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corner of Foochow and Honan, and he was soon presenting himself at the duty desk. Superintendent Brabrook was the contact name McColl had been given in London, but he was on compassionate leave. His deputy was a Chief Inspector Johnston.
    McColl was escorted up several flights of stairs and along a corridor whose only concession to Chinese culture was a series of cuspidors. Johnston’s room was similarly English, with just an electric ceiling fan to distinguish it from a Scotland Yard office. The man himself was bald, red-faced, and seemed less than pleased by McColl’s arrival. “Yes, we heard you might drop in,” he said after offering a moist hand. “But what Mathra Singh has to do with London, I’ve no idea. Anything related to the Indian community here, we report to the DCI. In Delhi,” he added, in case McColl had forgotten where the Department of Criminal Intelligence had its headquarters.
    “London is keeping a close eye on Singh’s allies in San Francisco,” McColl explained calmly. “So they’re naturally keen to know what messages Singh brought across the Pacific.”
    “The usual gibberish, I suppose,” Johnston said contemptuously. “But one of our own Sikhs, Constable Singh, has the details. Mathra Singh was his assignment.”
    “Was?”
    “Oh, yes. He’s gone. Back to India, I think. Singh will know. I’ll find out if he’s in the building.”
    McColl was left to examine the paintings on the walls—all ofhunting expeditions—and the photograph on the desk of an angry-looking wife and bored-looking children. “The usual gibberish,” he murmured to himself.
    Perhaps. Indian would-be revolutionaries had been giving the British some considerable headaches over the last decade. Groups of exiles, first in London and then in New York City, had talked, published pamphlets, sought support, and raised money in pursuit of liberation from British rule. They had been continually monitored, arrested, and deported whenever sufficient cause could be found, and sometimes when not. But they kept popping up. The latest manifestations were in Berlin and San Francisco, where anti-English feelings were strong enough to grant the Indians significant political latitude. A young man named Har Dayal had arrived on the American West Coast in the summer of 1911 and over the last two years had managed to imbue Indian students and migrant workers with his brand of revolutionary fervor. The previous November he had launched a party and a newspaper, both called
Ghadar
, the Punjabi word for “revolt.” Neither was likely to topple the empire, but rather more worryingly for Cumming and company, Har Dayal had cultivated links with other enemies of the Crown resident in San Francisco, most notably the Irish and the Germans. If a European war did come, it wouldn’t be confined to Europe.
    Johnston returned with a uniformed man in a turban. “This is Constable Singh,” he told McColl.
    They shook hands.
    “Tell him about your namesake,” Johnston instructed the young man.
    “There’s not much to tell, sahib,” he began. “Mathra Singh arrived on September thirteenth and left on the Monday of last week. He stayed at a hostel in the Chinese city and attended several meetings of the Indian community here. He was very outspoken, as you would expect. His views are not commonly held in my homeland, but they are not without supporters.Those who expressed agreement at the meetings here were noted, and an eye has been kept on their activities. The
Ghadar
newspapers that Mathra said were on their way from the United States have been intercepted and burned, and I forwarded a full report of his visit to Delhi. I think that is all, sahib. Unless you have questions?”
    McColl couldn’t think of any. “No. Thank you, Constable.”
    Singh bowed slightly, exchanged glances with Johnston, and left.
    “And thank you, Chief Inspector,” McColl added, shaking the moist hand again. “Your cooperation is appreciated.”
    So that