Jack of Spies Read online

  McColl wondered out loud whether verbal abuse might sting the Germans into indiscretions. Maybe the girls could deride their German clients, make fun of their puny fleet. What hope did they have against the mighty Royal Navy?

  As she noted this down, a swelling sequence of ecstatic moans resounded through the building. Ch’ing-lan shook her head. “I’ll have to talk to her,” she said. “The others do the same because they think their tips will be smaller if they don’t, and after a while none of us can hear ourselves think. It’s ridiculous.”

  McColl laughed.

  “But I do have some good news for you. I have a new girl, a cousin from Shanghai. She speaks a little English, and now she’s learning a little German—she knows that a lot of the men like someone they can talk to.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  “And more expensive.”

  “Of course—I have no problem paying good money for good information.” He thought for a moment. “She could be worried that her officer might be killed in a war. The British are so much more powerful, yes? She could ask for reassurance, ask him how he thinks his fleet can win.”

  She nodded.

  “And the flying-machine man. I’d like to know how many machines, what type, and how he intends to use them. Between spanks, of course.”

  She nodded again. “Is that all?”

  “I think so. I’ll come back on Friday, yes?”

  “Okay. You want girl tonight? Half price?”

  He hesitated and saw Caitlin Hanley’s face in his mind’s eye. “No, not tonight.” He smiled at her. “You’re still retired, right?”

  “You couldn’t afford me.”

  “Probably not.” He gave her a bow, shut the door after him, and walked back down the corridor. Bedsprings were squeaking behind several curtained doorways, and several girls seemed intent on winning the prize for most voluble pleasure. Out on the veranda, the old man gave him a leer and added another splash of phlegm to his iridescent patchwork.

  It was enough to put a man off his dinner.

  The following day was as clear and cold as its predecessor. McColl rose early and took breakfast in the almost empty hotel restaurant, conscious that half a dozen Chinese waiters were hovering at his beck and call. Once outside, he made straight for the beach. A westerly wind was picking up, and he could smell the brewery the Germans had built beyond the town. The ocean was studded with whitecaps.

  As he’d calculated, the tide was out, and he walked briskly along the hard sand toward the promontory guarding the entrance to the bay. The field-artillery barracks he’d noticed on the map were set quite a distance back from the shore and, as he had hoped, only the roofs and tower were visible from the beach. He was soon beyond them, threading his way down a narrowing beach between headland and ocean.

  Another half a mile and he found his path barred by a barbed-wire fence. It ran down slope and beach and some twenty yards out into the water, to what was probably the low-tide mark. He had first seen barbed wire corralling Boer women and children in South Africa, and finding it stretched across a Chinese beach was somewhat depressing, if rather predictable. There was no EINTRITT VERBOTEN sign, but there didn’t really need to be. Only an idiot would think the fence was there to pen sheep.

  McColl decided to be one. A quick look about him failed to detect any possible witnesses, so he took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers, and waded out and around the end of the fence. The water was deeper and colder than he had expected. After drying his feet as best he could with a handkerchief, he wrung out his trouser bottoms, inserted his sand-encrusted feet into the dry footwear, and ventured on down the forbidden beach. I went paddling in the Yellow Sea, he thought. Something to tell his grandchildren, should he ever have any.

  As he approached the end of the headland, the stern of a passenger ship loomed into view. It had obviously just left the harbor and was already turning southward, probably bound for Shanghai. McColl found himself wishing he were on it, rather than seeking out German guns with a pair of cold, wet trousers clinging to his thighs. He’d already earned the pittance that Cumming was paying him. What did the man expect from a brief visit like this one? A serious spying mission to Tsingtau would need a lot more time—and a lot better cover—than McColl had at his disposal. Cumming’s favorite agent, Sidney Reilly, had lived in Port Arthur for several months before he succeeded in stealing the Russian harbor-defense plans.

  McColl stopped and scrutinized the view to his right. The guns were up there somewhere, and this looked as good a spot as any to clamber up the slope. If he ran into officialdom, he would play the lost tourist, afraid of being cut off by the incoming tide.

  Five minutes later he reached the crest and got a shock. The gun emplacements were up there all right, just as the Admiralty had thought they would be, but so were watching eyes. McColl was still scrambling up onto the plateau when the first shout sounded, and it didn’t take him long to work out that dropping back out of sight was unlikely to win him anything more than a bullet in the spine. They’d seen him, and that was that.

  Two soldiers in pickelhaube helmets were running across the grass. He walked toward them, mind working furiously. The lost-tourist act already seemed redundant—an Englishman this close to German guns was surely too much of a coincidence. But what was the alternative?

  One of their guns went off, and for a single dreadful moment he thought they were shooting at him. But it quickly became obvious that one of them had pulled his trigger by accident. Seizing what seemed like an opportunity, McColl lengthened his stride, shook his fist, and angrily asked in German what the hell they thought they were doing.

  “No civilians are allowed up here,” the older of the soldiers insisted. He looked a little shamefaced but had not lowered his rifle. “Who are you? Where have you come from?”

  “My name is Pluschow,” McColl told him impulsively. There were two thousand soldiers in the garrison, and it seemed unlikely that these two would have run into the aviation enthusiast. “Lieutenant Pluschow,” he added, taking a guess at the man’s rank. “I am sorry—I did not realize I had strayed onto army territory. But I can’t believe your orders are to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “That was an accident,” the younger man blurted out. He couldn’t have been much more than eighteen.

  “And no harm done,” his partner insisted. “But you still haven’t explained what you’re doing here.”

  “I’m surveying the area. Tsingtau needs an aerodrome, and I’m getting a feeling for the local air currents.” He reached for his packet of cigarettes and held it out to the soldiers.

  There was a moment of hesitation before the older one extended a hand and took one. His partner happily followed his lead.

  “If I need to come up here again, I will get permission from army command,” McColl promised. “Now, is there a supply road back to town?”

  There was, and they were happy to show him where it started, on the other side of the emplacements. Walking past the latter, he took in the ferroconcrete installations, heavy steel cupolas, and lift-mounted searchlights. And the guns were new-looking 28-centimeter pieces, not the old 15-centimeter cannons on the Admiralty list. “Our base seems well protected,” he said appreciatively.

  He thanked the soldiers, promised he wouldn’t mention the accidental discharge, and left them happily puffing on his cigarettes. He managed to cover a hundred yards or so before the urge to burst out laughing overcame him. Moments like that made life worth living.

  Fifteen minutes later he was skirting the wall of the barracks and entering the town. In the square in front of the station, a bunch of coolies were huddled over some sort of game, their rickshaws lined up in waiting for the next train. McColl walked the few blocks to Friedrichstrasse and wondered what to do with the rest of the day. Tsingtau in winter was worth a couple of days, and he’d been there for more than a week. Like an idiot he’d forgotten to bring any reading, and the two bookshops on Friedrichstr
asse had nothing in English. A German book on his bedside table would rather give the game away.

  It occurred to him that the British consulate might have books to lend, and indeed they did. Just the one—a copy of Great Expectations some careless English tourist had left on the beach the previous summer. But the consul was out playing golf, and the English-speaking Chinese girl left in charge of His Majesty’s business was unwilling to let the salt-stained volume out of the building without his say-so. It took McColl fifteen minutes and no small measure of charm to change her mind. And all this, he thought bitterly, for a book he already knew the ending to.

  Still, Pip’s early travails kept him entertained for the rest of the morning and half the afternoon. He then ambled around the German and Chinese towns before dropping anchor in the bar of the Sailors’ Home down by the harbor. Through the window he could see the huge gray ships straining at their chains in the restless water.

  What would this fleet do if war were declared? It could hardly stay put, not with England’s ally Japan so close at hand, with ships that outmatched and outnumbered the Germans’. No, if the East Asia Squadron weren’t already at sea when war broke out, then it soon would be. But sailing in which direction? For its home half the world away? If this was the intention, then whichever direction it took—west via the Cape of Good Hope or east around Cape Horn—there would be ten thousand miles and more to sail, with uncertain coal supplies and the knowledge that the whole British fleet would be waiting at the end of its journey, barring its passage across the North Sea. And what would be the point? More than five cruisers would be needed to tip the balance in home waters.

  If McColl were in charge, he knew what he’d do. He’d send the five ships off in five directions, set them loose on the seven oceans to mess with British trade. That, he knew, was the Admiralty’s nightmare. Each German ship could keep a British squadron busy for months, maybe even years, and that might tip the balance closer to home.

  Whether or not the Imperial Navy had such suicide missions in mind, neither he nor the Admiralty knew, and he doubted whether any of his current drinking companions did either. He bought beers for a couple of new arrivals, traded toasts in pidgin English to Kaiser and King, and eavesdropped on the conversations swirling around him. But no secrets were divulged, unless Franz’s fear that he had the French disease counted as such. Most of the seamen had their minds on home, on babies yet unseen, on wives and lovers sorely missed. No one mentioned the dread possibility that none of them would ever see Germany again.

  McColl stayed until the sun was almost down, then walked back through the town as the lamplighters went about their business. Guessing that von Schön had not yet departed, he looked in on the hotel bar and found the young German sharing a circle of armchairs with several fellow-countrymen. Seeing McColl, von Schön smiled and gestured him over. “Please, join us,” he said in English, “we need your point of view.”

  He introduced McColl to the others, explaining in German that the Englishman was also a businessman. They raised their hands in greeting.

  “What are you all talking about?” McColl asked von Schön.

  “Whether a war will benefit Germany,” the other replied.

  “And what’s the general opinion?”

  “I don’t think there is one. I’ll try to translate for you.”

  McColl sat back, careful to keep a look of noncomprehension on his face. One middle-aged man with a bristling mustache was making the argument that only a war could open the world to German business.

  “If we win,” another man added dryly.

  “Of course, but we haven’t lost one yet, and our chances must be good, even against England.”

  Several heads were nodding as von Schön translated this with an apologetic smile, but one of the younger Germans was shaking his head. “Why take the risk,” he asked, “when we only have to wait a few years? The biggest and fastest-growing economies are ours and America’s, and the rules of trade will change to reflect that fact. It’s inevitable. The barriers will come down, including those around the British Empire, and their businesses will struggle to survive. In fact, if anyone needs a war, it’s the British. It’s the only way they could halt their decline.” He turned to von Schön. “Ask your English friend what he thinks. Would British businessmen favor a war with Germany?”

  Von Schön explained what the man had said and repeated his question.

  McColl smiled at them all. “I don’t think so. For one thing, most businessmen have sons, and they don’t want to lose them. For another, it’s only the biggest companies that make most of their profits abroad and that benefit most from the empire. If the rules change, they’ll find some way to survive—big companies always do.” He paused. “But let me ask you something. After all, it’s governments that declare war, not businessmen. How much notice do the Kaiser and his ministers take of what German businessmen think?”

  It seemed like a good question, if the wry response to von Schön’s translation was anything to go by. “This is the problem,” one youngish German responded. “The old Kaiser understood how to rule. Like your Queen Victoria,” he added, looking at McColl. “A symbol, yes? And an important one, but above politics. It didn’t matter what his opinions were. But this Kaiser … We Germans have the best welfare system, the best schools. We have given the world Beethoven and Bach and Goethe and so much else. Our businesses are successful all over the world. We have much to be proud of, much to look forward to, but none of that interests this Kaiser. He grew up playing soldiers, and he can’t seem to stop. In any other country, this would not matter a great deal, but because of our history and our place at the heart of Europe the army has always occupied a powerful position. I agree with Hans that we can get what we want without war, but when the crucial moment comes—as we all know it will—I think the Kaiser and his government will follow the army’s lead, not listen to people like us.”

  It was a sadly convincing analysis, McColl thought, and as von Schön translated the gist of it, he listened to the others muttering their broad agreement. These German businessmen had no desire for war, but they realized that their opinions counted for little with their rulers. The one named Hans might be right in thinking that Britain was in decline, but only in an abstract, relative sense. And while it might be in a few traders’ interests to fight a war of imperial preservation, it wasn’t in anyone else’s. As far as most British businessmen were concerned, peace was delivering the goods. McColl himself was thirty-two years old, and he’d been born into a world without automobiles or flying machines, phonographs or telephones, the wireless or moving pictures. Everything was changing so fast, and mostly for the better. Who in his right mind would exchange this thrilling new world for battlefields soaked in blood? It felt so medieval.

  War would be a catastrophe, for business, for everyone. Particularly those who had to fight it. He was probably too old to be called up, but you never knew—with the weapons they had now, the ranks of the young might be decimated in a matter of months. Whatever happened, he had no intention of renewing his acquaintance with Britain’s military machine and finding himself once more at the mercy of some idiot general.

  It rained that evening and for most of the next two days, a freezing rain that rendered the pavements and quaysides treacherous and obstinately refused to turn to snow. McColl divided his time among cafés, the hotel lounge, and his room, following Pip on his voyage of discovery and engaging all those he could in conversation.

  On two occasions he slipped and slithered his way to the edge of the new harbor, drawn by some pointless urge to confirm that the fleet was still there. It was. The occasional sailor hurried along the rain-swept decks, but no tenders were moving, and the bars on the quayside were shuttered and closed.

  On Friday morning a note arrived from the consulate reminding him to return the book, which seemed somewhat gratuitous. The beautiful mission-taught writing was clearly the work of the Chinese girl, the overwrought concern for property more
likely the golf-playing consul’s. He decided to have the note framed when he got home.

  The weather changed that afternoon, the clouds moving out across the ocean like a sliding roof. He went for a long walk down the Pacific shoreline, ate dinner alone, and, once darkness had taken its grip, rode a rickshaw across town to the Blue Dragon. The old man was still hawking up phlegm, but the girl who’d rushed to greet him in the lobby was busy in the reception area, hovering over a young and nervous Kriegsmarine lieutenant. He was having trouble choosing and, seeing McColl, politely suggested he jump the line. “If you know which girl you want.”

  “English,” McColl explained, shaking his head and gesturing that the other should proceed. The German threw up his hands, sighed, and turned back to the line of waiting females. “This one,” he said eventually, pointing at a child of around fifteen. McColl could almost hear the eeny, meeny, miney, mo.

  The child took the German’s much larger hand in hers and led him away like a horse.

  The other females all sat back down in unison, reminding McColl of church. “You want see Hsu Ch’ing-lan?” the girl asked McColl.

  “Yes.” After making sure that the German was behind a curtain, he walked down to the madam’s room.

  Hsu Ch’ing-lan was just the way he’d left her, sitting at her desk, holding a cigarette between two raised fingers, wearing the same blue silk. But this time she was reading an ancient copy of Life magazine—he recognized the cartoon of Woodrow Wilson.

  She smiled when she saw him, which seemed promising.

  They went through the usual ritual, exchanging small talk until the tea arrived, before getting down to business. “The girl I told you about,” she began, “my cousin from Shanghai. She is very intelligent. She has been with an officer on the flagship and persuaded him to talk about their plans.”

  “How?” was McColl’s immediate reaction.

  “How do you think? There are many men—most of them, I think—who like to talk about themselves after sex. They feel good, and they want the woman to know how important they are.”