Читать книгу The Fall of a Dictator - Arthur Gask - Страница 3

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WAR is war, but peace is not always peace, for in peace there may be war also, and then the fighting can be just as hazardous for the individual as when he is advancing in battle order to the rattle of the murderous machine-guns, under a sky belching bombs.

But in times of peace the fighter fights in secret and he fights alone. He has no comrades by him then to give him courage and there are none to guard him while he sleeps. Also, he knows that in certain countries if prisoners are taken they live only to pray for death and bewail the fact that they were ever born. So he expects no quarter there, and he gives none.

This manner of soldier, whose life is never worth an hour's purchase, is, indeed, never a conscript and always a brave man.

IT was tea time in the big lounge hall of Girdle Manor, a charming old-world mansion deep among the lovely Sussex Downs, and Ashleigh Brendon, the genial lord of the domain, was regarding with an amused smile the score and more of well-dressed visitors for whom his beautiful young wife was now pouring out tea. His two small sons, the elder of whom was only four, had been brought in specially for the occasion and were receiving the homage usually accorded to those who are so like unto the Kingdom of Heaven.

Brendon was a tall and good-looking man in the early thirties, and it was generally conceded that he and his wife were among the most popular of the best and most exclusive county people.

Everyone was always interested in Brendon as it was well known that until he had inherited the large fortune left him by his uncle, the late Admiral Brendon, he had been high in confidential Government circles. Indeed, it was whispered he had been one of the most trusted keepers of the Secret Archives, and was in the possession of secrets, the untimely disclosure of which would have had repercussions in half the Chancelleries of Europe.

But Brendon, now looking at the happy faces of the little throng before him and taking in their bright and animated chatter, was asking himself with some amusement what would happen if, suddenly, they learnt what his one-time occupation had really been.

Would these aristocratic men and women and these gay butterflies of fashion still continue to gather round his hearth? Would the kindly old vicar keep on pressing him so hard to become his church warden, would the haughty Lord Thursby be still so insistent that he should stand for the Division in the Conservative interest at the next election, and would the Honorable Mrs. Temperley continue to regard his wife as her bosom friend—if they knew his only association with the British Government had been when he was a spy?

ONE sunny afternoon in the month of May, in a large upper chamber in a many-roomed building in Whitehall, were an aristocratic and soldierly-looking man in the middle fifties and a well-dressed, bright-faced young fellow about half the former's age.

There was a long table-desk between them, and the elder man was alternatively scanning down a paper and looking up to make some comment to the young man before him.

"And you are unmarried and twenty-six, Mr. Brendon," he said slowly, "and your late lather was Sir Herbert Brendon, of Wimpole street, Physician Extraordinary to His Majesty the King. Then, apart from your uncle, Admiral Brendon, you have no relations living?"

"No, sir, none," replied Brendon. "The admiral is the only one left."

"And I understand you have not discussed the matter with anyone but him?" said Sir Miles Vaughan rather sharply.

Brendon shook his head. "No, sir, with no one. I happened to be with my uncle last Sunday, and the matter cropped up accidentally. Then we discussed it fully, and he wrote to you."

Sir Miles seemed satisfied and turned his eyes again upon the paper. "I see you were educated at Charterhouse, and later entered Balliol College, Oxford." He looked up frowningly. "But the report says you were expelled from Charterhouse and sent down from Oxford without sitting for your degree." He eyed the young man intently. "Explain exactly what happened, please."

Brendon seemed in no wise disconcerted, and smiled easily. "At Charterhouse, sir, I refused to take what I considered to be an unjust caning, and at Oxford I had to serve a sentence of two months' imprisonment for poaching. I was caught with some of Lord Rayleigh's pheasants, and the local magistrates were very severe, and would not give me the option of a fine."

Sir Miles shook his head disapprovingly. "Foolishness, foolishness!" he commented. "Still, no doubt your poaching was only an adventure, and"—his face softened—"heaven knows we never discourage adventure here." He looked down at the paper again. "So at Oxford you obtained your Blue for football, you were runner-up in the Varsity middleweight boxing championship, and were in the team that represented Oxford at Bisley the year you were sent down." He nodded. "All that is excellent, and what we want."

He read on. "Then you studied electrical engineering, and last year obtained your Bachelor of Science degree at London University. You are now third officer in charge of the Kenton power station, and in receipt of £12 a week. You have been there nine months, and they are prepared, you say to give you a good character."

He put down the paper and regarded Brendon rather anxiously. "And now for the last qualification upon which everything depends. Your uncle says you speak Cyranian perfectly." He shook his head. "No, no, not just well enough to deceive me or anyone who has learnt the language in adult life, but so perfectly as to lead any Cyranian to believe it is your mother tongue." He bent forward over the desk. "Now that is so, is it not?"

"It should be so, sir," replied Brendon, "considering that I lived in Cyrania from when I was three until I was nearly fifteen. Then my mother died and I was brought to England." He nodded. "Yes, I speak it as well as I speak English and no one can tell I am not a Cyranian."

Sir Miles frowned. "But have you kept it up?" he asked.

"Certainly, sir, for after leaving Oxford I spent every summer in Cyrania, except that of last year, when I was motoring through France."

"Then you must have a good circle of friends in the country," queried Sir Miles uneasily, "people who will recognise you at once?"

Brendon shook his head. "No, sir, only chance acquaintances who would not be likely to recognise me, as all the holidays I took were motoring ones and I never stayed more than a couple of days in any one place. I never went near Dolon either, as my recollections of the people there we're not happy ones." His face clouded. "When my mother died of cholera I thought everyone was very unkind about her."

A short silence followed, and then Sir Miles asked very solemnly. "And if we take you into the service and you go to Cyrania for us, are you fully alive to the risks you will be running?" He nodded. "I understand from Admiral Brendon that he has given you a pretty good idea."

"Yes, sir, he has," replied Brendon cheerfully. He made a grimace. "I shall be going as a spy, and if I am found out the usual honors of the profession will be accorded me—a bullet or a dangle from a rope. And my uncle told me, too, that you would not be able to do anything for me if I were found out."

"No, nothing whatever!" exclaimed Sir Miles emphatically. "All ties with us will be severed the moment you set foot on Cyrania." He raised his voice ever so slightly. "If you are found out, we don't know you, we have never heard of you, and to us you don't exist." He inclined his head. "Those are the rules of the game and for political reasons"—he sighed—"we are obliged to deny our most faithful servants."

"All right, sir," said Brendon. "I quite understand." He seemed to thrill with excitement. "Then what is it you want me to do?"

"One moment, please," said Sir Miles. "First, I should like to know why you are so willing to give up the comfortable occupation you have now to take service with us? All we offer you is certain hardship, and a possible dreadful danger that may easily end in your being brought before a firing squad or else"—he spoke very quietly—"something even worse than that happening to you."

"Adventure, sir," replied Brendon promptly. "I am sick of my humdrum life and I want a change." His voice hardened. "Besides. I'd like to help you against the dictator they've got there. He hates us like poison and fights with dirty hands. There's nothing too tricky or dishonorable for him to do, and he's a real menace to the world."

Sir Miles smiled. "General Bratz may be all that," he said slowly, "but all the same he has to be reckoned with as a very clever and most capable man. He is undoubtedly a great thorn in our side and because of him, more than anyone else, our shipyards and arsenals are never idle, and we can never sleep."

"And it is for some special purpose, sir," asked Brendon, "that you want to send me to Cyrania?"

"Most certainly it is," replied Sir Miles instantly, "and with the particular knowledge you possess you could not have come at a more opportune moment. A skilled electrician who speaks perfect Cyranian is a real God-send to us just now." He shook his head. "But we cannot tell you what we want you for until the last moment, and that will be in about three weeks' time, after you have undergone a short intensive training as a Secret Service agent and are ready to leave for Cyrania."

"Then when do you want me to start, sir, to do this training?"

Sir Miles became brisk and business-like. "At once, today! You will go and say good-bye to your uncle and then you will disappear as if you were dead and buried. At nine tonight you will report at an address that will be given you in a few minutes. You will bring no luggage and no money. Everything will be provided." He stretched out and laid his hand upon the telephone on his desk. "Now have you any other questions to ask before I place you in charge of the gentleman who will be looking after you?"

"One thing, sir, I'd like to know," said Brendon, "will it be team work for me in Cyrania or do I work alone?"

Sir Miles regarded him gravely. "There is no teamwork now in Cyrania for such as you, Mr. Brendon; it has become much too dangerous. No, you go alone and you work alone and you will hold no communication with anyone else who may be working for us there." He spoke significantly. "By that means we safeguard ourselves so that if you are unfortunate enough to be uncovered by the Cyranian counter-espionage, you will have no colleagues to give away."

"But I should never——" began Brendon indignantly.

The other held up his hand. "They have ways in Cyrania, my friend, that are not pleasant, and to all of flesh and blood there comes a breaking point when——" but he broke off sharply and rapped out. "I told you the work was dangerous, and you cannot realise too clearly what you are taking on. Only last month in Cyrania we lost three of the best men we have in the whole of our Secret Service. One of them must have made some slip somewhere and the counter-espionage got him and then the others and a lot of valuable information as well." He nodded significantly. "So henceforth the agents sent out from this side are to be sent out alone."

"But what became of these particular three?" asked Brendon, frowning a little uncomfortably.

Sir Miles shrugged his shoulders again. "Who knows? Let us hope the friendly bullet as they stood before a firing squad." He shook his head doubtfully. "But they had their secrets, I say, and the other side got hold of them somehow."

"Good God!" exclaimed Brendon hoarsely, "but do you mean to say you think they were tortured before they were killed?"

Sir Miles nodded. "They were not of the type to speak unless they were, and we know from what happened afterwards, that they did speak."

"But torture in a civilised country!" ejaculated the horrified Brendon. "It is incredible!"

"Ah, but that would not be the word used!" exclaimed Sir Miles with a dry smile. "It would only be called applying the third degree." There was a distinct note of challenge in his quiet and even tones, as he asked drily. "And are you still willing to join us, Mr. Brendon?"

Brendon's face was hot and flushed, but he replied equally as quietly. "Certainly, sir. It will be a pleasure as well as an honor," and then he smiled as if the prospect before him were quite an agreeable one.

And he was bright and smiling, too, at the farewell dinner his uncle gave him that evening, and his relative remarked upon it.

"You know, Ashleigh," he said when afterwards they were together in a quiet corner of the club lounge, "I was rather inclined to regret that I had let you in for this, but now I see the way you are taking it, I am sure I did quite right. Our relations with Cyrania are becoming daily more critical, and it is the duty of a young fellow like you to step into the firing line."

"Step into the firing line!" exclaimed Brendon grimly. "But if what I've heard today is true I shall be stepping into something much more unpleasant than that if I am found out." He grinned. "I shall be getting a dose of their third degree."

"But you won't get caught," said the admiral quietly. "I feel sure of that, so don't you worry there. Still, if you ever do find yourself in danger of being found out, and a timely blow will save you, strike hard and strike quickly. Everyone's hand will be against you, so don't be squeamish."

"Then this third degree is nothing out of the way with them over there?" asked Brendon.

The admiral snorted. "Nothing! Those now in power in Cyrania have returned to a state of savagery and there is no abomination of suffering they will not inflict, not only upon alien races but upon their own people. Starvation, torture, cold-blooded murder of individuals or a mass massacre of hundreds, it is all the same to them, and we"—he made a gesture of disgust—"have to exchange ambassadors with them and carry on diplomatic relations as if they were ordinary, decent human beings." He snapped his fingers together. "It sickens all of us."

"But do you think," asked Brendon, "that we have many agents such as I shall be, at present in Cyrania?"

The admiral shook his head. "Very few Britishers, I should say. It would be too dangerous." He nodded. "But we must have plenty working for us among the Cyranians themselves, and I should not be astonished to learn how high up some of these chaps are in the Dictator's service. You see, we are spending more than a million every year upon our secret service, and there must be some high salaries being paid somewhere."

"Then, of course, among us," said Brendon rather despondently, "there will be traitors equally as highly placed. We, too——"

"No, no," interrupted the admiral sharply, "that doesn't follow at all. We pride ourselves that the higher our men are up in the services the more impossible it is to corrupt them. All through the great war among the very few English-born spies who were laid by the heels there was not one who was employed by the Government in any highly responsible position."

"Good," commented Brendon, "then I suppose we English don't make good traitors."

"Exactly," nodded the admiral, "as a race we are not emotional enough to hate our country, whatsoever grievances, real or imaginary, we may have against her."

The ensuing days were very arduous ones for Brendon, and, kept hard at work from early morning, until late at night, he was astounded at the highly intimate information concerning Cyrania that was in possession of the British Secret Service.

He studied specially prepared maps of particular districts and of certain cities, and was made to familiarise himself with all the main streets. He learnt where all the big munition factories were situated, and in which particular ones the various munitions of war were being made.

He was shown a large number of photographs of men and women and made to study them over and over again, so that he would be able to recognise any of them if ever he should find himself in contact with them. Many of the photographs were only carefully enlarged snapshots that evidently had been obtained surreptitiously. It was pointed out to him who among them were members of the Secret Police, who were informers posted in the munitions factories to report upon the workers there, and others who frequented hotels and public places on the look-out for anything they might see or hear.

Then for hours be studied photographs of certain parts of Cyrania's frontiers, and was shown where, when he wanted to leave the country, he would most likely be able to escape through the high wire fence that enclosed all her borders. These photographs, he realised, could only have been obtained with considerable difficulty and in great secrecy, as they showed the huts of the patrolling rifle men, never more than five hundred yards apart.

Next he was put in the hands off an expert in disguise, and shown how in many simple little ways he could so alter his appearance that it would not so closely apply to any description of him that might be broadcast. He was taught how he could change the whole contour of his face by lifting up the muscles of his neck, how he could so hold himself that, without his intention being discerned, he would appear to be quite two inches shorter than he really was and how he could make his style of walking quite different by stiffening his knees.

Then the last three days he spent in the torpedo sheds upon the Mersey, watching the torpedoes being assembled and poring over their specifications in the drawing-room under the guidance of an expert draughtsman.

And all the time he was always referred to as Mr. Smith and always spoken to by the officer, a Major Hay, who had been instructed to look after him, in Cyranian.

Then one evening, without any intimation that his short period of training was over and with no knowledge as to where he was being taken, he was driven out into the country and for the second time found himself in the presence of Sir Miles Vaughan.

The interview took place in the library of Sir Miles's country house, and Brendon was received cordially and given a glass of wine. "To your good health, Mr. Brendon!" said Sir Miles, raising his own glass. He nodded in a friendly manner. "I drink to a very brave man."

"Thank you, sir," smiled Brendon. "At any rate I'll try to prove myself one."

Sir Miles put down his glass. "Well your period of training is over," he said briskly, "and you leave England tonight. In a few minutes you will start for Sheerness, and before midnight a destroyer will take you on board. On Tuesday night you will be transferred to a submarine in mid-ocean and, before morning the next day, you will have been landed in Cyrania."

"Very good, sir," said Brendon, with a little choke in his voice. "I am quite ready."

Sir Miles flung open a folded map upon his desk and beckoned to Brendon to stand by him. "Now there," he pointed, "is where you will be landed upon the beach near Thole, and here,"—he took a small rolled packet out of a drawer—"is an unmounted photograph of the exact spot. You must be miles inland before dawn, as there are always soldiers patrolling about this shore. The water shelves quickly round this particular stretch of coast, and it has become suspected recently, and quite rightly, too, that many unauthorised landings are taking place here, as vessels of deep draught can run in quite close. You will be landed on that old breakwater. Then——"

"But will the submarine get in as close as that?" asked Brendon, whose knowledge of sea matters was very small.

"No, no," replied Sir Miles, "you will be landed from a small boat." He went on. "Then Thole is the town you are to make for, and, as the crow flies, it is about eleven miles over that hill. You see there is no road there and only a path by the side of that plantation of high trees. You are not to take the path because it lies too near to that house where the owner keeps dogs and, remember, he has a telescope. You are to make your way through the plantation itself. Now do you quite understand?"

"Yes, sir," replied Brendon, "I am to get away as quickly as possible from where I am landed and make straight for Thole."

"Yes, that's it," said Sir Miles, "and now put the photograph in your pocket and study it carefully when you're on the destroyer. Be sure, however, to destroy it before you land." He went on—"You're to get to Thole in time to catch the midday train to Sarron, where you should arrive about ten the same night." He spoke very solemnly. "And at Sarron your work will begin."

"At Sarron!" whistled Brendon. "Then it is to do with the munition factory there that you are sending me!"

"Exactly," replied Sir Miles. "That is where we are going to try you out!" He spoke frowningly. "Word has come to us from several quarters that, in the great works at Sarron, Cyrania is upon the point of perfecting an electrically-driven torpedo, and of course you do not need to be a naval expert to realise what that means." He nodded. "There will be no line of escaping bubbles rising to the surface, as from a compressed air-driven torpedo, to give warning to a vessel of its impending danger, and so any Power possessing such a torpedo will have an incalculable advantage in wartime." He leant over and tapped the desk with his fingers. "Now, Mr. Brendon, we want you to get taken on at those works as an employee and see if you can find out about that torpedo for us. How it works can, or course, be understood only by a trained electrician such as yourself."

"But, good heavens!" exclaimed Brendon, "do I stand the very slightest chance of getting taken on at the factory? A man they know nothing about among some of their most carefully guarded secrets!"

"But you will not be a man they know nothing about," said Sir Miles, smilingly. He handed over a well-worn and shabby-looking wallet. "Here are papers provided for you as Nicolas Regnal. Be sure to study them most carefully during the next few days. In them it says you come from Prex, where you were born, and that you are an electrician by trade."

"But is there any such man as this Nicolas Regnal?" asked Brendon, rapidly scanning through the contents of the wallet.

"There was, but he died about two years ago, and, as far as we can make out, left no relations." Sir Miles pointed to the wallet. "All the papers there are in perfect order, and no suspicions should be aroused. This Regnal was a skilled electrician, too, and worked with the firm of Bass & Rhin for five years. They now give you an excellent reference which you will present at Sarron."

"But if this reference is taken up," said Brendon dubiously, "and it is found it is a forgery, what then?"

Sir Miles frowned. "There is some risk there, I admit, but we have prepared for it as best we can. Prex is nearly five hundred miles from Sarron, and if they do make a telephone enquiry as to your character it will be bad luck if it is not dealt with satisfactorily to you at one end or the other of the wire."

"Oh, oh," exclaimed Brendon, "then there will be a good fairy watching over me somewhere."

Sir Miles nodded. "You must understand, Mr. Brendon that although, as I told you the other day, you will not become acquainted with anyone who is working for us in Cyrania, yet for all that you yourself will become known to certain of our people there. In fact, they are aware that you are coming and, without uncovering themselves to you, will help you in every way they can." He smiled. "So that it is possible your getting into the Sarron works may not be as difficult as you think."

"Then have they got a description of me?" asked Brendon.

"Yes," replied Sir Miles, "but to help it out—upon the morning you present yourself at the Sarron Works, go there holding your hand to your left ear as if you are rather deaf." He nodded. "You will probably pass through several hands before you are engaged, but someone will be on the lookout for you and will notice the action."

"And if I do get taken on," frowned Brendon. "I may be set to work a quarter of a mile or so from where they are making that torpedo. I've learnt they've got forty thousand workmen there and that means many hundreds of workshops."

"But you're sure to hear about this torpedo," said Sir Miles, "for we know Ren Jahn, their electrical genius, is working upon it. Sooner or later he is sure to be pointed out to you and then"—he shrugged his shoulders and smiled—"you must do the best you can for us."

He looked at his watch. "Now one thing more. I told you the other day you would not at any time be able to appeal to anyone for help, no matter in what danger you were in." He nodded. "Well, I qualify that statement now, for there is one way in which you may ask for help and perhaps get it." He shook his head. "But mind you, this appeal is only to be made in a last extremity. You understand?"

Brendon nodded, and Sir Miles went on very solemnly. "Well, if at any time the very worst is threatening you, if you can get there, go and seat yourself at the end of the lowest step before the church of St. Joan, in the Square of the Three Towers in Marleck. Sit down there any day exactly as the clock is chiming noon. Sit with your hat low down upon your forehead and with your head in your hands and your elbows upon your knees. Wait there for three minutes, and then get up and walk away." He nodded again. "That's all and—see if anything happens."

They talked on for a few minutes longer and then Brendon was driven away into the night open the first stage of his great adventure.