Doctor Who: Players: 50th Anniversary Edition

by Dicks, Terrance

  Churchill played his master stroke. ‘If things go wrong, if there is any kind of scandal, you may simply disown me, and report that I exceeded my authority. I give you my word, I shall bear all the blame.’

  Baldwin clearly found the offer irresistible. ‘Very well, Winston,’ he said. ‘It shall be as you wish.’

  Pulling a sheet of official notepaper towards him, he selected a pen, dipped it in a silver ink-well, and began to write…

  ‘And so you lost her,’ said the Count.

  ‘Really, Joachim,’ said the Countess. She shook her head sadly, though there was a gleam of amusement deep in her sapphire-blue eyes. ‘We deliver a dangerous American agent into your hands, and you let her go!’

  They were in the sitting-room of the temporary German Embassy. It was a large and draughty room with much of the furniture still covered in drapes.

  ‘I did not let her go,’ said von Ribbentrop, petulantly. ‘She was taken from me by her friends – with considerable brutality, I might add.’

  The Countess shrugged. ‘No matter. The girl is not really so very important.’

  ‘Then why did you tell me she was an American agent, and place her in my custody? One of my staff was gravely wounded and another was brutally assaulted. Both have had to be flown back to Germany. Even I myself suffered injury…’ He touched the bruise under his thinning hair and winced.

  The Countess looked shocked. ‘You don’t mean to tell me the Doctor actually struck you? Or was it his hireling, Dekker?’

  Von Ribbentrop did not reply.

  ‘Not the girl?’ said the Countess. She laughed outright. ‘Oh, my poor Joachim…’

  ‘You have not answered my question,’ said von Ribbentrop angrily. ‘Why did you urge me to kidnap the girl?’

  ‘It seemed at least a possibility that she was an American agent,’ said the Count. ‘We placed her in your custody because you have diplomatic immunity – and because we have no facilities for guarding prisoners.’

  ‘We wanted to use her as a way of putting pressure on the Doctor,’ said the Countess. ‘Unfortunately you didn’t hold her long enough for us to achieve any results. It is not important. After tonight we shall deal with the Doctor and the girl – and the Doctor’s hired killer – at our leisure.’

  Von Ribbentrop rose and paced nervously about the room.

  ‘You realise that I can have nothing to do with tonight’s… event until it is successfully concluded? The Fuehrer was most insistent upon this point. I cannot send SS men to assist you. Indeed, at the moment I have none to send.’

  ‘From what we have seen of your men we are better off without them,’ said the Countess. ‘What happened to your incompetent assassins, by the way? The ones who failed so miserably to ambush the Doctor?’

  ‘They did not succeed in reaching the Embassy until some time after the raid,’ said von Ribbentrop stiffly. ‘Far too late to be of any help. I do not tolerate failure, my Countess. I sent them straight back to Berlin with the wounded. Replacements are on their way, they will arrive tomorrow.’

  ‘Tonight, Sir Oswald’s Blackshirts will serve our purpose,’ said the Count. ‘It is important that, initially at least, this is a purely British occasion.’

  ‘Once you have succeeded it will be a different matter,’ said von Ribbentrop, eagerly. ‘The Fuehrer has authorised me to sign an immediate treaty of alliance. And then, if you need a few battalions of SS to assist in keeping order… Once things are settled we can discuss your business concessions.’

  ‘Business concessions?’ said the Count.

  Von Ribbentrop, a keen moneymaker all his life, gave him a baffled look. ‘The business concessions in England and Germany for your Consortium. You will not find the Fuehrer ungrateful, and you truly deserve your reward.’ He attempted a lighter note. ‘After all, I assume you are not doing all this purely to amuse yourselves?’

  The Count and Countess exchanged smiles.

  ‘No indeed,’ said the Countess. ‘That would be absurd, would it not?’

  A few minutes later, von Ribbentrop found himself alone. An odd pair, those two, he thought. Here one minute, and gone the next. And their lack of interest in the business concessions he had promised… As if money meant nothing to them.

  Von Ribbentrop resumed his pacing up and down the room. He looked at the big radio set. It was going to be a long day, and a momentous one.

  He wondered when he would be able to see Wallis again. Her time would be taken up for a while, but eventually they would meet. He smiled at the thought.

  How many men could say they had a queen for their mistress?

  Carstairs gazed approvingly around the comfortably furnished officers’ mess. He downed his whisky, his host raised a finger, and a mess waiter appeared with two more drinks.

  ‘I must say, Roddy, you chaps do yourselves very well,’ said Carstairs.

  ‘We’re the Guards,’ said Roddy simply. ‘We deserve the best.’

  Carstairs grinned affectionately at his old friend. Tall and thin, wearing an immaculately-cut uniform and a totally unnecessary monocle, Colonel Rodney Fitzsimmons was almost a parody of the languidly elegant Guards officer. Carstairs had fought beside him in the trenches, and knew that beneath all the stock aristocratic affectations was a tough and shrewd professional soldier.

  He took a sip of his whisky.

  ‘Well, I think that concludes the briefing, Roddy,’ he said. ‘Quite clear on what you have to do?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so,’ said Roddy. ‘Training manoeuvres, just outside London.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘With live ammunition…’

  ‘Right again.’

  ‘I’m pretty clear on the what, old boy. Bit shaky on the why.’

  ‘Not your concern,’ said Carstairs. ‘You’ve seen my authority. Yours not to reason why, and all that…’

  ‘Oh, quite,’ said Roddy. ‘I’m just a simple soldier, all I do is obey orders. Must be a fearful strain on you chaps in Intelligence, having to think all the time.’

  ‘Ghastly,’ said Carstairs, smiling. He finished his whisky and stood up. ‘Well, better be off, got a lot to do.’

  Roddy rose as well.

  As they walked towards the door he said, ‘I say, everything’s – everything’s all right, isn’t it, Jeremy?’

  ‘It will be,’ said Carstairs. ‘So long as you follow your instructions. See you this evening – in the park.’

  *

  Having dealt with the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill was now tackling a much tougher proposition – Sir John Reith, Director of the British Broadcasting Corporation.

  Unusually tall, with a balding head, a beaky nose and an intimidating stare, Reith listened silently to Churchill’s series of requests.

  ‘Thus is an extraordinary business,’ Reith said dubiously, when Churchill had finished. ‘I cannot pretend that I am happy about it. To act in this way behind His Majesty’s back…’

  ‘You have seen my authority –’ began Churchill.

  Reith held up his hand to silence him.

  ‘This is the British Broadcasting Corporation, Mr Churchill. We are not subject to the commands of politicians – however eminent.’

  Churchill realised that it would be fatal to try to bully Reith, or even to give him direct orders. He summoned up all his powers of persuasion.

  ‘Upon this day, Sir John, the Corporation – your Corporation – can do England a great service. Or, through no fault of its own, it can be tainted by association with traitorous infamy.’

  Still unconvinced, Reith sat silent, brooding.

  Suddenly, Churchill remembered that Reith, like himself, had served in the War, and was fiercely proud of the fact.

  ‘Sir John,’ he said, ‘I speak to you not as a politician, but as a fellow soldier. I appeal to you to play your part, to do what is best for the defence of England. I can do no more. The matter is now in your hands.’

  Still Reith stared into space, palms lay
flat on his desk. Then, at last, he picked up the phone, dialled and waited for a moment.

  ‘Engineering Officer? How are the arrangements for the royal broadcast proceeding? Good, good…’ He looked at Churchill and sighed. ‘Now, I have a rather extraordinary task for you…’

  In the drawing room at Fort Belvedere, British Broadcasting Corporation engineers were setting up the equipment for His Majesty’s speech to the nation.

  It was insufferably hot in the big room. The central heating was on full blast, and a fire blazed in the grate.

  The perspiring engineers worked on…

  In his study nearby, the King strode nervously up and down, rehearsing his speech.

  Curled up like a cat in an armchair by the fire, Wallis Simpson watched him. ‘You don’t have to learn it, you know, David,’ she said, impatiently. ‘It’s a radio broadcast, not a public meeting. Nobody can see you, you can read the thing. I was talking to one of the engineers. All you have to do is to remember not to rustle the paper too much.’

  The King stopped his pacing and gazed adoringly at her. ‘If I just read it, it will sound stilted. Darling, our whole future together depends on the public’s response to this speech. I’ve simply got to get it right…’

  He resumed his pacing and muttering.

  Wallis sighed.

  *

  Outside Fort Belvedere, lorries drew up in the gathering dusk and black-shirted figures jumped down. The rank and file carried staves and truncheons, while officers and sergeants had guns.

  Their leader, a tall, beaky-nosed man with a moustache, immediately took charge. ‘Take up positions inside and outside the house. Let anyone in who wants to go in, but let nobody out without authorisation from me.’

  ‘What, not even the King, sir?’ joked somebody.

  ‘No,’ said Sir Oswald Mosley. ‘Not even the King!’

  In the Doctor and Peri’s sitting-room in Hill Street, Winston Churchill drained his glass of champagne and immediately held it out for Rye to refill. He looked anxiously at Carstairs.

  ‘Have we done all we should? All we possibly can?’

  ‘I think so, sir,’ said Carstairs. ‘I’ve checked with Roddy and everything’s in place.’

  ‘And Sir John?’

  ‘The engineers are still working, but he’s confident they’ll be finished in time.’

  ‘And all the necessary surveillance has been undertaken?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Everyone’s covered.’

  ‘What about von Ribbentrop?’ asked Peri.

  ‘Von Ribbentrop is lying low in his temporary embassy. The only ones we’ve lost track of are the Count and Countess.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the Doctor, grimly. ‘They’ll turn up when it’s time. Something tells me they wouldn’t miss this for worlds.’

  ‘I hear much of this pair of mysterious foreign aristocrats, Doctor,’ rumbled Churchill, ‘but I have yet to meet them. I am somewhat at a loss to understand their part in all this.’

  ‘To be honest, so am I,’ said the Doctor.

  He wondered if Churchill would connect the current Count and Countess with the pair in the chateau when they met. Perhaps they were deliberately keeping out of his way.

  ‘Are they in alliance with von Ribbentrop and his Nazi crew?’ Churchill went on.

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ said Peri. ‘They were definitely involved in my kidnapping. I got the feeling they were using von Ribbentrop. You know, as their pawn.’

  ‘That’s a very good way of putting it, Peri,’ said the Doctor. ‘Ever since we first met, I’ve had the feeling they were playing some kind of game…’

  ‘No doubt their roles will emerge in time,’ said Churchill, dismissing the subject.

  There was a knock on the door, and Rye showed in Dekker and the Op. Like Churchill and the Doctor, both were in evening dress. Carstairs was in full uniform, and Peri herself wore a simple black dress.

  ‘Our party is complete,’ said Churchill, who was clearly enjoying himself. The prospect of action always invigorated him. ‘May I suggest a final toast, Doctor?’

  The Doctor nodded to Rye who opened more champagne and saw that everyone had a full glass.

  ‘Gentlemen, Miss Brown,’ said Churchill. ‘It is possible that nothing more will occur tonight than the signing of the Act of Abdication and His Majesty’s farewell speech. If that proves to be so, we shall all have been present on a sad but indubitably historic occasion. If, however, as the Doctor suspects, some more dastardly scheme is in progress – well, our foes will find we are ready for them.’ He raised his glass. ‘To victory!’

  The Doctor, Peri, Carstairs, Dekker and the Op all raised their glasses.

  ‘To victory!’

  Peri glanced at the Doctor and muttered under her breath: ‘We hope!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  EXECUTION

  THREE CARS WERE lined up outside the house in Hill Street: Churchill’s limousine, the Doctor’s Rolls Royce, and a green Bentley Continental sports car. This last, it transpired, belonged to Carstairs.

  ‘I’d better leave first,’ he said, ‘I need to go on ahead and liaise with Roddy.’

  He jumped behind the wheel and the big car roared off down Hill Street.

  ‘Will you accompany me, Doctor?’ asked Churchill. ‘We can confer on the way.’

  The Doctor looked inquiringly at Peri.

  ‘You go ahead, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I’ll ride with the US contingent!’

  The Doctor and Churchill got in the back of the big limousine, and the car drew away.

  The Op was already behind the wheel of the Doctor’s Rolls. He nodded to Peri and said, ‘Always wanted to drive one of these!’

  Dekker held the rear passenger door open for Peri, then got in the front beside the Op. The car moved smoothly off after the others.

  As the Doctor had half-expected, little actual conferring was done on the way down to Fort Belvedere. They had discussed their plan extensively during the day, considering and covering every possibility.

  Churchill said as much himself.

  ‘It is a good plan we follow, Doctor, carefully thought out. Either it will work or it will not.’ He frowned. ‘However, I cannot but remember the famous axiom of von Clausewitz. “No plan of battle long survives contact with the enemy!”’

  ‘This one will,’ said the Doctor. ‘I hope!’

  Churchill looked thoughtfully at him. ‘You know, Doctor, since we met, I have been casting my mind back over the past. When I look at you I see my companion of Boer War days, untouched by the passage of thirty-seven years. Miss Brown too bears an uncanny resemblance to my companion’s ward.’

  The Doctor made no reply.

  ‘I will tell you another strange circumstance,’ Churchill went on. ‘You will remember that Colonel Carstairs spoke of a Doctor Smith whom we encountered during the War? There is no physical resemblance of any kind between you and that man. And yet, somehow, when I think of that Doctor Smith, the two of you seem to merge in my mind. Colonel Carstairs feels the same. Curious, is it not?’

  Winston Churchill, thought the Doctor once again, was a hard man to fool. ‘It is, as you say, curious,’ he said. ‘But the world is full of curious things.’

  ‘Then let me tell you of another. The body of the assassin that your friend Dekker shot from the tree at the royal garden party has vanished from the morgue. Vanished from a locked and guarded room.’

  ‘Baffling,’ said the Doctor.

  Churchill laughed. ‘Never fear, Doctor, I shall not press you to explain the inexplicable – especially not tonight. Perhaps we can discuss these matters at some other time.’

  The Doctor smiled agreeably, and the car sped on. Soon they had left London behind, and were driving through darkened countryside. Eventually the road narrowed, cutting through dense forests. The headlights of the Doctor’s Rolls chased them through the rear window.

  ‘Not far now, Doctor,’ said Churchill.

  The road abruptly ope
ned out onto a broad gravel drive. At the end of the drive was a brightly-lit building, its battlements and turrets standing out against the night sky.

  The two cars drew up before the building.

  ‘Well, we are here,’ grunted Churchill. ‘Fort Belvedere. I have occasionally visited His Majesty here in happier times.’

  They got out of the car, while behind-them, Peri, Dekker and the Op did the same. Dark shapes appeared from the shadows, and suddenly they were surrounded by black-shirted figures.

  ‘Who are you?’ barked one of them. ‘State your business.’

  ‘I am Winston Churchill, and my business is with the King. This lady and these gentlemen are my guests. Stand aside!’

  Churchill barged his way through the encircling figures, the Doctor close behind him. Dekker and the Op did the same, shielding Peri between them.

  Suddenly Peri realised that Dekker was carrying a bulky musical instrument case.

  ‘Brought your harp to the party, Dekker?’ she whispered.

  ‘Sure, why not. Maybe somebody will ask me to play!’

  As the little group marched up to the door, it was opened by a liveried footman.

  They passed through into an octagonal ante-room with a black and white floor. More black-shirted figures stood on guard. Beyond was a huge, elaborately furnished drawing room. Classical paintings hung on the walls, and there were yellow satin curtains at the long windows. Chintz-covered armchairs, Chippendale tables and even a grand piano all clamoured for the eye’s attention. A cheerful fire blazed in the big grate.

  Still more blackshirted figures stood at intervals around the walls.

  In one corner of the room, the Broadcasting Corporation technicians had set up their temporary studio. It consisted of a chair, and a table with a microphone. The set-up was surrounded, Peri saw, with a tangle of large and clumsy equipment.

  The King came forward to greet them, Wallis Simpson by his side. He was in evening dress. Wallis wore a magnificent cloth-of-gold gown and a diamond tiara in her hair. It looked very like a crown. The King’s eyes were glittering with excitement, but Wallis looked strained and tense.

  ‘Winston!’ said the King exuberantly. ‘I didn’t expect to see you tonight. Where’s Baldwin?’