VOLUME 1, CHAPTER XXIII.THE DEPTHS OF DECEIT
The arrival back in London was a somber affair for Seton Darville, though Edris played her part with a vivacity that would have fooled a lesser man. They checked into the Carlton Hotel, the opulent surroundings a sharp contrast to the cold, clinical reality Darville was about to face. After an early dinner, Edris, claiming a headache from the journey, retired to her suite.
Marcus waited exactly twenty minutes. He then descended the stairs, not as the popular novelist and suitor, but as the Director of the most efficient intelligence network in the world. He hailed a taxi and directed it toward a nondescript building overlooking Trafalgar Square. He entered through the rear—a heavy, reinforced door that yielded only to his private key—and ascended the stairs into the "Inner Circle."
The atmosphere in the office was electric. The night staff, men and women who lived in the shadows, moved with silent efficiency. Webster, a man with the rigid posture of a retired Colonel, looked up in surprise as the Chief entered.
"Good evening, Webster," Darville said, his voice dropping into the resonant, authoritative tone he used for duty. "Send Forbes to me. I need the Moscow file, and I need it now."
Within minutes, Forbes, the stout and deep-voiced assistant secretary, entered with an orange-colored portfolio. It was filled with pink sheets—the highest classification of intelligence.
"Moscow is a hornet's nest, sir," Forbes explained, spreading the maps across the table. "Our Section No. 1 reports that the Communists have intensified their counter-espionage. Anyone we send into the Kremlin's orbit right now is, quite frankly, a dead man. We lost Harding last month; they didn't just kill him, they broke him first."
Darville's eyes took on a flinty, terrifying light. "Is that so? Then we must find a man who is both expendable and capable. But first, Forbes, I have a personal matter of National Security."
He leaned forward, the shadows of the desk lamp carving deep lines into his face. "I am issuing a Cabinet Noir order. I want every piece of correspondence—incoming and outgoing—monitored and photographed for two individuals: Karl Weiss of Interlaken, and Edris Temperley of Stagsden Hall. This starts tonight. The letters are to be intercepted at the Leicester and London exchanges. Bennett will handle the photographs personally."
Forbes's pen hesitated. To monitor a guest and a fiancée was a breach of every social code, but in the world of the Secret Service, Darville's word was law.
"You suspect a code, sir?" Forbes asked.
"I suspect a betrayal," Darville replied, his voice cracking for a fraction of a second before regaining its steel. "Photograph them. I want to see the handwriting. I want to see every endearment, every lie."
As Forbes withdrew, Darville sat alone. He picked up a bunch of yellow Emperor daffodils from his desk—a gift from a loyal agent—and realized with a pang of agony that while he could protect the British Empire from Bolshevik plots, he could not protect his own heart from a girl's caprice.
The next morning, the "Deceit" reached its professional peak. Edris met him for breakfast, her silver-gray eyes wide and "honest." She kissed him with a passion that felt real, yet Marcus knew that just an hour ago, she had slipped a letter into the hotel mailbag addressed to Switzerland.
He escorted her to a hairdresser in Conduit Street, then doubled back to his office. Bennett was waiting.
"The first interception, sir," Bennett said, handing over a folder.
Darville opened it. It was the report on the Bolshevik "Instructions to No. 1 Members." It detailed how Communist agents in England were to infiltrate the police, gather data on military strengths, and organize the unemployed into a "Red Army" for the coming revolution.
"Send this to Scotland Yard," Darville ordered. "Tell them the Espionage Section is active. We need to codify the sedition laws. If a man breathes word of an armed revolt, I want him in the Tower before he can finish the sentence."
He walked back to the Carlton for lunch, sitting across from the woman he loved. She spoke of her "dull" morning and her "devotion" to him. He watched her lips move, thinking of the "Red Army" plot, the Moscow torture chambers, and the letter currently being steamed open by his agents. He was the Architect of Britain's defense, and he was currently building a scaffold for the man Edris truly loved.