Dominion (71 page)

‘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.’

T
WO 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 all 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.

T
HE 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.