Ethan hated the taste of tobacco, but a cigar from Jenkyn was a mark of favor that no one refused. As he sat, he took a cigar from the carved ebony stand. Conscious of the older man’s attentive regard, he performed the ritual with care. Jenkyn had always emphasized the importance of details: A gentleman knew how to light a cigar, how to sit a horse, how to make introductions properly.
“You’ll never pass for a born gentleman,” Jenkyn had once told him, “but you’ll at least be able to mix with your betters without calling attention to yourself.”
After clipping the end of the cigar with an engraved silver cutter, Ethan lit a long match and toasted the outer binding. He put it to his lips, rotating it slowly while igniting the filler, and released the draw expertly.
Jenkyn smiled, something he rarely did, perhaps out of the awareness that his smiles gave the impression of a feeding predator. “Let’s attend to business. Did you meet with Felbrigg?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s got his back up this time?” Jenkyn asked disdainfully.
There was a vicious rivalry between Jenkyn and Fred Felbrigg, the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Jenkyn and his eight secret service men had become direct competition for Felbrigg and his team of a half dozen plainclothes “active officers.” Jenkyn treated Scotland Yard with open contempt, refusing to collaborate or share intelligence. He had said publicly that London police were incompetent, a pack of fools. Instead of using them for extra manpower, Jenkyn had sent for Royal Irish constables from Dublin.
To add insult to injury, Jenkyn’s position at the Home Office wasn’t even legal: he and the secret service force had never been approved by Parliament. One could hardly blame Scotland Yard and Fred Felbrigg for being livid.
However, Jenkyn acquired power as easily as breathing. His influence extended everywhere, even to distant foreign ports and consulates. He had created an international web of spies, agents, and informers, all answerable to no one but him.
“Felbrigg complains that he hasn’t seen any embassy intelligence in a year,” Ethan said. “He says the information goes directly from the consulates to you, and you haven’t shared a word of it.”
Jenkyn looked smug. “When the national security is at stake, I have the authority to do as I see fit.”
“Felbrigg is going to meet with the commissioner and the Home Secretary, to take up the matter with them.”
“The idiot. Does he think it will do any good to whine in front of them like a schoolboy?”
“He’ll do more than whine,” Ethan said. “He says he has intelligence that proves you’re endangering British citizens by withholding crucial information.”
Jenkyn gave him a look that could have peeled a turnip. “What intelligence?”
“A report that a schooner bound from Le Havre to London sailed two days ago, carrying eight tons of dynamite and twenty cases of fuse. Felbrigg is going to tell the commissioner and the Home Secretary that you were aware of it but kept it to yourself.” Ethan paused, taking a gentle pull on the cigar and exhaling a stream of smoke before continuing tonelessly. “The London Port Police weren’t even warned. And now the cargo has mysteriously disappeared.”
“My own men are handling it. The Port Police don’t need to know, they would bungle what’s been set in motion.” A short pause. “Who sent the information to Felbrigg?”
“A port official from Le Havre.”
“I want his name.”
“Yes, sir.”
In the silence that followed, Ethan was grateful for the cigar, a prop that gave him something to do, something to look at and fiddle with. Jenkyn had always been able to read him so accurately that it was well-nigh impossible to hide anything from him. It was all Ethan could do to keep from confronting him about the missing dynamite. The bastard was planning to do something evil with it, and the knowledge sickened and enraged him.
But there was another part of Ethan’s heart that grieved. He and Jenkyn had formed a bond over the past six years. A young man who’d needed a mentor, and an older one who’d wanted someone to mold in his image.
Deliberately Ethan focused his thoughts on the early years when he’d worshipped Jenkyn, who had seemed to be the fount of all knowledge and wisdom. There had been endless training from various instructors . . . intelligence gathering, combat and firearms, burglary, sabotage, survival skills, wireless telegraphy, codes and ciphers. But there had also been days Jenkyn had spent with him personally, instructing him about things like wine tasting, etiquette, how to play cards, how to mingle with upper-class toffs. He had been . . . fatherly.
Ethan remembered the day Jenkyn had taken him to a Savile Row tailor, where a referral from a well-established client was required before one could become a customer.
“Always have your waistcoats made with four pockets,” Jenkyn had told him, seeming amused by Ethan’s wonder and excitement at putting on tailored clothes for the first time. “This upper side pocket is for railway tickets and a latch key. The other side is for loose sovereigns. The lower pockets are for a timepiece, a handkerchief, and banknotes. Remember, a gentleman never keeps paper money in the same pocket as coins.”
That memory, and countless others, kindled a sense of gratitude that even eight tons of missing dynamite couldn’t entirely destroy. Ethan held on to the feeling deliberately, letting it soften him.
He heard Jenkyn’s dry voice. “Aren’t you going to ask what I’ve done with the explosives?”
Ethan lifted his head and gazed at him steadily, smiling slightly. “No, sir.”
Seeming reassured, Jenkyn settled more deeply in his chair. “Good lad,” he murmured. Ethan hated the momentary glow the words gave him. “We see the world the same way, you and I,” the older man continued. “Most people can’t bring themselves to face the ugly reality that some lives must be sacrificed for the greater good.”
That sounded like the explosives would be used for another terrorism plot, something similar to what had been planned for the Guildhall. “What if some of the victims turn out to be Englishmen?” Ethan asked.
“Don’t be obtuse, my boy. Our own people have to be targeted—the more prominent, the better. If the Guildhall plot had succeeded, it would have shocked and angered the entire nation. Public opinion would have turned against the Irish radicals who dared to attack innocent British citizens, and it would have ended any question of Ireland’s independence.”
“But Irish radicals weren’t responsible,” Ethan said slowly. “We were.”
“I would call it a joint enterprise.” Jenkyn tapped the ash from his cigar into a crystal tray. “I assure you, there’s no shortage of Irish political insurgents who are more than willing to resort to violence. And if we don’t continue to assist their efforts, some lunatic bill on Home Rule may eventually become law.” As he drew in another mouthful of smoke, the end of the cigar glowed like a malevolent red eye. “Anyone who thinks the Irish are capable of governing themselves is as mad as a bedbug. They’re a brutish race that respects no law.”
“They would respect the law more if it didn’t fall so hard on them,” Ethan couldn’t resist saying. “The Irish are taxed higher than the English, in return for only half the justice. Duty is hard when there’s no back of fairness to it.”