Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,81

tried to speak, failed, and took a cigarette from his case. It took him a couple of attempts to light it. ‘Marriotvale,’ he muttered. ‘Do you know Marriotvale, Brooke?’

Anthony did. It was a densely populated labyrinth, hugging the south side of the Thames, a maze of docks, wharves, workshops, factories and slums between Rotherhithe and Bermondsey.

‘There’s thousands of people,’ said Sir Charles with a catch in his voice. ‘Thousands.’ He was silent for a few moments then asked wearily. ‘When’s it going to happen?’

‘At ten o’clock this morning.’

‘Ten o’clock?’ Sir Charles swallowed. ‘We’ll never evacuate the area in time. We can save the King and Queen, but we’ll never save the poor beggars who live there. Dear God, this is worse than I ever imagined.’

Anthony sucked at his cigarette. ‘There’s a chance, Talbot.’ He tapped the document, his mind racing. ‘These are James Smith’s instructions. Berlin sees the munitions factory as a legitimate military target. They refer to the huge propaganda coup they can make out it, but they’re not keen on making hay about the death of the Royal couple. Berlin wants the credit for that to go to the Sons of Hibernia.’

Sir Charles rubbed his chin with his hands. ‘The King and the Kaiser are cousins, after all,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, I can see there’d be some reluctance. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Kaiser’s been bullied into this.’

Anthony shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Anyway, it’s been agreed but the bombers don’t know that yet. James Smith’s instructions are to go to an address in Marriotvale and inspect the arrangements. Then, after a successful outcome, Smith’s authorized to pay a credit note for six thousand pounds’ worth of German arms to be shipped to Ireland.’ He looked up. ‘That means it’s all right, doesn’t it? After all, James Smith hasn’t got this letter. We have.’

Sir Charles swallowed once more and drummed his fingers on the car seat. ‘I don’t like to leave it to chance. It’s an Irish plan, is it?’

Anthony nodded. ‘I think so, yes.’

‘They might decide to go ahead anyway, with or without Smith. I can’t gamble on it. Not when the stakes are so high. There’s far too many lives at risk. We’ll have to evacuate the area, God help us.’ His face twisted. ‘Even so, if that damn bomb goes off, there’s bound to be casualties. I don’t see how it can be helped.’

Anthony smoked his cigarette down to the butt and pitched the end out of the car onto the hummocky grass. ‘What if I go?’ he suggested. ‘What if I take James Smith’s part?’

Sir Charles stared at him. ‘You can’t do that. What if they know him?’

‘All right, I’ll be someone acting on James Smith’s behalf. I can say he’s had an accident or something but it’s a chance, Talbot. I can be a German again.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the sea. ‘I could have arrived on that submarine. We’ve got the address, after all. I can say that Berlin refused permission to explode the bomb. They can’t argue with that.’

‘I bet they can,’ muttered Sir Charles.

Anthony nearly smiled. ‘Even if they do, if I can just get to see this ruddy bomb, maybe I can disarm it. I can even ask them to rendezvous with me somewhere else to plan out another operation, which means you and the police can pick up the swine. In the meantime, you can evacuate the area.’

Sir Charles shook his head. ‘Not while you’re in the house. They’ll smell a rat at once.’ He chewed his lip. ‘I like the idea of catching the bombers. If you can nip it in the bud, that’s their precious propaganda triumph gone west.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Damnit, they still win, even if we do catch them. If we do manage to evacuate Marriotvale, they’ve still brought an entire area of London to a standstill.’

He raised his hands and let them fall helplessly. ‘We’re sunk, Brooke. They’ve won, whatever happens. If the bomb goes off, they’ve won. If it doesn’t and we evacuate the area, all they have to do in the future is say there’s going to be a bomb. We can’t ignore it. It’ll cause endless amounts of disruption and thousands of pounds worth of manufacturing time.’

‘Unless I give it a go.’

Sir Charles sucked his cheeks in, then leaned forward and tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder. ‘London,’ he said, giving an address in Albemarle Row, Westminster. ‘We’re going to see the Home Secretary,’ he said, turning