Rebellion

Was that supposed to mean something? Hawkwood wondered.

“So, what are my duties to be . . . sir?”

Read hesitated, looked thoughtful, and then said, “It’s best if I leave it to Superintendent Brooke to brief you.” The magistrate glanced towards the clock dial. “Talking of whom; you are to present yourself without delay. Number 20 Crown Street.”

Read stepped across to his desk and retook his seat. “Caleb’s waiting downstairs. He has instruction to convey you to the address.” Read picked up his pen and reached for some papers. “That is all. You may relay my respects to Superintendent Brooke.”

Dismissed, Hawkwood headed for the door. He was on the threshold and about to close it behind him when he thought he heard Read’s voice. He paused and looked round. “Sir?”

The Chief Magistrate, he saw, had his head down and was engrossed in a document. There was no outward sign that he’d spoken. He did not look up.

Must have been my imagination, Hawkwood thought, though he could have sworn he’d heard the Chief Magistrate whisper the words, “Bon chance.”

As he let himself out, he wondered why he found that idea disquieting.

Chapter 3

Whitehall was as busy as Smithfield on market day.

But then Whitehall was always busy. Every time he’d travelled down it, whether by carriage or on foot, Hawkwood had never known an occasion when it wasn’t. Though that was to be expected, he supposed, given the nature of the business conducted in the grand buildings sited along its broad expanse. That and the fact that the nation was at war; for a nation at war was always on the move. The decisions reached in the offices of state concealed behind the impressive façades affected the lives of every man, woman and child in the land. As a soldier in the service of the king, Hawkwood had been subject to the whims and vain posturings of statesmen more than most. As a police officer, too. It was a depressing fact that there didn’t seem to be any escape from officialdom, no matter who, where, or what you were. And this place was at the centre of it all; the heartbeat.

The road was thronged with carriages; most of them in motion, though a good few were parked, either awaiting the return of their passengers or else competing for fares. Pedestrians hugged the verges in a vain bid to avoid the mud, dust and dung that coated the road. Those who were bold enough to attempt a crossing did so at their peril for the oncoming traffic invariably showed no inclination to cede its right of way.

Carriages weren’t the only means of transport in view. There were plenty of people on horseback, too, a great many of them in uniform, including a phalanx of cavalry heading for the exercise ground. The troopers drew applause as they trotted past.

In the wide forecourt of the Admiralty building, anxious blue-coated naval officers scurried around the high porticoed entrance like ants. It was the same with the Horse Guards. The only difference lay in the cut and the colour of the uniforms. From this imposing building had been issued the orders dispatching Hawkwood and thousands like him to Spain, Portugal and South America and a score of other outposts scattered across the furthest reaches of the globe. He gazed up past the sentry boxes and wondered what new strategies were being hatched on the other side of the high windows.

The cab skirted the front of the Treasury and the defile that was the entrance to Downing Street. Crown Street lay a few yards further on, between Fludyer Street and Charles Street, tucked away from the noise and bustle of the main avenues. Here, the low-hanging sun was partially obscured by inconvenient rooftops, so corners of the narrow street still lay in chilly shadow, giving it a disquieting air of gloom. There were a few strollers about, but Caleb’s was the only carriage. The horses’ hooves echoed on the road like stones in a hollow log.

The cab halted. Hawkwood alighted and told Caleb there was no need to wait. Caleb touched two fingers to his cap and drove off.

From the outside, Number 20 looked to be as unremarkable as its neighbours, save for the small, unobtrusive brass plate that was positioned to the right of the door. On it were inscribed the words: alien office.

Hawkwood stared down at the plate.

So that was why Magistrate Read had been so evasive.

A middle-aged, lank-haired clerk with pockmarked skin and a lugubrious cast to his features answered Hawkwood’s summons on the bell and, after fixing him with a baleful stare and taking his name, instructed him to wait. When the clerk returned he was accompanied by a formally dressed and much younger man, who looked Hawkwood up and down with ill-disguised condescension. Unlike his colleague, his hair looked freshly barbered. Hawkwood’s nostrils detected the faint whiff of pomade.

“Officer Hawkwood? My name is Flint. This way, if you please.” He crooked a finger. Hawkwood resisted the urge to snap it off.

Moving primly, Flint led the way upstairs. Apart from the sound of their footsteps, the building seemed eerily quiet. If it hadn’t been for the nameless functionary on the ground floor, they might well have been the only two in the place. Leading Hawkwood to a door at the top of the stairs, Flint knocked twice, opened the door and stood aside.

Hawkwood found himself in a spacious, high-ceilinged room that resembled a library more than it did an office. Books were displayed on every wall. The areas of panelling that did not contain bookshelves supported an impressive gallery of maps; the majority of which appeared to cover Europe – France and the Peninsula mostly – though India and Egypt, Hawkwood noticed, were also represented. The autumn sunlight was admitted into the room through a pair of large windows, in front of which sat a hefty mahogany desk, containing more books and piles of documents secured in red and black ribbons. Leaning back against the desk, arms folded in repose, was a tall, sombre-looking man dressed in black.

“Officer Hawkwood?” The man straightened, unfolded his arms but did not extend his hand. “Henry Brooke. Welcome to the Alien Office.” He nodded towards Flint, hovering by the door. “Thank you, Stormont. You may leave us. I’ll ring if I have need of you. Oh, and perhaps you’d be kind enough to take Officer Hawkwood’s coat for him, there’s a good fellow.”

Hawkwood removed his coat and handed it over. Flint looked none too happy at being relegated to footman. He didn’t quite turn his nose up, but it was a close-run thing. He left the room with the coat held at arm’s length and the door closed softly behind him.

Brooke continued to regard the door, as though expecting it to spring back open. Eventually satisfied that wasn’t about to happen, he pushed himself away from the desk and regarded Hawkwood with calm appraisal.

“You’ve come direct from Magistrate Read? How is he? In sound health, I trust?”

“He asked me to convey his compliments,” Hawkwood said.

“How kind of him.” Unhurriedly, Brooke stalked around the desk and took his seat. The superintendent’s jacket and breeches were beautifully tailored. Hawkwood could see stripes of very fine gold thread running through them.

Hawkwood glanced towards the fireplace. The hearth was empty and despite the azure sky visible through the windows, the room was by no means warm. James Read’s office was a positive furnace in comparison. Perhaps Brooke had spent all his money on his wardrobe and had nothing left over for kindling. Hawkwood wondered if surrendering his coat had been a wise decision.

“So, Officer Hawkwood,” Brooke said, somewhat regally. “What has Magistrate Read told you? Anything?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “He told me he’d leave that to you, sir.”

There was no invitation to sit down, though there were two empty chairs in the room. Hawkwood had no doubt it was a deliberate ploy rather than an oversight. By keeping him standing, Brooke was effortlessly and effectively emphasizing his authority.

Brooke smiled indulgently. “Did he now? How convenient.” Leaning forward, he stared down at a sheaf of papers on his desk. His eyes roved across the page. “You were a soldier. The 95th Regiment of Foot, I see.”

Brooke looked up. The expression on his face was reassuringly benign. Interpreting the remark as a comment rather than a question, Hawkwood kept quiet. He assumed Brooke would continue, which he did.

“A fine regiment.” Brooke did not expand upon the statement but lowered his eyes and continued to read. Without looking up, he said, “From my conversations with him, I know that Magistrate Read holds you in extremely high regard. You should be flattered. He’s not one to award praise lightly.” There was a pause. “Though he also advises me you have what he calls an ambivalent attitude towards authority.” Casually, Brooke lifted his gaze. “I imagine that’s a polite way of saying you’ve a tendency to disregard it. I’d also hazard a guess it did not serve you well in your army career; would I be right in that?”

Hawkwood considered his response and decided it would probably be more prudent if he remained silent, though it didn’t prevent him wondering what was coming next.

“I suspect that rather answers my question,” the man at the desk said, looking and sounding mildly amused. “Though the Rifle Corps, from all I hear, does allow its men a degree more latitude than most.” The smile evaporated. “Tell me about Talavera and Major Delancey.”

Hawkwood felt his stomach muscles contract. What the hell was this?

Brooke moved the document aside as though it was no longer of consequence. He leant forward, steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the desk. The dark gaze was unwavering. “You may speak freely.”

It struck Hawkwood that Brooke had exceptionally long fingers. It was impossible not to compare them with Chen’s stubby digits. The silence stretched, while Brooke, seemingly content to prolong the moment, remained resolutely mute. He looked, Hawkwood thought, not unlike a praying mantis about to pounce upon a moth.

“Major Delancey was a Guards officer,” Hawkwood said, “with a misguided opinion of his own abilities. He wanted to make a name for himself. He gave a bad order and a lot of good men died because of it. I told him it would have been no great loss if he’d been counted among them. He took exception and called me out. That was his second mistake.” He stared down at the man behind the desk. “But you already knew that, sir. Didn’t you?”

The seated man raised his eyebrows. “You don’t think a man’s entitled to make a mistake?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “Not at all. The trouble with Delancey was that he abused the privilege. Most men have the capacity for regret. They learn from the errors they’ve committed. Delancey didn’t have the wits for that.”

Brooke’s face hardened. “It’s war. Men die. Isn’t that the way of it?”

“Yes, it is,” Hawkwood said. “But they shouldn’t have to die because some tomfool officer is hell-bent on glory.”

There was silence, then Brooke said sternly, “You were an officer. A captain, no less. How many men died under your command?”

“Too damned many,” Hawkwood responded coldly. “But unlike Delancey, I valued the lives of my men, I could name every bloody one of them. Would you care to tell me why I’m here . . . sir.”

A flash of irritation showed on the superintendent’s face but it disappeared in the blink of an eye, to be replaced by a thin smile. He lowered his hands on to the desk. “Well, Magistrate Read warned me you were direct; and I must say you don’t disappoint. As for the reason you’re here; we’ll come to that shortly. The Delancey affair cost you, though, didn’t it? You lost your commission.”

There didn’t seem much point in either denying the fact or elaborating upon it.

“Yes.”

“You were cashiered.” Brooke pulled his notes towards him and glanced down at them. “Which should have seen you reduced to the ranks or sent home. Yet, instead, you took to the mountains and joined the guerrilleros. Most intriguing. Of your own volition, or was it really with the blessing of your commander?”

Brooke was undoubtedly referring to Wellington. Hawkwood suspected that, once again, the superintendent already knew the answer to his question. Brooke clearly had his military record to hand and seemed keen on letting him know it. Hawkwood decided there and then not to grant the man any further concessions. If Brooke wanted additional information he’d have to bloody well work for it.

“Your time in the Peninsula served you well,” Brooke went on. “You speak Spanish, yes?”

He appeared undeterred by Hawkwood’s reluctance to respond to the previous enquiry.

This time, Hawkwood nodded. Brooke seemed intent on changing course every five minutes. Sooner rather than later, Hawkwood supposed, the superintendent would get to the point.

“In fact,” Brooke continued, “you’ve quite a flair for languages. You’re fluent in French, as well, I hear?”

“I’ve been fighting the bastards for twenty years. There was a general once; he said you should know your enemy.” Hawkwood shrugged. “Learning the language seemed as good a place to start as any.”

Brooke’s eyebrows lifted. He looked genuinely startled by Hawkwood’s reply. “You’re a student of Sun Tzu?”

“Sun what?” Hawkwood said. He had no idea what Brooke was talking about.

Brooke sat back in his chair. “Not what; it’s a name. Sun Tzu – T, Z, U. He’s your general. He was Chinese. He lived over two thousand years ago. He wrote a book on military strategy known as The Art of War. It’s been used by military leaders down through the ages. He wrote: ‘If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.’ They do say Bonaparte’s a devotee,” Brooke added, with what might have been a hint of admiration. Then, intrigued by the expression on Hawkwood’s face, his brow furrowed. “What is it?”

Hawkwood was thinking of Chen, recalling how the Chinaman had scrutinized Bruiser Billy Boyd disporting himself with his previous opponents, then swiftly defeated him. Hawkwood wondered if Chen had heard of this Sun Tzu. He’d have to ask him. He had the strong feeling that the answer would be in the affirmative. He shook his head. “I wasn’t aware of his name.”

“Then it appears we’ve both learnt something today,” Brooke said serenely. He studied his notes. “I see you fought alongside Colquhoun Grant.”

Another name; this one known, however. Although it was from the more recent past, it was not one that Hawkwood had been expecting to hear.

“Not exactly.”

“What?” Something approaching alarm showed in the super-intendent’s eyes. “Are you saying I’ve been misinformed?”

“I was in the mountains when Captain Grant joined Wellington’s staff. I reported to him when I delivered information back to the general’s headquarters. It was after I left Spain that the captain became Lord Wellington’s chief exploring officer. He inherited my informers and he was able to make use of the guerrilleros I’d been working with.”

“Ah, in other words, he was your successor,” Brooke said, sounding relieved.

Hawkwood nodded. “That would be a more accurate description, yes.”

“Well, you clearly made a favourable impression, whichever way it was. He provided the references that enabled you to join Bow Street, no?” Brooke threw Hawkwood another questioning stare.

“Captain Grant had friends in high places,” Hawkwood said.

“Had?” The reply came sharply.

“He was captured,” Hawkwood said heavily. “Six months ago. The French finally managed to track him down and Bonaparte ordered him hanged as a spy. Another thing that Corsican bastard has to answer for. Now, forgive me, sir, but would you mind telling me what I’m doing here?”

Brooke leant back in his chair, his face severe. He remained silent, as if pondering his decision. Finally, he gave a curt nod. “Very well. What do you know of this department?”

“According to Magistrate Read, you’re part of the Home Office.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes,” Hawkwood said. “You hunt subversives.”

Brooke looked slightly taken aback by Hawkwood’s forthright response. Then he frowned. “Subversives? I do declare that’s a word I’ve not come across before. Though I must say it’s a good one, and remarkably apposite. From the French, possibly?” He regarded Hawkwood with renewed respect. “Is that all?”

Hawkwood hesitated.

When he’d seen the brass plaque to the side of the front door, the name “Alien Office” had triggered a faint memory that went deeper than his confessed store of knowledge. He wasn’t sure what it was a memory of, exactly, other than the vague remembrance of whispered conversations and rumours voiced in dark corridors about even darker deeds. It was probably best to claim ignorance. That way, at least, any information he did receive would be straight from the horse’s mouth.

“Perhaps you ought to tell me, sir.”

From the look in Brooke’s eye it was clear the superintendent suspected that Hawkwood was being deliberately obtuse.

The moment passed. Brooke nodded. “As you wish. Well, Magistrate Read was quite correct. We do indeed fall under the aegis of the Home Office, though we operate independently from it.”

“And what do you operate on, exactly?”

“Oh, all manner of things,” Brooke replied, showing his teeth. The effect was not so much jocular as disarmingly menacing. “You know it was your Chinese general who said that a hundred ounces of silver spent on intelligence can save a thousand spent on war. You might say it’s my duty to try and prove him right.”

“And how do you do that?”

“By spreading confusion among our enemies.”

Brooke pushed himself away from his desk and stood up. He shot his cuffs and began to pace the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

He looked over his shoulder. “As a police officer you are, no doubt, familiar with the workings of the Alien Act?”

Hawkwood nodded.

The act had been inaugurated in ’93, long before his arrival at Bow Street. It required all foreigners to register with the customs officials at the port where they landed or at a police office. Despite the latter stipulation, to Hawkwood’s knowledge there had been no direct impact from the legislation on his own duties as a Runner. Up until now, that was.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Brooke said. Eyes front, he continued to pace. “However, what you may not know is that the Act was actually prepared in response to advice from the émigrés themselves. That was how this office came into being. The Prime Minister was becoming increasingly concerned by the number of refugees arriving on our shores, having fled the Terror. There was no knowing who we were letting through, no guarantee that some of them weren’t agents who’d smuggled themselves in to spread dissent among the populace.”

The superintendent performed an about turn. “The last thing this country needed was for the seeds of republicanism to start germinating on this side of the Channel. God forbid there should be a mob laying siege to the Tower! So, subversives, revolutionaries, agitators, spies – call them what you will – it was and is the Office’s task to root out the bad apples. And I’m happy to report that we have enjoyed considerable success in that regard.”

Brooke stopped pacing. He was standing before a map of Europe. He stared up at it, his eyes narrowing. “Then came the war.” The words were spoken softly, almost wistfully. It was as though Brooke was thinking aloud.

Collecting himself, he continued, “It was my predecessor, Wickham, who took the initiative. He decided it was time to give the French a taste of their own medicine. He proposed that we set up a web of correspondents throughout Europe, using our embassy in Berne as the collecting house for information.”

Brooke reached out and ran the flat of his hand over the map’s surface. “The intention was not only to gather intelligence about the revolutionaries on their own soil but also to find ways of discrediting them. The best way to do that, he believed, was to initiate contact with royalist sympathizers who’d infiltrated republican organizations in the hope of disabling the régime and restoring the Bourbon monarchy. We were already in league with the royalist government in exile over here, so it made sense for us to continue taking advantage of their expertise. It also helped that Wickham had been appointed our ambassador in Switzerland.” The superintendent tapped the map with the end of his forefinger.

“Dangerous work,” Hawkwood said, still wondering where all this was leading.

Brooke nodded. “You’re not wrong there. Needless to say, the damned Frogs kept putting pressure on the Swiss, with that worm Fouché pulling the strings. In the end, Wickham was forced to resign his post. He did uncommonly well though; managed to last right through until Amiens. He came home when the peace was signed.”

Brooke turned. “Nobody believed for a moment that was the end of it, of course. But we went through the motions. Our foreign correspondents were told to stand down, laid to rest if you like, and the office reverted to its domestic role. Wickham’s tenure ended and I received my appointment.” A thin smile split the aristocratic features. “I dare say some would regard it as the poisoned chalice”

Brooke returned his attention to the map on the wall. “As I was saying: we never for a moment thought it was all over. We knew as soon as Bonaparte appointed himself Consul for life he’d be looking for ways of expanding his damned empire. We heard from our royalist friends that he was already making plans, building up his forces, even as we were putting pen to the treaty. It didn’t take a genius to know that we’d be in his sights again. Only one thing for it; we had to rouse our correspondents from their slumbers and put them back into service. While our little corporal plotted to increase his military might, we chose to pursue a more surreptitious approach. You recall what I said about your Chinese general and the hundred ounces of silver?”

“Guile not guns?”

“You have it.” Brooke looked pleased that Hawkwood had remembered. “By the time war was re-declared, our correspondents were back in place and in stronger positions than before. They’ve been active ever since, burrowing their way into the heart of the Empire, like moles in a garden; keeping us abreast of events and Bonaparte’s intentions.”

Brooke’s face grew more serious. “Which brings us to the reason you’re here.”

Here comes the rub, Hawkwood thought.

“A situation has arisen,” Brooke said slowly. “We’ve received a communication from one of our correspondents which we feel merits serious and immediate attention. It concerns a proposal – I’ll call it no more than that – which, if acted upon, could well pave the way towards a cessation of hostilities. Magistrate Read and I have held various discussions on how we should proceed and your name was put forward. You have – how shall I say? – a number of talents that we believe could be relevant to the task.”

“Talents?” Hawkwood repeated cautiously. He’d no intention of querying why Brooke should have been consulting with James Read in the first place. Hawkwood was well aware that the Chief Magistrate’s responsibilities extended far beyond the confines of a small, dark-panelled office at 4 Bow Street. He’d long since ceased to be surprised at the influence James Read wielded within the serried ranks of the high and mighty.

Though that didn’t prevent another warning bell chiming inside his ear. A similar blandishment had been voiced prior to his last assignment, and he hadn’t long recovered from that bloody enterprise. James Read’s enquiry into his well-being suddenly started to make sense.

“Magistrate Read was kind enough to furnish me with some details of your previous undertakings, in particular the infiltration of the French community on the prison ship Rapacious. Most impressive. You posed as an American officer attached to a French infantry regiment.”