Scent of a Killer 2: an MI7 Assassin origins story
‘Of course most of the food is going to Germany. Otherwise the war would be over in months. Hey – the Krauts would soon be starving. They’d have to surrender. And that doesn’t suit any of us.'
Welcome to MI7 Assassin! My new WW1 spy thriller kicks off with two origins short stories to warm you up.
Last week I gave you Scent of a Killer part 1, with a hopefully atmospheric description of the real-life Cave of the Golden Calf!
If you missed it, read it before part 2!
And f you missed the first origins story, His Master’s Voice, pick it up here:
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Scent of a Killer part 2
Stone worked for MI7b, a branch of the British War Office’s Directorate of Military Intelligence which covered domestic and foreign propaganda. But as part of his training as a propaganda writer, Captain Pollard had assigned him to spend two weeks working in MI7d. This was the department in charge of foreign censorship. It was here he came across the French magazine L'homme enchaîné: The Chained-up Man. This seditious publication had the ‘inside whispers’ of what was really happening in the war. It had been banned by the French government, so the publishers sent copies in sealed envelopes to its subscribers, including readers in Britain. MI7d had intercepted the latest copy of The Chained-up Man and its front page article had shocked Stone.
It concerned the Commission for Relief in Belgium, an American charitable organisation that supplied food to the starving citizens of German-occupied Belgium and northern France. It was run by Herbert Hoover, who was known as ‘The Great Humanitarian’ after feeding close to ten million Belgian and French citizens.
Stone already knew that members of parliament were asking questions about just how genuine the operation was, but their concerns were being ignored by the Foreign Office. But The Chained-up Man went much further in its allegations. It revealed that most of the food was actually going to feed the enemy. It documented correspondence between the Foreign Office and Hoover of how disturbed they were by the allegations.
Whether they were really disturbed, Stone had his doubts. Maybe they were just claiming concern for the sake of appearances. Certainly nothing was done about their complaints. He was already aware – from his investigation of the fake naval blockade – that the Foreign Office was deliberately prolonging the war to ensure Germany’s utter destruction. A short war would not suit its objectives.
The Chained-up Man had more. It included facsimiles of documents signed by Baron Oscar von der Lancken, the German Governor-General of Belgium. In them the Baron wrote that the work of the Relief Committee was of ‘major self-interest to the Reich.’
American students studying at Oxford University had been appointed to supervise food distribution and ensure supplies would only be given to Belgian and French civilians. But to Stone’s astonishment, the Baron had this to say about it: ‘In spite of this supervision, we have, once again, successfully routed an appreciable quantity of foodstuffs to the Western Front or to Germany, and just as profitably, made use of local products for the occupying force – by means of the clauses which were kept voluntarily elastic or thanks to arrangements contracted secretly with the neutral committee or again with their unspoken tolerance.’
A further document by the Baron concluded, ‘We have continued successfully to export to Germany, or distribute to our troops, appreciable quantities of food. The advantages which Germany accrues through the relief work continues to grow.’
It was damning evidence the war was being extended for power and profit at the cost of countless lives. The effect on Stone was devastating. Whether it was his subconscious, a perverse form of guilt, or a hidden facet of his personality that secretly wanted to carry on fighting as if he were in the trenches, the result was the same. The voices of his dead comrades clamoured for justice, demanded he find the person responsible, and liquidate him.
Stone discussed The Chained-up Man report with Captain Pollard as they practised their firearms skills at the revolver range in King’s Gallery off Panton Street in the Haymarket.
Watching Pollard in action, Stone pondered why he was so fascinated by his section chief who was only some six years older than himself. He knew that Pollard exuded a sense of power, mystery and cruelty, as well as possessing a dark sense of humour, all of which he found intoxicating, but he didn’t know why. He was different in every way to his dead comrades: Sergeant Dawes, Duncan Mond, Dean Scorer and Ralph Plant, all of whom he still desperately missed. He came to the conclusion that it was something to do with the power of opposites. Of light and dark, good and evil, but he couldn’t be any clearer than that. But that was one of the advantages of being twenty-three years old. There was no ticking clock. He had a lifetime to figure such mysteries out.
Pollard’s every shot was a bullseye. ‘Excellent shooting, sir,’ he complimented him in a deliberately flat tone of voice. He didn’t want to reveal just how enamoured he was by his boss.
‘It was my hobby since I was a boy,’ Pollard explained. ‘I actually started with a flint-lock pistol I “borrowed” from a trophy of arms. But gunpowder was dreadfully scarce and narrow-minded shopkeepers wouldn’t supply a boy of eight with it.’
‘That was unfair,’ laughed Stone, despite himself appreciating Pollard’s dark sense of humour.
‘It was. You actually think I’m joking, Stone?’ Pollard looked coldly at him.
Stone stared back, unsure how to respond. Pollard scrutinised him a moment longer, and shook his head faintly. ‘I'm not.'
Stone swallowed, his throat dry. ‘No, sir.'
‘You see, accidents in the hands of those of us who love guns are very, very few.’ Pollard continued with a reverential tone and a faraway look in his eyes. ‘And I have loved guns for as long as I can remember.’ It was like he was making a statement of faith in the Catholic religion he was a fervent follower of.
‘Yes, sir. I understand, sir.’ Stone made a mental note to never underestimate Pollard’s love of guns. It was clearly no laughing matter.
‘Your turn, Stone.’
Stone fired a Webley Mark IV, the standard six inch army model. Although he was a crack shot from his days as a trench raider, he deliberately misaimed a couple of shots. He didn’t want to draw attention to his talents.
‘You’re not too bad yourself,’ said Pollard admiringly. He lowered his voice as he delivered a homily, as if it were designed for his spiritual edification. ‘You know, the love of weapons is deep-rooted in the hearts of manly men.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The practice over, they wrapped up warm, ready to leave the range and enter the cold city streets. Stone reflected how Pollard’s The Book of the Pistol and Revolver had just been published. Early reviews said it was brilliant, a classic, a standard work likely to remain in print for decades to come. Now he knew its author, he recognised that Pollard’s book was not the standard work at all. It was the Bible.
As they strolled down Panton Street under a fragile blue sky that belied the freezing temperatures, Pollard brought them back to the matter in hand. ‘Now, about these wretched Chained-up Man allegations.’
‘If anything reaches the public, we could just deny it, sir.’
‘Yes, but trouble is there’s this Francqui chap.’
‘Francqui?’
‘Head of the Belgian branch, he’s threatening to blow the whistle on the whole relief operation. He’s written a six hundred-page history which he says will reveal Hoover “in his true colours”.’
‘Why?’
‘To put the arm-lock on him, of course. Francqui wants a bigger slice of the pie for himself.’ Pollard grinned. ‘They’re all making absolute fortunes,’ he added with a grudging admiration.
They passed the rounded arches and high windows of the National Portrait Gallery, temporarily serving the war effort by housing the Separation Allowances Department rather than displaying works of art. They crossed Charing Cross Road into William IV Street, dodging a speeding automobile and the slower horse-drawn carriages, carefully avoiding the frozen manure littering the road.
‘So what can we do?’ asked Stone, as they reached The Strand and Adelphi Terrace, where MI7 was headquartered.
‘First rule of propaganda,’ said Pollard. ‘Distract the public. So we need to create a hero. So if the truth gets out, the public will be too busy lapping up the story of the man who saved the starving children of Belgium to listen to any conspiracy nonsense. That’ll make Francqui back off.’
‘But Hoover’s already a hero.’
‘Then we find another one. It’s still an emotionally charged subject for most people. Remember the German invasion of Belgium was the reason so many young men joined up. That and patriotic books like yours, of course.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And the public still care about all those starving Belgians. Especially the Americans.’ Pollard put on a solemn and sincere face. ‘Help to make this poor woman’s dream come true. She is one of three million Belgians who, since they refused to sell their honour to Germany, have lived on the brink of starvation. But two dollars and fifty cents will keep a Belgian family a month.’
‘That’s powerful.’
‘Thank you. I wrote it, as a matter of fact. Pulls at the old heartstrings, eh?’ Pollard grinned. ‘So we need a hero. A new one. And there just happens to be one recently arrived in town. Irvin Jayden. Hoover’s number one assistant. He’s in charge of the twenty-five American Rhodes scholars from Oxford who are making sure the food reaches the right people. So this job’s over to you, Stone.’
They entered the MI7 offices which they shared with the Ministry of Munitions. MI7 had the lower floors with less stairs to climb. To use the lifts was frowned upon by the military men who left them to the civilian clerks and the WAACs. Both men had been wounded in the war, but showed no signs of their injuries as they ascended the stairs. Stone had been struck dumb from shell shock after witnessing the deaths of his comrades on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. Pollard had been blown off his autocycle during the second battle of Ypres and had spent five months recovering from his considerable injuries.
‘All right. I’ll get in touch with Jayden,’ said Stone. ‘Do we have any photos, sir?’
‘Of starving children? Unfortunately not. Or not starving enough. Just get an artist to draw them. Some pathetic young woman in rags clutching a skeletal child to her bosom, tears streaming down her face, her hand reaching out, beseeching the reader.’ Pollard grinned. ‘Much better than a photo.’
‘This Jayden. Has he actually done anything heroic, sir?’
Pollard shrugged indifferently, about to disappear into his own private office. ‘I’ve no idea. If he hasn’t, just make something up.’
Stone was unable to mask the dismay on his face and Pollard picked up on it. He raised an eyebrow. ‘This is MI7, Stone. It’s what we do.’
The following evening, suitably attired in his evening suit, Stone took a cab from the gravediggers cottage to The Savoy to meet Irvin Jayden at the American Bar. The cocktail bar was Jayden’s choice of venue. The tuxedoed pianist was playing ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’. Stone grimaced. Oh, for God’s sake! Give it a rest! When are you going to stop shoving patriotism down our throats?
I’ll lay money it’ll be Tipperary next, said Dean.
What about a little relaxing Bach or Schubert? Dean suggested. Oh, no. Can’t have that. They’re German composers. Their work’s been banned. And Beethoven, Wagner and Mendelessohn.
Crowe was right, agreed Stone. They’re deadly serious. They really do want to wipe Germany off the map.
He saw photographs of Charlie Chaplain, Mark Twain, and the Prince of Wales on the wall and noticed there were almost imperceptible shadows where two further photographs had once hung.
Bet they were Germans, Ralph mused. As Stone walked across the luxurious lounge looking for Jayden, his voices speculated who the famous German visitors to the American bar might have been before the war made them persona non grata. Strauss? Sandow? Kirchner? Kirchner was their favourite erotic pin-up artist, beloved by lonely soldiers in the trenches who didn’t give a damn what nationality he was. And the legendary bodybuilder Sandow – whose books had encouraged a whole generation to improve their physiques – was now out of fashion because he was Prussian.
He spotted a lone figure at a table sipping a cocktail, and made his way over.
Jayden got up to greet him. ‘Sean Stone?’
Stone nodded.
‘Irvin Jaden. What can I get you?
A pint of brown ale. Talking to this twat will be thirsty work, suggested Sergeant Dawes.
He looks a right prat, agreed Ralph.
Shut up, you two, Stone said firmly. He smiled at Jayden. ‘What would you recommend?’
‘A Hanky Panky. Gin, vermouth, fernet-branca.’
‘All right.’ It seemed appropriate. His voices had put him in a bad mood and maybe he needed a little Hanky Panky to relax. He looked at Jayden’s cocktail. ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’
‘Sazerac: 1858 Sazerac cognac, absinthe, 1900 Peychaud bitters. It costs three figures,’ said Jayden nonchalantly.
‘Jesus!’
Tosser, said Sergeant Dawes.
So much for the starving Belgians, said Ralph.
‘You want a Sazerac?’ smiled Jayden expansively. ‘Come on. Have one on me, buddy. It’s on expenses.’
‘No really. I’ll stick to a Hanky Panky.’
‘Okay. The Hanky Panky is the second most expensive cocktail on the menu.’ Having established his supremacy over Stone, Jayden gave a hovering waiter the order and leaned back in a comfortable leather chair. All the chairs were identical, which was a pity, Stone thought, because Jayden would otherwise have chosen a wing chair or some leather throne so he could further show his primacy over the MI7 agent.
As he waited for his lesser, two-figure cocktail to arrive, he thought about Jayden. He’d done his homework and read all the press cuttings on him. He wondered how a member of the Anti-Saloon League, a leading figure in the American temperance movement, could justify drinking in this most expensive bar in London. After all, it was the prohibitionists’ stated mission to destroy the demon drink.
But there was no hint of his disdain for Jayden on his face. He had trained himself since childhood to never reveal what he really thought and felt and only rarely did he give anything away. Pollard was one of the few exceptions who was able to catch him off guard. Otherwise, he was successful in presenting an emotionless face to the outside world. After all, he’d had the best trainer in the world: his mother.
As a boy, he had carefully watched and copied his mother’s mannerisms, expressions and reactions. Or rather her lack of reactions. And listened to her sage advice, ‘Never let the left hand know what the right hand is doing.’ He admired how she played two very separate roles. She was the Bishop’s housekeeper and also his mistress, but no one would ever have known. She always appeared to be a devout Catholic widow, attending only to the Bishop’s meals, laundry and wellbeing. Strictly ‘above the belt’, as Catholics liked to say. Perhaps her secret exotic persona was the reason he himself was attracted to exotic women. The stranger and more mysterious the better. Hence his love of the glamorous stars of the music halls. When he was younger, and he and his brothers lived in the servants’ quarters of the Bishop’s house, he really believed his mother was some kind of secret agent. It was the only way he could make sense of her strange comings and goings, changes of costume, whispered notes and messages, and locked bedroom doors.
Despite Stone’s expressionless face, Jayden still volunteered an explanation. ‘You know about my work for the Anti-Saloon League?’ Stone nodded. ‘The United States is about to go dry. Temperance is where the real power in the country is, so that’s where I need to be. But I don’t have to believe in any of it.’ He took a fifty-pound sip of his cocktail. ‘Other prohibitionists pretend they don’t drink but it’s so much better to be honest. I hate dishonesty, don’t you?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’ Stone’s Hanky Panky arrived. It was well worth the wait although Sergeant Dawes said he’d still have preferred a beer.
‘Of course,’ Jayden continued, ‘Once I’m back in the States I’ll be a completely different person.’ He leaned forward to confide in Stone. ‘I once lead a pray-in outside McSorley’s Old Ale House in the East Village. I paid one of the Paddies to come out and punch me in the kisser. Photographers all lined up. Got a heap of newspaper coverage. But in your country,’ he spread his hands expansively, ‘I can have as much fun as I like.’
Now Stone was starting to relax with his Hanky Panky, he took in Jayden’s appearance. He realised he was remarkably like a younger version of his boss Herbert Hoover. He had the same clean-shaven, round chubby face, almost to the point of being jowly. The hair was cut and slicked back in an identical style. He had the same expressions and narrowed eyes. And both men had just a hint of a paunch. It was not uncommon for bosses to employ look-alikes as their assistants, with similar height and dress sense, so they could stare admiringly at mirror images of themselves. That seemed to be the case here.
Jayden was clearly modelling himself on the ‘Great Humanitarian’ in every respect. And he exuded his energy and confidence. This was the dawning of an exciting new era of change, he told Stone. From now on, life in this amazing new century would be onwards and upwards. That was not a view shared on the British side of the pond after three years of stalemate in the trenches. Personally, Stone believed there was no such thing as progress. Everything just went round and round in a circle. Like a waltz.
But he gave no indication of his true feelings as he began the interview. ‘I’ve been commissioned to write an article on you for the British papers. So tell me about your role supervising the Oxford students. These young men who are making sure the food goes to the needy.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Jayden with a sigh. Unaware that this interview would determine whether he lived or died. ‘I’ve got to be honest with you, Sean. Can I call you, Sean?’
‘Of course, Irvin.’
‘Off the record, you’d never believe they went to Oxford. They’re useless. Absolutely useless. They can barely speak French, never mind Flemish or Walloon. The Germans wine them and dine them, put them up in chateaux, and give them fancy cars to drive around in. They never let them out of their sight, so they only see what the Germans want them to see. They haven’t got a clue what’s really going on.’
‘Can’t you do anything about that?’
‘You ever try telling kids what to do? Especially spoilt rich kids? I’m not their pa. I’m not going to make waves; I just let them get on with it.’
‘But you know what’s really going on?’
Jayden grinned. ‘What do you think?’
‘You tell me, Irvin.’
‘Of course most of the food is going to Germany. Otherwise the war would be over in months. Hey – the Krauts would soon be starving. They’d have to surrender. And that doesn’t suit any of us. There’s a lot of dough to be made out of this war and we all want a slice of it. I certainly do. You can’t tell the public that, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘So tell them about my plans to bring over hundreds more Ivy Leaguers from the States to supervise the relief operation. You’re MI7, you know how to make this stuff up. Just miss out the bit where they’re wined and dined by the Germans in return for turning a blind eye.’
‘Did they wine and dine you?’
‘You don’t think I’m going to let those spotty brats have all the fun? The most expensive Rieslings in the world. Seriously. In the same price bracket as this.’ He proffered his cocktail. ‘No glühwein for me, pal. And the fräuleins they introduced me to. Out of this world. Beautiful. Classy.’ He looked meaningfully at Stone. ‘And very… talented. And all on the chateau. I just can’t wait to go back.’
Jayden could afford to be this frank knowing just how important he was to MI7. He knew Stone would write a glowing article on him, because they were desperate for the United States to join the war.
‘Anything more you’d like to tell me, Irvin?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like about the Belgians?’
‘Oh, man. Let’s not go there. It’s just too depressing. Those dreary peasants, they’re dirt poor. And they stink. Hey… let’s talk about something else, huh? Something cheerful. Come on. Where’s the action in this town? Know what I’m saying? I’ve heard there’s this joint: The Hall of the Golden Calf.’
‘The Cave of the Golden Calf.’
‘That’s the one.’ Jayden lowered his voice. ‘Now I understand they propagate evils in this cave which all decent men thought had perished in Sodom and Lesbia. I gotta check that out.’ He winked. ‘For research purposes, you understand. Could you help a pal out, Sean?’
‘No problem. I can arrange everything. Entrance fee, password. On the house. Courtesy of MI7.’
‘It’s a great sign of the new relationship between our two countries. Thanks so much, buddy. You can come along, too. You can be my wingman.’
‘I would love that, Irvin. But I’m not an officer. Unfortunately, they’d never let me put my entrance fee on expenses. But you have fun, my friend.’ Stone finished his Hanky Panky and stood up to leave. ‘I should go. Want to share a cab?’
‘No. I’m staying here. All expenses paid. And I want to try out another cocktail.’
‘All right. I’ll be in touch.’
Jayden raised his glass. ‘Can’t wait to visit your Hall of the Golden Calf.’
Stone looked back at him. ‘I promise you this, Irvin: It’ll be the night of your life.’