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“What has he done that he’s in danger?” Bradley changed tack. He looked skeptical. “Be careful who you bring back into the country, Howard. Think very hard about what you are doing. You have been known to let your enthusiasm mislead your judgment.”
Peter felt the hot blood rise up his cheeks. Bradley knew far more about him than he knew about Bradley. Much of his experience had been in a different area, higher in administration, less in action. “You don’t accomplish much by always playing within the bounds of safety, sir,” Peter said, needle sharp. Peter had been active in intelligence during the war and shortly after. Bradley had not.
“You don’t need to remind me of your accomplishments, Howard. At least not more than half a dozen times,” Bradley responded with the ghost of a smile.
That was unfair. Peter never boasted. He abhorred braggarts. It was the surest sign of insecurity, a serious weakness in any officer. Bradley was baiting him deliberately. “Then you know the answer to your questioning, sir,” he said between his teeth. “Strother was embedded six years ago, with the orders to go wherever his opportunities led him, and to report back anything he felt of interest, but with the greatest care and as seldom as possible. He sent his information…” He hesitated, reluctant to tell Bradley anything he did not have to.
“Yes?” Bradley said impatiently. “For God’s sake, Howard, stop dancing around like a bloody ballerina en pointe. I know everything that you do, and a lot that you don’t.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir,” Peter replied. He knew a lot that he had not told Bradley, and did not intend to. Little things, day-to-day details, but that was how most pictures were created. Not in spills of paint, but one stroke at a time.
“What does this Aiden Strother know that is worth risking another man’s life to get him out?” Bradley went on. “And if Strother is really any good, tell him to lie low for a while and find his own way out. Where is he? Germany? Austria?”
“Since his handler has disappeared, and we have no direct contact with him, how do you suggest we do that?” Peter tried to keep sarcasm out of his voice and failed.
Bradley asked the one question Peter had hoped he would not. “How do you know his contact has disappeared?” His eyebrows rose. “Who told you that? Let him tell Strother to get out, if he hasn’t got enough sense to get out anyway. Since the line of communication has been cut, surely the man is bright enough to know that?”
This was settling into a battle of wills, no longer tied to the actual issues. Why? Personal dislike? Or was Bradley actually trying to provoke Peter into something more? An open insubordination, for which he could be dismissed? Was it all still about Lucas Standish and the ghost of his leadership that lingered on? Bradley wanted to put one of his own men in Peter’s place. That was an open secret. Peter might even have wanted the same were their positions reversed.
How much of the truth should he tell Bradley? Certainly not that he had sent Lucas Standish’s granddaughter, and yet he could not get the travel expenses passed if he did not clear them through the usual channels, which Bradley was bound to see. Damn Bradley. “I don’t care if Strother stays or leaves,” Peter answered, measuring his words. “But I want his information to date. In his last message, he implied it was very important.”
“Oh!” Bradley’s eyebrows shot up and his tone became sharper. “Such as what?”
“I don’t know.” That was partly true. Peter did know it had something to do with Dollfuss and the changing power in Austria. “But before he sinks back into the woodwork and we can’t find him, alive or dead, I wanted to discover exactly what he has learned. If we bring Strother himself back, so much the better, but if not, then at least his information.”
Bradley’s face tightened with displeasure, but the argument was reasonable. “All right, if we must, but a messenger, that’s all. And train, second class; he’ll get there just as quickly. Is that everything?”
“Thank you.” Peter took the authorization. He had just put out his hand to open the door when Bradley spoke again.
“Howard?”
He turned. “Yes, sir?”
“Lucas Standish is gone. You answer to me now, and only me. I want a report on Strother as soon as possible, do you understand? And if you succeed in getting him out, then I want to debrief him personally. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you still see Lucas Standish?”
“I see him socially now and then, as you see your friends.” Peter swallowed hard. “Lord Irwin, for example. I don’t intend to criticize it, even though he has some extreme right-wing views. I would go so far as to say pro-Nazi. And, of course, there’s Oswald Mosley…”
Bradley’s face was filled with a sudden and powerful dislike. “As opposed to Churchill who, thank God, is out of office,” he snapped back. His pen was clenched in his heavy hand as if he wished to stab something with it. “A forgotten man, who doesn’t know when to keep his crazy and disruptive opinions to himself,” he added bitterly. “You may want another war, Howa
rd, but most decent people with any sense do not. Especially those of us who fought in the last one. I mean really fought, in the trenches. Who saw their friends and brothers blown to pieces, or caught in the wire and riddled with bullets, helpless to do anything about it. And there were plenty of us. You would do very well to remember that. And if you think I would throw you out the first legitimate chance I get, you’re bloody well right. I would, so be very careful. Don’t make the slightest mistake…and give me the chance.”
“Sir—”
“Don’t interrupt!” Bradley snapped. “You’re good at your job, I’ll give you that. I’d have got rid of you years ago if you weren’t. But you’re Lucas Standish’s man. There, I’ve said it openly, though everyone knows it already. I hope you keep our other secrets better than you keep that.”
Peter swallowed hard. “Since I served with him for fifteen years, it’s hardly a secret, sir. If there’s anyone who still doesn’t know he was the best director we’ve had—and he taught me just about everything I know—then we need to get rid of them. They wouldn’t find their own backsides with both hands and a map.”
Bradley sat forward in his chair. “Get out, and bring back Strother’s information. Whatever it is, give it to me. If it’s any bloody use! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you give it to Lucas Standish, I’ll have your head on a plate, and that’s a promise.”
“Yes, sir.” Peter went out and resisted the impulse to slam the door. He closed it very quietly, not even allowing the latch to click. But he did wonder how much Bradley knew about Aiden Strother that he was so keen to get the report. Was it just to make certain Peter obeyed him? Or did he know more of it than he admitted?
