The Secret Generations Read online

  Hardly a house stood without some visible mark of respect, from flags lowered to half-mast, to black rosettes pinned onto doors. The shops were closed for the entire day, and the locals braved a bitter wind, standing silent and bare-headed, as the procession went by.

  The family met at Redhill Manor after the committal, and – though its contents were already known to them – listened while old Mr King, senior partner of King, Jackson and King, of Gray’s Inn, read the will.

  Giles Railton did not return to London until the next day; though his son, Andrew, left with Charles and their respective families, by the late train from Haversage Halt on the night of the funeral.

  Giles particularly wanted to stay. He had business to discuss, at some length, with his daughter-in-law, Malcolm’s wife, Bridget, who would be returning to Ireland the next day. He also spoke to his daughter, Marie, and her husband, Marcel Grenot. They too would begin the return journey to France early in the morning. Both conversations were secret and full of intrigue. The General would have smiled.

  *

  Dublin was shrouded in freezing fog, and Padraig O’Connell turned up the high collar of his greatcoat. There had been snow in the Wicklow Hills, so, after two days of failure, he had gone up to see a Fenian comrade near Blessington. Then the Dublin–Blessington Steam Tram had been three hours late into Dublin. Cursing to himself he hurried into Sackville Street – or O’Connell Street, as most people now called it. A tram clattered by, like some noisy wraith in the thick mist.

  He strode on, past the Gresham Hotel, the Crown, and the Granville, turning left into the small bar, smoky and clamorous on this night.

  Fintan McDermott – a little terrier of a man – sat in his usual place by the fire, a chair drawn up, empty, beside him.

  Before joining his friend, Padraig bought himself a glass of porter at the bar.

  ‘Yer late, then, Paddy.’ Fintan did not even raise his head as O’Connell took his place in the vacant chair. The two men did not need to look at each other, for theirs was a life-long bond, strengthened by the same ideals. Both were intelligent men welded to seeing the long-delayed Home Rule Bill go through Parliament: helping it, if need be, with the bullet and grenade, yet alive to the dangers a new Republican Ireland would face from the Protestant communities, most active in the Northern counties. A United Republican Ireland would be hard to establish.

  ‘So, I’m late,’ O’Connell agreed. ‘Late, and barren, like a woman of forty without a babby to her name, so.’

  ‘Now you can tell me then.’

  ‘Tell you?’

  ‘What the great secret’s been. What took you out of Dublin all yesterday, and then today.’

  O’Connell shook his head slowly. ‘Just an idea.’

  ‘Ideas. So what was this idea?’

  ‘Well, Fintan,’ for all their closeness, O’Connell was reluctant, like a schoolboy with a secret which needed to mature before it was told. ‘I went to have a word with Bridget Kinread, so.’

  ‘That’s a fair notion, Padraig, but I thought she was wed.’

  ‘Isn’t that why I went to see her? Isn’t she married to an Englishman – Mister Railton? And isn’t there talk that she’s coming back for good, and that her husband is to farm in Wicklow?’

  ‘And you didn’t see her?’

  O’Connell shook his head, ‘Yesterday, I just thought she was away for the day, but she’s been gone this last week – the day after New Year, on the Kingstown boat.’

  ‘Across the water, so.’

  ‘Her husband’s family. A death.’

  Fintan bowed his head, ‘And what’s so special about Bridget Kinread, or Mrs Railton as she now is?’

  For the first time that day, Padraig O’Connell smiled. ‘Because she is now a Railton, and that’s the kind of English family we need an ear to.’

  ‘Special are they?’

  ‘You might say so. Very special. Extra special.’

  Fintan McDermott nodded slowly. ‘And she’ll be back? With her husband?’

  ‘They’ll be back. And I’ll be there to tell her where her duty lies. Bridget Kinread needs reminding of her country. She’ll be no bother. You’ll take another drink?’

  *

  On 17 January 1910, at around eleven o’clock in the morning, Charles Railton made the short journey from the Foreign Office to a small room in the War Office. For Charles the appointment was unexpected, but those few people with a detailed historical knowledge of Britain’s Intelligence and Security Services will tell you that the visit was an important milestone.

  There is no existing record of Charles Railton’s visit to the little cubbyhole which served Captain Vernon Kell, the first Chief of MO5 – later to become what it is now, MI5. But, in January 1910, the Security and Intelligence Services, as we know them today, were but babes, mewling and puking in their various cradles.

  Charles was a typical Railton: tall, over six feet, with thick light hair, a strong jawline, high forehead, a long patrician nose flaring slightly at the nostrils (‘the Railton nose’, as it is still called in certain circles), and clear blue eyes which, when necessary, could lie as easily as his tongue – and it had often been necessary, as far as ladies were concerned. Yet, untypical of the Railtons, until that morning, Charles considered himself a failure.

  Adventurous by nature, Charles had been shunted into the Diplomatic Service against both his inclinations and wishes. His brother, John, his senior, had gone into politics via the Army, so Charles was sent in the direction of diplomacy, for which he had little flair. In fact, during the last few years his disenchantment had become complete. His present posting, as a ministerial liaison officer between the Foreign Office and the Admiralty – a situation which he shared with five other young men – was a backwater into which he had been towed merely out of respect for his father. But now The General was dead, and on that morning of 17 January, Charles had gone back to his duties at the Foreign Office with a letter of resignation in his pocket.

  His wife, the quiet dark-haired clergyman’s daughter, Mildred, had watched him leave their small house, just off South Audley Street, on that day, with many misgivings. Since The General’s sudden death, and the news of Charles’ legacy, she had been deeply concerned fearing that, without the disciplines made by the normal demands of the Foreign Service, Charles would lapse into the ways in which he had been accustomed to live before their marriage, and even after. During that time, she knew, there had been other women – and she had wept bitterly over it – while his drinking habits worried her not a little. Then, with the birth of their only child, Mary Anne, nearly sixteen years before, Charles had changed. Also, on the previous evening, Mildred had plucked up courage to tell him she was again – after so long –pregnant: a fact which she did not exactly relish. She knew of her husband’s feelings for the dull drudgery of his work, had listened to the string of wild schemes which had been his constant song for the last two weeks, and so feared for him as well as herself, their daughter, and the unborn child.

  But neither she nor Charles had taken into account The General’s brother, Uncle Giles. Giles had seen the problem, found an answer, and set matters in motion. Hence the message that Charles was required to visit Captain Vernon Kell at the War Office, an instruction so sudden that he did not have time or opportunity to deliver the letter of resignation.

  *

  The door carried the legend MO5 Capt V Kell. Charles had never heard of MO5. He knocked, and a pleasant voice called for him to enter.

  Vernon Kell sat behind a small desk in this unprepossessing room. Beside the desk there was a small table, a couple of chairs, and a wooden filing cabinet. Maps hung on the walls, and a pile of pamphlets lay on the desk in front of Kell – very much a military man, with moustache to match, square-faced, but blessed with friendly, open, features. As he rose, Charles noticed that Kell momentarily allowed his shoulders to droop, then straightened them, as if with effort. The same effort went into the laboured intake of breath.
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  ‘Railton, I presume.’ The Captain sounded as though he was in difficulty. ‘Sorry about this,’ he tapped his chest. ‘Be over in a minute. Asthma. Confounded thing’s crept up on me again. Had it as a child. Be a good fellow and give me a minute, eh?’

  Charles nodded, took one of the spare chairs, and waited for Kell to regain his breath. He seemed in poor health for a man of – Charles calculated – about the same age as himself: mid-to late-thirties.

  ‘Lord, I’m sorry,’ Kell said eventually, colour coming back into his cheeks. ‘Should’ve stayed away today. Had an attack over the week-end. Martyr as a child. Thought it’d gone by the time I went to Sandhurst, but back it came.’ He smiled, giving Charles a casual glance. Charles, however, had the distinct impression that Kell had looked almost into his soul, examined the secret places of his mind, and summed him up in one quick look.

  ‘Well, what’ve you been working on of late? Nobody’ll have told you what this is all about, I suppose?’ Kell’s manner was easy, relaxed, with no trace of what The General would have called ‘side’. The General hated ‘side’.

  ‘Sort of errand boy, between the Foreign Office and the Admiralty, for a time, and the answer to your second question is no.’ He held Kell’s eyes and quietly told him about his proposed resignation.

  Kell grunted. ‘Diplomatic’s not for you, eh? Suppose you should’ve followed your father. Sorry about him, Charles – if I may call you Charles?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. My name’s Vernon. Should still be with the South Staffs. Would be, if it weren’t for the dysentery and asthma. Pegged me to a desk, here. Then threw me into this job. Been clamouring for help ever since we began. Mind you, there’s Sprogitt – the clerk,’ he inclined his head towards a door in the corner. ‘Sprogitt lives in what should be a broom cupboard. Apart from him, there’s only me, though I’ve got my eye on another fellow. Typical, isn’t it? They appoint me head of MO5 and then give me no staff.’

  There was a tiny pause before Charles asked what the MO5 stood for.

  ‘Military Operations Five. Look, I’m a new boy at this; like yourself. How much do you really know about Intelligence – well, Security anyway? What d’you know about what the yarnspinners call The Secret Service?’

  Charles admitted he knew very little.

  ‘Well, I suppose I’d better give you the state of play.’

  During the next hour Kell demonstrated one of the reasons he had been asked to form his new department, for he gave a clear, lucid picture of the current situation regarding clandestine matters, as far as Great Britain Was concerned. Towards the end of the last century there had been a two-headed, ineffectual monster – Military Intelligence, and Naval Intelligence, each with its appropriate DMI and DID (Admiralty). Now only the Director of Intelligence Division at the Admiralty remained, and the Committee of Imperial Defence, concerned at the lack of any well organized machinery during the Boer War, had for some time been attempting to unravel the various strands of the complex business.

  ‘There’s a Foreign Section running around the Empire, and Europe. A handful of agents. Some are rogues; others dedicated men and women.’ Kell threw up his hands, going on to explain that the Foreign Office had been more than unhappy with the way in which Intelligence was being handled by the Military. ‘A lot of people were, rightly, furious when the War House, here, disbanded the Field Intelligence Department. It was better than nothing – in fact it was the best thing we had. As it is, the Army’s left with precious little, and the General Staff don’t trust the Foreign Office. The Navy have an organization that’s moderately good. But some of those within the Committee of Imperial Defence have decided to reorganize.’

  So, now, the Foreign Office was determined to see a proper service established. ‘They’ve been working on the Foreign Section for some time, he confided. ‘Though it still comes under the War Office, even with a naval man in charge. Smith-Cumming. Able fellow.’

  ‘And this section? MO5?’

  ‘Early days, Charles. Couple of years ago, the CID claimed me,’ – he spoke of the Committee of Imperial Defence – ‘and finally winkled me into this little spot. Me, the furniture, and Sprogitt,’ he waved towards the clerk’s door.

  ‘To do what, exactly?’

  ‘MO5’s brief is to study the possible vulnerability of the country to foreign espionage; tell them what we should do about it; and then, get on and do it. The term espionage, incidentally, covers our own particular brand of subversives.’

  ‘You mean extremists? The Irish Fenians and the like?’

  Kell nodded, ‘Yes. Revolutionaries; Fenians; anarchists; agitators – all of ’em.’

  ‘And where do I come in?’ As he said it, Charles knew he wanted only one answer.

  ‘I hope you’ll come and help. What is it King Lear says?

  Take upon’s the mystery of things

  As if we were God’s spies.

  Come and be one of God’s spies with me, Charles.’

  ‘But I know little of…’ Charles began.

  ‘Nor do I,’ Kell said grittily, ‘but the job’s interesting, a challenge, particularly because nobody’s really done it before. I want to see it through, but I’m accountable to the CID. If I could recruit my own staff, arrange my own methods and training, we might eventually become a formidable force. So, are you with me, Charles?’

  With a tiny hint of reservation, Charles nodded, and Kell crisply said he was pleased, if only because he needed help. In fact, the first Director of MO5 did not particularly like Charles Railton, detecting in his manner, face and eyes, something a little below standard for a man of his upbringing. But Kell was a believer in conversion, and if anyone could make Railton into a reasonably efficient officer in this new department, it was himself. Now he quickly told Charles that he had already begun to learn the job, mainly through his most important contact, Superintendent Patrick Quinn – Paddy Quinn – head of the Metropolitan Police’s Special Branch.

  Quinn had been in charge of what was once known as the Irish Branch – formed to combat the Irish extremists – for over six years, and, according to Kell, the man was not merely an able policeman, but an expert in many things that would be very useful to them: ‘Interrogation techniques; knowledge of the way subversives work; surveillance; underhand methods. Quinn’s also a Royal bodyguard. So we have a good helping hand there.’

  ‘So, when do I begin?’

  ‘No time like the present. Don’t worry about a posting from the FO. That’ll all be taken care of.’

  There were several pages of notes and memoranda for Charles to read, then and there, in the office; and, within the next few hours, he discovered some of the things that would be expected of him.

  Kell believed that time waited for no man. Charles would have to follow in his new chiefs footsteps – do a course on wireless telegraphy, and another at the Admiralty on codes and ciphers. Then Paddy Quinn would teach him, ‘Some most unusual skills. Oh, and you’ve yet to meet Sprogitt.’ He called the man’s name loudly towards a door which opened to reveal the tiny office in which the clerk spent most of his time.

  On that first day at MO5, Vernon Kell and Charles Railton worked until well after five in the afternoon, not even pausing for luncheon. By the time military and civilian personnel were beginning to leave the War Office building, the two men already had a framework of the organization which, in later years, would become known as ‘The Firm’.

  The evening was cold, with a slight frost rising round the gas lamps of Whitehall. But Charles did not take a cab home. Nor did he head for the Travellers, which had been his usual habit, in the past, after work at the Foreign Office. Indeed, the Travellers Club was, and is, known as the Foreign Office Canteen.

  Instead, he walked home, enjoying the crispness of the chill air.

  There was a sense of starting anew in the South Audley Street house. After dinner Charles talked with Mildred. He told her there had been a change, that he had been reappo
inted, though he said nothing of the true nature of his duties.

  Before sleep took him that night, Charles pondered on one aspect of the day which intrigued him. He had casually asked Vernon Kell who had recommended him for work at MO5.

  ‘Why, your uncle – Giles Railton – of course.’ Kell sounded as though this should have been obvious.

  But why, Charles wondered now, should something like that be obvious? Indeed, why had he been chosen? Certainly Uncle Giles was a senior member of the Foreign Service, but what on earth would a rather dull old bird like Giles know of Intelligence matters?

  Chapter Three

  Earlier, almost at the same moment as Charles arrived home, an important bell was clanging in another part of the capital – in the Caledonian Road, a mile or so from the Great Northern Railway’s King’s Cross Station, and hard by Pentonville Prison.

  Among the many abroad in that part of the city, midst the clanking trams and bustling people, one in particular made his way, with purpose, down the Caledonian Road, stopping finally at the familiar striped pole which signified a barber’s shop, pushing open the door of number 402A and causing the automatic bell to clamour.

  Inside, the gas jets were turned high, the two barber’s chairs vacant, and the sweet scent of cheap bay rum mingled with that particular smell of London, wafting in from the street – an amalgamation of grime, horse and the prevailing odour of soot.

  For a moment, the man stood inside the door, his head cocked, listening as the spring bell slowly stopped its harsh warning. He was dressed more fashionably than those who normally frequented this seedy neighbourhood, wearing a long dark greatcoat with a fur collar, the design of which was certainly foreign.

  As the bell ceased so a young fellow, in a not over-clean apron, appeared in the doorway at the far end of the shop.

  ‘Good evening…’ he began, his accent thick, guttural; stopping suddenly when he saw the stranger’s face, turning to call urgently up the stairs. ‘Karl,’ he shouted. Then, in German, more loudly, ‘Karl, come. The gentleman is back.’