›››› A MARKED MAN ‹‹‹‹
Part One
A man is marked by the company he keeps
— Aesop
Warsaw, 1925
When Charles Septimus Blake (the Right Honourable, etc., etc.) had thought very much about his new post as attaché to the British Ambassador in Warsaw, it had not been an entertaining prospect.
The brand-new diplomat (how Eve Napier had laughed his head off at that) assumed his life would descend to the usual round of parties, small talk over wilting champagne flutes and petty intrigues between touchy consuls and their fussy, supercilious wives. A lifetime of pushing papers from Desk 'A' to Department 'B', squeezing his broad frame into his old naval dress blues and twiddling his capable thumbs in the rear-end of Europe.
"Someone blew the whistle on you, Charles, old man." Evelyn had observed one night at the Bachelor's Club, the institution to which both of them still belonged at that unhappy point. "You converted one field too many from meadow to corn. Pushed your pig ideas on a determined dairy-ist. Insulted the economies of the Lord Mayor's third cousin five times removed. You-"
The rest of his witticisms was lost in a tussle more reminiscent of the schoolroom than a gentleman's bar.
All the same, the point was well made. Charles Blake was a man marked by the black spot of political wilderness.
All he could hope, he had thought, was for Uncle Severus to die and force his recall from the plains of Poland to the misty bogs of Kilclief Castle in County Down.
So, finding himself loitering in a dark corner of a cobbled side-street in Praga Północ at two in the morning with a loaded pistol concealed in the pocket of his greatcoat and the vague instructions of his enigmatic superior butting gently at his ears, was, Charles reflected, a bit of a shock to that comfortable vision of tediousness.
He dragged in the bite of nicotine from his Sobranie cigarette and resisted the urge to stamp his feet. Poland in early April was a great deal colder than any winter he could remember in Ireland or England. Even with the heavy tweed of his greatcoat, the chill sneaked through to trail icy fingers along his bones.
From across the street, through the mist of half-hearted snowflakes, the lights of the dingy bar were barely visible. As in keeping with most of the buildings in this district known as Warsaw's 'Bermuda Triangle', the basement bar and the building that crouched above it, was shabby and peeling. Someone, fifty years ago, had slapped paint across the lower half, made an attempt to decorate the windows with murals and gilded curlicues. It had been a meagre effort then and, now, was worse than if it had never been touched at all.
From the newspaper-stuffed windowholes, shouts and wailing violins seeped into the silent street. Glasses smashed but, Charles was certain even after his first few weeks here, not a drop of vodka was spilt. He wondered if Marek was drunk. It would be inconvenient if that was so.
Fifteen minutes past two o'clock. The great bell in St Florian's cathedral, several streets away, bonged one mighty chime.
The door of the basement cellar bar slammed back on its hinges. A glow appeared over the lip of the steps, filtered around the stumbling figure of a man. Charles stiffened. He dropped the glowing butt of his cigarette to the gutter.
Marek Nowak was a slight man, a pen-pusher in all respects. His one gift, so Charles had been told, was that he was so accomplished at pushing his pen, he did so as the private secretary of the German ambassador of the new Weimar Republic in Warsaw. As such, he was privy to all the briefings that passed under the ambassador's nose. Official and ... not so official.
It was as a result of the latter correspondance that Charles was freezing his toes to icicles on the shadows of a dirty, run-down street instead of sipping chilled champagne or warmed brandy at the Embassy residence. It turned out that Nowak enjoyed pushing cards as well as his pen, albeit without the same level of success: he was in debt up to his eyeballs.
What better way for a high-placed diplomatic aide to garner a fistful of ready cash but to sell secrets to the opposition?
In England, the war had been over for nearly seven years. Here in Poland, where the bitterness of their treatment at the recent Locarno conference still rankled, it continued. In the shadows. In secret. But, like a black rat stealing through the sewers underground, it spread itself through every facet of normal life.
This business of secrets- stealing them, selling them, keeping them hidden- was firewood that kept the slender flames of old enmities thriving. Poland distrusting Germany. Germany distrusting Russia. Everyone distrusting the French.
Britain, stuck in the middle of the continental squabblers, flailed from here to there. Trying, through the muddle of information available, to make logical sense out of the Byzantine relations of the different European powers, both old and- in the case of the Second Polish Republic, founded in 1919- breathtakingly new.
It made Charles's head ache and his stomach crunch with fear if he thought on the mess too long. One of several reasons he cursed Dansey for entrusting him with this mission in the first place.
The shadowy Passport Control Officer had accosted him while he was on his way back to his digs and casually asked if Charles could do him a favour. A delicate matter, the balding soldier had murmured, his moustache twitching over the words. Nothing in particular but needing the attention of someone higher up than a simple flunkey.
It took an effort for Charles to restrain his sarcastic tongue long enough to garner a few details from the close-mouthed shadow. Claude Dansey had a way of skimming his eyes over Charles's face and form that felt as though every flaw, every poor decision and ill-advised loutish breach of etiquette was on display. There was only one other person capable of summoning that response.
It was fortunate for Dansey, Charles grimaced, that Warsaw had far fewer pigsties available than Yorkshire.
Charles wrapped his coat tighter about his torso. He stepped out into the street, brushing close by the walls to keep away from the scattered street lamps. Nowak had no such qualms. He weaved in and out between the pools of wavering lights like he was trying to waltz.
There was little doubt. The prospect of treason had driven the man directly into the bottle. Wonderful.
Was it too much to ask for a traitor to maintain even the veneer of professional villainy? As it was, Charles was hard-pressed not to reach out and shake the silly blighter by the shoulder and send him home with a scolding and no more.
He inhaled tiredly. The crisp night air was tinged with rotting fruit and horsedung. In this part of the ancient city, the number of motor cars were few and far more expensive than the cost of a horse and dray. Charles quickened his steps, impatient to be away and back to his warm, comfortable rooms.
"Nowak!"
The man started. He turned with a stumble, his coat flapping in the chill breeze. His spectacles dribbled down his nose and he blinked down the cobbled street to Charles as though he was a ghost.
Charles strode towards the smaller man. He held out his hands, the way an old friend would. The Polish words sounded strange as he wrapped his tongue around the unusual pronunciations. "My friend, mój przyjaciel, wait. I must-"
The sharp crack of a gunshot snapped his plea in two.
Charles Blake - agricultural reformer, hardcore mudder... spy?
When I read that Julian Fellowes had 'shipped' (see what I did there? Hah-ha ;) ) the most dashing of Mary's Men off to Poland, it was only a short leap in my head from there to 'Spies of Warsaw' and David Tennant sneaking around looking at German Panzer movements.
Because of all of them, Charles seems the type to step away from his expected role in life and embrace a bit of 'outside-the-box' operations. And he did get some experience of sneaking around when he tip-toed down to the kitchens with Mary.
I hope you enjoyed reading this! Please check it out again when Part 2 appears in the not-so-distant future!