After the maids and Barry left the room there was silence for a moment, then David said, quietly, ‘Don’t wake Frank just yet. Listen, I found something out last night. You should know.’
As Ben listened his face darkened and he clenched his fists. ‘Bastards,’ he breathed. ‘You mean they might try to force this secret out of him for themselves, after what he was promised, or even fuckin’ kill him? What, take him out and shoot him on that terrace?’
‘Keep your voice down. I don’t know. But there’s nothing we can do, we’re too closely guarded.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Except make sure we stay right by Frank, and if it looks as though they’re going down that road, give him one of these.’ He took the cyanide pill from his pocket and held it out. ‘Did you transfer yours when you changed into your uniform?’
‘Aye. ’Course I did.’ He stared at David. ‘If we do that, we’ll really be in the shit.’
‘I don’t care,’ David said. ‘I’ve had enough, I won’t stand for it.’
Ben nodded agreement. David couldn’t help wondering, would Ben’s reaction have been different if it were the Russians who wanted Frank’s secret? Who knew? Everything was in flux now, with the three of them at the centre.
Frank was hard to wake, a little groggy at first, but he came to himself as they ate. He asked Ben for his morning pill. Ben said he would ask the staff, exchanging a look with David and shaking his head slightly; if the worst came to the worst Frank should be fully awake. They went to the little toilet in turns to wash and shave. When they returned to the room, Ben told Frank some people wanted to talk to them.
‘What about?’ His eyes were instantly wary.
‘We’re no’ sure.’ Ben looked at David. ‘Might be a committee of bigwigs, we think. To talk about what’s to happen to us next. That’s what we hope anyway.’
Frank dropped his knife and fork with a clatter. ‘What do you mean by that? What else could it be? Bigwigs? You said nobody would ask about my brother, about what happened, they’d just try to get me out to America.’ He turned to David. ‘I can’t tell them, I won’t—’
‘A promise is a promise,’ David said steadily. ‘It’s all right, we’ll be with you.’
Ben looked into Frank’s eyes. ‘All the way, pal,’ he said. ‘Understand? All the way.’
Chapter Fifty
TWO SOLDIERS WITH RIFLES LED THEM downstairs, to a long corridor. At the far end they could hear several voices behind a closed door. They were taken into another, nearer room, a big window giving a view of the parkland outside. The room was some sort of study, crowded with paintings, dominated by a large desk with a comfortable chair behind it. It had a high, arched oak-beamed roof, medieval or Tudor; this must be the oldest part of the house. There was a bust of Napoleon on the desk, another of Nelson. A row of hard chairs stood against one wall. The three of them were told to sit there and wait.
Frank spoke in a quiet, fierce tone David had never heard from him before, almost hissing, ‘I won’t tell them anything, I won’t.’
‘Maybe they won’t ask.’
‘Give me one of your pills, now, please.’
Ben and David exchanged a look. If they gave him one he might just take it right away. ‘No,’ Ben said. Frank sat forward, clutching his hands together.
‘I won’t. Whatever they do—’
‘We’ll sort it for you,’ Ben said.
There were sounds from outside, a muted hubbub of voices; the door at the far end of the corridor had opened. Several pairs of footsteps approached the room, and the door opened. A tall, stern-looking man in early middle age came in. He was immaculately dressed in a dark suit, the edge of a snow-white handkerchief projecting from his breast pocket. He said, ‘Stand up, please, gentlemen.’
They stood. Two armed soldiers came in, taking their places on each side of the door. They were followed by a very old man, walking with the aid of a stick. He was heavily built, stooped, his big round head with its sparse white hair thrust forward. He wore an extraordinary outfit, a sort of blue boiler suit, open-necked, a shirt and spotted bow tie beneath. David was astonished by how old Winston Churchill had become; the pictures of him on the ‘Wanted’ posters dated from years ago. The Head of the British Resistance walked slowly round the desk and sat down heavily. He looked pale, exhausted. Only when he had seated himself did Churchill turn and look at the three men standing by their chairs. It was a fierce, challenging look, the blue eyes still keen, the big square chin and the lower lip thrust out aggressively though the skin at the neck beneath was loose and wrinkled. Frank leaned forward, in a sort of stoop of his own, staring at Churchill in astonishment and terror. The tall man in the suit went and stood beside Churchill’s desk.
‘So, you got here,’ Churchill growled in the deep, lisping voice David remembered from thirties newsreels.
‘Yes, sir,’ he answered.
‘At much cost in life and trouble, Mr Colville tells me.’ He nodded at the man in the suit, who was staring at them expressionlessly.
‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ David said.
‘Hitler is dead,’ Churchill said gravely. ‘You have heard?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That evil man.’ There was weariness in his voice. ‘Who knows what will happen in Germany now? Perhaps they will make peace with what is left of Russia.’ The eyes flashed. ‘But Germany is still a terrible enemy.’ He looked at Colville. ‘They are still here, on the Isle of Wight, in Senate House, no doubt they have representatives in these wretched camps where they have taken the Jews. Britain is still under their fist, Nazi fingers in every dark corner of the state.’ He scowled, knitting his brows, lost in thought for a moment. Then he looked directly at Frank. David tensed, leaning an inch closer to his friend.
‘Dr Muncaster,’ Churchill said evenly. ‘It seems the Germans want you as badly as the Americans.’ Frank began to breathe fast; David saw his legs were trembling slightly. He thought angrily, they’ve set all this up to shock him, the secrecy, the waiting, Churchill appearing suddenly. It’s all to scare him into talking. He put an arm on Frank’s. ‘It’s all right,’ he said soothingly.
‘Leave him!’ Churchill snapped. He glowered at David, then looked at Frank again. Something in his mobile face softened and he said, more quietly, ‘Here, Dr Muncaster, come and sit down. John, bring across that chair.’ Churchill beckoned to Frank to sit. ‘I won’t harm you,’ he said with a sort of gentle impatience. ‘I merely want to speak with you.’
David realized that if Frank went over and sat down it would be very hard to get a cyanide pill to him. The two soldiers by the door had been watching them closely all the time. He would have to make a sudden dash, Frank would have to be ready. But Frank looked as though he might faint. Then, slowly and reluctantly, he stepped forward and sat opposite Churchill, staring at him with a sort of terrified fascination.
Churchill asked, ‘Do you know where you are, young man?’
Colville murmured, ‘We thought it better not to tell them, sir.’
‘Did you indeed?’ Churchill gave him a glare. ‘Bloody security.’ He turned back to Frank, and spoke proudly. ‘You are at Chartwell, in Kent. This used to be my country house. It’s my son Randolph’s now. He pretends to be working with them, it means they leave this place alone.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘Poor Randolph, they think him dishonourable; he has paid that price for me.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I come here as often as I can, it helps me think. Though my guardians believe it is dangerous, eh, Jock?’ He looked at the tall man again, laughing throatily, then turned back to Frank. ‘What d’you think of my house, eh?’
‘I saw the view this morning, sir,’ Frank said, hesitantly. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Finest view in England!’ Churchill smiled. ‘They tell me you have been ill. In hospital. A breakdown of some sort,’ he added gently.
‘Yes, sir.’ Frank looked down.
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I myself have suffered from depression al
l my life. My black dog, I call it.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes I have wanted to end it all.’
Frank looked up at him in surprise. ‘Have you, sir?’
‘I have. But the answer is action, always action.’ Churchill’s look was suddenly fierce. ‘But perhaps you do not see it that way.’
Frank took a deep breath. ‘I’ve always been too afraid to act.’
He and Churchill looked at each other for a long moment. David was conscious of a clock ticking somewhere. Then Churchill said, quietly, ‘You found something out, didn’t you? A scientific matter. My advisers believe it may be important. Some sort of breakthrough in weapons science the Americans have made.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I can’t tell you. I can only tell the Americans.’
‘Who know it already.’ Churchill nodded. ‘You do not wish the knowledge to spread.’ Churchill’s voice took on a stern note. ‘Even to us, your country’s friends.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you. I was promised I wouldn’t be asked.’ He gave David an anguished look.
‘He was promised,’ David said. ‘We were told that was what the Americans wanted. It was the only way he would come with us, sir. Frank – Dr Muncaster – feels the knowledge is too dangerous to spread.’
Churchill glared at him. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to! Damned impertinence! What are you, a junior civil servant?’
David put his hand over his pocket. If he could reach . . .
Churchill looked back at Frank. He was trembling but he looked Churchill straight back in the eye. Churchill pursed his lips. There was silence for almost a minute. David felt sweat trickling down his brow. Then Churchill said, ‘Dr Muncaster, you are an honourable man.’ He turned to Colville. ‘The agreed arrangements will go ahead. Our promise to the Americans and to this man will be kept. The submarine is still off Brighton, isn’t it? It is a debt of honour. To America, whose support under its new President is vital, and to this man. I will not have a promise I made broken, an innocent man sacrificed!’ Churchill banged his fist on the desk, glowering at Colville.
‘Actually, sir,’ Colville replied, ‘I agree with you. But a lot on the military side don’t.’
‘Bugger them.’ Churchill looked at Frank, then Ben and David. He addressed Frank, very quietly. ‘You would not let the Germans take you alive, would you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You are quite certain?’
‘Yes.’
Churchill looked at Ben and David. ‘And that goes for you all?’
‘Aye,’ Ben said, looking at Churchill directly.
‘Yes, sir,’ David answered. ‘One of us has already died.’
Churchill turned to Colville. ‘Then get them to Brighton. Right now.’ He got up, slowly, grasping his stick, and came round the table. Frank stood. Churchill gave an odd, quick, rubbery smile, as though his emotions were about to break through. Then he shook his hand. ‘Good luck to you,’ he said. He made his way over to David and Ben and shook their hands too. ‘I wish you all a safe journey,’ he said. Then he lumbered slowly to the door, which Colville opened for him, and went out. The two guards followed, leaving them alone.
Ben sat down again. ‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ he said.
David went over to Frank, who was staring across the desk at where Churchill had been sitting. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Frank said quietly. ‘I think so.’ He looked between them and said quietly, ‘Thank you.’
Ben said, ‘Can we trust him?’
Frank said, ‘Yes. I saw it, in his eyes. We can.’
A movement outside caught David’s eye. A little group of people was walking across the lawn, towards the house. Among them, he saw Natalia.
Chapter Fifty-One
THE CAR DROVE ALONG DEEP Sussex lanes, between high banks lined with trees. They had made good time driving south from Chartwell; it was early on Monday morning and the roads were almost deserted. David remembered his first journey to Birmingham to see Frank. Only a fortnight ago, it seemed like another world. He had still worked at the Office then. He thought of its routines and customs, people like Dabb and Hubbold. He understood now how stifled and crushed he had felt without realizing it, before Charlie died even. His stomach lurched as he thought of Carol, her career over, too, and his dead friend, Geoff. He was sitting next to Natalia, her warmth pressed against him. He glanced at her and she smiled. His heart had lifted when he saw her from Churchill’s window. Now he felt desire again. Why did the sexual urge, which God knew hadn’t troubled him that much before in his life, keep returning now? Was it partly because, as Ben had said, you looked for solace in times of danger? But it was more than that, he knew; he was, like Natalia, in the end, rootless, in a time when rootlessness was dangerous: rootless and alone.
After the meeting with Churchill, they had spent a day resting at Chartwell. They had not been allowed to leave their room, so David had not seen Natalia again. Outside, they heard a constant murmur of voices, ringing telephones, sometimes running feet. At sunset the thick curtains had been drawn over the windows again.
In the evening they had a briefing meeting with an officer they had not met before. They were told that the following morning they would travel by car to Brighton. They were given yet another set of identities. The four of them – David, Ben, Natalia and Frank – were to be a funeral party, going to Brighton for the interment of an elderly aunt. They would stay in a boarding house while final arrangements were made for the American submarine waiting in the Channel to pick them up; they weren’t to be told exactly where from yet. David and Ben and Frank were all to be cousins, and Natalia David’s wife; with her accent, she could hardly pass as an Englishwoman’s niece. David supposed Frank wasn’t in a fit state to pass as anybody’s husband, and maybe they knew Ben’s secret and thought him unsuitable for the part. Sarah, they were told, was already in Brighton, and the boarding-house owners had just been contacted to say the party was on its way. Sarah would be told, but they must pretend not to know her.
They had set off from Chartwell at nine on Monday the eighth, in a big black Volvo. David realized that the reason they only phoned their people in Brighton yesterday was because, until Churchill’s decision, they might not have been going at all. Frank might have been under interrogation now, or even dead. Churchill had made his decision partly because Frank had touched his sense of honour; he wondered if that had been the deciding factor, the turning point. He looked at the back of Frank’s head; like the other three men he wore a dark, heavy coat and black bowler. He still found it incredible that Frank had stood up to Winston Churchill, actually told him to his face that he wouldn’t reveal his secret.
‘What did ye think of Churchill, then?’ Ben asked the company. ‘I could’ve fallen off my chair when he came in.’
‘He is very old,’ Natalia said. ‘I saw him in the corridor yesterday and it brought it home. Old and very tired.’
‘He’s almost eighty.’ David thought she was right, he had looked ancient, desperately burdened and weary.
Ben said, ‘It’s working people that carry the burden of getting rid of these Fascists. One of our leaders should be in charge, Attlee or Bevan. Or Harry Pollitt.’
‘Churchill has been a leader against Fascism since the thirties,’ Natalia replied quietly.
‘To preserve the Empire. Though even he knows that one’s lost now.’
‘He understood,’ Frank said suddenly.
Ben looked at him. ‘What d’ye mean?’
‘He understood me.’
There was silence; nobody quite knew how to answer. The car crested a hill and in the distance, across miles of undulating downland dotted with sheep, David saw the sea, blue and sparkling under the wide sky. Frank leaned forward, stared at it and smiled.
They arrived at the hotel, parking the car outside. They got out and took their suitcases from the boot, looking carefully round the narrow street. The weather was very clear and cold, no wind. The sea was at the end of th
e road, blue and dead calm. Ben came and stood beside David, leaning close. He said, very quietly, ‘There aren’t going to be any problems involving your wife and Natalia, are there?’
David turned, frowning. Ben met his gaze firmly. ‘You ken what I mean. She’s probably waiting for you inside. We can’t afford any problems among ourselves, not till we’re safe away.’
David picked up his suitcase. ‘There won’t be any,’ he said stiffly.
There was no sign of Sarah in the gloomy little reception hall of the Channel View Hotel, only a weary-looking middle-aged woman behind the desk. David gave their cover names in low, serious tones, appropriate for mourners. He knew the woman was with the Resistance but you could never be sure who might be listening. She leaned over the desk, smiling nervously. ‘It’s all right. Our last commercial traveller has just gone. And we’ve taken no bookings for tomorrow. Though you need to keep to your cover identities, just in case.’
David asked, ‘Is my wife here?’
She smiled again. ‘You’re her husband? Yes. She’s fine. She’s here under the name Mrs Hardcastle, a widow. She doesn’t know you’re coming, we were instructed not to tell her in advance. She’s gone out for a walk. She often goes for walks during the day, it gets her out of her room. She’ll be back for lunch.’ She smiled. ‘We’ve been a bit lax, letting her come and go. But we didn’t want to keep her cooped up here, she looked so sad.’
Ben asked, ‘Do you know how long we’re staying?’
‘My husband has just gone out. He’ll be back soon, he might have some more information. Go upstairs and unpack, I’ll call you when he gets back.’ She handed out keys from a pegboard on the wall behind her. ‘I’m Jane, by the way.’ She smiled again. ‘I think you’ll all be away very soon.’
They carried their bags up the dark, creaking staircase. Frank was beside David. ‘How are you?’ David asked him.
‘I’ll be all right.’ He nodded with a kind of wonder. ‘The sea. I’ve always liked the sea. It made me think, we’re nearly there, after everything. We might just do it. Mightn’t we, David?’