Rebellion. James McGee

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      Chapter 3

      Whitehall was as busy as Smithfield on market day.

      But then Whitehall was always busy. Every time he’d travelled down it, whether by carriage or on foot, Hawkwood had never known an occasion when it wasn’t. Though that was to be expected, he supposed, given the nature of the business conducted in the grand buildings sited along its broad expanse. That and the fact that the nation was at war; for a nation at war was always on the move. The decisions reached in the offices of state concealed behind the impressive façades affected the lives of every man, woman and child in the land. As a soldier in the service of the king, Hawkwood had been subject to the whims and vain posturings of statesmen more than most. As a police officer, too. It was a depressing fact that there didn’t seem to be any escape from officialdom, no matter who, where, or what you were. And this place was at the centre of it all; the heartbeat.

      The road was thronged with carriages; most of them in motion, though a good few were parked, either awaiting the return of their passengers or else competing for fares. Pedestrians hugged the verges in a vain bid to avoid the mud, dust and dung that coated the road. Those who were bold enough to attempt a crossing did so at their peril for the oncoming traffic invariably showed no inclination to cede its right of way.

      Carriages weren’t the only means of transport in view. There were plenty of people on horseback, too, a great many of them in uniform, including a phalanx of cavalry heading for the exercise ground. The troopers drew applause as they trotted past.

      In the wide forecourt of the Admiralty building, anxious blue-coated naval officers scurried around the high porticoed entrance like ants. It was the same with the Horse Guards. The only difference lay in the cut and the colour of the uniforms. From this imposing building had been issued the orders dispatching Hawkwood and thousands like him to Spain, Portugal and South America and a score of other outposts scattered across the furthest reaches of the globe. He gazed up past the sentry boxes and wondered what new strategies were being hatched on the other side of the high windows.

      The cab skirted the front of the Treasury and the defile that was the entrance to Downing Street. Crown Street lay a few yards further on, between Fludyer Street and Charles Street, tucked away from the noise and bustle of the main avenues. Here, the low-hanging sun was partially obscured by inconvenient rooftops, so corners of the narrow street still lay in chilly shadow, giving it a disquieting air of gloom. There were a few strollers about, but Caleb’s was the only carriage. The horses’ hooves echoed on the road like stones in a hollow log.

      The cab halted. Hawkwood alighted and told Caleb there was no need to wait. Caleb touched two fingers to his cap and drove off.

      From the outside, Number 20 looked to be as unremarkable as its neighbours, save for the small, unobtrusive brass plate that was positioned to the right of the door. On it were inscribed the words: alien office.

      Hawkwood stared down at the plate.

       So that was why Magistrate Read had been so evasive.

      A middle-aged, lank-haired clerk with pockmarked skin and a lugubrious cast to his features answered Hawkwood’s summons on the bell and, after fixing him with a baleful stare and taking his name, instructed him to wait. When the clerk returned he was accompanied by a formally dressed and much younger man, who looked Hawkwood up and down with ill-disguised condescension. Unlike his colleague, his hair looked freshly barbered. Hawkwood’s nostrils detected the faint whiff of pomade.

      “Officer Hawkwood? My name is Flint. This way, if you please.” He crooked a finger. Hawkwood resisted the urge to snap it off.

      Moving primly, Flint led the way upstairs. Apart from the sound of their footsteps, the building seemed eerily quiet. If it hadn’t been for the nameless functionary on the ground floor, they might well have been the only two in the place. Leading Hawkwood to a door at the top of the stairs, Flint knocked twice, opened the door and stood aside.

      Hawkwood found himself in a spacious, high-ceilinged room that resembled a library more than it did an office. Books were displayed on every wall. The areas of panelling that did not contain bookshelves supported an impressive gallery of maps; the majority of which appeared to cover Europe – France and the Peninsula mostly – though India and Egypt, Hawkwood noticed, were also represented. The autumn sunlight was admitted into the room through a pair of large windows, in front of which sat a hefty mahogany desk, containing more books and piles of documents secured in red and black ribbons. Leaning back against the desk, arms folded in repose, was a tall, sombre-looking man dressed in black.

      “Officer Hawkwood?” The man straightened, unfolded his arms but did not extend his hand. “Henry Brooke. Welcome to the Alien Office.” He nodded towards Flint, hovering by the door. “Thank you, Stormont. You may leave us. I’ll ring if I have need of you. Oh, and perhaps you’d be kind enough to take Officer Hawkwood’s coat for him, there’s a good fellow.”

      Hawkwood removed his coat and handed it over. Flint looked none too happy at being relegated to footman. He didn’t quite turn СКАЧАТЬ