks rising up out of nothing, with perhaps a field full of cows to provide the city with milk on one side and a mason's yard or some other small workshop on the other. Tall buildings, six floors high, snuggled up to one-storey workers' hovels which had not yet been swept away by property developers. One patch of barren land was occupied by a gypsy encampment, another by an open-air music hall, in between a fashionable, and spectacularly ugly, church, which looked forlorn and abandoned even though it was brand new.

It was nearly six o'clock, so I had just time, if I found a cab, to get to Barings' office near the Bourse. It was a nuisance, as I didn't yet see the urgency, but I thought I might as well get it done with, otherwise my day tomorrow would be disrupted. Then I planned a trip to the public bath for a long soak, and an early night. I was exhausted. I should say that I was still in two minds about helping Barings at all; I had not quite forgiven them for their readiness to let me go. But old obligations are hard to get rid of; I thought of many of my colleagues with affection and, somewhat childishly, I thought it would be pleasant to demonstrate what they had lost.

I rattled my way to the Place de la Bourse, and walked up the stairs to the little office that Barings occupied. Again, you must remember that this was some years back; even the most powerful bank in the world felt no need to make a splash with gaudy offices, and had no need whatsoever for legions of employees to oversee their foreign business. Barings then employed ten people in Paris, of whom four were mere clerks, two were family members learning the trade with the remaining four doing all the work. These were, as was Barings' tradition, overworked and underpaid. The most underpaid and overworked, alas, hated me.

I can honestly say that no thought of Roger Felstead had passed through my mind for several years. He was a man of such diligence, stolidity and utter tedium that it was possible to forget him even when you were talking to him. He believed in order. He believed in rules. He believed in procedures. He believed in loyalty, and was sure it would be rewarded. Alas, every time he felt a reward was his due, his rightful prize had been given to me. He had wanted to go to Germany, I was sent. He had greatly desired to spend some time in New York, but it was I who got on the boat, not him. He had stayed in London, methodically learning his business, doing his duty and showing total loyalty, while I rushed around accumulating unjustified rewards.

I did not like Felstead. Felstead loathed me. On such trivial things can the fate of empires depend.

'A journalist now, aren't you?' he said, not even trying to hide the tone of superior commiseration in his voice.

'That's right,' I said brightly. 'Book reviews, interviews with actresses and society gossip. Great stuff.'

'I was sorry to hear about you leaving,' he went on, meaning the exact opposite. 'There was quite a lot of talk about it.'

'I'm glad to hear it. It would have been a great pity if no one had noticed.'

'Were you really fired? That's what I heard. That you messed up with a contract.'

'Certainly not,' I said. 'No. It was because I used the bank's money to set up as a pimp.'

He blinked, not knowing how to take that. Then the idiot decided I was joking. 'Well, come to see what you're missing? Everything seems to be running smoothly without you.'

'Good. I gather you are floating a big bond issue for the Argentinians. Water company?'

He nodded. 'The most ambitious ever. And I am in charge of syndicating the French participants. It's a big responsibility, I can tell you.'

'How's it going?'

'Oh, pretty well. Pretty well. It'll take time to line everybody up, of course. You know the French. No discipline. No ability to take decisions. They like their pound of flesh. Make us suffer, before they do what they're told. Pour l'honneur du pavillon, you know.' He had an odd, irritating, honking laugh, a bit like that of a goose in flight.

'So if I said that I had heard through my contacts that Credit International has decided not to have anything to do with the loan, that in fact no bank in France is going to touch any more Barings paper, that Russian and Belgian banks are also beginning to wobble, then you will tell me that this is silly market speculation and that everything is really running smoothly.'

He blanched, and I could see from his reaction that he knew none of this. None of the banks had officially refused to participate as yet; they were saving it up as a big surprise. I wondered when that surprise was going to come.

'I certainly would,' he said, although the certainty in his voice was noticeable by its absence. 'Who told you this?'

'Contacts,' I said. 'It's what comes of spending time in society. You should try it. You think it's nonsense?'

'Absolutely. It is completely absurd. When has a Barings issue ever been snubbed? Occasionally you might get one bank scaling back on its participation. That's normal. You know that. But large numbers? They know our reputation. When has Lord Revelstoke ever put a foot wrong? Why, the man is a genius! You know all of this, and yet you give credence to a bunch of jealous gossip-mongers? It's clear you were not cut out for banking, my boy, if you're given to this sort of panic.'

I felt like replying that it was clear that neither was he, if he was given to that sort of imbecility. He reminded me of what I disliked about Barings, in fact: the smugness, and conviction of invincibility. Barings were the rulers of the fin de siècle. But then the Rothschilds had ruled at the beginning of the century, and were now a conservative shadow of their former selves. Did Barings think they would dominate the world forever?

'I'm glad to hear it,' I replied. 'So you think that I should ignore all these stories. I was thinking of writing something for The Times . . .'

'Oh, you mustn't do that!' he said swiftly. 'That would be the grossest disloyalty. If people hear there are problems, then they will . . .'

'So there are problems?'

'I said, it's going slowly. But it's a complicated issue. A lot of money. There are bound to be difficulties.'

'Has Credit International refused?'

'Certainly not.'

'Has it accepted?'

'Not yet. They say they are having administrative difficulties. But they assured me I was not to worry. They will give a definite answer next Thursday morning.'

Next Thursday. In six days' time. That would give two uninterrupted trading days for panic to sweep across the markets, if things worked out as I thought they might.

'Listen,' I said. 'I am not joking. I think a storm is brewing. You must send a telegram to London, so they can prepare.'

He stared, with a particularly unappealing smile of incredulity on his face. 'Warn them? Of what? Of a story heard by a journalist? You expect Lord Revelstoke to give up his weekend because of something you heard at some dowager's party?'

'It's somewhat more than that.'

'It doesn't matter. No one can touch Barings. You should know that. And as for sending a telegram, I've never heard anything so absurd in my life. You stick to your actresses, Cort. Leave the serious stuff to people who know what they're about.'

I shrugged. 'Very well. I will do as you say. I heard this and I reported it to you. You can do as you wish with it. You are no doubt correct in your assessment. As you say, you are more experienced than I am.'

'Precisely,' he said with satisfaction. 'And don't think that I am ungrateful for your concern. It was good of you to come in. And if you hear any other titbits in future, don't feel afraid to come and tell me, however ridiculous they are. And you must let me buy you a drink sometime, in payment for your efforts.'

At that moment, the delightful image of Barings sinking with all hands and Felstead being the first to drown, swam before my eyes. I wished the French well.

'Excellent idea,' I said. 'But not today. At the moment you would do me a greater service by letting me have a look at the Stock Exchange notices. I am trying to get something together on France's attitude to dual convertibility. So I need some basic information. The Times publishes it, but it would help to have it all in one place . . .'

Now he had established his superiority, Felstead was all grace. Fortunately, he did not clap me on the back as he led me to a desk before getting out the bank bulletins. Had he done so I might have spoiled it all by hitting him.

The Stock Exchange daily bulletins are the dreariest of all newspapers; the prices for dozens of government stocks, the prices of innumerable foreign stocks and utilities. The discount rates and interest rates applicable to hundreds of different instruments, in dozens of countries. News of new issues and dividend payments. By carefully considering all of these, a man of sense can make his fortune. So it is said; it was my great weakness as a banker that I never had the slightest interest in any of it. I had forced myself to understand it, but it never brought me the pleasure or satisfaction that it gave to many of my colleagues.

I tortured myself reading columns of numbers and prices and rates, hoping to find some hint of how the second stage of this adventure was going to play out. For there must be a second stage. M. Hubert was right: why do something which could scarcely hurt Barings, and could cost you a lot of money? But if banks across the Continent were indeed co-ordinating a response, something serious was taking place and it could be assumed that it was being organised by people of intelligence.

It took the better part of two hours, but then I had it. And even I was shocked. I had assumed I would find some sort of evidence of a secondary assault on Barings, but in fact it was much more serious than that. So much so that I didn't even look at the relevant figures until late; it never occurred to me it would be important.

Barings wasn't the target. They were aiming at the Bank of England itself.

The figures were clear, once I had noticed them. For the past two months, bullion had been draining out of the Bank. Money was withdrawn, new deposits were not made, or were delayed. The Bank of France, citing the need for gold to pay for a tax shortfall due to a poor harvest, had postponed depositing ten million sterling; the Bank of Russia had withdrawn fifteen million. Commercial banks which ordinarily would keep smaller but substantial quantities of gold on deposit in London had been pulling it out: £100,000 here, £200,000 there. In all – I settled down with pencil and paper and added it up going back six weeks – another seven million had been withdrawn in this way. According to my calculations, the Bank had probably less than four million in bullion in its vaults.

And next week, the most powerful bank in the world was going to get a shock which would send it reeling, causing panic throughout the London markets. When people panic, they want their money back. They want gold. And Barings would be wanting to borrow the same gold, to cover the holes in its positions. It had promised the Argentinian Water Company five million. It had to pay, and it wasn't going to have enough money. Every stock listed on the Exchange would plummet in value. Banks and their customers would panic. A queue of bankers would form at the Bank of England and it wouldn't have enough gold to satisfy demand. It would have to suspend convertibility, say it would no longer give gold for paper, and the reputation of the entire City of London would be in ruins, with Barings the first to fold. 'I promise to pay the bearer on demand the sum of one pound.' On demand. In gold. Except that it would be revealed as a lie. Not worth the paper it was printed on, so that paper would rapidly become worthless.

It was breathtakingly audacious. And simple. And it was going to work. 'A determined enemy would not waste his time and gold striking at the navy or invading the colonies. He would aim to destroy belief in the word of a handful of bankers in London.' That was what Netscher had said, and he was right. It was going to happen. And that idiot Felstead wouldn't believe me.

The beauty of the scheme was that even telling someone would merely start the panic earlier, rather calm it down. There was not enough gold in London, and nothing could change that.

I came to the conclusion that, even though it might already be too late, I must, at least, alert Mr Wilkinson, and for that I needed the assistance of John Stone. The Times could not help me, as we ordinarily sent our stories by the public telegraph, going down to the local post office and sending them off, word by word. This was not very private, and it was well known that the operators of the machines received a small stipend from the police to report anything of interest. Felstead would not help, but Stone certainly would, I thought. And I knew that his companies maintained their own private telegraph links, which might, perhaps, be intercepted but which were more likely to pass undetected.

Finding Stone, however, was not so simple. I knew that he had offices close to the Palais Royal, but these were closed – it was already so late that I went there just to be thorough, rather than with any real hope of success. I knew, also, that he stayed usually at the Hôtel du Louvre, but again he was out. It took a hefty inducement before I was allowed to go up and talk to his manservant.

'I'm afraid I do not know where Mr Stone is, sir,' said this character, his face immobile as he looked me straight in the eye.

'Yes, you do,' I replied tartly. 'And however commendable your lying may be under normal circumstances, it is not now. I have to see him, and as swiftly as possible. It is a matter of the highest urgency, and he will not thank you if you do not tell me where to find him.'

The servant hesitated for a few seconds, then said, with the greatest reluctance, 'I believe he had an appointment for tea with the Countess von Futak. But I do not know where that might be . . .'

I grinned broadly at him. 'But I do. Excellent man, thank you. I will make sure he is aware of your impeccable judgement.'

I didn't quite run down the stairs, but I hurried, and I certainly pushed aside an old gentleman waiting to be handed into a cab outside the main door. He scowled, I made an apologetic gesture as I leaped in and gave directions.

It took fifteen minutes to get to Elizabeth's house, and I battered on the door until I was let in and demanded to see both her and Stone. It then occurred to me that I might well be placing both of them in a position of considerable embarrassment. Elizabeth had told me that she was open to visitors only on certain days and at certain hours. For the rest she had her business to attend to. This was not an evening when she received anyone other than her shareholders. Did that mean that Stone had acquired a stake? Oddly, as I waited, I hoped very much not. But I did not have time to wonder why it mattered to me.

There was no embarrassment, fortunately. I was shown into the little salon, the one she kept for herself, rather than visitors, a charming room furnished to her tastes, not to the requirements of show. And there they were, sitting in two little chairs, side by side, just like couple spending a few intimate moments together, talking about their day and enjoying each others' company. The difference in her struck me immediately; she was relaxed, unguarded, and completely at ease. I didn't think I had ever seen her quite like that before. Certainly she was never so when with me. Always I sensed a tension, as though she expected to have to defend herself. I felt jealous, although it did not hit me at the time.

But the moment I entered that watchfulness came back, and Stone rose to greet me and break up all impression of intimacy.

'Forgive me, both,' I said. 'I would not be here uninvited if it was not a matter of importance. Mr Stone; may I have a word in private, please.'

Elizabeth rose. 'Stay here; I have matters to attend to upstairs. I will not disturb you.'

She left the room swiftly, and Stone eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and, I could tell, no small amount of annoyance.

'As I say, I apologise. However, I need to send a telegram to Wilkinson which will not be read by anyone else. I would like to use your telegraph system.'

'Well, certainly. I am happy to oblige,' he said. 'Do I take it you want to send it now, this very minute?'

'This very minute,' I replied, 'or at least as soon as possible. I do not think it can wait until tomorrow.'

'And are you able to tell me what this is about? I will of course assist you in any case, but you will understand that you have excited my curiosity.'

'I believe I can. In fact, I think it might be a good idea. To make sure that I am not making a fool of myself. It is about Barings.'

And so I settled down and told him about the statement by Steinberg at his dinner, my meeting with Hubert at the racecourse, and the conclusions I had drawn from studying the movements of bullion out of the Bank of England.

'So you believe this is a concerted attempt against London?'

'I believe it is, although of that I have no proof. Certainly it would be a remarkable coincidence if it is not. At the moment, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that on Thursday it will become clear that the Barings bond issue has failed; people will wonder if it has enough money to cover its liabilities – correctly, as it certainly does not. There will be a run to gold, at Barings and at every other institution in the City. The Bank of England will be unable to supply the gold requested; Barings will collapse, and the Bank will have to suspend convertibility. I leave it to you to figure out the consequences.'

Stone stroked his chin, and considered. 'That's easy enough. Bank rates will rocket, institutions will founder, savers will be ruined, companies starved of funds, trade will be crippled. The possible effects could go on and on. Impressive.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I was talking abstractly. One cannot help but admire a fine piece of work, well executed. But, as you say, it does not matter whether this is planned or not. The question is whether anything can be done to stop it. For example, what difference will it make if Wilkinson – and through him, I presume the Bank of England, the Government and Barings – knows what is about to take place?'

'If they are prepared, they can, at least, call in all the gold they can find from the other banks. That might be enough to stop the panic growing.'

Stone shook his head. 'I very much doubt that. If you are correct, many foreign institutions in London will have their requests to withdraw bullion already written waiting to be delivered. To start the panic off with a vengeance. I mean, it is certainly worth a try, should the authorities so decide, but I doubt it will work. Hmm.'

'What?'

'I'm sorry,' he said with a faint smile. 'I was just calculating my own exposure. What a pity you did not find this out yesterday. Then I could have exited the markets in time. Now, it seems, I will have to go down with everyone else; my fate tied to the demise of that fool Revelstoke. What a very great nuisance. Still, I suppose if I order my people to sell first thing on Monday morning . . .'

'But that will merely add to the panic,' I said, incredulously.

Stone looked at me in surprise. 'Maybe so,' he said, 'but I do not see why I should be ruined because of Lord Revelstoke's overweening ambition and lack of judgement.'

I stared at him. I knew full well that Stone's gentle manner merely disguised the activities of one of the more ruthless of operators. But I never expected him to be quite so unpatriotic.

'Do not concern yourself,' he said, as though he read my thoughts. 'Self-preservation and patriotism are not entirely incompatible. I will not be ruined by this. On the other hand, I will render whatever assistance I can. I am more than aware – more than you, probably – how damaging all this might prove to be. It is not in my interest for the financial machinery of the Empire to be ruined. Quite the contrary. I depend on the markets for money, on shippers for orders, on the Government having healthy tax receipts for military commissions. And I depend on Britain's reputation to give my companies the advantage in foreign markets. For these reasons, I will help, if I can.'

He stood up. 'And we can begin by going to the offices and sending your telegram. I will have to come with you. Can you work a telegraph machine?'

I nodded. 'I think so.'

'Good. It will go to my office in London, and will then have to be delivered by hand. Do not worry yourself; Bartoli, my man there, is entirely loyal and discreet, and I will instruct him that he is to deliver it himself and speak of it to no one. He will do as he is told.'

It would have to do. We walked out and called for our coats. As we were getting ready, Elizabeth came down the stairs.

'You are going?' she asked, with evident disappointment.

'I am afraid so, Countess,' Stone replied. 'Mr Cort is a persuasive man, and I can deny him nothing, even at the cost of losing your company.'

'But you will come back?'

'I would be delighted.'

She didn't invite me, I noticed, a little annoyed at being so obviously left out. I pulled on my coat, and Stone walked out of the door. Then she took hold of my arm.

'Any news?' she said quietly.

'I need to talk to you.'

'Come back as soon as you can.'

Stone, naturally, had his own carriage; no hire cab for him. Very comfortable, well insulated from the sounds and draughts of the outside world.

'Charming woman, the Countess,' I said, for no other reason than to see how he reacted.

'She is,' he replied.

'Delightful company,' I added.

'She is.'

'And remarkably well read.'

Stone peered at me. 'Do not be nosy, Mr Cort.'

'I'm sorry,' I said, smiling at him. 'But I consider her a friend.'

'I think I might try one of these new automobiles,' he said as we clopped along. 'Have you ever been in one?'

I gave up, and shook my head.

'They smell, they are slow and they are unreliable,' he went on. 'I believe they may have a great future. It is shameful that our Government has thrown away any possibility of Britain being a leading manufacturer of them. We considered starting production – on a small scale, of course – but abandoned the idea.'

'Why?'

'No market. Nor will there be until the Government allows them to go at more than four miles an hour. In France, in Italy, they already travel at twenty miles an hour. They are making huge progress and we have to sit and watch. Who wants to travel at four miles an hour when a horse will take you faster? We cannot make things that people will not buy.'

'Get the law changed.'

He snorted. 'Not so simple. People seem to think that businesses snap their fingers, and the Government does as it is told. Unfortunately it is not like that. And the more governments have to win votes from people who do not think or understand anything at all, the worse it becomes.'

'Maybe they are afraid that people will get killed.'

'They are afraid voters will get killed. And so they will. But hundreds are trampled by horses every year as well, and they don't limit their speed.'

He fell silent for some while as the carriage made its way along the streets of Paris.

'You may be interested to know,' he said quietly after a while, 'that I have asked the Countess von Futak to marry me.'

'Good . . . I mean, congratulations, sir,' I said with total astonishment. 'Has she—?'

'She has asked for a week to consider her reply. It is a woman's privilege, I believe, and I am sure she must consider the fact that for her it would be something of a social descent. Anyway, here we are.'

I imagined Elizabeth's dinner being cooked by her chef, and wondered what I was going to eat that evening. Nothing as grand, I thought. I still hadn't had the opportunity to tell her that Simon was no longer a problem for her. Nor that, in fact, her problems were now very much greater. Stone had just astonished me, but he clearly was already regretting his confidence and did not want to return to the subject. Poor man, I thought. I was certain I knew what her answer would be. At least she was being kind in pretending to consider the offer, rather than burst out laughing. But she had little to laugh about, at the moment. John Stone's offer would not last long if he knew what was in those diaries, and unless I could find Drennan, he soon would.

Stone opened the door and led the way in. And switched on the lights. Of course he had offices with electricity. He liked everything modern. Even the desks the clerks worked at were sleek and new and designed with efficiency in mind.

'Through here,' he said, and led the way through one room, then through another and finally into a little cubicle containing the telegraph machine. 'Don't ask me how it works, I've never used it. It's the latest machine, though, and I believe you tap on that,' he pointed to a key, 'and then press all sorts of buttons there,' he pointed to a bank of switches and cables rising up in a vast, technological cliff above the desk, 'to make it go.'

'Oh, God,' I said. 'I don't think this is going to work very well.' I had never seen a machine like it before. I had not a clue how to operate it.

I pressed a button tentatively. Nothing happened. 'Who normally sits here?'

Stone shrugged. 'I've no idea,' he said. 'Aren't you meant to be able to do this sort of thing?'

'Let's abandon that idea,' I said finally. But I had no other to replace it.

Stone pursed his lips. 'The only option is to write a letter, and get someone to take it. There I can help. That is, I can provide pen, paper, envelope and a trustworthy man.' He looked at his watch. 'Might just get the eleven o'clock train, I think. With luck you should have your letter delivered by Saturday lunchtime. If you can find someone to deliver it to.'

He looked at my despondent air. 'Marvels of modern technology,' he said. 'When I was young it still took nearly twenty-four hours to get from Paris to London.'

I sighed. 'No alternative, is there? Very well, then. I will write a letter.'

Stone nodded. 'Come back to my hotel and do it there. Xanthos will take it; you can hand it to him when you are finished.'

So that is what I did; I spent the next hour in Stone's apartment at the Hôtel du Louvre, carefully crafting a letter to Wilkinson, explaining exactly what I had discovered, what I suspected, and what I thought should be done about it. I was a bit hazy about the final part as, in truth, I could not see what might be done. Even if Xanthos was as efficient as Stone said, the timing would still be tight. Finding the owners of Barings, the directors of the Bank of England, would take time. Getting them all together, deciding on some course of action . . .

Stone evidently had the same thought. He, I suspected, was writing letters as well, and I thought I knew what was in them. He wanted to hit the market with sales orders first thing Monday morning, to unload as many of his stocks as possible before anyone else suspected what might be about to happen. I couldn't blame him, of course.

'And do not lose them, Xanthos,' Stone said as he handed over the letters to his secretary. 'It is vital that these reach Wilkinson and Bartoli as soon as possible.'

The secretary put the envelopes carefully in the inside pocket of his jacket.

'A promising young man,' Stone said. 'You need have no concerns. He is so eager to get on he would swim the Channel if it was necessary to do his job. A drink, Mr Cort?' I was quite exhausted; it had been a busy day. But I accepted nonetheless.

'An interesting business,' he said once the servant had served the drinks and withdrawn. 'It gives a whole new meaning to the idea of modern warfare. It is fascinating to think what might be the motives of the people involved.'

'They want to destroy London and the Empire.'

'Oh, yes, of course. But why? From what you tell me, it seems to be the French and the Russians acting together, after a fashion. Which is curious, is it not? The only republic in Europe and the Great Despot of the East? An unlikely pair, I think.'

I shrugged. 'The French hate us because of the Empire, the Germans because of the war, and the Russians because of their politics. Not that it matters. My interests are more short-term. How to stop it.'

'Maybe it cannot be stopped,' he replied mildly. 'While you were writing your letter, I was checking your figures. You are quite right. There is not enough gold, at the moment, to contain a run on the banks. Even if all the bankers were pulled together in one room, and all agreed to pool their reserves, there still would not be enough.'

We sat in silence for a while, considering the dreadful possibilities that lay ahead for next week. My feeling of failure was quite overwhelming. If I had only found out about this a few days earlier – even two days would have made all the difference – then the situation would have been entirely different. But I was wasting my time with minor nonsense – trying to find out the specifications, and the purpose, of a new French cruiser then being laid down at Brest, and more particularly being diverted by the problem of Elizabeth's diaries – and failed to see what was going on. I had thought it was an abstract problem, not something real and imminent.

'I wonder though . . .' I began.

'What do you wonder?'

'Well, I told you of my conversation with Netscher, did I not? The conversation that started all this off?'

Stone nodded.

'He sounded scornful of the idea. And he is an influential man.'

'A very fine one, as well,' Stone added. 'I have a great deal of time for him. As bankers go, he is one of the best. Although, as you realise, I do not have much time for them, on the whole.'

'So what if there are others like him? Who think that this is disruptive of the smooth ordering of world trade, an unwarranted intrusion of politics into the pure and pristine world of money.'

'Go on.'

'Who has the more influence? People like Netscher, or the people organising this?'

'As we don't know who is behind it . . .'

'What I mean is, are we seeing a faction fight here? Money against politics? Is this in fact a coherent policy, or a private venture? To put it another way, could this be reversed if we got to the right people?'

Stone considered. 'It would depend on the price, would it not? What would the French, the Russians, want? Besides, is this your job? Should you not go to the Embassy and let them deal with it?'

I had never even considered that, but it was easy enough to dismiss it. 'You know the Ambassador?'

Stone nodded.

'Do I need to say more then?'

He smiled. 'Not the most effective of men, I agree. Nonetheless, I think you should keep him informed.'

'I think I will go and see Netscher,' I said. 'It's not as if I will be divulging anything which isn't going to be common knowledge in a day or so. Besides, he might well know all about it. If he can be persuaded to help in some way . . .'

Stone stood. 'It is worth a try, I suppose. As you say, it can't do much harm now. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a dinner appointment.'

'Oh, I do beg your pardon!' I said. 'I have taken up too much of your time.'

'On the contrary; it has been most interesting. Ah . . .'

'Yes?'

'Well, you may need to contact me in the next few days. Should I not be here, then you might call at the Countess's house.'

He said it quite calmly, but I could quite plainly sense the awkwardness underlying his words. Stone was not a sophisticated man of the world; he was perfectly incapable of passing off such a statement in a matter-of-fact manner, however hard he tried.

CHAPTER 16

Why do French bankers insist on living so far away? The richest had migrated out of Paris entirely, and congregated upriver in St-Germain-en-Laye, miles away. There they had their pocket châteaux, the huge grounds, the children, and the servants, all the space they needed, apart from the further estates they kept in the country, the vineyards in Bordeaux or in Burgundy. So much easier if they had congregated in the French equivalent of Mayfair or Belgravia, as English bankers did.

When I got up the next morning, after only a couple of hours' sleep, and took the tram to St-Germain, I had neither appointment nor guarantee of finding Netscher at home. I wasn't even certain I'd be able to get through the main gate to the house. But I managed, although I had to climb over a fence and wade through brambles to overcome the gate problem, then brave barking dogs, a virtual schoolroom of screaming children, three maids and a nanny – all belonging to Netscher fils – before I penetrated the main house, knocked and sat, looking very grumpy and feeling not unlike a travelling salesman, in the main hallway.

Netscher, however, was a gentleman; my unorthodox arrival and slightly weary appearance did not upset him one jot, even though it was Saturday. Instead, he had me shown into his office, disappeared to make his apologies to his family. Then he returned, announcing that he had asked for breakfast to be brought.

'You do not look like someone who is capable of surviving an encounter with my grandchildren,' he said with a smile.

'That is kind. And I apologise for my arrival. But I believe it is important. Do you remember the conversation we had a while back at the Countess von Futak's salon?'

'About—?'

'About the vulnerability of the City of London.'

'Ah, yes. I remember it well. You seemed quite sceptical, I recall.'

'Are you aware of what is happening? About to happen, I should say.'

'I have heard that Barings may experience difficulties in finding subscribers to an Argentinian loan it has been proposing. Is that what you mean?'

'Yes. And you realise the consequences?'

He nodded.

'Is that what you were referring to at the salon?'

He looked at me carefully, clearly weighing what to say next. That was enough, of course, but not enough to continue the conversation.

'It certainly fits the picture I laid out.'

'I am hardly divulging a great secret if I say that the Bank of England will be hard put to meet the demands that are likely to be placed on it in the coming week or so. And that the refusals and the withdrawing of bullion are too neatly bound together to be anything other than a concerted operation.'

'That had occurred to me also.'

'The Bank will need assistance. For its friends to rally around in time of need.'

'Ah,' he said, 'but however well considered the Bank may be by its peers, I think you can say that England is not well looked upon in general. That is a constant in French thinking, whatever the Government, as I have no doubt you are aware. It has friends, of course but, alas, those friends have few friends themselves.'

'Meaning what, exactly?'

'Well, you see, my dear sir, France is stricken. It wants revenge, but as yet has no clear notion of how to take that. It was defeated in 1870, and not just defeated but humiliated. It lost some of its most valuable provinces to Germany. It had to pay to make the invader go away. Five billion francs to pay for the cost of the Germans invading our country and stealing our land. Is it surprising that there is one thought only, in the mind of the people? Have you been to the Place de la Concorde? Seen the statues of the great cities of France? The statue of Strasbourg is permanently wreathed in black; flowers are put there daily, as on a grave. Revenge, my dear sir. We want revenge.'

He stopped to make sure that I had enough to eat, then fussed and apologised for not having offered me anything to drink. The children were still playing in the garden, all bundled up against the cold, catching the weak morning sunshine. Their squeals of excitement came drifting through the closed windows.

'But how to go about it?' he went on eventually. 'If we fight the German Empire alone, we will be defeated again. We have no friends, except countries like Italy or Spain, which are of no use to us. The Habsburg Empire is tied to Germany, the Russians repel us, the English oppose us at every turn throughout the world. So some people begin to mutter that this is insoluble, that there is a better way than war to regain what we have lost. Forget Germany for a while, and make common cause against England. Befriend Russia, cripple England, then turn back to the problem of Germany.

'And a second group believes that this is all fantasy, the posturings of people who do not understand the slightest thing about the way the world works, who think that the clash of nations has not changed since the days of Napoleon. Such people say that France will not be strong when it triumphs, but that it will triumph when it is strong. And a nation grows strong in peace, when it can devote itself with one mind to accumulating capital and growing industries. As England has done.'

'Bankers, you mean?'

'The most despised of all. It was people like the Rothschilds who conjured the five billion francs out of thin air to pay off the Kaiser in the 1870s, and yet they are reviled as manipulative Jews, fattening themselves on the labours of others. The socialists ran around Paris shouting slogans; the politicians cowered in Bordeaux; the generals made excuses; and bankers went to work evicting the enemy with an efficiency the army could never imagine. Yet who is admired, who hated?

'It is not money that corrupts politics, but politics that corrupt money. All politicians have their price, and sooner or later they come with their hand out. Do you think that a Rothschild or a Reinach or a Baring can be corrupted? In terms of morality, a banker and a beggar are similar; money matters little to them. One has it, the other does not want it. Only those who want but do not have are liable to be corrupted. That is the vast majority of mankind and nearly all the politicians I have ever met.'

'And your point . . . ?'

'My point is that England's natural allies in France are, unfortunately, the most hated. Obviously, the collapse of the London credit market would be disastrous, for trade, for investment, for industry. All countries would be weakened, generations of capital accumulation would go for nought. Alas, there are many who do not see that a short-term triumph bought at the cost of long-term misery is no bargain. And any house in France which comes to the aid of its brothers in London would swiftly be condemned as an enemy. Particularly if it is Jewish.'

'So you will not help?'

'I must. Barings is foolish and arrogant, yet it must not fall, however much it deserves to do so. But assistance will only be possible if the Government puts itself behind this; it cannot be through the actions of banks alone.'

This was a long way out of my area of competence, and I had to work hard to keep a calm head about it.

'What would the price be?'

Netscher smiled. 'A high one.'

'But who are they? Are we dealing with Government policy, or not?'

'You assume governments are coherent. It is better to assume there are factions. And factions break up and recombine in different shapes. It is more a question of how to fragment the pieces and put them back together in a way better suited to your requirements. For example, if the financial interests in Paris were to approach the Bank of France and speak with one voice, say that it must come to the aid of the Bank of England, then our opinion would undoubtedly be heard. However, there are others who will argue for a more dramatic policy.'

'We are talking about M. Rouvier here?'

'He is ambitious, vainglorious. He sees a great opportunity to destroy an enemy, and vaunt himself. He may be persuadable, but it would be foolish to pretend it will not be difficult.'

'And what is in it for the Russians? They want to raise huge amounts of money to fund their army and their economy. How will they get it if they destroy the markets that provide it?'

'I'm afraid you will have to ask them that.'

CHAPTER 17

I left him sitting down at his desk to write to colleagues and associates, to begin sounding out opinion; I did not even pause to wonder how it was that he was not surprised that a mere journalist should know, or care, so much. I was in a hurry now; I had plenty enough to do. First stop was the British Embassy, but, as I had anticipated, it was closed, and (because it was the British Embassy) no one was prepared to tell me where I might find the Ambassador. He was a man who valued his leisure, and would under no circumstances have it disturbed. I would have to wait.

Next came the Russian Embassy, which was also closed. Not completely, such places never were; I walked in, and wandered around until I found someone to ask where I might find the military attaché. The answer was forthcoming soon enough: 27 boulevard Haussmann, I was told, the second floor. It was a good half hour by foot, quicker by cab but there was none to be found, so, at three o'clock in the afternoon, I knocked on the door of Count Gurunjiev and was let in by a servant who looked as though he had just got off a horse after a long ride across the steppe.

The apartment was lavishly furnished and had a strange, almost spicy aroma quite unlike any smell you find in a house inhabited by French people. I never found out what it was, but it gave the subsequent meeting an undeniable air of foreign adventure. It was not at all unpleasant, but not the sort of smell that fades from your mind once your nose gets used to it. I dearly wanted to know what it was, but could not find any assuredly polite way of asking.

I had never met Gurunjiev before; he did not come to Elizabeth's salon, but rather visited her separately, normally on a Tuesday afternoon. I learned later, by means which I do not wish to elaborate on, that he had always been one of her more generous supporters, although not at all the most extravagant. I had expected a strapping man of the officer class, a cross between a hero in a Tolstoy novel and an image of Alexander II on horseback, but got neither of these. Gurunjiev was good-looking enough, I suppose, but not especially tall, not particularly well built, and with no military air to him at all. Not the Cossack type, in fact. Rather, he was distinguished by a face of such abundant good nature that it was impossible to dislike him for a second; a clear forehead surrounded by dark hair, deep-set brown eyes, a straight nose and delicate, almost feminine mouth. The thought of him being intimate with Elizabeth crossed my mind for a fraction of a second, but that fragment was damaging to my purpose, so I did my best to suppress it. It was unfortunate, because he was a delightful man in every way; I could see exactly why Elizabeth considered him to be well qualified for his role. The only surprise was that she had managed not to fall properly in love with him.

'This is a most unusual visit,' the Count began with a warm smile. He did not seem in the slightest bit annoyed, even though I had interrupted him at some meal. His voice was rich and civilised, his French excellent, and he gestured me to sit in the most natural way possible. 'Who are you?'

'Well,' I said, 'I came to you because I have heard of you from the Countess von Futak.'

'Any friend of the Countess is naturally someone who is welcome in my house,' he said coolly. 'Although I did not realise that our friendship was so well known.'

'It is not, sir. I was speaking to her on a matter which has given me some concern, and she then revealed that she had made your acquaintance, considered you a friend, and told me I had to inform you of what I knew as a matter of urgency.'

'I see. And one must always follow her advice. When you are done, I hope you will join me at our table. My family is always ready to welcome a new acquaintance.'

You see? I am prepared to trust in your absolute discretion, because I have complete trust in hers, is what he meant. You will, no doubt, find it easy to respond with equal understanding.

'I'm afraid I have previous engagements, otherwise I would accept with great pleasure. But thank you for your kindness.'

'Then begin.'

'Very well. You must understand that what I am about to tell you is in the strictest confidence. I do not need to say that to a man like yourself, of course; but my superiors would consider my behaviour to be questionable, at the least, should they come to hear of it. You will have to find your own means of explaining your knowledge of what I am about to tell you.'

He gestured that such a thing was entirely understandable.

'Good. I am a journalist, working for The Times. In addition I also do a little work for the Foreign Office of Great Britain.'

'A spy?'

'I have undertaken to acquire any sort of information which might assist the well-being of Britain and its possessions. Please do not misunderstand me if I say that I am very good at it, and that in this job I also, inevitably, learn of things which concern other nations as well.'

'Such as Russia?'

'When I began this job, I took over from a man called Arnsley Drennan, who subsequently found employment selling his services to the highest bidder. He is a man of the greatest violence and the smallest morals. His history has been one of war, and deceit, and killing. He is an American.'

'Go on.'

'I know relatively little about him. No one does. He is in his fifties and was once a soldier in the Civil War. It was there, I believe, that he began to acquire his skills as a murderer. Certainly he is an expert in his profession. He is able to slip unnoticed behind a man and slit his throat as quickly and as quietly as a mouse. His virtue for many people is that he has no allegiance and so is difficult to find, or follow.'

'And what was Her Majesty's Government doing by employing such a man?'

'They no longer do so. But it may well be that they employ someone similar in his place. As do the Government of France and the Government of Russia.'

He bridled noticeably at this statement, and began to deny it.

'You know quite well it is so. Six months ago a pair of Estonian nationalists drowned in the Danube. Do you really think they just fell in when they were drunk? A revolutionist was found with his throat cut last month in Rotterdam. Again, do you really think this deed was committed by an argumentative comrade? That such people are dealt with through the courts alone?'

He looked decidedly uncomfortable at this, but also I could see the glimmerings of a thrill in the way he sat. All people – all men, I should say, as I have discovered that women are by and large impervious to the charms of the occult – can be easily fascinated by such tales. They like the idea of possessing hidden knowledge. Only the very sensible truly prefer not to know. Only the saintly are truly appalled. With luck, I could exploit this weakness and go some way to solving two pressing problems at one and the same time. If I was careful and if I was lucky.

'Go on.'

'His current employers are people who have no love of Russia. You are aware, I am sure, that the various revolutionist groupings have had very little success in fomenting any trouble inside Russia itself. They make a great deal of noise, but accomplish little. There are so many informers inside their ranks that they manage little before they are discovered. Anarchists of various sorts manage to blow up a restaurant or a bar every now and then, but there is little real point to what they do.'

'Yes. I know all this.'

'Good. Let me be blunt then. A group of Russian exiles have engaged the services of Mr Drennan to effect an atrocity against Russia in France.'

This statement was greeted with silence, as the Count stared at me, the atmosphere suddenly dark and serious.

'And you know this how, might I ask?'

A difficult question to answer, as I didn't know; in fact it was a tissue of lies from beginning to end.

'Russia is not the only country which keeps an eye on these people,' I said airily. 'And I have been keeping an eye on Mr Drennan. That was for my own protection as he resents my existence considerably, and I did not wish to become his next victim myself.'

'And this atrocity . . . ?'

'I am afraid, sir, that I must interrupt here, and rather ruin my reputation. I must exchange this information, not give it.'

His handsome countenance darkened.

'Don't concern yourself,' I said gently. 'Even if you are not able to oblige me, I will still tell you all you need to know to prevent a catastrophe. But I would like your word that you will assist me, if you can do so. I desire no more than that.'

His eyes narrowed as he considered this offer, and I could see that he was calculating possibilities. He was not, I thought, quite so direct and straightforward as his manner suggested.

'Very well,' he said. 'Why don't you tell me what you want, then we will see if we can do business. Please bear in mind that I have noticed you have given me no proof whatsoever of what you say.'

'That will come. I hardly expect you to act on the unsubstantiated word of a total stranger. Very well, then. You have heard, I imagine, of Barings Bank?'

He looked totally astonished at the sudden change of direction, but nodded.

'In a few days' time, Barings is going to get into considerable difficulties. It has to make a payment and does not have the funds to do so. It will, as happens in these circumstances, apply to the Bank of England for assistance. News of the problems will seep out, and many people will wish to convert their funds into something more substantial than paper. Other houses will also want gold from the Bank of England's vaults.'

He nodded, but cautiously. It was clear he only just understood what I was talking about. 'The Bank does not have enough. One does not have to be an expert to understand the difficulties that arise when a bank does not have enough money to meet its obligations.'

'I do not see . . .'

'In the past month the Russian state bank has withdrawn substantial amounts of the gold it habitually holds in London for safe-keeping. It has withdrawn money from the Bank of England, and also from Barings itself. All for perfectly good reasons, I am sure, but if it were able to announce it was reversing this policy, then the problem would be significantly lessened. That is all I require.'

I had lost him, I could see. He was a man of diplomatic balls and negotiations between grand men. He understood not one thing about how Empires are really made, or how countries satisfy the needs and desires of their people. It had never occurred to him to wonder how the food on his plate got there, how it was grown, harvested, moved from place to place and merchant to merchant along the great paths of invisible money that encircle the globe, tying every man and every town to each other so efficiently that most people did not even suspect they were there. He took it for granted. And we never value what we never think about.

'You want Russia to move gold . . .'

I suppressed a groan. 'No, Excellency. There is no need to move it. Simply saying that you will not move it will be more than sufficient. Belief is as good as reality, where money is concerned.'

He frowned. 'As you see, Mr Cort, I know little of these things. Nor do I care about them much. An oversight on my part, no doubt. But it means that I have no idea whatsoever whether you are asking me a small favour or a gigantic one. We wish to make an exchange, but that depends on a fair price for each side. I do not know the value of what you are asking.'

'Then I suggest you consult one of your people in the Embassy who does know, Excellency,' I said. 'But I would request that you do so swiftly. Time is of the greatest importance here.'

He surprised me then. He was not at all the sort of person I had imagined. He stood immediately and called for a servant. 'Prepare my clothes. I must go to the Embassy immediately. And send messengers to . . .' here he reeled off a list of Russian names – 'and tell them to meet me there within the hour.'

He turned back to me, and smiled. 'I will meet my people, and attempt to understand what this is about,' he said. 'I may need to get hold of you, so if you would leave your address . . . ?'

I nodded.

'And I will hold you to your word, Mr Cort. I must have that information, whether I can assist you or no.'

'You will have that, and willingly,' I said. 'All I know at the moment is that Drennan is probably living on the Ile Saint-Louis, and that the plot involves an attack against the Russian cathedral some time next week. Please place guards around it. Twenty-four hours a day.' I gave Drennan's description. 'He is not a member of the Orthodox Church, cares nothing for Eastern music and has no opinion whatsoever of modern ecclesiastical architecture. If he goes there at all, it will not be for the state of his soul.'

'Then you have given me a great deal to do,' he said. 'Diplomats must dress properly, and that takes an extraordinary amount of time.'

It was a dismissal, so I thanked him, left the room and headed back home.

I had made progress, or so I thought. That is, I had contacted two powerful people in the Russian and the French camps and opened communication. The next stage was to discover their price, if indeed they were prepared to sell. I realised, however, that I had little enough to offer in exchange.

And if the price was too high? What would happen then? I paused at a café in the rue du Faubourg St-Honoré and ordered an omelette and a glass of red wine; I had not eaten since morning and I was desperately hungry. I might as well eat and think at the same time.

Britain would be desperately weakened, of course; trade all over the world would shrink; factories would close, ships be laid up. People would lose their jobs. The Government's revenue and its ability to pay for the Royal Navy, would fall. The colonies would then be exposed and vulnerable – India, South Africa, the Far East – and the French and Russians would move to drive home their advantage. What could we do? Except go cap in hand to the Germans, asking them to name their price. They would, no doubt, want a free hand in Eastern Africa for a start, maybe much more than that. And would they even want to assist, sandwiched as they were between Russia to the east and France to the west?

All this for a few tons of metal. And I had made things even more complicated by introducing the business of an attempted atrocity, which I would now have to plan. What on earth was I thinking of? It was going to make my life very much more difficult. Still, I could worry about that when it was all over. Waiting and watching, not doing anything unless it is necessary; these have always been my main characteristics in the business of intelligence. It was what distinguished me from others, like Drennan, who no doubt would have blown something up first of all, as a way of catching people's attention.

And then I smiled, and ordered another glass of red wine and called for paper and an envelope.

'Dear Drennan,' I wrote

I have been engaged by a mutual friend to act in the

matter of a work of fiction which you may know about.

I think we must talk over the issue, and swiftly. A

neutral place of meeting would be suitable. I will be at

the entrance to the Orthodox Cathedral in the rue Daru

on Thursday at six-thirty in the evening.

Yours

Cort.

I put it in an envelope, then travelled down to the Ile Saint-Louis and left it, addressed to M. Lefevre, at the bar. He would get it soon enough.

From there, I went back to Elizabeth; it was past nine when I arrived, but it felt like three in the morning – there had been so much going on. I was giddy with tiredness, and I think that my judgement was not what it should have been. I ought to have gone to bed for some rest, but I remembered that stricken look on her face as she held my arm, so lightly, and asked me to come back. Nothing would have kept me away. I even wondered what Stone would have thought, had he known . . .

Elizabeth roused her cook to get me some food, and was restrained about talking before I had eaten something. I was grateful for that, and made her wait, as I ate quail's eggs, a little pâté, and drank a glass of wine with great speed and little ceremony.

'Who do you go to for comfort?' she asked as I finished. 'Do you have brothers, parents?'

'My father is alive, but we are not close. I have a sort of half-brother. I can tell him most things, and he relies on me similarly.'

'Then you are lucky. What is he like? Is he like you?'

'No. He is hard-working and serious, and much attached to warm fires and armchairs. And you?'

'No one. Just you, at the moment.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Why?'

'That I'm the best you have. Listen, I don't have good news.'

She composed herself, face set, a little pale.

'Simon is dead,' I said. 'It doesn't matter how. But he didn't have the diaries. He sold them. He told me as much.'

'Who to?'

'A man called Arnsley Drennan. Otherwise known as Jules Lefevre. You met him with me in Nancy.'

She nodded faintly.

'A much more dangerous character. Much smarter, and not interested in money. The trouble is, I don't know where he is. I have begun to tackle the problem, and that might work. But for the next few days, at least, I cannot say what will happen. I very much doubt he is involved for gain. This will not end simply by you handing over some cash.'

She cupped her hands against her face and closed her eyes. And I felt bad, sorry to disappoint her.

'I see. What might he want?'

'Me. That's my main concern. He may see your diaries as a way of getting to me. They would destroy your reputation, but they would also expose me and wreck everything I've been doing here. It would cause severe embarrassment to the British Government, and at a time when Britain can least afford it. The French, no doubt, know that there are spies here. Having it plastered all over the newspapers at the moment could be very difficult.'

'I'm sorry.'

'It's not your fault. But it would help if I knew how powerful a weapon these diaries are,' I said. 'Tell me about Dr Stauffer.'

'Is it important?'

'I think it is.'

'Why?'

'I need to know everything in advance. I don't want unpleasant surprises when I pick up the newspaper one morning.'

'Come and sit down,' she said, and led me back into the little sitting room, lit now only by a couple of candles and the fire in the grate. It was warm and I was worried I might fall asleep. At least I was until she started talking, which she did in a soft voice, face turned to the fireplace, as if I wasn't there.

'Listen,' she said. 'I was put into an orphanage shortly after my mother died.'

There was a long, long silence, which I did not break into. She was thinking, and she looked inexpressibly lovely, as though no cares could possibly touch her.

'So how did you become you?'

She looked puzzled by the question and thought. 'Because somebody, once, was kind to me,' she said simply. 'So I know it is possible, however cruel the world can be.'

I didn't feel able to respond to this, so I stayed silent.

'It was a terrible place. If God punishes me as I no doubt deserve, he will send me back there. It was cold and mean, and those in charge were harsh. They encouraged the children to be cruel to each other as well. I won't dwell on it because there is nothing good to say. Except that there was one woman, one of the visitors appointed by the town council to oversee it, who was not like that. She talked to me once, and I was so greatly in need that I worshipped her, just for those few words. Every time she came I watched her, how she dressed and moved, the way she bowed her head slightly when talking to others. On days when the trustees held meetings, I would get up and dress my hair carefully, and be at the gate onto the street, so that she would see me when she arrived. I hoped she would notice me, smile at me, even speak to me again.

'And one day she did. She asked me my name. I was so overcome I couldn't answer and just stared at her. So she asked, very patiently, if I was a good girl and did everything the guardians asked me. Whether I worked hard, and was quiet and obedient.

'I said that I tried.

'And what did I want to do when I grew up?

'I had no idea. I had never thought about it. So I blurted out the only thing that came to my mind. "To get out of here, ma'am," I said. And I could see from the look on the custodian's face that I was going to be punished for that when the time came.

'She saw it too. And understood exactly what had happened, and bent down close to my ear.

' "Let's see what we can do, shall we?" she whispered.

'And she left me to my fate, which was terrible enough. I was nearly eleven by then, and I do not think you can imagine how cruel another woman can be to the weak and the young. It was not the bruises or the cuts, the cold water, the starvation. There are many things worse than that.'

She stopped and paused, then smiled at me. 'Still, they do say that the worse the misery the shorter it lasts. I do not know why they say it, because it is not true. But it did come to an end eventually, after a week or so.

'My saviour came back for me. She needed a maid, and had, in effect, bought me. In exchange for a donation, I was allowed out on licence to work in her home, doing what was needed.

'It was hard work, but like going to heaven in comparison. I was fed, clothed, the cook was kind and not too demanding. The other girls were as you might expect but not too mean to me, as by that stage I had learned how to deflect trouble and ignore all wounding comments.

'And Madame Stauffer was kind, although distant and formal. It was a French-speaking house; until then I had spoken only Swiss-German and had to learn a new language, but did so quickly. She was French herself, and had imposed the language on the household, although her husband was German. Proper German. He was a lawyer, they lived in a big house, with everything you might need – fine furniture, gardens, servants. Everything except children, for the story was that Madame Stauffer was barren, and made desolate by her failure to give her husband the children both wanted. Perhaps that was why she found a place for me, I do not know. I need say little more about her, except that she was kind to me.

'Her husband was different. I found him very frightening. He was older than she, about forty-five years old, and very quiet. He was never around very much, only in the evenings, and said little. When he came home they would eat together, and then he would go to his library, and spend the rest of the evening there reading, until bedtime. They talked little, and slept in separate rooms, but seemed to be fond enough of each other. He was always respectful and polite, considerate of her presence. More than that I did not know, or care. He spoke to the servants only rarely, and was neither a good nor bad presence in the house, for he knew nothing of its running at all.

'One day I was in his library, dusting, as I had to do every week, and found a book lying on the floor, which I picked up to put back on the table. I opened it to see what it was, in case it was some law book which should go on his desk, and saw it was a novel. Balzac, it was, Père Goriot. Have you read it?'

I nodded.

'It changed my life forever,' she said simply. 'Such things do happen, although it was very unexpected. I had never read much; it had been forbidden, apart from prayer books. They did not see why we should have to read as our task in life was to work and obey. They only taught us with reluctance. So I hardly had any idea what stories were until that moment, when I read that first sentence: "Madame Vauquer, née de Conflans, est une vieille femme . . ."

'I was transfixed by it, could not stop myself reading. I read as quickly as I could, skipping over the words I did not understand. I had fallen into another world and did not want to leave it. You must have felt that in your life? Everything else vanished, there was just this story, which I could not leave.

'I had to, of course; eventually the most senior maid came in and saw me, and clucked around me and scolded me terribly for my impertinence. She didn't hit me, that did not happen in that house. But I got a good talking to.

'I couldn't care less. If that was sin, then I was ready for hell. All I could think about all day was how to get back into the master's library to find it again. I couldn't sleep that night. We all went to bed in the attic, all four women in one tiny room and normally the snoring didn't bother me. That night it drove me mad, and when I was sure that everyone in the house was asleep, I got out of bed, and tiptoed down the servants' staircase. It was icy cold, I remember, and I had bare feet which were numb by the time I got down to the family quarters. It didn't matter; I found the book, sat in the armchair by the fire and read.

'You have been educated, I know. Books to you are commonplace, something you take for granted. But for me such books were like a weary traveller in the desert finding an oasis. I was fascinated, excited, thrilled. I had stepped into another world, full of extraordinary things and people. I fell in love with Rastignac and saw in him the first glimmerings of my own ambition. He had nothing and wished to conquer Paris. He taught me that sweetness and kindness would serve me little. Yet he kept a goodness that could not be corroded by the world. Books taught me of friendship and loyalty, of betrayal and how to suspect others. And it taught me to dream, of worlds and people and lives that I had never thought existed.'

She stopped as she recaptured, very briefly, the joy of that discovery, one of the moments in her life which would be an unalloyed treasure for the rest of her life. Whatever else had happened to her, would happen to her in the future, she had that moment of enchantment in a chair, with cold feet and a spluttering candle.

'I read almost until dawn, then made myself go back up the stairs to get some sleep. I should have been exhausted the next day, so tired I could hardly move. But I wasn't; I was exhilarated beyond imagining. It was like a first love. It was a first love, with Rastignac and the way we had met.

'But I now embarked on a life of crime. I could not do it every night, as even my young body could not manage to go without sleep forever, but every night I could manage I slipped down those stairs to read. I read more Balzac, everything I could discover in the library, tried Victor Hugo, Flaubert. I was so moved by the fate of poor Madame Bovary I wept for days afterwards, and felt myself in mourning.

'After a week, though, a very strange thing happened. I came down, and discovered a new book on the table. Stendhal, and a thick blanket on the chair. I was frightened, a little, but the temptation was too great, so I wrapped myself up warmly and settled down. I devoured the book as I had all the others, and wished I knew people as interesting as the Duchess of Sanseverina, or as dashing as Fabrizio. A few nights later, when I had nearly finished it, I found another one on the side table, and a glass of milk.

'And so it went on, until one night, as I stretched over to wrap myself up more comfortably, I knocked the glass over. Milk spilled over the rug, and there was a terrible noise as the glass broke on the floor. It was still early; I had begun to take more chances, and was coming down earlier and earlier. There were still people awake. I panicked, as I knew I would be thrown out of the door if I was discovered. There were footsteps coming down the corridor. And then I heard footsteps in the room itself. It was one of those rooms where there were so many books that the shelves went up to the ceiling, and a ledge had been built halfway up the wall, with a little iron staircase leading up to it. It was down this that Dr Stauffer was now coming.

'"Quickly," he said in a quiet voice. "Up the stairs, and hide behind the desk. Keep quiet."

'In one little corner was a small desk which I had never seen used. It was always covered in piles of paper which were never moved.

'I stared at him, and he gestured at me urgently to do as I was told. With seconds to spare, I fled up the steps, and crouched down behind the papers. The evening maid, whose duty it was to close up the house for the night, knocked and came in.

' "It's quite all right," he said. "I'm afraid I knocked over a glass. Please don't worry about it. It's late, and I am working."

'The maid nodded and withdrew. The door shut, and I heard it being locked.

' "You can come back down now. It's quite safe."

'He had a gentle voice, not the voice of someone who was going to throw me out into the night, but nonetheless I was petrified, shivering from fright and cold.

' "Stand by the fire and warm yourself," he said. "And don't be frightened. I'm not going to eat you."

'I began to stammer out an apology, which he brushed away. "I have been keeping an eye on you for several days," he said with a faint smile. "I wondered who was moving my books, but as nothing went missing, I didn't mind. Then two evenings ago I was up there, working, and I saw you come and curl up on my chair. I thought it was so charming I couldn't bring myself to disturb you. And very curious, too. Why do you spend so much time reading?"

'I did not really trust myself to answer. "I can't stop myself," I said eventually.

'The answer seemed to please him. "And which of those books did you like the most?"

'I felt like saying all of them. "The ones with Rastignac in."

' "Really? You don't find stories of young girls finding true love more appealing? Why do you like Rastignac?"

'"Because he is trying to make something of himself."

'He seemed to find this reply quite fascinating, and he came across the room, sat opposite me and stared hard at me. "How extraordinary," he said. "How remarkable. Well, well . . ."

' "I'm truly sorry, sir . . ."

' "What for?"

' "For my impertinence."

' "No, you are not. At least, I very much hope you are not. Are you?"

'"No."

' "You notice that this room of mine is terribly untidy and messy? Not to say dusty?"

'I looked around, and could not see a book or ornament out of place.

And as for dust, I don't think there was a single speck anywhere.

' "I think that what I need is someone to tidy it up more often. Once the job is done, there would be no reason why that person could not fill up the remaining hours reading a book. As long as they put it back in its proper place again. Once they were finished. Can you think of anyone that might suit?"

'I could hardly believe what he was saying. "Oh, sir . . ."

' "Would you be so kind as to assist me, do you think?"

'I never knew that anyone could feel such happiness as I felt just then. The idea that I could spend hours a day in that room, just reading and tidying, made me want to skip and sing as I went back up the stairs. It was beyond my wildest dreams, and it was not a dream. I was given my instructions the next day by the head maid, and told to watch myself. Be quiet, be obedient. For once I intended to do just that.

'Nearly all day, every day, I spent in that library; Dr Stauffer said he had given me the task of reorganising all the books and dusting all the shelves and making a catalogue of them. He reckoned it would take up to a year. So it would have done, had he really wanted me to do it. I was occasionally instructed to put papers in files, or find things for him, but apart from that I simply read. And talked.

'The other servants were scandalised that I should have to work so hard, and I did not enlighten them. Every day I went to the library at eight in the morning, and stayed there, reading. Part of the time I read what I wished, but I also had to read what he gave me, and he evidently decided to give me an education. My knowledge of the world came entirely from books, and bit by bit it deepened. He gave me Voltaire, and Montaigne, then Shakespeare in translation, Victor Hugo, Dumas, Chateaubriand. In German Goethe, Schiller, then other books as well, history, philosophy. He suggested Homer, Cicero, Plato. Some I understood, others not, but all fascinated me, and often in the evenings he would summon me to talk about them. What did I think of this passage, or that? Was this author correct? Why did he say such a thing? I'm sure my ideas and responses were foolish and naïve, but he didn't seem to mind, and never corrected me, or told me the right answer. This went on for months and months; it was the happiest time of my life. For the first time, I felt as though I was loved, that someone cared for me. I had never imagined that it was possible to be so happy.

'Need I say that I fell in love with him, a man in his late forties, and me a girl of fifteen, as I was by then? He was everything I needed and didn't even know existed. He was even lonelier than I was, and knew little about how to inspire warmth or friendship in his equals. So he turned to me, and sought intimacy through books and ideas. He liked having me around him. There is a joy in that, I can see, watching someone else discover the pleasures that you first learned yourself in your youth. To see someone growing and flourishing in front of you. I will have children, one day. I know I will. And I will watch them grow.'

I was thoroughly confused now, for she was telling me a story of being saved, something out of those books she had devoured so avidly. A pretty little orphan, adopted by a kindly old man and given an education and love. I knew the story; she grew up with her devoted guardian and looked after him in his old age, or married some respectable, upright youth exactly like him. It was a tale of safety and contentment. Of warm emotion and fulfilment. It did not end on the streets of a small border town in winter.

She was in her own world now, and I could not interrupt. I did not want to and I was too tired; I didn't really hear her words; they just seeped into my mind as I sat next to her on the sofa. I do not think she meant to tell me this story when she started. She was asking for help, not giving a confidence. But once she started talking, she could not stop. I think I was the only person who ever heard the tale.

'He taught me other things as well,' she went on. 'All about prints and paintings, statues and cathedrals. Porcelain, jewellery; he was immensely cultivated, and had a small collection of art. He would sit beside me with a folder of prints and get me to look at them, describing what I saw, giving my opinions. I was never very good at it; I think he thought me rather weak in that area. But he persisted, and seemed to like being beside me. But, bit by bit, the sort of pictures he showed me changed. He began to show me prints by Boucher, of nudes, and scenes of seduction, and asked me to describe them in the greatest detail. I could hear him breathing more irregularly as I spoke and I didn't know why. Nothing had ever been said in the orphanage and the maids were all highly respectable and prim. My ignorance was total; all I knew was that a sort of playfulness came on me, and I realised that I could make him sound even more uncomfortable the more I described. His hands on her breasts. The whiteness of the skin. The hair falling down the nape of the neck.

' "And what do you think it is about?"

' "I don't know sir. But I imagine she is very cold, sitting there in an open field with no clothes on like that. I hope it was painted on a warm summer's day."

' "But do you think she is enjoying it?"

' "I don't know, sir."

' "But does this please you?"

'And he put his hand on my breast and began to stroke it. He was now breathing really hard, and I was frozen in confusion. I did not dislike it, but I knew enough to think I should. So I said nothing at all, but began trembling as his hands moved down my body.

'I gave him no encouragement. I did nothing. I didn't know what to do. I just sat, rigidly still as he took my immobility for consent. Then there was a rattle on the doorknob, as one of the maids opened the door to bring in his morning coffee. He pulled his hand away quickly, and stood up. I still had only very little idea of what was going on, but I could see from his behaviour that it shouldn't be happening. That he was doing something wrong.

'The scene did not repeat itself for a very long time; on the outside, we resumed our normal way, and he was as kind and attentive as ever. But, of course, everything had changed. I had a first glimpse of my power; I knew that I could make him tremble. And I practised. With my eyes, and my gestures, and the way I sat and talked. I learned how to make him uncomfortable. I wasn't aware of what I was doing; there was no malice in me. But I think I was putting him through the tortures of hell, nevertheless. One evening, when his wife was out at the theatre, he could resist me no more.

'It hurt. It does, you know, and I cried. He was overcome with remorse, and kept stroking my hair and saying how sorry he was, and could I forgive him. I ended up comforting him, and telling him not to worry. It didn't matter. Then he went and sat on the armchair, far away from me, and looked at me in horror. I must not say anything about this to anyone. It would be our secret. Otherwise I wouldn't be allowed to come back here and read books any more.'

'So I became a whore, at the age of fifteen. I would have died rather than give up those books and if that was the necessary payment, it was one I was willing to make. I assured him I wouldn't say anything, and the tone of panic in my voice made him realise that I meant it. I was totally in his power, and he knew it.

'And that was how my education was completed. Everything went back to the way it was before; I would read, and we would talk. Except that some days, normally in the evening, I could sense a change of tone in his voice, a look in his eye. Was I paying him or was he paying me? It was an exchange. Both had something the other wanted. I did not feel wicked or sinful, although I knew I ought to, and I could not ask anyone else's opinion. Had any of the other maids known, they would have set me right immediately, I am sure. But they did not. The other thing I learned was how to be absolutely discreet. I knew enough to realise that everything that made life worthwhile depended on it.

'He was, in his way, a good man, Dr Stauffer, but he was weak. With me he could be the gallant lover, and father, all in one, depending on his mood, and I would play whichever part he required of me.

'I was growing, and learning fast, and I came to despise the Stauffers. I should not have done so; it was not in the play he had written out in his mind. There was no scope for me to grow and to change. But I saw how husband and wife behaved to each other and to the outside world, and learned that this marriage which was so enviable was pretence. It worked well enough, I suppose, but you must remember I had been schooled by novels; Madame Bovary was my best friend; Rastignac my real lover. The barely concealed hatreds that kept the Stauffer marriage together began to excite in me disdain and loathing. I would love, or I would be free. The price for my liberty would be high; the man willing to pay it would be extraordinary. Not like Dr Stauffer, with his moustaches, and fat belly, and smell of cigars, and fumbling grunts as he pawed me.

'But there was also a man called Wichmann, a man I hated more than any man I have ever known. He was sly, mendacious, cruel. A dirty man with a dirty soul. He found out about me and Dr Stauffer, and set a price for his silence. The price was me, and Dr Stauffer paid it. I was handed over to him, when he wanted me. For all his failings, Dr Stauffer was a kindly man; Wichmann was not. He liked to do things, and made me do things, which were horrible. But he taught me, as well; I learned that I could even control a man like that, by doing more than he wanted, and allowing him to do as he pleased. Do you want to hear what I learned to do at his hands? I will tell you, if it pleases you. I will tell you anything you wish to hear.'

I shook my head. 'I think I deserve better than that from you,' I replied reproachfully.

She shook her head. 'You are an unusual man,' she said.

'Perhaps.'

'I couldn't stand it, eventually. So I brought it all to an end. Not deliberately, not thought out; I didn't really know what I was doing; but we were caught, and it was my doing. Dr Stauffer became bolder, and I encouraged him into taking more and more risks. One day his wife was due to go out for a lunch, but I heard it had been cancelled, so she decided to go for a short walk instead, and come back to eat at the house. Dr Stauffer did not know this, and I goaded him into wanting me. I could do that easily by then.

'So we were surprised, in the grossest way imaginable. His wife came in, stared, and walked out again. She was a kind, but fairly stupid woman, given to generosity to orphans, but incapable of understanding adults, or herself. I do not think it ever crossed her mind that her preoccupation with charities and lunches might have left a hole in her husband's life which he would seek to fill elsewhere. A more sophisticated woman would have had a blazing row and let the matter drop. She would not. She wished to separate, and then I learned that this, for Dr Stauffer, would be cataclysmic. He had no money of his own; the family fortune was hers, and she intended to make him realise it. I do not know the details; I was, naturally, packing my things. Dr Stauffer dismissed me within seconds of his wife leaving the room; before I had even managed to pull my dress down. He was going to throw all the blame on me. Wiles of a temptress. Well, of course he was; I couldn't blame him.

'But it didn't work; I only gathered approximately what had happened, but I think she was not prepared to take his excuses. She was stupid, but not that stupid. That was all I knew; what happened then was not my concern any more. I had to leave, and leave quickly. It was obvious that I would never get another position in Lausanne. So I left the city, and left Switzerland.'

'You did not murder Madame Stauffer?'

'How do you know about that?'

She had not mentioned it; Jules had discovered it. She was suspicious now and on the brink of closing up on me.

'How do you know about that?'

'It was not hard,' I said. 'And it does not matter. You must tell me everything. Good, bad and shameful. It is not as if I am in a position to judge.'

She looked coolly at me for a few more seconds, then relaxed. 'I suppose you're not,' she said quietly. 'Very well. To answer your question, no. I would never have done that. She had been good to me. I meant her no harm at all. Do you believe me?'

I shrugged.

'Listen to the rest of my story and decide. It seems I am to lay myself bare to you, so you might as well know everything.'

'Very well.'

'I was penniless and without even a name; I heard about the death of Madame Stauffer and that I was being blamed. I could not call myself Elizabeth Lemercier any more. Fortunately, girls like I was then are two a penny. No one cares who they are, or what they are called. We can do without papers, or anything. So I chose a new name for myself: Virginie, as I had read my Rousseau and still dreamed of finding my Paul. There was only myself in the world to rely on. I crossed into France and the rest, I suppose, you can guess. I had tasted enough comfort not to want to become a servant once more, but I had few abilities, and little to recommend me. Except that I knew how to attract men. I realised quite how easy in Lyon when I was walking down the street, and this man started looking at me. I ended up in a brothel, where I stayed for about six months before I had to move on.

'I was discovered. It was simple enough. Wichmann found me; I do not think he was looking, but he was the sort who would visit brothels whenever he travelled, and he travelled to Lyon. When he saw me, and recognised me, he also saw an opportunity. He said I would have to do exactly as he wanted, otherwise he would go to the police. Do you think that is enough to make me panic? It was not. By then there was nothing anyone might have asked me to do that I would not have managed, however much it might make ordinary people blanch. I would quite easily have complied with his wishes, had I had some assurance that he would keep his word. But I knew he would not. He was one of the very few people who knew me from Lausanne, and he would never let me go.'

'So you killed him.'

She nodded. 'I did. Cold-bloodedly, and deliberately. I stabbed him in the heart, and sat and watched him die. Are you horrified?'

I thought, then, of Simon. 'I don't know,' I said quietly.

'I changed my clothes, packed my bag and left, locking the door behind me. By the time he was discovered I was well away from Lyon, I had cut my hair, changed the way I dressed. I changed my name, but kept Virginie. I liked it; it was my secret name, the one I had given myself.'

'And Madame Stauffer?'

'I do not know. I imagine it was her husband; Wichmann all but admitted that he was still blackmailing him, but as his dalliance with me was known by that stage, there must have been something else, something serious, that he could hold over him.'

'Would a man murder his wife over such a thing?'

'If the wife threatens separation and is the one who has brought the fortune to the marriage? Dr Stauffer lived well and worked little. Many people have killed for less. Not that it matters, I think. As I freely confess to one murder, there would be no reason not to confess to another, had I committed it. I did not.'

'The police did not look for you?'

'Yes, but not very hard. A foreigner found dead in a brothel is not going to be a matter of the greatest importance for them. And it is easy to escape the attention of the police, if you know how.'

'Tell me.'

'Firstly, do not draw attention to yourself. Change the way you dress and look and behave. It is easy to become a different person entirely, if you wish. I was very upset when you recognised me in Biarritz, you know. You are the only person to have done so. I even met General Mercier at a ball, a few months back. Even though he knew every part of my body intimately, he did not for a moment make any connection between me and the woman he knew in Nancy. How did you recognise me?'

I thought back to the moment. 'I don't know, exactly. Certainly there is nothing physical that recalls what you were. All your mannerisms are now those of a Countess, your voice is different, the way of walking and moving; it has all changed. I didn't recognise you at first, that I know. What can I say? I merely knew. But not so certainly that I dared introduce myself in anything but the most ambiguous fashion, in case I was wrong. It says little for your former lovers that they do not recognise you.'

'That is because they were never interested in me, only in themselves. When they were with me, they thought how splendid they were to have such a beautiful woman as their companion. When they made love to me, they were aware only of what wonderful lovers they were. And, believe me, I made sure they felt that.'

'All part of the service?'

She nodded. 'Then and now.'

I glanced down to examine my fingernails, so I did not have to look at her. 'Why do you tell me this?'

'You asked. Besides, I need your help. That does not come for nothing.'

I frowned. 'Not everything has a price, you know.'

'There are few things which do not in this life.'

'A depressing way of looking at things.'

'No. It is liberating, once you get used to it. And it shields you from disappointment.'

I let out a huge, involuntary sigh, one of confusion and, almost, despair. She had defeated me. Every time I felt I knew her, the real woman slipped away, and put another phantom in her place. Now, there was this: cynical, cold, murderous. Vulnerable, childlike, innocent. Was this, finally, seeing into the depths of her soul and its real nature?

And then I knew. I glanced up and saw her face; it was a plastic face, an actor's face, able to show any emotion, any trait of character. But she did not see me looking and was not prepared. And I caught a glimpse of something I had seen once before, in a restaurant in Nancy, when I had called her a lady.

'You are lying to me again.'

'I am not. I did not kill Madame Stauffer.'

'I don't mean that. I mean, you are trying to push me away from you, to disgust me, and make me say how monstrous you are. You are trying to prove to yourself that all men are the same in the end. Why? So you can keep on living your life without changing, allowing no one near you?'

'Stop this, please.'

'And why would you want to do that?' I continued remorselessly. 'Let me see . . .'

'Shut up,' she said, more intently now.

'Not because of me, obviously,' I said. 'You like me, but so what? I have been around for long enough. It must be something else. Or someone else.'

'Shut up, I tell you! Just shut your mouth!' Her face was transformed; her voice was angry, furious, but her face was one of pure terror. For the first time, she looked what she was.

At that moment, I justified all her opinions about men. I was enjoying myself. I was reducing her to nothing, crying, raging, out of control – truly out of control, not with some fake passion that she sold by the yard to the highest bidder. This was the real Elizabeth, frightened, defenceless and totally alone. I had pushed through all her defences at last. I was not proud of myself, but I could not stop. I wanted to push her over the edge.

'Someone else? That must be it. Someone who does not fit into that ideal of cruelty. Who does not deserve the way you treat them, and you're frightened. Not a woman, obviously. So, a man. Oh, my God! That's it! It's obvious, really. You are in love. You have finally, really, fallen in love.'

She had collapsed off the settee, and was on her knees on the floor, head in her hands, her entire body shaking with sobs as she dissolved into tears of misery and hatred. Then a wave of compassion flowed over me and I regretted what I had said. But only a little. The feeling of triumph was too strong.

'I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!'

She attacked me, flailing at me with her fists, hitting me on the face and on my shoulders and chest. She meant it, and knew how to fight. I had to grab her by both hands to make her stop, and still she struggled to get free and renew the attack. So I bound her to me, by putting my arms around her so she could scarcely move, and then had to lie on top of her, squeezing the breath out of her body as she tried to squirm free.

'Listen to me,' I said into her ear when the struggling subsided enough for me to speak. 'You need to understand a few things here. I am your friend. I don't know why, but I am. You do not understand much about friendship, I know. It is time to learn. I do not judge you or criticise you. I never have. I never will. For as long as you have known me, you have hidden from me. That does not matter either. But it is time to stop. You have fallen in love with someone. Serve you right. You now know it is not merely a word in a book. Your life will change forever, and not before time. You will have to make more room for trust and generosity. And heartache and disappointment, perhaps. Don't be afraid of it. Now, can I risk letting you go without meeting the fate of Herr Wichmann?'

She sniffled, which I took to be a yes, so I cautiously let her go. She immediately came towards me again, and sobbed into my shoulder for a good ten minutes.

'I'm sorry. I have never behaved like that before.'

'And I, also, am sorry you have never behaved like that before,' I said with a smile. 'Who is this paragon of all the manly virtues who has stolen your heart where all others have failed?'

There was a long, long pause, before she finally lifted her face, sniffled – she even managed to make that attractive – and stared at me with defiance. 'Mr Stone.'

I just stopped myself from laughing. 'Are you . . . I mean, really?'

'Don't laugh.'

'I'm not,' I said, 'really I'm not,' although I was. 'It's just that I imagined . . . that Russian count, now. He's a handsome, rich fellow.'

'He's also married. Besides, I do not wish to live in Russia.'

'But Stone is . . . you know . . .'

'Middling height, a tendency to the plump, gruff, unforthcoming and old,' she replied with a watery smile.

'Yes. So . . .'

'He is the only man – apart from you – who does not look at me as a potential possession. He is kind and has asked nothing in return. He likes me, I think, and dislikes everything that others find fascinating. He is completely gauche, and uncomfortable, but seems to want nothing more than to be with me. He is not a shareholder, and never will be. I really do love him. I knew it the first time I met him. I have never known anyone like him, never felt like that for anyone else.'

'Does he know about . . .'

'About me? No. Nothing. And he must not. I want to be loved. Really loved. And by him.'

'Are you ashamed?'

'Of course I'm ashamed! I want to be what he thinks I am. Promise me you will never say anything? Please?'

I nodded. 'I met you for the first time a few months back. I know nothing else about you at all. But I am not the problem at the moment. Drennan is.'

She pulled up her legs, and wrapped her arms around them, then laid her head on her arms. She looked as she should have been, a young girl, innocent, and naïve. 'I'm so tired,' she said. 'And I don't know what to do. I have to stay here, hoping he will come to see me. Every time the doorbell rings, I hope it is him. Every time a letter comes, I hope it will be from him. There is nothing I can do about it. For the first time in my life, I cannot do anything at all except hope.'

'Classic symptoms. You should know, surely? You've read the books.'

'I never thought it would be like this. It is so painful. I am more afraid than I have ever been. Always, in the past, I have been able to take control and think my way through. Now I can do nothing. And he will find out about me, I know he will. And then I will never see him again.'

'Well,' I said, 'that is not necessarily the case. I have not walked out in outrage.'

'But you, Mr Cort, are a liar and a criminal, with the morals of the gutter.'

'Oh, that's true. I had forgotten that.' I took her hand, and smiled. 'And we guttersnipes must stick together. So you can count on me, at least.'

'And what about you?'

'What do you mean?'

'You lecture me about love, but who do you love? About friendship and trust, but who do you trust?'

I shrugged.

'Your world is as cold as mine. The only difference is that I didn't choose my world and now I want to get out of it.'

'I have to go. I have a lot to do tomorrow.'

'Stay with me.'

I was tempted, believe me I was. But I shook my head. 'I think it would be better if I had the singular honour of being the only man in the world ever to refuse you.'

'Twice, now.'

'So it is. Take it as a mark of my esteem.'

She leaned over and kissed me very gently on the forehead, then I saw her swiftly brush a tear from her eye. 'Good luck, my friend.'

I kissed her on the cheek, and left. I felt utterly exhausted. I should have been preoccupied with the fate of empires and the fortunes of the mighty. Instead, the only image in my mind was of a beautiful young woman crying her eyes out.

CHAPTER 18

The next day I went as soon as it was polite to see Sir Edward Merson, Her Majesty's Ambassador to France. I was fairly certain it would be a waste of time, but I had been close to British civil servants long enough to realise that it is necessary to cover all possibilities, to stop up all routes by which blame can come and attach itself. Should everything end badly – and I thought it might well – a failure on my part to alert the British Embassy would undoubtedly become the reason why everything went wrong.

A strange morning, as it turned out, an island of tranquillity in the midst of the chaos that was surrounding me. Sir Edward was not there – it was the hunting season, and he was not a man to allow business to get between him and a quail. So I left a message, then, feeling unsure of what to do next, wandered into the nearby English church where all the English expatriates (except me) gathered as a matter of course every Sunday to listen to the Word of God and breathe in the aroma of the Home Counties. It was like stepping into a different world. The church was a perfect imitation of an English Gothic building, as reinterpreted by people like my own father in the past fifty years. I sat through the entire service, the first time I had done such a thing in many years. My father may have rebuilt the odd church, but he had only rarely gone into them for other than professional reasons. The Campbells were dutiful in their religion and took me along to St Mary's Bayswater every Sunday, but were hardly exuberant in their religiosity. And school chapel, twenty minutes of prayer, hymn, lecture, every morning, was such a commonplace that I think most of the boys there were entirely unaware that it had any religious significance whatsoever. It was just part of the day, a moment where you could drift off in your thoughts and dream of other things.

But I found that I relaxed. The rolling sound of a good hymn badly sung is particularly evocative. The sermon had just the right blend of comic irrelevance and tedium to make it pleasurable, and the very smell of the place reminded me of England in a manner that quite took me by surprise. And to see all those men in their Sunday best, the women who had taken pains with their clothes but still looked slightly askew in comparison to their French counterparts, the rebellious children struggling to remain still, so that the whole service was punctuated by the quiet, reassuring noise of hand against trouser bottom, was strangely calming. It was a very long way from the pews to the fate of the Buenos Aires Water Supply 5 per cent, but they were intimately connected.

And finally it was all over, the last hymn sung, the collection plate full, the blessings given. A cheerful chatter broke out and the organist started showing off his command of the instrument as the congregation began to file out. I waited a few moments. The vicar was coming in the opposite direction, and stopped me.

'You looked troubled, young man.'

'Oh, Reverend. You would not believe.'

I nodded and walked on. What could I have said anyway? Which would have been the better one to start with? The coming attack on British finance? Or should I have said how I was trying to think of a way that a whore, whose pimp I had once been shortly after she had committed murder, could marry an English industrialist and get away with it? Or should I have mentioned how I had murdered a man in cold blood a few days previously? All, I hoped, were a little outside the experience of a Church of England cleric.

I walked out of the church feeling bemused. I had done everything I could. If the world collapsed because no one would listen it was hardly my fault now. I had – so I believed – uncovered this great plot, and passed the information on. And yet, I felt I should do more. It was pride, if you like. No one likes to be powerless. And it was patriotism, strangely enhanced by my visit to that oddly English church. For a moment – one of the few such moments of my career – I knew why I was doing my job.

And out of that came a desire to do more, to step definitively out of my role as a gatherer of information, into something different and very much more difficult. But how to go about it? I had Netscher as a means of access to the French, so I thought, and I had contacted the Russians, but the difficulty was how to persuade them to take me seriously. I had no official status whatsoever. What did I propose to do? Open negotiations on my own account? Claim to be the personal spokesman of the Empire? Why would anyone believe me? The only thing I had at the moment to claim special status was knowledge, and in a very few days, when the markets opened on Thursday morning, everybody in the world would have that knowledge. I needed more authority, and I would have to go to London to get it.

So I took the night train yet again, and arrived at Victoria on Monday morning, then drove directly to the Foreign Office to see Wilkinson. I did not sleep as the train rumbled onwards and the boat gently swung as it ploughed across the Channel. All the figures, all the facts, kept on dancing in my head as I tried to work out some way that I was wrong. That this wasn't happening. I could see no alternative, but still I could not quite believe it.

I had not the slightest idea what sort of reception my sudden, unannounced arrival would get. Would my report have even been read? Would anyone pay the slightest bit of attention to it? Would I be laughed at – 'Oh, dear boy, this happens all the time. Don't worry, the Bank knows what it is doing.' Or even, 'Lord Revelstoke is furious that you ruined his weekend, and has demanded your instant dismissal.' All such possibilities had passed through my mind, as the train and boat had brought me ever closer to London. The Foreign Office itself is not a place to inspire self-confidence. It was built to intimidate and does its job very well. Its walls and marble colonnades are designed for eternity, the product of a nation which will never fail, which will never make mistakes. The inhabitants of such a building would never allow the colossal blunder I thought I had uncovered. I must be wrong.

I almost began my meeting with Wilkinson by apologising. But when I looked at him, when he lifted his face from his desk, I could see he had not slept. He had lines of tiredness across his face, the pasty shade that only anxiety or exhaustion can produce.

'Cort,' he said wearily, gesturing to my seat. 'Good. I had hoped you might show up, but as you didn't mention it in your letter . . .'

'I didn't think of it until afterwards. Then I realised there was little I could do in Paris without further instructions, so . . .'

'Yes. Well, I'm glad you are here. Although, as the bearer of ill tidings you cannot expect many others to be pleased to see you.'

'Was I correct?'

'You doubted it?'

'No. But that doesn't mean I was right.'

'True enough.' He stood up and stretched. 'At seven-thirty this morning, a French bank informed Barings by letter they would no longer trade in Argentinian or Uruguayan securities. At eight another two did so. All the indications are that no continental banks will touch them any more. What is the significance of that?'

'Then it is beginning and will get very much worse. The price of South American securities will drop, so when Barings needs to raise serious money on Thursday, it will be able to offer little as collateral.'

'So, in that respect you are so far correct. I hope I do not see a look of pleasure at your cleverness.'

'How much does it need at the moment?'

'At eleven o'clock, assuming there are no hitches, it will be given a credit for £800,000 by Glyn Mills, which is standing as proxy for the Bank of England to prevent matters becoming public. That will get it through today, I understand. Exactly how much it will need over the coming week we do not know.'

'Barings has more than enough assets at the moment.'

'True. And here you must remember that I know little of finance. But I understand they have also received a letter from the Russian Government, asking to withdraw bullion on deposit.'

'How much?'

'A million. On top of that, you may have noticed that Argentina is in a virtual state of war. The value of Argentine bonds and securities was falling even before the French banks pulled their little surprise. All that is required is that the failure of this bond issue becomes public knowledge, and the deluge will begin.'

'Which is only a matter of time.'

'I presume so. The Bank has had a word with the newspaper editors here, and they will say nothing. But we cannot influence the French newspapers, who may well be already primed. Come with me, please.'

He stood up, and put on his thick winter coat, which made him look suddenly small and shrunken with worry. 'I have a meeting,' he said. 'I would like you to listen in and – if asked – give your opinion.'

'You organised that quickly,' I said as we walked into Whitehall, Wilkinson bundled up as though he was about to go looking for the North Pole, me less well dressed and much colder.

'My dear boy, you have no idea the chaos you have caused. I dined with the Governor of the Bank on Saturday and gave him your letter to read. He almost choked. There have been people running around like headless chickens ever since. Revelstoke was almost forcibly dragged from his bed; the Chancellor had to interrupt his shooting weekend; the Prime Minister is sulking and beginning to look menacing. Not to put too fine a point on it, Lord Salisbury sees himself as a wizard of foreign policy, and never considered for a moment that mere money might have any bearing on it whatsoever. He is managing to be alarmed and indignant simultaneously, and heads will roll unless it is sorted out quickly. Unless, of course, his rolls first.'

My heart sank as the gravity of what I had started began to sink in. 'Where are we going?' I asked.

'Just round the corner.'

Just round the corner was Downing Street, and the house of the Chancellor. It was still quiet, even though it was past nine, and the policeman on duty, who had been there all night, paid us no attention at all as we strolled up the street past the Prime Minister's house and knocked on the door of Number 11. No one answered, so Wilkinson turned the knob and walked in.

Eventually someone did appear, though, looking annoyed at being disturbed so early, and Wilkinson announced himself. 'I believe the Chancellor is waiting for us.'

We were led up the stairs to a meeting room on the first floor, a surprisingly shabby place, decorated with little more than a large table, some chairs and dreary portraits of past chancellors, all of whom were striving for gravitas and gazing into eternity like statesmen rather than the politicians they were. Three men were already there: Lord Revelstoke, William Lidderdale, the Governor of the Bank, and George Goschen, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. A secretary hovered in the background, taking notes.

I was introduced; the Governor and the Chancellor acknowledged me with a nod, Revelstoke looked as though he had no idea who I was.

'Well, let's get on,' Goschen said. 'Lidderdale?'

The Governor of the Bank looked up. 'Well,' he said. 'As of this morning, we are surviving. However, it is becoming increasingly clear that this is merely a temporary respite. The full news is not yet in the market. When it is, it will sweep over the City like a tidal wave. As far as I understand it, Barings has short-term obligations of near seven million. That is what Revelstoke here has been able to discover. It is quite unbelievable. No one at present knows what its assets are; only that they are falling in value and largely illiquid. The management has been haphazard in a way which would bring any firm to grief.'

I expected Revelstoke – used to plaudits and not to criticism, who took praise of his business acumen as a matter of course – to protest at this comment. The fact that he said nothing at all brought home the seriousness of the situation even more fully.

'To sum it up, unless Barings manages to borrow a very large sum of money, it will stop,' Lidderdale concluded. 'And it will not be able to borrow without a Government guarantee to back the loan.'

'Impossible,' the Chancellor interrupted. 'Quite impossible, and you know it. Pledge the national credit to a private firm? One which has got itself into such a situation through incompetence? It would not survive the Commons and, in any case, public subsidy of the City of London would do as much damage as it was supposed to prevent. No. Absolutely not. The City must get itself out of this mess, and more importantly, must be seen to do so.'

'Then we are lost!' Lidderdale exclaimed in a tone of melodrama not normally associated with a banker.

'I didn't say the Government would not give assistance,' Goschen said tartly. 'Merely that it could not be seen to be doing so. I can pledge that anything that can be done will be, of course.'

'But not if it costs you anything.'

'Precisely.'

Lidderdale lapsed into silence and Revelstoke – who I thought might have taken leave of his senses under the pressure – continued to stare out of the window, the strange blank smile still fixed on his face. He had not said a word and did not even seem to be paying any attention to the proceedings. It appeared that he could not accept what was happening, that he had concluded he was in the middle of a nightmare and the best course was to do nothing until he woke up.

'It would have been a help,' Lidderdale said, 'if we had known about this in advance.' Here he glared at me. 'Being alerted only a few days in advance is all but useless. Aren't you paid for this?'

'No,' I snapped back. 'This is not what I am paid for at all. And I informed the Foreign Office of what I knew some time ago. My knowledge then was incomplete, but it gave a reasonable warning, had anyone paid attention to it.'

'That was the memorandum passed on to you nearly six weeks ago,' Wilkinson murmured. 'You know, the one you never got around to reading.'

Lidderdale glared, Revelstoke dreamed, and Goschen drummed his fingers on the table.

'Surely a rescue fund could be organised for Barings?' I asked, wondering whether it was my place to say anything at all.

'It could be,' Lidderdale said, 'but banks will only subscribe if they are sure that they will not need reserves to defend their own position. And they won't be able to do that unless the Bank of England can reassure them that it has the resources to maintain convertibility.'

'Which is the problem.'

'Precisely. At present we have scraped together reserves of twelve million in bullion. Which has been damnedly difficult, let me tell you. The Bank of France wishes to withdraw three million and has another three on deposit it could demand at any moment. That leaves us with a reliable six million. And six million of bills are drawn and expire daily. If investors panic and decide they want gold, we could run out in hours. Literally hours.'

'So the Bank is the problem,' Goschen said.

'No,' Lidderdale snapped. 'Barings is the problem.'

'But Barings cannot be shored up unless people have confidence in the Bank.'

'Yes, but . . .'

'Excuse me,' I said. There was a sudden silence as the bickering grandees stopped and turned to me.

'Yes?'

'You are forgetting the main point,' I said, 'which is that this is deliberate. That certain people in France are deliberately exploiting this situation to destroy the credibility of London. Barings has played into their hands and created their opportunity, but this situation would not have arisen without a conscious policy. As things stand, there is nothing you can do. You know it. The only possible option is to surrender on the best terms you can get.'

A terrible silence greeted these remarks; it was as though I had thrown a bucket of ice over the meeting.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Barings will stop unless it is saved. The banks could club together and put up enough money, but daren't. There will be a run on gold, because the French and Russians are withdrawing large amounts just for that purpose. So, at present Barings will go down, taking London's credibility and the entire funding structure of world trade with it.'

The iciness persisted.

'You need more gold and you need it by Thursday morning at the very latest. And there are only two places you can get it from. The Bank of France and the Bank of Russia.'

'Berlin, Vienna?' asked Wilkinson. 'It is the standard policy of Britain always to ally with the opponents of those attacking us.'

Here Goschen stirred. 'Impossible, I think. Even if they wished to help us, which I strongly doubt, the Bank of Berlin was set up to make it impossible – illegal – for it to operate in the international market. If it was done, it would take weeks to organise. The same goes for Austria, and the Italians have so little gold that they have none to lend. Mr Cort is correct in his judgement.'

'There are then two possibilities,' I went on. 'Either France and Russia are determined to push this to the end, in which case there is nothing we can do. We simply have to accept our fate. Or they can be persuaded to change their minds. In which case we have to discuss what they want. And give it to them.'

Goschen turned to Wilkinson. 'Your area, I think. What might they want?'

Wilkinson sucked in his breath. 'If this is as serious as you all seem to think, they can ask for anything. The Russians could demand a free hand in the Black Sea and in Afghanistan. The French could demand similar independence in Egypt, the Sudan, Thailand.'

Goschen looked faintly sick. Lidderdale turned ashen. Revelstoke smiled sweetly.

'And all we have in return,' I said, 'is the Samson option. Which is to say, the certainty that, while a catastrophe might destroy us, it would also bring calamity to French banking and industry as well, and starve Russia of credit when it is in desperate need of it. I assume – in fact, I know – that there are people in France who do not want such a thing. We need to talk to them and get them on to our side swiftly. And we need to bring in the Rothschilds.'

At the mere mention of the name, the atmosphere lightened. However much Barings had (temporarily, it turned out) eclipsed the Rothschilds in recent decades, their name was still magical. Their wealth, acumen, and the fervent belief that they knew and saw everything through their vast private network of informants and correspondents made them figures to be admired or reviled in equal measure. With the Rothschilds on your side anything was possible; with them as an enemy, disaster was certain.

The head of the English branch at the time was Natty Rothschild, a stout fellow who had been running affairs in this country for more than ten years. He had wide political interests, although he had never got on with Gladstone, and had demonstrated on many occasions his patriotism: it was Rothschilds, not Barings, which had stumped up the cash for Disraeli to buy the Suez Canal; Rothschilds again who intervened in the eighties to stabilise Egypt's finances, and then to float a loan from which it derived little profit. A bizarre combination of the Jewish banker and the Catholic Cardinal Manning had acted together to resolve the crippling dockers' strike in 1889. All in all, Natty Rothschild had demonstrated a solid appreciation of his duties, and how to merge these with the need for personal profit. In only two areas did emotion get in the way: Natty Rothschild hated the Russians, but he detested Barings more.

He arrived after lunch, and it was remarkable to see how even the Governor of the Bank and the Chancellor deferred to his opinions. He was not a warm fellow, although I had heard that he could be gregarious and charming in company. Rather his manner was taciturn, with an aloof- ness it was hard not to see as disdainful and arrogant. Certainly poor Lord Revelstoke withered even more when he walked into the room. So he should; the battle for supremacy between the two houses was now over for ever, and Barings had lost. All that remained to discover was whether Rothschild would react with magnanimity or vindictiveness.

First Goschen briefed him on the details, then Lidderdale, and then I was asked to present my interpretation. Throughout, Rothschild listened absolutely silently, stroking his closely cropped beard every now and then, but otherwise barely moving. As I finished, he poured another cup of tea and stirred methodically.

'Fascinating,' he said eventually, in his thick, deep voice. 'Quite fascinating. Are you quite sure of all this?'

'I am sure of the facts,' I replied. 'Naturally, the interpretation is my own. But it fits what has been happening in the markets this morning.'

He nodded. 'But at the moment the urgent problem is how to stabilise the situation here.'

'Mr Cort advocates surrender,' Goschen said sourly.

I blushed. 'If I am correct . . .'

'You would destroy Britain's strategic position throughout the world.'

'If the stakes are so high, then surely the Government must intervene.'

'I have already explained why that is impossible,' Goschen said. 'And why it would be counterproductive. This must be resolved within the City of London itself.'

'Mr Cort,' Rothschild said, ignoring the chorus of protest from the others, 'at some stage you must tell me a little more about who you are, and why you are here. For the time being, these others here seem to think you have a right to speak. Tell me – in your own words – what you recommend.'

'The City must organise a fund to rescue Barings. Or at least to get it through the next few weeks, until it can realise its assets and stop in an orderly fashion. That can only be done – you would only have the time to do that – if the Bank of France reversed its policy of withdrawing bullion from London. And if the Russians stopped pulling gold out of Barings. Better still if they signalled their intention of depositing some more. In the circumstances, the rate of interest they might demand could be high, and not payable solely in money. But at the very least we need to know their terms. May I ask if your bank has heard anything about this?'

'Nothing has been communicated to me. But that is no surprise. There are no close relations at the moment between us and the Bank of France. There are many in France who detest the Rothschilds as much as they detest the English. The question is what to do about it. As it seems the British Empire is insufficiently important for the Government to risk its own reputation, then I, like you, feel we have no alternative but to explore other possibilities.'

And so it was settled. I was to return to Paris as soon as possible, with a letter to Alphonse de Rothschild and instructions to discover what, if any, price the French would accept. At the same time I was to organise a veritable insurrection amongst the moneyed elite of France, have them storming the barricades of the Banque de France, demanding calm in the markets. And I was to do this without citing the authority of the British Government in any way. This was to be a deal between bankers. It must not have anything to do with foreign policy. There would be no concessions there whatsoever.

My chances? I put them at about none. I had a matter of days to reverse what seemed to be a major move in French foreign policy, and cobble together an unprecedented alliance amongst people I did not know. Even Natty Rothschild seemed pessimistic. He walked out with Wilkinson and me, then asked if I would take a turn with him around Green Park before I headed back for Victoria.

'A thankless task, Mr Cort,' he rumbled as we walked in the direction of Green Park. It was chilly and getting dark, and there were few people around except for the occasional office worker, and governesses pushing prams. 'If you succeed, no one will know; if you fail, you will undoubtedly be blamed.'

'That is reassuring. Thank you.'

'Which brings up the obvious question. Why do you choose to do this? It is a strange life you lead.'

Evidently he knew more about me than I thought.

I shrugged. 'I don't know. I wasn't a good banker . . .'

'A very inadequate answer.'

'I like it, then. I like making people do things they do not wish to do, I like discovering things I am not meant to know. I think I like taking bad actions and turning them to good ends. It is so often the reverse. But I can take lies and betrayal and turn them into patriotism.'

'Not the other way round?'

'Not for me, no.'

'I see. I think you are going to need all your skills in the next week. You will be trying to mix foreign policy and finance, and control them through your arts. Are you skilled enough, do you think?'

'I don't know.'

'My cousin will give you all the help he can, and a great deal of advice as well. You may trust him. I ask only one thing: if you fail, let him know. I'll be damned if the house of Rothschild is going to be brought to ruin by Barings.'

CHAPTER 19

I arrived back in Paris at five o'clock on Tuesday morning. I was exhausted. I crossed the Channel twice in one day, had scarcely slept for two days and had been in meetings much of the rest of the time. I should, properly, have launched into action, but I could not. I did manage to get someone to take the message to Alphonse de Rothschild, sent another to M. Netscher, but that was all. I could do no more without sleep, so sleep I did. And, dare I add, I slept well; quite extraordinarily well in the circumstances.

The meeting with Rothschild and Netscher began after lunch. I very nearly disgraced myself by being late, but I arrived at the Rothschild mansion in the eighth arrondissement with a few minutes to spare. There were four people there: the committee for the defence, or so I came to call them in my mind. All people who wished to resolve this, if only they could do so without bringing national opprobrium down on their heads. All were fatalistic, and had a low opinion of their many colleagues, of politicians and of the people of France in general. They were fools, was the general opinion, who understood nothing of money, who had no conception of how delicate and refined were the financial structures which so efficiently delivered the comforts and necessities on which all people increasingly depended. Had it been left to politicians, said Netscher, then the bulk of mankind would still be scraping a living in the fields, dressed in rags and prone to starvation and disease. They needed to be saved from themselves.

So far, so much agreement. It was clear that all present – who represented some of the most powerful financial institutions in France – were prepared to put their weight behind the request that France assist the Bank of England. But it was equally clear that none of them would do so unless that request was going to be accepted.

'For myself,' said Alphonse de Rothschild, 'I am prepared to commit half a million of gold to the general defence of the banking system; I have already cabled my cousin to inform him that I will transfer the money to his house today.'

Netscher smiled. 'That safeguards the Rothschild family, my dear Alphonse,' he observed. 'It does little else.'

'You cannot expect any more of me as yet,' Rothschild retorted. 'Not until there is an overall agreement. Remember, if there is a run on the banks in England, it could well trigger a panic here as well. We cannot afford to dismantle our own defences.'

'Bank of France or nothing. Is that right?' I commented.

They all nodded.

'I do not know the Governor,' I said.

'M. Magnin,' Netscher said. 'A good man. Started as an ironmaster, curiously enough. Still a bit of the peasant about him, but solid. He is a man who fully appreciates the value of sound money. And he understands how weakness in the credit markets can affect industry. That is the trouble, in fact.'

'Why?'

'Because I would have expected him to have responded already. All his instincts, I feel sure, would be to bolster London. It is neighbourly and it is good business. He has not done so. Which suggests he is acting under instruction. He is not a free man, you know. The Bank of France is not a private company like the Bank of England. Its sole shareholder is the Government, and ultimately M. Magnin must do as he is told.'

'So we are talking about government policy here, are we?'

Netscher sighed. 'I do not think so. Believe me, Mr Cort, I am – we all are, I am sure – trying to find out. But so far I have discovered nothing.'

Here Rothschild smiled in a superior fashion. 'Fortunately, the magic of the house of Rothschild still has some life in it,' he said quietly. 'In fact, I do believe I can say what is taking place. This policy was sold to Rouvier about six months ago. The Foreign Ministry is standing by, as it considers it foolish not to take advantage of any weakness which Britain might display. The trouble at Barings has been brewing for several months, and the Foreign Ministry has been quietly preparing the ground. It all developed out of the blunder by Bismarck three years ago when he denied Russia access to the Berlin credit markets. Paris took up the role, and has advanced large sums of money to the Russian Government. This, naturally, has created a bond of friendship, not to say a common interest. I would even venture to surmise that some sort of military understanding might come to pass in due course. Obviously, in that case, a weakening of Great Britain would be mutually beneficial.'

'But Russia needs investment desperately. Unless it gets credit, its army is back in the seventeenth century. How can destroying the credit markets help?'

'A question so good I am afraid I cannot answer it. I have approached the Russian Embassy, but they refused to speak to me.' The pained surprise was obvious. No one refused to talk to a Rothschild.

'However, they have agreed to talk to the British Government. Which in itself indicates how very much is riding on this matter. And how well prepared they are.'

'But that would be Sir Edward Merson.'

'I did point this out, and they have no desire to talk to Sir Edward at all, as he would not understand what was being said. No. You have to produce someone more senior and authoritative than that. I would suggest Goschen. He can make a deal and he has the authority to persuade the Prime Minister to accept.'

'You expect the Chancellor of the Exchequer to grovel in public?'

'I would expect him to arrive so silently and quietly that no one is ever aware of his presence in Paris.'

'To talk to . . . ?'

'The head of the Bank of France, obviously. By merest coincidence, no doubt, the deputy head of the Bank of Moscow is in Paris, visiting his relations. And Rouvier, of course. I and M. Netscher would be happy to attend as well, I am sure.'

'Where?'

'Somewhere they will not be noticed.'

CHAPTER 20

I had not forgotten the matter of Elizabeth and her diaries, but the rest of Tuesday and much of Wednesday morning was used up preparing. Stone's telegraph operator was back in business, so I was at least able to communicate faster, and if my own entreaties had not been enough, the state of the markets proved more persuasive. Hour by hour, the news had been getting worse. More and more people suspected some hideous crisis was in the making. Credit was drying up; suspicion was already beginning to focus on Barings, which was publicly giving assurances that nothing was amiss, while privately panicking and trying to raise as much money as possible. Members of the family pledged their houses, horses, works of art. Debts and favours were called in, assets were offered at knock-down prices, but all that did was stoke the speculation that something was going very badly wrong. Bit by bit, panic began to spread; interest rates rose, volumes in the markets began to oscillate wildly, prices followed. Time was running out. Goschen decided to come to Paris. He had no alternative.

The meeting would be in the last place anyone would ever suspect that an event of such importance would happen. When I asked, Elizabeth agreed without hesitation, and immediately went into high activity, laying in food, drink and everything else that might be needed. It was only a little different from a meeting of her salon; the topics of discussion would merely be more serious. And after many hours of labour I checked my watch. My appointment with Drennan was coming close. It was time to go.

It was a long shot, admittedly, but it was worth a try. Certainly I did not wish to risk confronting Drennan directly; I knew him too well. He had beaten me last time we met, and I had no confidence that he would not do so again. It would have been good to know exactly what he was up to, but I had concluded this was a luxury I could do without. The last thing Britain needed was an espionage scandal inflaming French public opinion against all things English just at the moment when France was being asked for assistance. Indeed, I was more and more sure the two were connected.

I arrived in the rue Daru about half an hour early, approaching from the Boulevard de Courcelles and then down the rue Pierre-le-Grand, and went into an apartment block on the corner. Facing me over the road was the Alexandre Nevskii Cathedral, Eastern and entirely out of place in that strict and regimented quarter of apartment buildings, the different-sized domes and gold mosaics looking as though they had been dropped from the sky by accident. It had been built a few decades previously for the Russian community in Paris, as a sign of their presence and to give a focus for their social activities, and had proved a singular success, even though the local residents, apparently, did not entirely approve.

I climbed up the servants' staircase at the back of the lobby, all seven flights of scrubbed, cheap wood set against poorly painted walls, in contrast to the richly polished, carpeted appearance of the residents' staircase, until I reached the corridor at the top which led to the tiny cubicles that the servants slept in under the eaves. Halfway along there was a skylight, which I opened. It was noisy, but I knew there would be no one to hear, and I levered myself out onto the roof, and manoeuvred into a position where I had a clear view of the cathedral.

I kept my head low, and scanned the small square in front of the entrance with my binoculars; a faint sound of singing told me there was a service going on. A few people were hanging about, and I thought I saw what I was looking for. A man, well dressed, sitting on a bench reading a paper; another by the door looking at the order of service pinned up in a small glass case. Two more talking by a tree to the left.

My heart sank. It was all so amateurish. Drennan was too old to fall for that. A man reading a newspaper in the semi-dark? People idly chatting in the cold? He wouldn't go near the place. One glance and he'd take fright.

And then I saw him; he too was coming early, walking along the street bundled up, hat pulled down over his head, dressed anonymously, not scruffily, not respectable. Like a shopkeeper or clerk. Only his walk, long and loping, gave him away. He also wanted to get there first, to be able to see me before I saw him. He'd taught me that; I had anticipated him.

He took no precautions: all the methods and techniques he had so painstakingly and painfully drilled into me he didn't use. He didn't look around, didn't pause to check the landscape, did nothing. He just crossed the street, walked across the little square, began to climb the steps. I was puzzled. He was coming to see me, but he was taking no precautions, almost as though we were on the same side, as though he considered me no threat.

The man by the order of service moved to intercept him, going close, taking him by the arm; I saw the bench man drop his newspaper and begin moving forward; the conversationalists started to spread out, one to each side, forming a circle behind his back.

Drennan turned, his hand went into his pocket. I heard nothing, it was too far away, but he fell onto his knees, looked up. The newspaper man came up close behind him, stretched out his arm to point at his head, and Drennan collapsed onto the stone steps of the cathedral.

It was done. One problem, at least, had been taken care of. I was back at Elizabeth's house, washed and changed, in time to welcome Wilkinson and Goschen when they arrived in John Stone's coach from the Gare du Nord at eight o'clock.

CHAPTER 21

It was a soirée to remember. One by one, they arrived, and I was only sorry that it had to remain entirely confidential. It would have had more of an impact on Elizabeth's reputation than the arrival of the Prince of Wales had done. Not that many streetwalkers entertain the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the British and Russian ambassadors, the French Foreign and Finance Ministers, the Governor of the Bank of France and a smattering of Rothschilds and other bankers at one go. Not that it was a social occasion; these were men of affairs, and it was what they were good at. I might even hazard a guess and say they all enjoyed themselves. From nine in the evening to five the next morning, they huddled in corners, disappeared in pairs or groups into side rooms, shouted at each other, looked tense, angry, worried, elated, relaxed and made jokes, then began the cycle of meetings anew. Those who were not engaged gathered round Elizabeth like chickens round a hen, and she distracted them with her conversation and charm, creating an atmosphere of the possible in a way only she could manage. Her chef, the incomparable M. Favre, excelled himself, and her wine cellar impressed even M. de Rothschild. I am firmly of the opinion that the slow onset of calm she generated did more to ensure an agreement than any other factor.

For my part I had little to do, but I was given the liberty of attending the private meetings of the English delegation, and the rare occasions when the meeting, more or less by chance, became more general. It was, however, made clear that I was to offer no opinions of my own. And I rarely had the opportunity of talking to any of the Russian or French party.

Count Gurunjiev did, however, take my arm shortly after he arrived. 'A word, Mr Cort,' he said quietly.

'It seems you were right,' he said. 'A man was shot this evening as he was about to go into the Russian cathedral. He had no papers or identification of any sort on him, but he answers your description perfectly well. And he had a loaded revolver.'

'He caused no harm, I hope?'

'No. After your warning we were not prepared to take any chances. He was accosted, tried to run and was killed. We are currently persuading the police it was a murder among thieves, and best forgotten about. I'm sure they will agree; there have been too many of these incidents recently for them to want more publicity. What is puzzling is what he planned to do.'

He went off to pay his compliments to Elizabeth, leaving me with only a deep sense of relief. All I had to do now was discover where Drennan had lived, and then collect the diaries, and I had time enough for that now. The urgency had gone out of one part of my life at least.

And now the meeting proper was under way; the English were in Elizabeth's salon, the French took over her library, the Russians were closeted in the sitting room. The dining room served as neutral territory, where all could talk freely. A ridiculous amount of time was lost in small talk, enquiries about the voyage from London, earnest entreaties that good wishes be communicated to everyone from the President to the Tsar to wives and sons and daughters. There was talk about hunting and politics as they slowly got the measure of each other, sidled towards the main subject which all knew must arise sooner or later, then backed away again.

It was necessary, all this, it set the tone, gauged emotions and nerves. Then, all of a sudden, as though some hidden decision had been taken, some sign given, Count Gurunjiev began:

'I fear Mr Cort was trying to pull the wool over my eyes when we met the other day,' he began. 'I discover that what he so skilfully described as a small matter of accounting is nothing of the sort.'

'And how is that?' Goschen asked.

'I do not understand finance: in that Mr Cort was quite correct. But you make a mistake in thinking I do not understand politics, or diplomacy. His little matter of accounting seems to involve a fundamental shift in Russian foreign policy. And of French.'

'I think that is an exaggeration.'

Here it comes, I thought. They've been talking about it, they've agreed a joint strategy. Rouvier, I knew, had been bombarded by the Rothschilds all day, one banker after another presenting the case for intervention, for reversing the policy, and offering who knew what inducements; he was the only senior French figure who wasn't there. Delayed by the Chambre des Députés, someone said. Will be along when he can leave. No doubt those who wished to pursue the matter and go ahead had also been putting their case as well. The Count was about to give the first hint of which side had triumphed.

'I imagine the interest rate that the Bank of France would charge for lending gold to the Bank of England will be very high. Naturally, you cannot expect the Russian government to accept a lower reward.'

Better than saying there could be no deal at all. But he could still set the price so high that it would be unpayable.

'I never expected for a moment that would be the case,' Goschen said a little grumpily. 'Of course, your assistance would be rewarded, and acknowledged in public, if you so wish.'

'Can you give me any reason why we should in any way give assistance to Great Britain?'

'From our point of view, or from yours? I can think of many.'

'Really? It is in Russia's interests to weaken Britain as much as possible, surely? India, the Ottoman Empire, the Mediterranean, the Balkans. In all these areas our policies are diametrically opposed.'

'That is true. But I do not think your Government believes that Afghanistan is the major problem you face at the moment.'

'And what would you say that is?'

'Bismarck has gone. The treaty you had with Germany went with him. You have no allies, no friends, and you have a gigantic border facing the most powerful army in the world.'

'And England will come to our aid in exchange for a few bars of gold?'

'No. No more than it will help France recover Alsace. But you, as a military man, know that the Russian army is woefully unprepared for modern war. It has no railways to ferry troops and supplies; not enough factories to produce armaments; a navy which would scarcely trouble Nelson, even if the sailors were well trained. You are a vast empire, and a military pygmy. You have the men, but lack the more important aspect of modern warfare. Which is money.'

Good point, I thought, and nicely put. Goschen was revealing a combative streak I had not suspected he possessed.

'What we offer is to let the French assist you. They seem open to the proposal.'

'You want to buy us with other people's money?'

'Britain's banks are supreme in the world. For the past twenty years they have made a fortune out of South America. That, as you know, has now come to an abrupt end. So they will be looking for new markets. They will crowd France out of any they choose to concentrate on. We offer the French a free hand in Russia. We will offer only a token competition for form's sake. France will be able to grow its banking sector, strengthen it in ways it could not otherwise do. And you will get all the money you desperately need.

'The point is,' Goschen continued, 'if there is a general financial crisis, France will not be in a position to lend you a single centime. If the banks of London are crippled, so will many French banks be. Capital will evaporate, loans vanish like morning mist. If you want a modern army or navy, then you must leave your money in Barings' vaults. What is more, you know this perfectly well.'

The Russian frowned. 'I have been told similar things by my advisers. The doctrine that you must strengthen your enemy in order to defeat him I find a bizarre one.'

'It is nonetheless the case. I could name you at least six French banks which would be badly wounded if Barings fails. All hold Barings paper, all have loaned Russia money.'

'There must be more than that. You paint me a picture of paradox, where it becomes logical for us to help our worst enemy. But, in return, our worst enemy must help us.'

'Go on.'

Here it comes, here comes the bill, I thought.

'You are afraid of Russian influence; you must help us increase that influence. You fear our interference in the Ottoman Empire; you must make our interference more effective. You fear we want to build a fleet to challenge you in the Black Sea, the Straits, the Mediterranean itself. You must help us build a fleet that can defeat you. That is the price, Mr Goschen. The Russian navy needs a shipyard on the Black Sea coast, capable of building and maintaining everything that floats. The latest weapons, the best facilities. If you agree to that, then I will believe you are serious, and we can then discuss Barings.'

'I'm afraid that would be impossible,' Goschen replied instantly. 'Even were we minded to do so, it could not be done. No government would survive such a thing; any which tried would fall within weeks, and be replaced by one who promised to oppose it absolutely.'

'In that case, I fear we have difficulties,' said the Count sadly. 'I have tried to be reasonable – you are no doubt as aware as I that we could have asked for very much more. If such a small thing cannot be done, then I can offer no more. I, too, have people to satisfy. I cannot propose something which seems like a humiliating failure.'

I pulled Wilkinson aside. 'Keep him talking,' I said quietly. 'Whatever you do, do not let him leave. I have an idea. Just make sure he's here when I get back.'

I took Elizabeth's carriage, which clattered through the streets at a breakneck pace, hurtling through the streets at the sort of speed which had pedestrians cursing me and the poor horses sweating profusely by the time we pulled up at the Hôtel du Louvre. I didn't bother with announcing myself, just ran up the stairs, all four floors, and along the corridor to Stone's suite, and hammered on the door.

'You must come. You're needed.'

We were back in the carriage a few moments later, back at her house twenty minutes after that. We had been gone an hour, and the Russians were losing their tempers by the time we arrived. So, it must be said, were Goschen and Wilkinson, who felt like fools, having to make polite and meaningless conversation all that time.

'A private word, please,' I said, and the Russians nodded as we trooped out.

'This is John Stone, Chancellor,' I said. 'I think he might be able to help.'

Goschen nodded. 'How?'

'Is your objection to a Russian naval base fundamental? That is to say, is the problem the base, or the consequences of people knowing about it?'

'Both. It would dramatically shift the balance of power in the Near East. I suppose we could live with that, but the public would not wear it. We'd be massacred.'

'And if no one knew?'

'How could anyone not know? Don't be absurd.'

I nodded to Stone, who I now saw for the first time working as a businessman. And by heavens he was impressive. He had only had a rapid account from me, and even with that he managed to take over and dominate the meeting with extraordinary speed.

'If the Russians want a base then they have to get it from Britain, practically speaking,' he said. 'We are the only country which could mobilise the resources for the sort of thing they must have in mind. Enough to maintain a fleet,' here Goschen grimaced, 'supplies, equipment, engineering shops. Clearly a major project. They don't have the capital, the workforce or the expertise to design, build and run it. Nor, I must say, do the French have enough spare capacity to provide it. The Germans do, but won't.

'Nor can we,' he went on. 'Or cannot appear to. And there would be outrage in Britain against any country – France, say – which did. Is that correct?'

Goschen nodded. 'It would be tantamount to an act of war if the French built the Russians such a thing.'

'Well,' Stone continued thoughtfully, 'it could be done. I'm sure that French banks would float the bonds to raise the money on behalf of the Russian Government; it could be a general fund for development. There would be no need to specify what it is for, if the interest rate was high enough. I could form a new construction company, registered in somewhere like Belgium, with shareholdings held in trust by banks across the Continent. As for the workforce, the crucial personnel would come from yards across Europe, directed at a distance by my companies. It would be perfectly possible to set up a structure so impenetrable that no one could ever find out who owned it. And the Russians could hail it as a triumph of Russian engineering, a sign of their industrial progress. I cannot speak about the strategic consequences, of course. That is outside my area of expertise. But if you are prepared to allow a base to be built, then it could be done without anyone knowing who was responsible.'

That was a summary; the actual discussion was much longer and far more technical. Goschen was both a money man and a politician and wanted to know exactly what Stone was suggesting. The more he heard, the more Stone dealt with his objections, the more I could see him regaining confidence and determination.

Eventually Goschen sat back. 'Any further comments?'

Wilkinson shook his head, and there was silence.

'Then I suggest we talk to the Russians once more. Mr Stone, if you would be so good as to come with us?'

I was left out of that one. The deal was done; the French and the Russians had both got what they wanted, and the end of the crisis was in sight. All they had to do was send the telegrams to deposit money in the Bank of England and it would be over. I could still hardly believe it; Britain had got off lightly; astonishingly lightly.

'You look tired, my friend,' Elizabeth said. She had come when she heard the others marching down the corridor.

'I'm afraid you've been a guest in your own house this evening.'

'Yes, and my chef might resign tomorrow. The amount these people eat and drink is astonishing. It all seems quite good-tempered, though.'

'I think they've been thoroughly enjoying themselves,' I said. 'It's what they love more than anything. I don't think it would suit me at all.' I yawned. 'Lord, but I'm tired. I'll sleep well tonight.'

There was a ring at the doorbell, and a few moments later a footman came in with a card on a tray.

'Please show M. Rouvier into the sitting room,' she said, then turned back to me. 'That is where the French are?'

'Just in time to hear what has been agreed. Good.'

'I gather you visited Count Gurunjiev a few days ago.'

'Yes. And I apologise for mentioning your name. I did it very discreetly, though. I gave no hint at all of knowing anything about you, other than saying I was your friend.'

'Thank you. But please don't do it again.'

'I promise.'

Fateful words. A few moments later the door opened and Goschen and Wilkinson came in, followed by Stone and Rothschild, who looked worried.

'Problem?' I asked.

'M. Rouvier is apparently shouting at the Governor of the Bank of France, telling him he had no right to agree to anything without his approval. And that he does not give his approval. To put it another way, he won't take the deal. And if the French won't the Russians won't either. Come, gentlemen, let us go and talk this over.'

They trooped out again, leaving me with Stone and Elizabeth. He went and sat opposite her, and smiled gently.

'Well, this is a problem,' he said.

'You mean you didn't foresee it?'

'What do you mean?'

I shook my head and frowned, thinking furiously. A whole host of little details, previously unconnected, seemingly random, seeming to be sticking themselves together into new and troubling patterns. And then, there it was. Undeniable.

'This is all you, isn't it?' I said. 'From the start.'

'I don't think I understand.'

'When did you come up with this scheme? To create a crisis, and force a solution that allowed you to do as you wanted?'

He smiled. 'You overestimate me, Mr Cort. That does not happen often. I'm not used to it. What do you mean, my scheme?'

'The first time I met you you mentioned that the government had forbidden you from working for the Russians. Now you will be able to do so with their blessing and appear a selfless patriot at the same time. The banks to organise all this, they will be same as the ones leading the assault on London. Credit International, Banque de Bruges. This whole business could not possibly have taken place without you knowing about it long in advance.'

Stone, who had been examining a Chinese bowl on the mantelpiece, turned around.

'I haven't broken it yet, you see,' she said. 'And I have given it a place of honour.'

'I am flattered,' he said with a gentle smile.

Stone put it carefully back in its place, then stood back anxiously to make sure it wasn't about to crash to the floor.

'I'm sorry, Mr Cort. You were saying?'

'The Russians and the French could have destroyed London, but they are settling for a shipyard and a few bond issues. And, by pure coincidence, the owner of Britain's biggest arms company is in a hotel down the road, ready to oblige. And you came up with this staggeringly complex scheme in the time it took to take a cab from the Louvre to here. How could anybody think of something that complicated in a matter of minutes?'

'I'm very good at my job.'

'Not that good. Not without thinking it out in advance.'

'I did not create this situation,' he said quietly. 'Barings was going to fail anyway; that has been obvious for months. I merely made sure that I benefited. And that my country benefits as well.'

'What do you care about your country?'

'It may surprise you if I say I care a great deal. The Russians were going to get a shipyard; it was merely a matter of who built it and profited from it. They will be bound ever tighter to France, and that will make Germany . . .'

I held up my hand. 'That was Wilkinson's argument as well. Does this come from him as well? Was this his doing? A Civil Service plot to rewrite Britain's foreign policy against the wishes of the Government and the electorate?'

'You sound very pompous for such a young man. We merely agree on certain matters. And you will discover there are many people who will be well satisfied how things have turned out,' he said.

'Goschen?'

'No. Not him. Nor the Prime Minister. But this is how Britain governs itself, and how its Empire prospers. And how governments take decisions the electorate does not wish to know about. Business needs to be protected from politicians. I could say that the country does as well.'

'And you make a lot of money out of it?'

'I do. That is my job.'

'But how did you get the French to agree? The Russians?'

'Everybody benefits, you know, and the Russians do like their bribes. Count Gurunjiev required prodigious amounts of money. Of course, he also has a fine triumph to take back with him to St Petersburg.'

I came very close then to saying what the Count had done with Stone's money, but stopped myself.

'And me? I didn't even need bribing.'

'No. But you played your part very well. Do not think that your skills and intelligence are not appreciated. There is little point continuing this, you know.'

'I like to get things clear. The Government had to be panicked into realising that this was a plot that had its price, rather than the random chaos of the market. And I did that. I was essential for that. It had to be noticed in time. So you got me to do it. With just a little hint here and there from people like Netscher to point me in the right direction. So I would work out what was going on, frighten the life out of the Government . . .'

Stone nodded. 'You deserve everybody's thanks.'

But I wasn't finished yet. There was something else as well. It niggled me. 'So that's the Russians. The French are a different matter. How did you plan to control them? The banks could be bought off with the promise of a free run at Russia, but what's going on now? What about Rouvier?'

I paused and looked at him and finally understood. 'Oh, my God. It's out of control, isn't it? Rouvier isn't part of the plan. And he's about to wreck everything.'

'It does seem that M. Rouvier is acting unreasonably at the moment,' Stone said quietly.

'You assumed that Rouvier would do what the banks and the Governor of the Bank of France told him.'

'What they told him was in the best interests of the country. Yes. And it is. Anyone but an idiot could see that.'

'Unfortunately he's an idiot.'

'It does seem that he dreams of some grand personal triumph.'

'He blocks the Bank of France, the Russians will follow suit and the deal is off. Do you have any idea what you have done?'

'Not all gambles pay off, unfortunately.'

'Is that all you can say?'

He shrugged perfectly calmly.

I couldn't believe it. It was his calm, emotionless way of confronting what was happening that bowled me over. Mingled with that was my fury at what he had done to me. That was a weakness, I know. But he had deceived and manipulated me from beginning to end. Was that even why Wilkinson had sent me to Paris? Was that in his mind even then? Did he plan this so very far in advance?

I did not get the chance to ask. The door opened, and Rouvier came in, already wearing his winter coat and carrying his hat and gloves.

'Dear Countess, I come to take my leave of you, and to thank you once again for your hospitality,' he said as she rose from the sofa to have her hand kissed. 'Alas, I wish the conversation had been as agreeable this evening as is customary in your house.'

'I am sorry you were disappointed, Minister,' she replied. 'Can I not persuade you to stay a little longer?'

Rouvier had a look of such self-satisfaction that it was almost intolerable. 'It is very late, and I think everything that can be said, has been. More importantly, I believe I will have a busy day tomorrow. A very busy day.'

'One moment, Minister,' I said. I still did not know precisely what I was going to say but I knew that the moment he was out of the door all was lost.

'Mr . . . ?'

'Cort, sir. Henry Cort. I work for The Times newspaper.'

He looked puzzled by that, as well he might. 'What could you possibly say of interest to me?'

I was completely without emotion. The fury at Stone was so intense that I didn't even notice it; it was suffusing my being so much that it was all I was. I had a choice, and I took it fully aware of what I was doing. I can offer no excuse and no explanation which would not be false. I wanted to beat Stone, and hurt him. I wanted to show I could retrieve a situation when he had failed. Whatever the price, whatever was necessary to do it. And there was only one way. May God forgive me, I did not hesitate.

'Minister, you are a politician. You have been Prime Minister once, you may very well have the honour of that great position once more. I wish you well; I do not wish anything to stand in your way. Public spirit is a fine thing, and you have demonstrated over the years that you are a highly competent administrator.'

'Thank you, young man,' replied Rouvier, with a look of amused surprise on his face.

'Unfortunately, I will ensure that your career comes to an end unless you consider what I have to say. The Bank of France and most of the banking community of Paris desire to stave off a dreadful crisis which will plunge the whole of Europe into a terrible slump. The Bank cannot do so unless you give it permission. You will give that permission.'

'And why should I do that?' he asked in mocking astonishment.

'You want something else?'

'The evacuation of Egypt, the withdrawal of the Royal Navy from the waters off Siam, and a free hand in the Lebanon. I am afraid bankers have poor vision, and think only of money. I can see further than they. I am saving them from their small-mindedness.'

'That will not be possible.'

'In that case, we have no more to talk about.'

'I'm afraid we do,' I said. 'We must also talk about the Countess von Futak.'

Elizabeth froze. She did not move, but I could see her eyes widening, and she took up that position – unnoticeably to anyone who did not know her as well as I did – that signified tension, watchfulness. Fear. Stone did not react at all. Not yet.

Rouvier smiled. 'Ah, dear Elizabeth. I do hope you are not going to threaten to expose me. I really do not think that it would do my career any harm at all. Only the puritanical English could think of such a thing. In France we . . .'

'Yes, Yes. I know all about that. Having conquered the Countess von Futak would indeed be a fine thing. But having paid for her out of government funds is another matter. She is a very expensive woman, as Count Gurunjiev and many others will tell you. You didn't think you were the only person she was skinning, do you? Surely not, a man of the world like you? You must have realised you were only one of heaven knows how many people she – what's the word – entertains?'

He shot her a look of growing alarm. Stone still did nothing, but stood, hands in pockets, looking at Elizabeth, as he listened to my words, unable to take his eyes off her. I wanted to see the disgust and the revulsion spread into his face. He had everything. I was damned if he was going to have her as well.

Rouvier shrugged dismissively. 'A small scandal which will be forgotten if I become known as the man who restored France to pre-eminence.'

'She's not a countess, of course. You've been spending fifty thousand a month on a common streetwalker from Nancy. Didn't you realise? What you paid ten thousand a night for, any soldier on the eastern frontier who wanted her has had for a franc. She is also a murderer, wanted for the cold-blooded slaughter of a client in Lyon.'

He was pale now, but still undecided. Elizabeth was sitting with her hands in her lap, quite unmoving, her self-control still total. Except that I could feel the numbness spreading through her, the chill of despair as she heard her life, her reputation dissolving as someone she trusted – perhaps the only person she had dared to trust – tore her life to shreds. It was a numbness that was in me, as well.

'Do you know of a man called Drumont?' I said quietly.

He stared at me.

'He is a journalist; a detestable man. Twisted, violent, hateful. I must say I cannot even be in the same room as him without feeling sick. But he has extraordinary ability. He hates all Republicans, all politicians. The delight he will get from grinding you into the dust will be very great. Destroying people is more than duty for him. It is a pleasure. Can you imagine the headlines? How he will enjoy himself? How your enemies will delight in hounding you from office? France may triumph, Minister. But you will not taste any of the fruits of victory. M. Drumont will see to that.'

'There is nothing that can be discovered,' he said airily. 'Do you think I gave her receipts?'

'She keeps a diary,' I said wearily. 'It is very detailed, in every respect. And she was a foreign spy. I can prove that also. I have details of payments made to her by the German military via the Bank of Hamburg. She passed on pillow talk for whatever price she could get. You will soon be able to read about it yourself. In his paper. In a couple of days, I imagine. '

'What do you want?'

'Three million sterling. In gold bullion. To be deposited with the Bank of England immediately. You may, if you wish, make an announcement via the Bank about international responsibilities, how France has decided to act to guarantee the stability of the money markets. Say whatever you wish to gain the maximum advantage from the situation. But the money will be deposited or the diaries will be published.'

'You are asking the impossible.'

'I think not. A word to the Governor of the Bank of France next door is all that is needed.'

'You cannot possibly think I will reverse myself like that? Even to save my own skin? My reputation . . .'

'. . . Will be enhanced. You will have pulled off a masterstroke. Enhancing France's international standing with one small gesture and at no cost at all.'

'It can't be done.'

'It can be. So, what is your decision, Minister? Ridicule and possible prosecution for corruption, or a quiet but powerful reputation as the most skilful Treasury Minister the Republic has ever had?'

'I need time to reflect.'

'You don't have time. You will go next door to your colleagues and agree to the deal they have so carefully worked out. You will go now.'

He was calculating fast, not even able to look at Elizabeth, then threw down his hat and gloves and strode out of the room. I thought I had won, but wasn't sure. That was not what was on my mind in any case. I did not really care. I wanted to beat Stone, that was all, show him I was as clever as he, and take away from him something he wanted at the same time. And I didn't care how I did it.

Elizabeth sat, looking suddenly so tired, so reduced, trembling at what I had done, but unable to show any other emotion. She was in shock at the speed and ease with which I had torn her world to shreds, and trampled it into the dust. Because I had not hesitated, not tried to spare her in any way. She was merely a weapon in negotiations which I had used without hesitation. Her worst enemy had never betrayed her on such a scale. She couldn't even look at me, could not raise her eyes to look at Stone, standing still by the fireplace.

Eventually she lifted her head, but to Stone, not me. 'I imagine you will want to leave now, Mr Stone,' she said so quietly I could only just hear her. 'You realise, I am sure, that everything Mr Cort said is true.'

Stone put his face in his hands and breathed deeply. I was no longer in the room for them. I didn't exist. I stood up. Neither of them noticed. When I got to the door I turned.

'One more thing.'

'Go away, Cort,' he said wearily. 'Leave this house.'

'I will. But I need to say this. Elizabeth, I am sorry. I did what I had to. But at least I have taken care of Drennan for you. He is dead. I will recover the diaries and deliver them to you, unread.'

And here Stone whirled round. 'What?'

'It is not something that concerns you, Mr Stone.'

'I think it is. You say Drennan is dead?'

I frowned in puzzlement. 'You know him?'

'What happened?'

'He was shot this afternoon.'

Stone turned pale. 'Oh, my God. What have you done? You killed him?'

'I didn't kill him. The Russians did. It was part of the deal you wanted. Part of the price. It made them trust me enough to listen to me. Why?'

'You told me your servant had robbed you,' he said to her, ignoring me. 'You didn't say what had been taken. I assumed it was some jewellery. I asked Drennan if he could help, I've known him for years. It was to be a surprise, to show you . . .'

He looked at me in total disbelief. 'You killed him?' he repeated.

'Just trying to make the world safe for business,' I said. 'It's what everybody wanted.'

I left, leaving the final part unsaid, the bit about why Stone seemed almost relieved when I had tackled Rouvier. Almost as though he was glad he did not have to. I couldn't put the pieces together. I am still not sure. Besides, it was nearly three in the morning. I was tired. Perhaps I was imagining things.

It really was over. Rouvier concluded that a small guaranteed triumph was a better bet than a bigger prize that might be torn from his grasp. Three hours later the cables started going out to newspapers and agencies that the Bank of France and the Bank of Russia, in a spirit of international solidarity and to ensure the smooth operation of markets, had agreed to deposit extra gold at the Bank of England. It turned the tide; Barings collapsed and the family was all but ruined, but it resurfaced in a new guise soon enough, although it was only ever a shadow of its former self. The markets recovered from their nasty fright and settled down to normal business after a month or so. The City's reputation was damaged, the prestige of France and Russia climbed, but London's position remained unchallenged and the beginnings of a mutual understanding began to emerge. Russia and France signed a secret alliance, and French money began pouring in to build up the Russian economy and army. London banks, often enough, didn't even compete.

John Stone got to work. The construction of the port of Nicolaieff on the Black Sea produced only token and ineffectual protest from Britain, surprising considering that such a thing might ordinarily have been enough to start a war. It proved that Russia was not as backward as everyone had thought, considering that it was able to mobilise the resources and technology to construct such a vast enterprise without outside help.

And in the spring of 1891, John Stone married the Countess Elizabeth Hadik-Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala at St Oswald's church in Malpas, Shropshire. I was not invited to the wedding. I scarcely came across them for years although, now I have finally returned to England because of Mr Wilkinson's death, we inevitably meet occasionally. We are formal and polite.

We never talk about his wife.