Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [23]
“Very well,” he agreed reluctantly. “Make sure every penny is used well.”
“I don’t waste money,” the Irishman answered him. There was no emotion in his voice; only looking at the steady, pale steel-blue eyes did the Peacemaker see the chill in him. He knew better than ever to underestimate an enemy, or a friend.
The Peacemaker went over to his desk and withdrew the banker’s draft. He had had it made for six thousand, because he knew that was what he would have to settle for. He had made his calculations in advance.
“Some of that is for Mexico,” he said as he handed it over. The Irishman would never know if he had had two drafts there, one for each amount.
The Irishman took the paper and put it in his inside pocket. “What about the naval war?” he asked. “I’ve heard whispers about this project in the Establishment in Cambridge. Are they on the brink of inventing something that will defeat the German navy?”
The Peacemaker smiled; he knew it was a cold, thin gesture. “I will inform you of that if it should become necessary for you to know,” he answered. He was startled, uncomfortably so, that the Irishman had even heard of it. He obviously had sources the Peacemaker was unaware of. Was that his purpose in asking, to let him know that? Looking at his smooth, blank face now with its prominent bones and relentless eyes, he judged that it was.
“So it is true,” the Irishman said.
“Or it is not true,” the Peacemaker replied. “Or I do not know.”
The Irishman smiled mirthlessly. “Or that is what you wish me to think.”
“Just so. Travel safely.”
When he was gone, the Peacemaker stood alone. The Irishman was a good tool—highly intelligent, resourceful, and in his dedication incorruptible. No money, personal power, luxury, or office, no threat to his life or liberty would deter him from his course.
On the other hand he was ruthless, manipulative, and devious. He was impossible to control, which the Peacemaker both admired and recognized as dangerous. The time was fast approaching when disposing of the Irishman would become a matter of urgency.
Half an hour later the post arrived with several letters and the usual bills. One envelope had a Swiss stamp on it, and he tore it open eagerly. There were several pages written in close script, in English, although the use of words was highly idiosyncratic, as of one who translated literally from another language before committing it to paper.
At a glance it seemed ordinary enough, the account of daily life of an elderly man in a small village at least a hundred miles from any battlefront. Fellow villagers were mentioned by Christian name only, most of them Italian or French. It was full of gossip, opinions, local quarrels over small matters of insult, jealousy, rivals in love.
Read with the Peacemaker’s knowledge it was entirely different. The village in question was not some rural Swiss community but Imperial Russia; the local characters, the groups and players on that vast stage of tragedy and upheaval, war and mounting social unrest. New ideas were boiling to the surface and the possibilities were almost too huge to grasp. They could change the world.
But this was just one man’s thoughts, sensitive and acutely observed as they were. The Peacemaker needed more information, a better ally, a man who could travel freely and make informed judgments, one who had the breadth of experience and the idealism to see the humanity beneath the cause. The Irishman’s intelligence was acute, but his dreams were narrow and self-serving. There was too much hatred in him.
The Peacemaker thought again with regret of Richard Mason, whose commitment had been wholehearted a year ago. Mason too had witnessed the abomination of the Boer War, and been sickened by it. And in this present conflict he had seen more than most men. His occupation as war correspondent had taken him from the trenches of the Western Front to the blood-soaked beaches of Gallipoli, the battlefields of Italy and the Balkans, and even the bitter slaughter of the Russian Front. He had written about