The Romanov Conspiracy (18 page)

The king balked. “They could do that?”

“Lenin’s already discovered that his country’s in hock up to its ears. It’s bound to be part of his strategy. If Britain doesn’t pay, there’s a risk the American banking system would collapse under the strain.”

“It’s a complete mess.”

“And a two-edged sword. Give back the gold and you help the Bolsheviks and create a huge financial crisis in Europe. The simple fact is that Britain won’t have enough bullion to match its paper money. Your country will be bankrupt. How will you pay for munitions, weapons, your troops’ wages?”

“All right, don’t rub it in.”

Page stood. “Those are the simple facts, Majesty. We both know that Prime Minister Lloyd George is gravely concerned. However, my president has some thoughts on the subject and wanted you to hear them in private, without involving the prime minister.”

“What thoughts?”

“We know that the Reds haven’t got a firm grasp on power just yet and that the White royalist forces still haven’t given up the fight. We know that British troops will soon control several northern Russian ports and that American marines will join them shortly, to try to put a stop to the Reds’ gallop.”

The king warmed his hands at the stove and picked up his cup. “Your point being?”

“The game is still to play for. If we could get the Russian royal family
out of the country, help bolster the Whites with weapons and training, and cut off all support to the Bolsheviks—create a stranglehold if you like—then it might be possible to defeat Lenin.”

The king looked horrified. “You know that I can’t publicly take sides. The Romanovs are a thorny issue—Lloyd George warned me not to grant my own relatives asylum. He claims that international propaganda has been mounted against the Romanovs by militant socialists. If I take a hand in their rescue it would cause street riots.”

“I’m talking about hidden hands, sir. Nothing to do with the politicians. But it would have to be kept totally secret and it would have to be done fast. We must find the right people who are daring enough to devise a rescue plan and execute it swiftly. My president wanted me to convey to you that any suggestions you might care to make would, of course, be treated with the utmost confidence.”

Page waited for a response but he didn’t get the one he expected. Instead, the king actually smiled and put down his cup. Page said in his charming North Carolina lilt, “I’m afraid I fail to see the humor, sir.”

“Tell me, do you believe in coincidence? My wife believes in all that rot but I didn’t. Not until now.”

“I don’t understand.”

The king stroked his beard. “You’ve heard about the rescue of the Romanian royals from Odessa some months ago, as well as the actress Hanna Volkov?”

“Of course. They were spirited out of Russia but no one knows quite how.”

The abduction of members of the Romanian nobility and a famous Russian stage actress from a hotel on the Black Sea had made international headlines. Held prisoner by a gang of Odessa Bolsheviks, the entourage was mysteriously freed from under their captors’ noses, only to reappear unharmed in Bucharest.

Page added, “I was relieved Hanna Volkov was freed. Didn’t she retire from the stage and marry some filthy rich Russian?”

“Yes, but knowing Hanna it had to be for love, not money. And the truth is she retired only when the Reds started to tell theater managers what plays to stage. Hanna didn’t like that; she’s a true liberal.”

“I saw her on Broadway once. She’s a gifted actress.”

“She’s much more than that, Walter. You don’t know the half of it.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I’ll arrange for you to meet her. And the man responsible for her rescue. He’s quite a character. Definitely one of life’s adventurers. And able to think on his feet like nobody else I know.”

“Majesty?”

The king put a hand on Page’s shoulder. “Let’s take a stroll. I think it’s time I told you about a very remarkable but possibly insane Irish-Canadian named Joe Boyle.”

17

IRELAND

Ten miles north of Dublin, sheltered on one side by dramatic three-hundred-foot cliffs topped by a white-painted lighthouse, lies the busy fishing village of Howth.

A trading port since the fourteenth century, it attracted fierce invaders down through the centuries: the Vikings, the Normans, and finally the British. The latter’s occupation of Ireland had already lasted for over six hundred years, every successive Irish rebellion met with swift and harsh resistance by the mighty sovereign empire.

That same morning just before ten, two fit-looking men in civilian clothes sat in a covered black Model T Ford. They watched the bustling harbor as dozens of brightly painted trawlers chugged into port with their day’s catch, followed by noisy flocks of seagulls.

“Any sign of her yet?” Jackson, the taller of the two, wrinkled his nose, the harbor stinking of dead fish. He had a sharp, devious face, a black pencil mustache, and wore his hair brilliantined, the butt of a Webley revolver just visible in a shoulder holster under his overcoat.

His companion, Smith, his hair cut razor-tight under his cloth cap, was an ape of a man, a former bare-knuckle fighter from Manchester who had once beaten a man to death in the ring. He sat in the driver’s seat and watched the harbor with binoculars.

Both men were British military intelligence working out of Dublin Castle, their task to keep a check on Irish republicanism. It was a job military intelligence often carried out with extreme brutality, and worse was yet to come when Churchill freed legions of hardened criminals from British jails, promising them a pardon in return for helping to crush the Irish uprising.

Smith said, “I see it, Captain. A blue and white trawler with a black funnel a mile or so out to sea and heading our way. It’s the
Marie-Ann
, I’d take bets.”

Jackson raised his own binoculars and scanned the waters beyond the harbor. He spotted the vessel trailing a plume of muddy gray engine smoke as it powered its way toward port. “Good. Let’s go fetch Boyle.”

“Speak of the devil, sir,” Smith said.

Jackson turned to look toward the road that ran along Howth harbor. It was peppered with fishmongers’ shops, guesthouses, and tearooms, all dominated by an imposing white-painted hotel, the St. Lawrence. A tall, striking-looking man stepped out of the lobby, sidestepped a moving trolley bus, and strode briskly toward them. He was about fifty, tall, with broad shoulders, his tailored suit crisply pressed, and he wore a brown felt hat.

Smith watched him approach. “What exactly is Boyle up to, sir?”

Jackson selected a cigarette from a silver case, an irritated look on his face. “The devil only knows. He’s of Irish background, with a name like that. And if I’m to believe London HQ he’s a lieutenant colonel in the Canadian army. The title’s honorary, mind you. Apparently, he formed his own machine-gun battalion to fight on the western front, volunteers all of them.”

Smith cracked his knuckles as he watched Boyle approach with a purposeful stride. “He’s a right cocky sod, acting like he’s running the bloody show. Who does he think he is?”

Jackson tapped his cigarette and lit it with a match. “If London’s telling us to extend him every help we can, Boyle must have friends in high places. He could be liaising with Scotland Yard for all I know, seeing as he’s got a special license to carry a firearm.”

“I’ve heard a rumor from one of the NCOs serving in Dublin Castle, sir.”

Jackson blew out smoke. “Spit it out, Smith, I’m listening.”

“He claims he heard of Boyle in Belfast, and he still has relatives up north. That his family were piss-poor and emigrated to Canada, where the young Boyle became a bit of a legend.”

“Go on.”

“He says Boyle has as many talents as backgrounds. Amateur heavyweight boxing champion of the USA, former Yukon gold miner. Not to mention that he’s a millionaire, with business interests in America and Russia. I think that covers most of it.”

Jackson stroked his mustache. “If all that’s true then he can’t be here on police work, can he? And it still doesn’t tell us what Boyle is up to with Lydia Ryan. He has to know she’s one of the rebels on our wanted list.”

“Where did he get his information, sir? He knew exactly when the
Marie-Ann
was due to arrive and told us Ryan would be on board. Then he orders us not to arrest either her or her mates, but just to follow them. I don’t get his drift.”

Jackson offered Smith a conniving grin as Boyle approached. “Neither do I. But I think it’s time we showed Mr. Boyle who’s boss in this neck of the woods, don’t you? You briefed the men?”

“Yes, Captain. They’re ready for the ambush.”

“Good. We can’t have a dangerous rebel like Ryan running around the country, doing as she pleases. She’s for the hangman’s noose if I have my way.” Jackson took a fierce drag on his cigarette, picked up the binoculars again, and studied the trawler eagerly as Boyle finally joined them, tipped his hat, and climbed into the back of the Ford.

“Gentlemen, good morning to you.” He had a boxer’s physique and a ferocious energy about him, and although his voice sounded North American there was a hint of Ulster in Boyle’s tight-lipped demeanor. His left eyelid was half closed—the result of a scar that looked like a badly stitched wound, which gave him an odd, grinning expression. “Well, any sign of her yet?”

Jackson tossed him the binoculars. “The blue and white trawler on its way into harbor. It’s the
Marie-Ann
. You’ll see some people moving about, and one of them appears to be a woman.”

Boyle took the binoculars and studied the vessel. He saw a couple of men moving about on the prow. When he glimpsed a raven-haired woman by the cabin his heart skipped. “That’s Lydia Ryan, all right, I’m pretty sure of it.”

Jackson said, “We’re not ungrateful for your intelligence, Boyle,
but look here, you must know that Ryan’s wanted for arms smuggling and shooting dead two of our comrades. They were personal friends of mine.”

Boyle tipped back his hat and watched as the
Marie-Ann
glided toward the harbor. “Your friends should have been more careful. What do you know about Lydia Ryan?”

“Very little. Our information on her is scanty.”

Boyle put down the binoculars and almost laughed. “No wonder you lot are making a mess of Ireland. Ryan’s American-born, with an Irish father and English mother. Her folks returned to Ireland when their daughter was twelve and bought a stud farm in County Kildare. She was engaged to a local man who enlisted with the British but he was posted as missing in action at the beginning of the war.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for her, Boyle?” Jackson said.

“No, I’m just filling in the gaps. Ryan was never political but after 1916, when your lot executed the Irish republican leaders, that’s when she and her brother, Finn, decided to throw in their lot with the rebel cause.”

Boyle peered through the binoculars once more and added, “On occasion she’s a driver for Michael Collins, one of the republicans’ top men. She’s also one of his best gun-runners. It’s no secret the Irish are hoarding guns in case they take on the British army again. In fact, Miss Ryan’s got a weapons cache on board, destined for her republican friends.”

Jackson licked his lips and began to perspire, as he always did when the scent of trouble was in the air. He took back his binoculars and studied the trawler as it came in to dock. “So, she could be caught red-handed. What else do you know about her?”

“Enough to write a book. But that’s plenty for now. Are your men in place and ready to follow her?”

Jackson nodded. “Yes, we’ve got relay teams. The penalty for arms smuggling is hanging, Boyle. What do you want with her?”

Boyle observed the
Marie-Ann
prepare to dock, the crew ready with their tie-up ropes. He winked, tapped the side of his nose. “My business, I’m afraid. And there’ll be no one caught red-handed, Jackson. Just follow my orders.”

Jackson bristled. “I’m not sure I Iike the tone of your voice, Boyle.”

“I’m not too fond of yours either, but you have your instructions. Observe and follow, that’s the order of the day.” Boyle removed a Colt pistol from a shoulder holster under his coat and checked that it was loaded.

“Are you planning on using that thing?” Smith asked him.

“Not if I can help it. As I told you, gentlemen, this is an intelligence-gathering exercise. I want to know where Ryan goes. And your men better keep well back when they’re tailing her, or I have a gut feeling that the lady’s liable to kill us all. On that point, just one more thing.”

Jackson looked irritated, raised an eye. “And what’s that?”

Boyle smiled, looked from Smith to Jackson, an infinitely dangerous look in his eyes as he tipped back his hat with the Colt. “Harm a hair on her head and I’ll personally shoot you both.”

18