The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (23 page)

‘Mr Kinchin.’ I held out my hand.

‘I avoid touching people,’ he informed me. He wasn’t inching away from me as I squeezed past him, but he kept his distance while directing me to his sitting room.

The apartment was sparsely furnished. Knick-knacks were completely missing. Every item was arranged perpendicular to the nearest wall or the nearest piece of furniture — the letters on his desk, the newspapers on his coffee table. Table, chairs, fireplace, hatstand — invisible lines ran through his apartment, all crossing each other at ninety-degree angles.
 

He bade me to sit, walked to a cupboard, and retrieved two cups. ‘I made tea,’ he announced, poured me a cup without asking if I wanted some, and pushed it to my side of the small table. I had no means to measure it, but I was certain that both cups were precisely two-thirds filled, their handles facing precisely ninety degrees to my left. He was right-handed; I was currently left-handed.

‘Thank you, Mr Kinchin,’ I said, noticing that he avoided direct eye contact. His mind appeared constantly busy, his gaze twitchy, his fingers tapping away on an invisible surface. Impatience oozed from every pore.

‘I’ll try to keep my visit short.’ I pulled off my left glove and placed it on my lap.

‘Mr Holmes informed me that you have questions regarding the Brussels Declaration on the Laws and Customs of War.’

I inclined my head, trying to observe the man without intimidating him. ‘Yes. Are you aware of a new draft?’

His eyes twitched. ‘No.’

‘Would you be aware of a new draft should there be one?’

‘I certainly would.’ He leaned back and looked at my throat.
 

I took my cup and pretended to be busy with a floating tea leaf.

‘Why do you believe there is a new draft, Mrs Kronberg?’

‘A mere suspicion. I depend on information from an unreliable source.’
 

James had played games since we’d first met, or rather, since he had abducted me. His trip to Brussels could have been a ruse. I wasn’t even certain why he would have taken the pains to attempt to influence a new draft on the Customs of War. According to Sherlock’s notes, James had appeared to be a man confident in his own success, but it wasn’t clear what sort of success he had accomplished in Brussels. Sherlock wasn’t able to extract information from anyone. Mouths were sealed or simply couldn’t provide an answer. His notes were littered with question marks. One of his entries gave me the greatest stomach ache:
Potential effects on future warfare?

‘What, in your opinion, would this new draft include?’

‘Exclude,’ I said. ‘It might exclude a passage that forbids the spreading of disease on enemy land.’

My remark started an automaton-like reciting of information. ‘Interesting! In 1874, delegates of fifteen European states came here to Brussels — a meeting initiated by Tsar Alexander II to agree on customs of war, to prevent torture and unnecessary suffering.’
 

The word
unnecessary
carried a trace of disdain.

‘In one passage, the declaration prohibits the employment of poison and poisoned weapons, but doesn’t mention the word
disease
. In fact, the term
disease
is nowhere to be found. However, records of the Brussels Conference show that this passage is meant to include chemical as well as biological weapons. Thoughtless and hasty, but what was to be expected? I haven’t heard of any efforts to change and specify this passage. Besides, of what use is the convention? Not all of the fifteen governments accepted it, so it had never been ratified. Even if they had all signed it, should one country attack another, do you believe anyone would try to press charges because someone used tear gas or disease in addition to machine guns and bayonets?’

‘Why make such a law at all?’

‘The Brussels Declaration is not a law. It’s an agreement and worth the paper it’s written on.’

I placed my cup aside and concluded, ‘So the declaration is nothing but a clapping on each other’s shoulders and showing what good governments we all are and that we don’t mean any harm. Until we mean it.’

‘Precisely.’ He pushed off his armchair and stood at the window.

The idea that James might have tried to influence a new draft now made even less sense. Even if this had been his intention, he had been in no position to initiate a meeting of two countries, let alone fifteen. Whitman stated he had no knowledge of James’s activities in Brussels. I wondered if his spy friend knew more.

‘I was waiting for this,’ Kinchin said quietly.

‘For what?’

‘Since Koch isolated anthrax bacilli, I expected someone to use deadly germs for weaponry. But I never thought a woman would be involved.’

He slowly turned around, gifted me one second of eye contact, then announced he’d make more tea.

I waited in my armchair, sorting through the many questions that swirled in my head.

‘Why would you anticipate bacterial weapons, Mr Kinchin?’ I asked when I heard him approach.

‘It is a logical next step.’ He sat the teapot on the table, sliding its handle to match the orientation of our cups. ‘Two minutes.’ A murmur directed at the tea leaves in the pot. ‘Whatever scientists and engineers discover or develop, it will be assessed by the military, and if useful, employed. Not a single man can be shot with a gun without the prior invention of gunpowder. Without basic knowledge of anatomy, how can one aim a bullet straight at the heart? Without the telegraph and the locomotive, how would the Civil War have ended? Where did you go to university, Mrs Kronberg?’

I felt the blood draining from my face.

He bent forward and removed the tea leaves, placed them on a saucer, then poured the light brown liquid in my cup.

‘Your interest in germs, warfare, and the Brussels Convention; your face showing knowledge, not puzzlement, when I mentioned anthrax bacilli and Robert Koch, your rather short hair, your lack of protest when I made my first assumption about the involvement of a woman. You didn’t particularly hide it.’

‘Leipzig,’ I answered.
 

‘Thank you. You see, I’m a collector of information that is generally hard to obtain.’

‘Who would profit from a major conflict in Europe?’
 

A low chuckle pressed through his lips; then he answered, ‘You should ask who would
not
profit from a conflict in Europe.’

‘Consider the question asked.’

‘The most powerful country is, in this case, the one to profit the least.’

‘England.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Which country would she fear the most?’ I asked.

‘Russia.’

‘What about Germany?’

His eyebrows shot up — his strongest reaction to my questions thus far. He had an oddly impassive expression and up until now, I had wondered whether something was wrong with his facial muscles. ‘Certainly a country one needs to keep an eye on. Do you know anything about Britain’s foreign policy? Or Germany’s, for that matter?’

I shook my head. The little Mycroft had told me couldn’t be regarded as knowledge.

‘I thought so. Biscuits?’ He gripped his knees, pushed himself up, and retrieved a tin box.
 

‘Thank you,’ I said and selected a biscuit. ‘You avoid people, but you are not bothered by me sitting in your armchair.’

‘I might be bothered very soon. It depends on what you have to offer.’

‘I know very little.’

‘Now you are insulting me.’ His expression was impossible to read. The cadence of his voice was even, with only the slightest changes in speed and tune. It was hard to listen to him, for half the information — all that should have sounded between the lines — was missing.

‘Politics never interested me much,’ I replied.

‘Let’s begin with something less… critical. How did you manage to enter the Leipzig University?’

‘I cut my hair and masqueraded as a man.’

‘Obviously.’ He leaned back and waved his hand for me to continue. The hint of impatience felt alarming.

‘I studied medicine. No one suspected me. I specialised in bacteriology and epidemiology and spent some time in Koch’s laboratory. Harvard Medical School employed me for four years. After that I was employed by the Guy’s Hospital in London.’

‘The aim of Bismarck’s foreign policy was to establish the German Empire as a status quo power,’ he began. ‘When Wilhelm II expelled him, we pricked our ears. Unverified information tells of a treaty between Russia and Germany. A dangerous constellation! However, that same source swears that the Kaiser let the treaty expire, despite the Tsar’s efforts to renew it. The intentions are unclear. With the German Empire now united and strong, a leader with an obviously erratic temper represents danger.’

He poured himself more tea. A trickle of moisture crawled down the deep wrinkles at the corners of his mouth.

‘It came to our attention that Wilhelm II made plans to increase his fleet and build a new class of battleships. With Helgoland now being the first German naval base in the North Sea, this could, in ten or twenty years, pose a threat. But I wouldn’t count on it. Russia is the real threat to the British Empire.’

‘Why?’

‘Dr Kronberg was blessed with international fame when he isolated tetanus germs. Strangely, soon thereafter, he disappeared. Why?’

I had seen the
Times
on top of his neat newspaper stack, but the backs indicated his reading material was very diverse. A tiny bit of my life had been in these papers, and I very much disliked that.

‘I’m surprised how much information you extract from the papers,’ I answered. ‘You have a sharp and analytical mind; you remember details very well and put them together when a new and fitting piece is published. Considering all your other sources of information, such as connections with the government and the occasional spy, your mind must be crammed with data. I wonder whether this is the reason for you to stay away from the overwhelming outside world.’

He had contact with Mycroft and he had spoken of sources that certainly had nothing to do with newspaper reports. I guessed him to be a knot in a network of information traders.

‘Why did you disappear and what happened then?’ he asked again.

‘I’ve taken enough of your time, Mr Kinchin. Thank you for the tea.’ I rose to my feet, took my glove and hat, and turned to leave.

‘What a most unsatisfactory conversation.’

I stopped and turned to him. ‘You must have noticed that I’m with child. I cannot allow you access to information that will threaten my life or that of my child. Good day to you, Mr Kinchin.’

‘As I already said, chemical and bacterial weapons will be developed and employed when needed. It all depends on what country has the best scientists and the greatest motivation. Today, there is only one country that has both.’

‘France, Germany, and Britain have excellent bacteriologists,’ I said.

A huff through compressed lips showed his contempt. ‘Don’t forget the chemists and physicists. And may I remind you that you are German? What side will you take should it ever come to an open conflict? But the more pressing question is: why would a group of Britons want to develop weapons for germ warfare? Ah! Your face conceals the shock well. But your breath stopped for an instant. I made an educated guess. You have herewith answered my question. Good day to you, Mrs Kronberg.’

I walked down the corridor, cursing my simple-mindedness and cursing the fact that Kinchin didn’t seem to be able to answer my most pressing question: why James had wished to develop bacterial weapons. My thoughts were interrupted by his shuffling footsteps.
 

‘I have one more bargain to offer: you tell me about the weapons you developed and I’ll tell you about the Russian spy a certain Colonel Moran murdered in 1885.’

— twenty-one —

W
hen the blue door creaked into its lock behind me, Brussels appeared different. Now, Europe was a chart covered with threads connecting and tangling, borders separating, powers shifting, governments haggling, cheating, prying, spying. Knowledge was, above all, the greatest power.
 

The old man up in his orderly room, tucked away in a disorderly house, had the knowledge to bring down governments. Mycroft had taken a great risk when sending me here; and he had played with me. Not one word of warning that Kinchin would have already been informed of Moran hunting me. I wondered whether Mycroft had also given away his brother. Most likely not. I, however, seemed expendable in Mycroft’s eyes.

Nausea crawled up my throat. My body and that of the child demanded food, making my stomach churn. I had learned much in the past two hours and I had given away much. Brussels wasn’t a safe place anymore. Going back to London was out of the question, and travelling to a place where I didn’t understand the language made little sense. I needed more information, and it had to be in English or in German. I went back to my room above the Café, packed my things, and took the night train to Berlin.

My plan wasn’t particularly intelligent, but it was all I could do at that moment: to comb through libraries and newspaper archives and read as much as I could. The more I learned about my home country, the more ashamed I became of my lack of knowledge. I should have long known more about politics, should have read the papers more often. Up until now, it hadn’t interested me enough. With Kinchin’s information, my puzzle grew larger and more complex, beginning to reveal a picture.