Their “amens” mingled with the shrill blasts of a police whistle and the peremptory calls of a pair of beat bobbies racing along the embankment towards them.

CHAPTER 2

Joe Sandilands, seated in the back of the unmarked squad car that had picked him up from his flat in Cheyne Walk, was speeding along the embankment in the opposite direction, heading for Mayfair. The driver’s automatic but abrupt raising of his right foot from the accelerator at the sound of the police whistles caused Joe’s briefcase to fall to the floor. He leaned forward and slapped his driver happily on the ear with his rolled-up newspaper.

“Eyes front! Not one for us, Sarge! Just grit your teeth and drive past. The local plod can manage.”

All the same, both men’s heads swivelled to the right as they passed the scene of activity on the riverbank.

“The usual, I expect,” offered the sergeant. “Three bodies washed up on that spot so far this month. It’s the current,” he explained vaguely. “You’ll be all right, sir. We’re no more than ten minutes from Claridge’s. It’s still early—we should beat the crush at Hyde Park Corner.”

The sergeant glanced up at his rearview mirror and smiled with approval at the stern face of his passenger. Assistant Commissioner Sandilands. Seven in the morning and here he was, bustling about, well into his day. He’d probably already finished the crossword. He was top brass—no doubt of that—but the other men of his rank would be still abed, rising later to put on their uniforms and swagger about opening bazaars, pushing piles of paper from one side of their mahogany desks to another or just waiting about for retirement. This one, Sandilands, waited for nothing and no man. Ex-serviceman, like his boss, Commissioner Trenchard. You could always tell. A bloke who got things done. The “new policing,” they called it. Horses for courses. The sergeant would have put a bundle on Sandilands if they’d entered him for the Grand National. A man built for speed as well as skill over the jumps. Smart looking chap, too. Good suit. Discreet tie. The doorman at Claridge’s would be pleased to see this gent bounding in, oozing confidence and Penhaligon’s best.

Ten minutes. Joe’s composure was all on the surface. He readjusted his perfectly tied tie and sighed. It was hard to remain calm when you were about to meet one of the world’s most influential, most wealthy and most scurrilous men. And you’d had instructions from your boss to shadow him for a week or two, possibly longer. With the simple instruction of keeping the unpredictable rogue alive.

He remembered his briefing from the Commissioner the week before: “It’s this damnable conference, d’you see, Sandilands. The World Economic jamboree. London awash with dignitaries of one sort or another from Albania to Zululand. All highly vulnerable. One-to-one protection is what the Home Office has decreed. At the highest level. And you’ve been allocated your man. Welcome him, assist him, make friends with him—if that’s possible—but, above all, make sure no one bumps him off—not even one of our own rubber heels. If you can keep your subject out of trouble that will be a bonus. Keep him out of the scandal sheets and there could be a medal in it for you,” had been his brief.

It had been useless to put forward the name of the man in Special Branch who could have made a much better job of it—indeed, whose job it was. “Surely James Bacchus would be expecting to assume this duty, sir?” He’d tried. “A senior officer in the protection squad with an impeccable record?” he reminded his boss. “Known to have saved the lives of several members of the royal family.”

“Agreed.” The commissioner had nodded. “We’re all aware of Bacchus and his men. Formidable reputation! Not the least of their achievements—preserving the lives of at least half a dozen of our leading politicians.” He nodded sagely. “Winston Churchill could have been a goner on several occasions here and abroad if Inspector Thompson of the Branch had not thrown himself between the man and the bullet. And shot back to good effect. At IRA gunmen, Egyptian lynch mobs, Indian nationalists, knife-wielding Frenchwomen and a selection of the deranged. Difficult man to protect, Winston!” He chuckled. “Likes to take his own bullets. Old soldier, you know. And it occurs to me you might well have the same problems with your charge. He’s somewhat battle hardened, too, I understand, and much more sprightly.”

Joe’s spirits were sinking fast. He waited to hear more.

“James Bacchus will certainly be involved and working alongside. We value his skills. But I’ve got something special up my sleeve for him. Our Branchman speaks excellent French and Italian and—rather essentially—German, I understand. I shall be assigning him the overall control of the European contingent. He’ll be liaising with all those foreign johnnies in black leather jackets and fedoras who slink about with bulges in their pockets, protecting their lords and masters. Might as well support them so long as they know who’s in charge and respect our firearms laws.”

Joe recognised this flow of words as a reluctance to get to the point and come out with a name. It did not bode well.

“You get the American. Cornelius Kingstone. Senator Kingstone.” Trenchard sighed and favoured Joe with a glance that was questioning and yet apologetic. “Friend and advisor to the President. Attending the conference loosely under the direction of their Secretary of State, Cordell Hull.”

Joe searched his memory and came up with nothing. “Cornelius Kingstone? I’m not aware of the gentleman, sir. But if he’s a friend of Roosevelt, I’m sure we’ll find some common ground. Aren’t you offering me an easy option? From your introduction, I was expecting a more taxing proposition. Herr Hitler’s High Chief Executioner or Signor Mussolini’s Spymaster General, perhaps. Not a solid American democrat.”

Again Trenchard showed signs of unease. “Look here, Sandilands. Our SIS, New York Section, or British Security Coordination as they like to call themselves, are new boys and just working themselves into the posting. Plenty to do! That east coast is littered with German spies—always has been. But Jeffes and his lads are very keen. They have practically assumed consular status for themselves and get invited to the best parties. They are in a position to vet these politicians for us, and they’re making odd noises about this one. Not an entirely straightforward proposal they’re telling us. Oh, politically, he’s as sound as a bell, all he declares himself to be and very much in Roosevelt’s pocket. Or is Roosevelt in his? Kingstone has been very generous to the cause apparently. But there have been discordant notes. Quite recently. Since Roosevelt’s election. Fact is, the chap disappeared for three days in January. The president was angry—his aide missed several important meetings—but forgiving when he showed up again. Kingstone was a bit disturbed and made excuses for his absence that were less than convincing. Whatever his adventure, it left the senator with a black eye, a sprained wrist and a thoughtful expression. Our men leap on such stories with relish. They love a bit of diplomatic scandal. Too much partying at the White House.” Trenchard sniffed his disapproval and added dismissively, “I expect it was no more than a romantic interlude that got out of hand. The senator’s prone to that sort of thing. But just in case the man’s got some pugilistic skeleton in his cupboard, you will be on hand to protect him, Sandilands. He’s a man who understands our position and has a well-informed world view. A valuable asset amongst that pack of screeching egotists we’ll be seeing lining up to do us down.”

“Don’t the Americans have their own security squads at their back? The Bureau of Investigation, Naval Intelligence, Secret Service, Pinkerton’s … they’re not short of that kind of thing.”