He towelled his face, applied aftershave. Despite himself, his mind had drifted back to the phone call. One fact was certain; there had been a major security spillage. Somebody somewhere had supplied Kosowicz with closely-guarded information. That same someone, presumably, had supplied a list of ex-directory lines. He frowned, grappling with the problem. One country, and one only, opposed the Two Empires with gigantic, latent strength. To that country had shifted the focus of Semitic nationalism. And Kosowicz had been an American.
He thought, ‘Freedom, schmeedom. Democracy is Jew-shaped.’ He frowned again, fingering his face. It didn’t alter the salient fact. The tipoff had come from the Freedom Front; and he had been contacted, however obliquely. Now, he had become an accessory; the thought had been nagging at the back of his brain all day.
He wondered what they could want of him. There was a rumour - a nasty rumour - that you never found out. Not till the end, till you’d done whatever was required from you. They were untiring, deadly and subtle. He hadn’t run squalling to Security at the first hint of danger; but that would have been allowed for. Every turn and twist would have been allowed for.
Every squirm, on the hook.
He grunted, angry with himself. Fear was half their strength. He buttoned his shirt remembering the guards at the gates, the wire and pillboxes. Here, of all places, nothing could reach him. For a few days, he could forget the whole affair. He said aloud, “Anyway, I don’t even matter. I’m not important.” The thought cheered him, nearly.
He clicked the light off, walked through to his room, closed the door behind him. He crossed to the bed and stood quite still, staring at the bookshelf. Between Shirer and the Churchill tome there rested a third slim volume. He reached to touch the spine, delicately; read the author’s name, Geissler, and the title. Toward Humanity. Below the title, like a topless Cross of Lorraine, were the twin linked F’s of the Freedom Front. Ten minutes ago, the book hadn’t been there. He walked to the door. The corridor beyond was deserted. From somewhere in the house, faintly, came music; Till Eulenspiegel. There were no nearer sounds. He closed the door again, locked it. Turned back and saw the wardrobe stood slightly ajar.
His case still lay on the side table. He crossed to it, took out the Luger. The feel of the heavy pistol was comforting. He pushed the clip home, thumbed the safety forward, chambered a round. The breach closed with a hard snap. He walked to the wardrobe, shoved the door wide with his foot. Nothing there.
He let his held breath escape with a little hiss. He pressed the clip release, ejected the cartridge, laid the gun on the bed. He stood again looking at the shelf. He thought, ‘I must have been mistaken.’
He took the book down, carefully. Geissler had been banned since publication in every Province of the Two Empires; Mainwaring himself had never even seen a copy. He squatted on the edge of the bed, opened the thing at random.
“The doctrine of Aryan co-ancestry, seized on so eagerly by the English middle classes, had the superficial reasonableness of most theories ultimately traceable to Rosenberg. Churchill’s answer, in one sense, had already been made; but Chamberlain, and the country, turned to Hess…
“The Cologne settlement, though seeming to offer hope of security to Jews already domiciled in Britain, in fact paved the way for campaigns of intimidation and extortion similar to those already undertaken in history, notably by King John. The comparison is not unapt; for the English bourgeoisie, anxious to construct a rationale, discovered many unassailable precedents. A true Sign of the Times, almost certainly, was the resurgence of interest in the novels of Sir Walter Scott. By 1942 the lesson had been learned on both sides; and the Star of David was a common sight on the streets of most British cities.”
The wind rose momentarily in a long wail, shaking the window casement. Mainwaring glanced up, turned his attention back to the book. He leafed through several pages.
“In 1940, her Expeditionary Force shattered, her allies quiescent or defeated, the island truly stood alone. Her proletariat, bedevilled by bad leadership, weakened by a gigantic depression, was effectively without a voice. Her aristocracy, like their Junker counterparts, embraced coldly what could no longer be ignored; while after the Whitehall Putsch the Cabinet was reduced to the status of an Executive Council…”
The knock at the door made him start, guiltily. He pushed the book away. He said, “Who’s that?”
She said, “Me. Richard, aren’t you ready?”
He said, “Just a minute.” He stared at the book, then placed it back on the shelf. He thought, ‘That at least wouldn’t be expected.’ He slipped the Luger into his case and closed it. Then he went to the door.
She was wearing a lacy black dress. Her shoulders were bare; her hair, worn loose, had been brushed till it gleamed. He stared at her a moment, stupidly. Then he said, “Please come in.”
She said, “I was starting to wonder… Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
She said, “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
He smiled. He said, “I expect I was taken aback. Those Aryan good looks.”
She grinned at him. She said, “I’m half Irish, half English, half Scandinavian. If you have to know.”
“That doesn’t add up.”
She said, “Neither do I, most of the time.”
“Drink?”
“Just a little one. We shall be late.”
He said, “It’s not very formal tonight.” He turned away, fiddling with his tie.
She sipped her drink, pointed her foot, scuffed her toe on the carpet. She said, “I expect you’ve been to a lot of house-parties.”
He said, “One or two.”
She said, “Richard, are they…”
“Are they what?”
She said, “I don’t know. You can’t help hearing things.”
He said, “You’ll be all right. One’s very much like the next.”
She said, “Are you honestly OK?”
“Sure.”
She said, “You’re all thumbs. Here, let me.” She reached up, knotted deftly. Her eyes searched his face for a moment, moving in little shifts and changes of direction. She said, “There. I think you just need looking after.”
He said carefully, “How’s James?”
She stared a moment longer. She said, “I don’t know. He’s in Nairobi. I haven’t seen him for months.”
He said, “I am a bit nervous, actually.”
“Why?”
He said, “Escorting a rather lovely blonde.”
She tossed her head, and laughed. She said, “You need a drink as well then.”
He poured whisky, said, “Cheers.” The book, now, seemed to be burning into his shoulderblades.
She said, “As a matter of fact you’re looking rather fetching yourself.”
He thought. ‘This is the night when all things come together. There should be a word for it.’ Then he remembered about Till Eulenspiegel.
She said, “We’d honestly better go down.”
Lights gleamed in the Great Hall, reflecting from polished boards, dark linenfold panelling. At the nearer end of the chamber a huge fire burned. Beneath the minstrels’ gallery long tables had been set. Informal or not, they shone with glass and silverware. Candles glowed amid wreaths of dark evergreen; beside each place was a rolled crimson napkin.
In the middle of the Hall, its tip brushing the coffered ceiling, stood a Christmas tree. Its branches were hung with apples, baskets of sweets, red paper roses; at its base were piled gifts in gay-striped wrappers. Round the tree folk stood in groups, chatting and laughing. Richard saw Müller the Defence Minister, with a striking-looking blonde he took to be his wife; beside them was a tall, monocled man who was something or other in Security. There was a group of GSP officers in their dark, neat uniforms, beyond them half a dozen Liaison people. He saw Hans the chauffeur standing head bent, nodding intently, smiling at some remark; and thought as he had thought before how he looked like a big, ha
ndsome ox.
Diane had paused in the doorway, and linked her arm through his. But the Minister had already seen them. He came weaving through the crowd, a glass in his hand. He was wearing tight black trews, a dark blue roll-neck shirt. He looked happy and relaxed. He said, “Richard. And my dear Miss Hunter. We’d nearly given you up for lost. After all, Hans Trapp is about. Now, some drinks. And come, do come; please join my friends. Over here, where it is warm.”
She said, “Who’s Hans Trapp?”
Mainwaring said, “You’ll find out in a bit.”
A little later the Minister said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we may be seated.”
The meal was superb, the wine abundant. By the time the brandy was served Richard found himself talking more easily, and the Geissler copy pushed nearly to the back of his mind. The traditional toasts - King and Fuehrer, the Provinces, the Two Empires - were drunk; then the Minister clapped his hands for quiet. “My friends,” he said, “tonight, this special night when we can all mix so freely, is Weihnachtabend. It means, I suppose, many things to the many of us here. But let us remember, first and foremost, that this is the night of the children. Your children, who have come with you to share part at least of this very special Christmas.”
He paused. “Already,” he said, “they have been called from their crèche; soon, they will be with us. Let me show them to you.” He nodded; at the gesture servants wheeled forward a heavy, ornate box. A drape was twitched aside, revealing the grey surface of a big tv screen. Simultaneously, the lamps that lit the Hall began to dim. Diane turned to Mainwaring, frowning; he touched her hand, gently, and shook his head.
Save for the firelight, the Hall was now nearly dark. The candles guttered in their wreaths, flames stirring in some draught; in the hush, the droning of the wind round the great facade of the place was once more audible. The lights would be out, now, all over the house.
“For some of you,” said the Minister, “this is your first visit here. For you, I will explain.
“On Weihnachtabend, all ghosts and goblins walk. The demon Hans Trapp is abroad; his face is black and terrible, his clothing the skins of bears. Against him comes the Light-bringer, the Spirit of Christmas. Some call her Lucia Queen, some Das Christkind. See her now.”
The screen lit up.
She moved slowly, like a sleepwalker. She was slender, and robed in white. Her ashen hair tumbled round her shoulders; above her head glowed a diadem of burning tapers. Behind her trod the Star Boys with their wands and tinsel robes; behind again came a little group of children. They ranged in age from eight- and nine-year-olds to toddlers. They gripped each other’s hands, apprehensively, setting feet in line like cats, darting terrified glances at the shadows to either side.
“They lie in darkness, waiting,” said the Minister softly. “Their nurses have left them. If they cry out, there is none to hear. So they do not cry out. And one by one, she has called them. They see her light pass beneath the door; and they must rise and follow. Here, where we sit, is warmth. Here is safety. Their gifts are waiting; to reach them, they must run the gauntlet of the dark.”
The camera angle changed. Now they were watching the procession from above. The Lucia Queen stepped steadily; the shadows she cast leaped and flickered on panelled walls.
“They are in the Long Gallery now,” said the Minister. “Almost directly above us. They must not falter, they must not look back. Somewhere, Hans Trapp is hiding. From Hans, only Das Christkind can protect them. See how close they bunch behind her light!”
A howling began, like the crying of a wolf. In part it seemed to come from the screen, in part to echo through the Hall itself. The Christkind turned, raising her arms; the howling split into a many-voiced cadence, died to a mutter. In its place came a distant huge thudding, like the beating of a drum.
Diane said abruptly, “I don’t find this particularly funny.”
Mainwaring said, “It isn’t suppose to be. Shh.”
The Minister said evenly, “The Aryan child must know, from earliest years, the darkness that surrounds him. He must learn to fear, and to overcome that fear. He must learn to be strong. The Two Empires were not built by weakness; weakness will not sustain them. There is no place for it. This in part your children already know. The house is big, and dark; but they will win through to the light. They fight as the Empires once fought. For their birthright.”
The shot changed again, showed a wide, sweeping staircase. The head of the little procession appeared, began to descend. “Now, where is our friend Hans?” said the Minister. “Ah...”
Her grip tightened convulsively on Mainwaring’s arm. A black-smeared face loomed at the screen. The bogy snarled, clawing at the camera; then turned, loped swiftly toward the staircase. The children shrieked, and bunched; instantly the air was wild with din. Grotesque figures capered and leaped; hands grabbed, clutching. The column was buffeted and swirled; Mainwaring saw a child bowled completely over. The screaming reached a high pitch of terror; and the Christkind turned, arms once more raised. The goblins and were-things backed away, growling, into shadow; the slow march was resumed.
The Minister said, “They are nearly here. And they are good children, worthy of their race. Prepare the tree.”
Servants ran forward with tapers to light the many candles. The tree sprang from gloom, glinting, black-green; and Mainwaring thought for the first time what a dark thing it was, although it blazed with light.
The big doors at the end of the Hall were flung back; and the children came tumbling through. Tearstained and sobbing they were, some bruised; but all, before they ran to the tree, stopped, made obeisance to the strange creature who had brought them through the dark. Then the crown was lifted, the tapers extinguished; and Lucia Queen became a child like the rest, a slim, barefooted girl in a gauzy white dress.
The Minister rose, laughing. “Now,” he said, “music, and some more wine. Hans Trapp is dead. My friends, one and all, and children: Frohe weihnacht!”
Diane said, “Excuse me a moment.”
Mainwaring turned. He said, “Are you all right?”
She said, “I’m just going to get rid of a certain taste.”
He watched her go, concernedly; and the Minister had his arm, was talking. “Excellent, Richard,” he said. “It has gone excellently so far, don’t you think?”
Richard said, “Excellently, sir.”
“Good, good. Eh, Heidi, Erna… and Frederick, is it Frederick? What have you got there? Oh, very fine…” He steered Mainwaring away, still with his fingers tucked beneath his elbow. Squeals of joy sounded; somebody had discovered a sled, tucked away behind the tree. The Minister said, “Look at them; how happy they are now. I would like children, Richard. Children of my own. Sometimes I think I have given too much… Still, the opportunity remains. I am younger than you, do you realize that? This is the Age of Youth.”
Mainwaring said, “I wish the Minister every happiness.”
“Richard, Richard, you must learn not to be so very correct at all times. Unbend a little, you are too aware of dignity. You are my friend. I trust you; above all others, I trust you. Do you realize this?”
Richard said, “Thank you, sir. I do.”
The Minister seemed bubbling over with some inner pleasure. He said, “Richard, come with me, Just for a moment. I have prepared a special gift for you. I won’t keep you from the party very long.”
Mainwaring followed, drawn as ever by the curious dynamism of the man. The Minister ducked through an arched doorway, turned right and left, descended a narrow flight of stairs. At the bottom the way was barred by a door of plain grey steel. The Minister pressed his palm flat to a sensor plate; a click, the whine of some mechanism, and the door swung inward. Beyond was a further flight of concrete steps, lit by a single lamp in a heavy well-glass. Chilly air blew upward. Mainwaring realized, with something approaching a shock, that they had entered part of the bunker system that honeycombed the ground beneath Wilton.
T
he Minister hurried ahead of him, palmed a further door. He said, “Toys, Richard. All toys. But they amuse me.” Then, catching sight of Mainwaring’s face, “Come, man, come! You are more nervous than the children, frightened of poor old Hans!”
The door gave onto a darkened space. There was a heavy, sweetish smell that Mainwaring, for a whirling moment, couldn’t place. His companion propelled him forward, gently. He resisted, pressing back; and the Minister’s arm shot by him. A click, and the place was flooded with light. He saw a wide, low area, also concrete-built. To one side, already polished and gleaming, stood the Mercedes, next it the Minister’s private Porsche. There were a couple of Volkswagens, a Ford Executive; and in the farthest corner, a vision in glinting white. A Lamborghini. They had emerged in the garage underneath the house.
The Mammoth Book of Alternate Histories [Anthology] Page 26
