The Abbot of Stockbridge

by Philip McCutchan

  “What do you mean, Shard? You’ll just obey orders as usual.”

  “Yes. No matter what I might dig up?”

  “Really, I —”

  “Because my first loyalty, to use an old-fashioned word, is to security. And you can read into that what you like. I can’t be more specific.”

  Hedge was about to give some sort of answer, he really didn’t know what, when his telephone burred. The Head of Security was on the line. Into the telephone Hedge said, “Yes, of course, at once.” Putting down the handset Hedge nodded distantly at Shard. “Thank you, Shard, that’ll be all.” Dismissed like a servant, Shard left the office.

  *

  “A hornets’ nest of blasted monks,” the Head of Security said but said it without humour. “What’s all this about a cousin of yours being the abbot — h’m?”

  Hedge’s heart seemed to thump aloud. “Yes, Head.”

  “What d’you mean, yes? We know he is — MI5 knows he is. I’m asking for some sort of explanation.”

  “Of the fact that he’s my second cousin, Head?”

  “Not quite. Of how you come to have a connection with what Intelligence believes to be a den of thieves. People acting against the interests of the state. Not quite the thing, you know, is it?”

  “No, Head. But a second cousin — it’s not a very close relationship.”

  “No, that’s true of course. And I suppose you can’t be held responsible for what a second cousin does.”

  Hedge breathed a shade more easily.

  “Nevertheless, you should have made a report that your cousin was the abbot of a monastery. It could be relevant to, er, security. We do like to know these things.” The Head of Security gave Hedge a shrewd and penetrating glance. “Do I take it, though, that you were not aware of the fact?”

  Hedge, offered the opportunity of telling another handy lie, took it. “That’s correct, Head. We had lost touch … we never had much if anything in common.” He paused, took his courage in both hands, and plunged in the interest of projecting honesty and a manly desire to shoulder blame where blame was due. “I have to admit I, er, failed to reveal any relationship when I made my application to the FO originally. That was of course wrong of me. But —”

  “Black sheep?” The Head asked keenly.

  “In a sense. Nothing criminal, of course. Not then.”

  “No, no. Well, it’s understandable. We all have the odd skeleton in the cupboard, old boy. And anyway, aside from that, second cousins do tend to be overlooked, don’t they?”

  “Er — yes. Yes, they do.” Hedge was overcome with sheer relief. He was off the hook.

  Or was he?

  There was the other hook: his so-recent visit to Stockbridge and his conversation with Cousin Wally, a conversation that could certainly be considered subversive. He started quaking again: if the H of S ever found that out, he was really done for. It wouldn’t be just his position and his pension: prison would be on the cards. Four to a cell, slopping out, sexual attacks by dubious men with AIDS, riots and razor-blades and uncomfortable roofs. Hedge broke out into a cold sweat and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. The Head didn’t seem to be aware of Hedge’s agitation. He was preoccupied, staring into space over Hedge’s head and tapping a gold ball-point pen against his teeth. Hedge waited for him to say something, anything to break the somewhat fraught silence.

  “Could be quite useful.”

  “I beg your pardon, Head?”

  “The relationship. Walter Crushe-Smith. Don’t you see?”

  “Er …”

  “It could be immensely useful. You could be immensely useful, Hedge. If you were infiltrated …”

  “As a monk?” Hedge asked, his mind in a whirl.

  “Not as a monk, no. Crushe-Smith would obviously recognise you — wouldn’t he? Be sure to, what? Even if you’ve not met for years. No, I didn’t mean that sort of physical infiltration. I meant, re-establish the relationship. Long lost cousins, all that sort of thing, long time no see, much to talk about. Get him to open up. Without, of course, revealing your position in the FO. Think you could manage that, do you, old boy?”

  “Er —”

  “Of course, it’s nasty. I don’t deny that. Spying — in a sense — on one’s own relative.”

  “Yes,” Hedge said eagerly. “There is that.”

  “Not gentlemanly.”

  “No, not gentlemanly, Head.”

  “But in the wider interests of the security of the realm, don’t you see. It would be an immense help to — to obtain inside information. It’s absolutely vital we get our hands on this man, The Long Knife.” The Head of Security leaned forward and gave Hedge another penetrating look, shrewd, direct, honest, forthcoming, eyes wide. “It would be a feather in your cap, Hedge. An ostrich feather, no less.” Like a field marshal, but it would never happen, Hedge thought in real anguish. As an object of spying, Wally Crushe-Smith was the deadest of dead ducks. “As a matter of fact, I’ll reveal something I perhaps shouldn’t: the PM is personally very worried about this incoming German. The facts — I don’t know — I fancy they crystallise all her fears about Europe and the loss of our sovereignty, the undermining of the Queen’s position, all that sort of thing. And, of course, the whole business of a united Germany. I think I can say she’ll be very, very grateful if you can bring something off, something so that the whole show can be very discreetly handled. All right, Hedge?”

  “Er —”

  “Good, excellent. So it’s back to the field for the time being, old boy, I know you won’t mind that, office work does get frustrating, don’t I know it. Think up a cover story, one of course that keeps the FO right out of your background. Keep me informed, won’t you, but otherwise the whole show’s yours. And the very best of luck.”

  The Head of Security rose to his feet and reached across his desk to give Hedge the heartiest of handshakes.

  *

  It was the hour of the hairdresser: Mrs Heffer sat before a mirror, staring critically at her reflection, at the rise of the bouffant above the broad, intelligent forehead, rather lined of late since the Opposition was being more than usually tiresome and pushing. The years were beginning to catch up but Mrs Heffer was still able to push them back reasonably satisfactorily with a little help from her many bottles of creams and lotions and her indomitable will.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” Mrs Heffer shouted.

  “It’s me, Prime Minister.”

  The Foreign Secretary always announced himself as me and in any case the voice was unmistakable. Mrs Heffer clicked her tongue and shouted again. “Not now, Roly. Surely you know that by now.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Prime Minister, but Her Majesty —”

  “The Queen will have to wait,” Mrs Heffer shouted. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Silence from the door indicated that the Foreign Secretary had shifted; Mrs Heffer imagined him as a monkey with its tail between its legs and a rueful expression on its face: Roly was like that. She spoke to the hairdresser. “You’ll have to hurry,” she said. “I don’t know what the Queen wants, but it could be important, I suppose.” She added graciously, “We really shouldn’t keep her too long.”

  *

  “You said the Queen, Roly, but I don’t see her.”

  “No, Prime Minister. Her Majesty didn’t exactly come herself to see you —”

  “Am I expected at the Palace?” Mrs Heffer, looking into another mirror, fluffed at her hairstyle. “I really cant be everywhere at once, Roly, and I’m very busy —”

  “No, Prime Minister. I mean yes.” Rowland Mayes was flustered, Mrs Heffer realised. “I spoke of Her Majesty only in the abstract, not as a physical presence. That’s to say, I’ve had words with the Palace —”

  “For heaven’s sake, Roly, why didn’t you say so?”

  “I’m very sorry, Prime Minister.” Rowland Mayes gave a cough and went on, “I understand the Queen is very concerned in regar
d to the reports about German infiltration into this country —”

  “I’m sure she is,” Mrs Heffer said tartly. “So am I. Well?”

  Another cough. “She is particularly disturbed to learn of the Nazi, Klaus The Long Knife. But — I hope I did right, Prime Minister — I was able to reassure the — the person who telephoned —”

  “The person who telephoned? Has this person got a name, Roly?”

  “He didn’t say, Prime Minister. I formed the impression that I was supposed to know who it was without being told.”

  “Well?”

  “I believe it was HRH,” the Foreign Secretary said.

  “Oh, nonsense, Roly, he would never interfere. However, never mind that. What was this reassurance you gave?”

  “Hedge, Prime Minister.”

  “Hedge? Is that supposed to convey something?”

  “The man from the Foreign Office, Prime Minister. Security. The one who was, er, captured by the Soviets some months ago and being as it were in Russian hands was able to circumvent a very nasty threat —”

  “The botulism business, the reservoirs … and the man Logan, another Nazi? Yes, I do remember, Roly. Hedge — or wasn’t it Sedge —”

  “Hedge, Prime Minister.”

  “Hedge, then. Yes, Mr Hedge was simply splendid, and so very brave. So very British, as one would expect. What is Mr Hedge doing now?”

  Rowland Mayes said, “I’ve been contacted by my Permanent Under-Secretary. Hedge has been put on to The Long Knife.”

  “Not literally, I trust.”

  Rowland Mayes’s mouth opened in astonishment. The Prime Minister, bless her heart of course, very seldom made jokes. This one was not very good but Rowland Mayes laughed more or less heartily. “Not literally, Prime Minister. But he’s considered the best man to bowl this wretched business out. I believe Her Majesty will be pleased.”

  “Yes indeed, and so am I. A simply splendid man. Roly, will you see to it that he is given a message. From me personally. I send my heartiest congratulations and am delighted to learn that he will be guarding our interests, our British interests, against these wicked men. And I shall be the first to congratulate him again afterwards. Tell him that, Roly.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “I still don’t think all this of enough immediate importance to interrupt my hairdresser, Roly.”

  *

  Hedge was quite dizzy with conflicting emotions and with an added fear for the future, his future. He was being asked to do the utterly, totally impossible and he should have had the courage to say so straight away. He hadn’t, and now he suffered. It was too late now to tell the H of S that Cousin Wally knew all about his Foreign Office background and was all set to make good (or bad) use of it — too late to reveal that Cousin Wally had uttered those threats, to say that Cousin Wally was expecting him to use that FO background to assist him in his nefarious schemes. And no good now saying that he’d had no idea in the world, until Shard had told him what the man from MI5 had said, that Cousin Wally was up to the sort of things he evidently was up to in regard to illegal immigrants. That part would, of course, have been the truth; but truth was now becoming a dangerous commodity. Hedge was now a double agent. That was a very nasty thought.

  He went back to his office. Shard had gone and in a way that was a relief. Shard would have questioned him, impertinently, as to what had been said in the Head of Security’s room, and Hedge was badly in need of time, a respite in which to formulate something. Something that would, firstly, satisfy Shard. Appease him was the word that in fact came to Hedge. Shard was very pushing, almost bullying, Hedge often felt, and he would have liked to offer him back to Scotland Yard in exchange for a more amenable and respectful man, but he knew he was stuck with him. Shard had a first-rate reputation and of course it was expected that the Foreign Office should have none but the very best. To object too strongly to Shard might even reflect upon himself.

  But what was he to do now?

  Perhaps he could pretend to infiltrate Cousin Wally’s inner thoughts. He might be able to keep up some kind of front, knowing Wally as he did it shouldn’t be too difficult to invent the thoughts that might infest his mind. But in the long run that could scarcely wash. In the end — if Wally was brought to justice — he would trip himself up and H of S would see right through him.

  Sitting at his desk Hedge bit his finger-nails and his eyes grew haunted. He was deep in it now and there was no-one in whom he could confide, no-one to turn to for advice, for support. No-one at all.

  Or was there?

  Just one: Cousin Wally himself. Something might be worked out, some sort of bargain or compromise. It would be immensely dangerous, of course, but already he was in mortal danger and perhaps things couldn’t be made worse. A visit to Stockbridge, or to the house in South Kensington, could always be ascribed to infiltration, obedience to the orders of H of S.

  That had to be it.

  Like a drowning man clutching at a straw, Hedge left the Foreign Office and once again sought out a public telephone box.

  Four

  Thinking, in connection with Shard, of appeasement, had led Hedge to think a long way back to the events leading up to 1939 and of Neville Chamberlain who had appeased Herr Hitler, not with very great success as far as Britain was concerned. And at the time Hedge was gnawing at his fingernails in the comfortable sanctity of the British Foreign Office, a man in Berlin was also thinking of appeasement and of the British who were still, even now, to a large extent anyway, addicted to the concept of appeasement in the interest of leading a quiet life. The British, who were fairly perfidious and didn’t always mean what they said, had appeased their way ever since the end of the Second World War. They had appeased Stalin and Molotov and Bulganin and Kruschev. Certainly the appeasement hadn’t been all that overt; there had been loud voices, angry words, a good deal of sabre-rattling, or missile-rattling, from time to time, but all that had been hot air. In the end, the Soviet Union had won out.

  Until quite recently anyway, when under Gorbachev communism had taken a toss.

  The man known as Klaus The Long Knife turned to his companion. The companion was a woman of a little over thirty, tall and slim, with shoulder-length black hair and a pretty face. The eyes didn’t seem to fit the face: they were green, they were slit-shaped and they were as cold and hard as icebergs. The two were seated cosily in a quiet alcove in an otherwise noisy and crowded beer cellar in the Unter den Linden, now a part of reunified Berlin. The beer cellar was one much frequented by men and women whose sympathies ran alongside those of The Long Knife. In the circumstances not much talking of plans took place; unfriendly agents could lurk with their ears aflap for information. The Long Knife nudged the woman and jerked a thumb towards the exit. They got to their feet and thrust their way through the crowded cellar and climbed stone steps to the fresh air.

  They walked towards the great Brandenburg Gate. In a quiet voice the man said, “Isolde, it is tomorrow.”

  “That you go across?”

  He nodded. “Yes. As you know, I may be away for many months. You will be patient, yes?”

  She looked up at him. Though tall, she was some four inches shorter than the man. “I will be patient,” she said. “For the Fatherland.”

  “For the Fatherland,” the woman repeated. There was passion in her voice, a strangely dedicated light in the hard eyes. Germany, for so many decades split in two, had suffered a continuing degradation ever since the Treaty of Versailles that had officially ended the First World War. For a space Adolf Hitler had restored the fortunes of the Fatherland by means of his glorious Third Reich and for that space dignity had returned and the German people had been once again a proud people. But Chancellor Hitler had made his mistakes; he had underestimated the British and he had attacked the Soviet Union and the glorious Reich had collapsed in fire and widespread death with all her cities, all her great arsenals, laid in total ruin. The mistakes of the past would not be repeated. This time,
when Germany was ready, the attack would be supported on a different front. And this was the purpose of the man they called The Long Knife.

  “I shall send for you when I can, Isolde.”

  She nodded without speaking, holding tightly to his muscular arm. She would do anything for Klaus. She was very devoted; but understood well that she must always, now and for the future, play second fiddle to the Fatherland. That was acceptable, not even to be regretted. Like Klaus, she had suffered as a result of the war that had ended some fourteen years before she had been born. Both sets of grandparents had been killed, the grandfathers fighting the British in the Western Desert, soldiers of Rommel’s Afrika Corps of undying memory, the grandmothers in the bomb-flattened ruins of Cologne. The family fortunes had gone; everything had gone. Even though all these events were but tales told and retold by her own parents, they lived in Isolde’s mind as though she had been through those terrible times herself.

  She risked a question. “How long, Klaus?”

  He shrugged, heaving his shoulders, like a strong bear she thought, outwardly placid but immensely dangerous. “I can’t say, Isolde, how can I? The way is long … but changes are coming and have come already in some respects. The British are digging in their heels now. They are insisting that all of Germany remains in NATO, they have made up their minds to oppose the Russian wishes. There is an end to appeasement. As a result we shall grow very strong again. Our armies and our industries.” He gave a harsh laugh. “The British will regret their insistence, but that will not be yet. All I can do is to lay the groundwork.”

  Again she nodded but didn’t comment. The Long Knife was the leader; the New Party had boundless confidence in his abilities and in his loyalty to the cause of re-emergent Nazism, the Nazi ideals that would one day bring the German armies and the German flag to a Britain that had been well prepared, softened up in advance. They walked on, close together, passing beneath the Brandenburg Gate towards what had been Checkpoint Charlie into West Berlin. There were still British and American military police around, NATO still in evidence. No Russians now. Isolde was thinking of the next day, when The Long Knife would leave the Fatherland. He had refused to tell her where he would leave from: the less anyone knew, the safer. Those who didn’t know could not reveal, even under torture. The British, Klaus had said, were capable of that.