Dead Men Stalking 10: Liontamer
‘We’ll build him up over a few months, so the public fear and hate him. “Liontamer - the scourge of the British Empire.” '
Welcome to the concluding part of my MI7 Assassin origins story!
We’re taking a short break from Sean Stone as I am currently working on the next story, called The Temporary Gentleman. We should be back in about a month.
Your feedback is crucial!
Eventually we’ll publish these origins stories as novellas and I want them to be as good as they possibly can be when we do! So if you have any suggestions, something you particularly like or don’t like, want to see more or less of, do let me know in the comments below!
Dead Men Stalking 10: Liontamer
Stone stared at the blade. The last time he'd seen it, it was on the passenger seat of his car. He'd had no time to grab it as he jumped out, and he'd assumed – hoped – that it had been destroyed in the explosion. He cleared his throat. ‘I have no idea, sir.’
He considered quickly snatching up the bayonet as a way of explaining why his incriminating fingerprints were on it, but he decided that would definitely indicate his guilt. Best to bluff it out instead. The wound on his arm began to itch and he fought a strong urge to scratch it.
‘It’s further evidence that there is an assassin at work.’ Pollard spoke levelly, but his right hand tapped a staccato rhythm on the desk.
Stone felt himself sag slightly in relief, and quickly straightened up again.
‘I can’t give you the details, they’re classified. But he struck again two nights ago. And an innocent man was murdered.’ Pollard jabbed his forefinger at the bayonet. ‘With this.’
‘Who was it, sir?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘I understand, sir.’ Stone knew he must have killed the German, but it was good to have confirmation.
‘And a good friend of mine was badly injured. We’re members of the same hunt. He’ll never ride again, poor chap.’
Pollard’s gaze drifted and for a second he was lost in thought.
Stone waited.
‘The fox got the better of us.’ Pollard looked up. ‘This time.’
Stone felt no regret for the Frontiersman’s injuries. He’d spared his life, that was mercy enough. But more fascinating was Pollard’s reaction. He was displaying anger, then sadness, then frustration, and Stone felt a small thrill that his efforts had elicited such a response.
‘This man is gall and wormwood to me.’ He smiled crookedly, the bruises on his face giving him a lopsided look. ‘And when I apprehend him, Stone, as I most certainly will, I would like just a little…’ he indicated with a small gap between his thumb and forefinger, ‘time left alone with him. Just the two of us.’ His eyes glinted at the prospect.
‘Before I hand him over to the authorities and he takes his dirt nap. You understand?’
‘Do you have any leads, sir?’
‘We thought we did with his car. But he’s smart, damn him. Like a bloody fox. False name and address.’
‘So you have no idea who he is?’ Stone sounded convincingly concerned.
‘Not a single, bloody clue.’
‘Maybe where he’s getting his information from?’ suggested Stone, keen to know if he had considered Room 38.
‘No idea.’ A defeated Pollard sighed deeply and shrugged. ‘Could be an anarchist, peace prattler, Fenian, German agent, who knows?’ He gesticulated wildly. ‘Although–’ He stopped abruptly.
Stone guessed Pollard had been about to correct himself. The assassin could hardly be a German agent if he murdered a fellow German agent. ‘Now. I want you to do something about him.’
‘Me, sir?’ Stone looked startled at Pollard.
‘You’ll remember we talked about Jack the Ripper and how that made-up name sold newspapers. I want you to come up with six names for the assassin. Something equally snappy and sinister, something that will capture the public imagination presenting him as a repeat killer. Something low-brow, easy for the readers to understand. That’s why I chose you. Dunsany would bring his bloody Gods of Pegana into it, and call him the Moon Killer, and I want something more relevant to the war. Milne would just make a big joke of it. He can’t help himself. But you’ve got the common touch, Stone.’ Pollard noticed Stone’s tense and distant expression. ‘Are you paying attention?’
The urge to scratch his wound was greater than ever. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘So get started. Before lunch, if you please.’
Stone hurried back to his office. He locked the door, took off his jacket and gave his wound a really good scratch. Then he relaxed, wondering about his latest task: to come up with a name as lurid and snappy as Jack the Ripper. But the last thing he wanted to do was to build up a dark charisma about himself as a repeat killer. He just wanted to quietly eliminate those individuals who were deliberately prolonging the war at the cost of millions of lives.
But it was not to be.
Pollard wanted him to come up with a name that would cause the public to fear him. He smiled at the thought that it was not every assassin who gets an opportunity to officially name himself. Might as well make the best of it. He took a field message book out of his jacket and began work. Two hours later he had come up with six titles.
The Eliminator
The Jackal
Le Fantôme
The Fiend
The Fox
Liontamer
He presented the list to Pollard for his approval. His editor ruminated and then finally gave his verdict. ‘The Eliminator ... sounds like a laxative. No. The Jackal … that’s very good. Excellent name.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘But. I want something associated with the war. So no. What’s this? Le Fantôme?’ Pollard frowned. ‘Why the Froggy name?’
‘I was thinking of Fantômas, sir. The public love those books and films. Especially In the Shadow of the Guillotine.’ Stone was certainly an enthusiastic admirer of Fantômas, which is why he had read the books aloud to Ralph.
‘Penny dreadful trash. And we don’t want to upset our French allies by suggesting our killer is French!’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Stone was crestfallen. ‘Maybe the Phantom?’
Pollard shook his head and moved on. ‘The Fiend. Too trashy.’
‘I thought you wanted something trashy, sir.’
‘Not that trashy. Sounds like he’s escaped from Broadmoor. We don’t want to terrify our readers over their bacon and eggs. The Fox …’ Pollard reflected on the fifth name. ‘Well, he’s certainly vermin.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Trouble is there are romantic fools out there who actually think the fox is a noble creature. So, no.’
Stone was ready for Pollard to shoot down his last name and have to go away and dream up another six. It had happened before. So he stood up to leave, but Pollard stopped him. ‘Liontamer. What’s your thinking here?’
Stone sat down again. ‘The British Lion stands for civilisation and justice. And is joined by the Pride of the Empire: Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and India, who have answered the roar for freedom.’
‘Go on,’ said Pollard, looking decidedly more enthusiastic.
‘But this assassin who calls himself The Liontamer seeks to destroy our empire and everything we hold dear. To tame the British Lion, but Britons never, never, never shall be tamed.’
Pollard smiled. ‘Rule Britannia, eh? I think you’re onto something, Stone. Build him up as the enemy of the British Empire. Although, in fact, his real motive seems to be trying to end the war, but that will attract too much sympathy. But the British Empire, that’s different.’ He wagged a finger. ‘The public will want his head.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Stone winced inside at the prospect of incurring such universal hatred and from his own idea, to boot. He really wished Pollard had chosen one of the other more lurid names. It was actually his voices that suggested Liontamer. He wasn’t sure which one or why. Probably Dean, who’d had bitter experiences of empire.
‘Give me three hundred words on Liontamer before you leave tonight.’
‘But I don’t know anything about him,’ Stone protested.
Pollard shrugged. ‘Make it up. Who’s going to complain? Auntie Dora will see to that. It’s the message that matters, not the facts.’
Stone recalled how he had previously written a flattering and entirely fictional profile of the American philanthropist Irving Jayden, the right hand man of Herbert Hoover, supposedly responsible for distributing Belgian food relief, which bore absolutely no connection to the dark truth. He never thought he would have to now write a damning and equally fictional profile on himself. The harsh realities of writing propaganda came home to him. ‘I understand, sir.’
‘And …well done, Stone.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Returning to his desk, Stone sighed at the prospect, but he knew he had to do it. He communed with his voices.
I didn’t come up with Liontamer. I don’t even like the name. Was that you, Dean?
Oh, yes, brother. Dean gave his deep throaty laugh that Stone remembered with great affection and missed so much.
Why?
Because Liontamer is saying something, unlike your other titles. Like … Le Fantôme. Dean guffawed again. Despite Dora, Liontamer suggests opposition to the war. If people know how to read between the lines.
There’s not much chance of that.
Don’t be so sure, man. They’re starting to ask questions, now the war is going so badly. Look at The Guardian. There’s often a tiny drop of truth in their reports which they manage to slip past the censor.
But I don’t want to be the Liontamer!
Bad luck. Time to put your head in the lion’s mouth, brother.
Chuckling despite himself and still grateful for his dead comrade’s company, Stone sat down to write. Under DORA, The Defence of the Realm Act, any reporter who publicly criticised the war faced imprisonment without trial. Front line, embedded reporters were accompanied by MI7 censors at all times. The censors even used chemicals to check they weren’t using invisible ink in their dispatches that might reveal what was really going on. But Dean was right: there were other ways apart from invisible ink, like writing in code.
Stone remembered the disastrous first day of the Somme where over nineteen thousand British soldiers were killed, including his four comrades. Forty thousand were wounded and he himself had been struck dumb with shell shock. He’d later looked up The Guardian report of the battle in the MI7 library.
The first day of the offensive is therefore very satisfactory. The success is not a thunderbolt, as has happened earlier in similar operations, but it is important above all because it is rich in promises. It is no longer a question here of attempts to pierce as with a knife. It is rather a slow, continuous, and methodical push, sparing in lives, until the day when the enemy’s resistance, incessantly hammered at, will crumple up at some point.
He knew the Guardian reporter was trying to tell the paper’s readers the truth as far as he dared. ‘Not a thunderbolt’ was actually saying the Somme was a disaster. He also suggested the war was going to drag on slowly. And enemy resistance ‘will crumple up at some point’ was hardly optimistic. Somehow, even with DORA, the truth was getting out there to the public if they knew where to look. And so Stone began his own attempt. It could only be the tiniest drop of truth. He couldn’t say Liontamer wanted to end the war, but he could say he was trying to change the world and a few readers might ask why. It was a start, he told himself, and who knows where it might end?
A source at the War Office has revealed today that a desperado who calls himself ‘Liontamer’ is responsible for three recent brutal murders of innocent and unarmed civilians. In carrying out these outrages, he has shown his intense and vindictive hatred of the British Empire, for all three of his victims were proud upholders and believers in our beloved Empire.
Today, as we face the barbarism of the German enemy, our British Lion stands for civilisation, peace and justice, joined by the Pride of Lions of Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and India. Yet Liontamer seeks to undermine these values we hold so dear. He seeks to tame the British Lion, but we Britons never, never, never shall be tamed.
Details of the killings are still emerging and we do not yet know if Liontamer is a crazed Anarchist, an Enemy Agent or a Red Revolutionary, one of those weak young fools to be found among the Boudoir Bolsheviki. Whoever he is, nothing can palliate the criminality of this man. His lack of repugnance for his crimes, shows he does not know the difference between the legitimate nature of war, where so many of our soldiers have been sacrificed, and cold-blooded murder.
There is nothing glamorous about this moral decadent. Liontamer’s morbid discontent with the conduct of the war in pursuit of some deranged dream of trying to change the world is to be condemned.
There does not appear to be any sense to his actions. His objective appears to be to spread anarchy, chaos and terror. The hangman’s noose is the only convincing argument that awaits this traitor and the only one he will ever understand.
Pollard was pleased. ‘This is excellent. You’ve really got inside Liontamer’s head, Stone.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Stone replied without expression.
‘I’ll get this out to the papers straight away.’
Pollard looked out the window of his office, already planning and scheming. ‘We’ll build him up over a few months, so the public fear and hate him. “Liontamer - the scourge of the British Empire.” We‘ll have them all baying for his blood. And then …’ Pollard turned back into the room, ‘when there’s a setback on the Western Front, we’ll announce that we’ve caught him, so we distract the public from the bad news.’
‘But what if we don’t catch him, sir?’
Pollard shrugged. ‘Get hold of some other miscreant and claim they’re Liontamer and they can face the rope instead.’
Stone was taken aback at the prospect that an innocent man might die for his murders. But Pollard seemed surprised he should even ask such a naïve question.
‘A patsy. You never saw the musical comedy Patsy in Politics? Very funny.’ Pollard chuckled. ‘Always gets the blame when things go wrong.’
Stone’s expression suggested he had never heard of the show.
‘No, of course,’ explained Pollard. ‘American. I saw it on Broadmoor. Oops! Slip of the tongue. Broadway.’
Pollard’s light-hearted expression hardened and he looked meaningfully at Stone. ‘It’s how these things are done.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Whoever Liontamer is, he’s a gift to MI7. He’s just what we need.’
It was classic Pollard. He had turned defeat into a propaganda victory.