The Secret Generations Read online

  The visitor took one step inside the shop, paused, then walked forward with confidence, his well-waxed moustaches quivering, like an animal picking up an interesting scent. The young barber waited in the rear doorway, glancing upwards nervously at the sound of heavy footsteps now descending the stairs.

  The second barber, entering from the staircase, was obviously the owner of the shop. He moved with a familiar authority, his appearance neater, and cleaner, than that of the young assistant – hair cut short, to the scalp, above slightly bovine features. ‘Ach!’ the grunt contained some relief as he set eyes on the newcomer. Then, to the younger man, ‘Wilhelm, the door if you please.’

  The blind was quickly pulled down, the key snapped home in the lock. Only when this was done did the owner speak again. ‘It is good to see you… Herr… Weiss?’

  ‘Names do not matter. We can talk in private, yes?’

  The barber motioned his visitor to the stairs, giving Wilhelm a nod, telling the lad to stay where he was.

  Once upstairs, the visitor asked, ‘You have come to a decision? Made up your mind?’ He dusted off the seat of a stand chair with his gloves and sat down, small eyes never moving from the barber, who now spoke slowly, as though choosing his words with great care.

  ‘Yes, I shall do my duty for the Fatherland. But it is necessary for me to have help. I cannot do it alone. Young Wilhelm is reliable. He’ll keep his mouth closed. I shall do it if he is also paid a small amount.’

  ‘There should be no difficulty with the money. But you have the responsibility.’ He drew out a large piece of heavy-grade folded paper. ‘Before I leave, you must memorize the names and addresses I have here. I do not care how long it takes, but I shall not leave until I am satisfied that you are word perfect. Verstanden?’

  The barber took the paper with immense care, as though it were some kind of explosive device – which, in a way, it was.

  *

  The man the barber had called Weiss, boarded the midnight ferry boat to Ostend.

  He stood by the rail gazing at the lights of England disappearing into the cold night, but his thoughts did not even touch on the barber, or the work going on in London. Gustav Steinhauer had larger matters on his mind: things which gave him a particular power, an almost unique position within the Diplomatic and Military regimes of Prussia.

  He was also anxious to get back to Berlin. These little forays abroad were important, but it was his special work, for the Kaiser himself, which took pride of place in his life. At the heart of it all was Hans-Helmut Ulhurt, who had taken several months to regain his health. Now, still in the private clinic, he had learned to walk again, with the aid of a wooden leg, and was doing well.

  Only one thing appeared to puzzle Ulhurt. He was surprised that the Imperial Navy had dropped any charges against him concerning the affray at the Buffel. Steinhauer told him not to worry about it; as far as the Navy was concerned, he had disappeared from the face of the earth. There was work for him to do, and it could well include the kind of fighting he seemed to enjoy so much.

  ‘You are to concentrate on getting fit again; learning to walk and move with a wooden leg as well as you did with two real ones: Steinhauer counselled. ‘In time you will learn all things. Some of your friends have paid a high penalty for that night in Kiel; he cocked his head to one side, ‘Some have been executed. Do as I tell you. Keep silent. Obey only me, and you will not suffer the same fate.’

  *

  At one point during his return to Berlin, Steinhauer found himself again becoming anxious. It was now two years since the Kaiser had sent for him privately – not only an honour, but the moment he had fought, schemed and planned for over the years.

  Gustav Steinhauer’s background could in no way be described as aristocratic, in the Prussian sense. However, he had relations at court. His cousin was friend and companion to the Kaiserin, while there was one uncle on his father’s side who certainly had the Kaiser’s ear. The Steinhauer family were what the English would call well-to-do, though not quite top drawer.

  Gustav was exceptionally bright – quick in study, and a very hard worker. By his early twenties he spoke four languages fluently; had made friends in influential areas; and secured a place for himself in the Foreign Ministry on the Wilhelmstrasse.

  It was during his first years at the Wilhelmstrasse, that Gustav Steinhauer discovered his taste for intrigue and duplicity. Within two years he found himself in a position to travel regularly between the Wilhelmstrasse and the court, taking with him drops of gossip and tittle-tattle which might prove useful to the Kaiser and his many advisers.

  In the forefront of his mind, Steinhauer remembered that the long-deposed Bismarck had relied on one man for intelligence and a complex system of spies – the hated, but very powerful, Eduard Stieber. As the years passed, Steinhauer’s one ambition had been to become the Kaiser’s Stieber, and the opening appeared, quite suddenly, just before Christmas in 1908. What happened then, finally led him to petty officer Ulhurt in Kiel.

  In England, nobody connected with MI1(c) – the Secret Service – or the tiny MO5, could possibly know what a part Steinhauer and his one-legged protégé would play in the future. Certainly none of the Railton family, even if they had known of the men’s existence, could have foreseen the havoc and the harvest that would be reaped.

  The meeting with the Kaiser had happened so unexpectedly that Steinhauer did not have time to reflect, or become nervous. He had been visiting his uncle, and on reaching his office, found the man in a state of excitement.

  ‘His Majesty wishes. to see you.’ Uncle Brandt paced up and down. He was in full uniform being on duty that day.

  ‘Me?’ Steinhauer swallowed. ‘When?’

  ‘Now. The court leaves for Austria in two days. His Majesty sent for me yesterday. He asked for you; when you would next be coming… He is waiting now.’

  Within minutes, Gustav Steinhauer found himself being marched through the marbled corridors, and before he knew it there was the Kaiser himself, looking serious, and rather terrifying with his waxed moustaches, and that strange aura of power and dignity which seemed to surround him.

  For a full minute, the Kaiser looked him up and down, as though appraising him. Steinhauer thought of undertakers. Then, the Kaiser spoke.

  ‘You are Gustav Steinhauer from the Foreign Ministry?’

  ‘Majesty.’

  ‘Good. I commend you. You have brought some useful items of information to the court. I am in your debt.’

  ‘No, Majesty. No! I simply wish to serve your Majesty and the Fatherland. I am dedicated…’

  The Kaiser took no notice. ‘I commend you,’ he repeated, as if to say ‘stay quiet man, if I say I commend you, then that is all’.

  ‘Thank you, Majesty.’

  ‘I have work for you, Steinhauer. Work of a special nature. Dangerous, but rewarding. Will you undertake this work for me?’

  ‘Anything, Majesty. Say the word. For you and the Fatherland, anything.’

  The Kaiser gave a brisk nod. ‘Good. You know that I am basically a man of the sea?’

  ‘I’ve seen your Majesty’s beautiful painting of the torpedo boats attacking the ironclad warships… in the Berlin Academy of Art. Inspiring. It is…’

  ‘Thank you,’ the Kaiser began to talk quickly, rapping out the sentences like orders, not giving Steinhauer a chance to interrupt. ‘I am also versed in military matters, naturally, but above all I love the sea, and the Imperial Navy. It is imperative that the world see the Fatherland, and not England, as Master of the great oceans.’ He took a quick breath before rattling on. ‘When you start this duty for me, you must remember this.’

  Then, the Kaiser began to get down to the details.

  Gustav Steinhauer became elated, almost heady with the power that was being placed in his hands.

  *

  Giles Railton carefully replaced the telephone earpiece, cradling it into the U-shaped arm projecting from the instrument’s column. He had answe
red Vernon Kell’s call in his usual manner – a series of monosyllables, for Giles disliked the telephone. Well, the news was good, even though Kell did not sound very enthusiastic about Charles. At least it brought his nephew into that world which Giles had inhabited for so long.

  Giles sat in his study, on the second floor of the elegant Eccleston Square house, a few doors from where Winston and Clemmie Churchill were basking – between a hectic political life – in the joys of parenthood, with their first child, the five months old Diana.

  When his French wife, Josephine, was still alive, Giles’ study was known to the children as ‘Father’s Hide’. Indeed the children were never allowed into the room, and he recalled Andrew’s sense of injustice at the age of ten – ‘Why cannot we play soldiers with Papa?’

  Josephine had found it difficult to explain to the small boy. Five years later she was not there to explain: coming into the hall, on a Friday evening, bright and happy after a shopping expedition, and dropping dead, of a brain haemorrhage, at the foot of the stairs.

  Giles rarely dwelt on that terrible day. In fact, he seldom thought of his own past, except when it was necessary to draw on personal experience. The events of the last weeks, however, had forced his mind from the safety of its private battlements. The death of his elder brother had brought more than mere memories, it had also produced an avalanche of pressing problems. One of these had, for the time being, been settled by Vernon Kell’s telephone call.

  Unlike most of the Railton males, Giles had never grown to a full tall stature. The General, even at the age of seventy-six – when he died – had maintained a full six feet two inches. But Giles, though far from stunted, had reached five-seven at the age of fourteen and stopped there. He did retain other Railton features – the nose, eyes, and a full head of hair, just beginning to grey as he entered his sixty-first year.

  It was strange, he considered, how often in the family history there was a great gulf fixed between the arrival of children. There was over a dozen years between The General’s sons, John and Charles, the same hiatus which had existed between himself and The General. Indeed, Giles knew of yet another child sired by his brother, never spoken of, yet born only twelve or so years ago. The General had certainly been active with more than one woman since his wife’s – Nellie’s – death in a riding accident during the autumn of 1884.

  As far as his colleagues were concerned, Giles Railton was merely another senior civil servant – a time-server waiting for the inevitable autumn of his days. Nothing could have been further from the truth, for Giles Railton was only just reaching the apogee of his career.

  The memos and documents called him a Senior Adviser: Foreign Policy. Yet his official dossier contained more fiction than fact, going back many decades. It did not mention such things as the part he had played in the purchase of shares, for the government, in the Suez Canal, the visits to India, and the two years in Egypt. The copperplate handwriting gave little away about the many, and various, visits and journeys around Europe, or their purpose. Among other matters, the clandestine meetings in Russia remained uncharted, for, while diplomats met the Czar and his advisers, it was Giles who, in secret, spoke with men like Lenin, Trotsky, and other dedicated revolutionaries, trying to understand and analyse their dangerous political ideology.

  It was public knowledge, in diplomatic circles, that he now chaired a sub-committee on Intelligence reorganization for the CID, but few took that very seriously.

  Some imagined he would have been happier at a university, possibly a Chair in History, failing to see that his passion was confined to military history, the study of strategy and tactics – hence his private preoccupation for ‘…playing soldiers in the Hide…’ surrounded by maps, books and hundreds of lead replicas. This obsession came from childhood, and natural competition with his elder brother.

  To Giles, even in the last years, brother William had been godlike and, possibly, the only living being from whom he kept no secrets. William had known it all, the anxiety shared, the deep – sometimes dark – secrets passed, like dangerous magic words, between them: including the doubts concerning Empire and future, which had so plagued Giles during the middle period of his life.

  If the truth were known, Giles had found himself becoming involved in political ideas which disturbed him considerably. He worried about Asquith’s government, and their plans of reform – particularly concerning the Irish question and Home Rule. Yet the largest portion of guilt concerned his family. Paradoxically he held his family and its history in highest esteem; yet he also found himself querying the whole matter of privilege, and the injustice of rank.

  The study of military history had long since become a relaxation, for the true vocation of his life was the way in which his country could be provided with essential information for trade, foreign diplomacy, and the military. Giles Railton was as single minded, and dedicated to the black secret arts, as The General had been to the true science of war.

  Knowing what they did, his sons Andrew and Malcolm, and his daughter Marie, tended to make allowances for their father’s somewhat odd way of life.

  Andrew could not escape contact with his father’s arcane calling, for he had spent the past two years at the Admiralty as Flag Officer to the Director of the Naval Intelligence Division – the DID.

  Marie, and her French diplomat husband, were more deeply involved, and there had been much private discussion over Christmas, at Redhill Manor, and again after the funeral.

  Malcolm, however, refused to be drawn, though his recently-taken Irish wife, Bridget, was becoming more pliable. Giles wanted to use her as a most particular investment in secrecy.

  Now, after talking to Vernon Kell about Charles’ recruitment to MO5, Giles had things to do which might assist Marie, and the work in which she was privately involved in Paris.

  Putting on his greatcoat, he stood in the hall for a moment as his one manservant, Robertson, hovered in the background.

  ‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back,’ he told the man. ‘Tell Cook to leave something cold for me. You can all go to bed. I’ll let myself in,’ and he went out into the freezing night, not even looking back.

  First, he took a cab to Trafalgar Square and walked through to the Strand. Out of habit he paused for a moment or two after turning corners, and constantly crossed and recrossed the road, looking for any familiar shape or figure who might be following.

  Only when he was certain that he was alone did he double back towards Charing Cross, making for a narrow alleyway which housed, among other things, a small newspaper and tobacconist’s shop. Here, Giles Railton was known as Mr Harding – a gentleman, the owner considered, who liked a little fling now and again; for he paid handsomely for one room above the shop, reached via a street door, the keys of which were in Mr Harding’s keeping.

  Inside the street door, stairs mounted to a minute landing, and another door which led to a tidy room containing two stuffed chairs, a bed and a table. No pictures, books or papers, for Giles wanted nothing to distract those who met him in this place.

  He drew the heavy curtains, before lighting the gas mantles and the small fire; for the room was almost as cold as the street outside. Only the most astute observer in the street would note the small gap left between the curtains.

  The girl had been given her instructions, sent directly by hand from Redhill Manor to an address in Putney, then forwarded by two separate carriers. The time limit was between seven and ten in the evening. If Mr Harding’s light was not on, she was to come back at fifteen-minute intervals until ten. After that she would try again on the following night.

  In her late twenties, the girl was dressed fashionably, though inexpensively. If anyone was interested, she looked like a lady’s maid on her day off, or travelling, for she carried a small ‘Argyle’ cowhide bag, as well as her handbag in which lay a French identity card, and the equivalent of two hundred pounds in French francs, as well as a little extra English money. She was known as Monique.


  She knocked on the street door – a quick tattoo of three – and once in the room, Giles helped remove her coat, then waited as she made herself comfortable in one of the stuffed chairs.

  ‘It’s really quite simple this time,’ he began. ‘I should warn you that the people concerned are related to me. However, you must put that to one side, do a thorough job, and always give me the truth, however unpalatable.’ He then proceeded to give Monique the address of Marcel and Marie Grenot – his own daughter and son-in-law.

  ‘I’m only to observe?’ She had no trace of an accent: not surprising as she originally came from Warwick. Hers was an old army family, and she spoke French fluently.

  He nodded. ‘Observe, and report to me. You will also protect. You’re clear about communications?’

  She said it had all worked well enough during her last duty in Paris. This time she would try to get very close.

  Giles looked pleased. It was important, he told her. ‘All the same, I need to know everything. The French authorities can become difficult, even with their friends, when it comes to spies.’

  There was still more to say, but finally Giles handed her the tickets for the night boat to Calais, and a third class to Paris. Both tickets were one way.

  *

  Returning to Eccleston Square by a different route, Giles thought of the last time he had spoken to his daughter Marie about the work she was doing – Christmas afternoon, in The General’s study, with the frost white over the rose garden, and the light going. Her husband, Marcel, had sat in a leather chair and berated the apathy of his own country.

  ‘They say “Why should Germany bother us? They will not fight again, and they certainly will never draw the English. After all, the Royal families are related.”’ He had an almost theatrical French accent. ‘The senior politicians of my country are like deaf mutes. They nod and smile, and appear to understand. In fact they have little comprehension.’ He shrugged. ‘Mind you, our generals are also ill-equipped for any modern war.’