Orders from Berlin

by Unknown

  ‘It’s his brother, isn’t it,’ she said, although she thought she already knew the answer.

  ‘Yes,’ said Trave. ‘He was called Alistair, and I think he’s the reason we’re all in this mess.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Seaforth’s mother told me that Charles found out after the war that his brother was executed for cowardice by the British Army in 1916 and that the discovery enraged him – with the kind of rage that doesn’t go away but grows inside a person year after year like a cancer, until he can think of nothing else. Or at least that’s what I think happened,’ said Trave, shaking his head.

  But it wasn’t what Ava wanted to hear. ‘You make him sound like a victim,’ she said. ‘And he’s not. He’s evil, like the monster in that picture over there,’ she said, beckoning Trave over to join her in the doorway so that she could show him the Francis Bacon painting hanging above the mantelpiece in the living room. ‘Look – it’s his Dorian Gray picture, the man behind the mask.’

  Trave was silent, gazing up at the picture. Ava watched him, trying to guess what he was thinking, but when he spoke, it wasn’t at all what she expected to hear.

  ‘We need to get it down,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just a hunch, that’s all.’ He put Alistair’s photograph on the desk, moved a hard-backed chair over in front of the fireplace, and then climbed on it. Carefully he lifted the picture and found it came easily away from the wall. Ava helped him set it on the carpet, and when she looked back up, she gave a gasp of astonishment. A compact stainless-steel safe was revealed behind where the screaming head had been. There was a small combination dial in the centre of the recessed door.

  ‘How did you know it was there?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t. It was the logical place for a safe, that’s all. Although I suppose it explains why none of the desk drawers or the cabinets is locked,’ Trave added with a sigh, looking round the room. ‘God knows how we’re going to open it.’

  ‘Can’t you use the gun?’

  ‘It won’t work.’

  ‘Why? It did on the door.’

  ‘Safes like this are bulletproof. There’s no way we’re getting inside it unless we know the combination.’

  ‘And that could be anything,’ said Ava, acknowledging defeat. She felt bitterly frustrated. To have come this far only to be thwarted by a locked steel door was a hard pill to swallow. ‘Come on. We need to get out of here,’ she said, turning away and moving towards the door. ‘Those gunshots of yours made a hell of a noise. Someone’s going to have called the police. They’ll be here soon.’

  But Trave didn’t respond. Instead she saw he’d gone over to the desk while her back was turned and had picked up the photograph of Seaforth’s brother again. He was staring at it intently, as if it contained some kind of secret. And then he suddenly put it down, climbed back on the chair in front of the fireplace, and began twisting the dial on the safe this way and that. He stopped, waiting for a click, but nothing happened. And then he tried again, but still without success.

  ‘What numbers are you putting in?’ asked Ava. She’d crossed the room to stand behind him.

  ‘The date Alistair was shot – the eleventh of February, 1916. His mother told me it; she said it was the day before his birthday. It was a long shot, but I thought it was worth trying,’ said Trave, opening his hands in a gesture of resignation.

  He started to get down from the chair, but Ava put out her hand to stop him. The movement caught him by surprise and he almost lost his balance. ‘His birthday!’ she repeated. ‘Why don’t you try that?’

  Trave nodded, feeling stupid that he hadn’t thought of the idea himself. He turned back to the dial and entered the numbers, first with the nineteen and then without. And on the second attempt, the safe opened.

  There were bundles of cash inside, which Trave didn’t disturb, an old book that looked like a diary of some kind – maybe the one that Ava had told him about – and at the back, several brown envelopes. Trave took them over to the desk and emptied their contents onto the blotter. Lists of names; letters in German; carbons of intelligence briefings marked ‘TOP SECRET’, and a four-page carbon document in English headed ‘PLAN’ in capital letters, which had been in an envelope on its own. On the first page it was marked for the attention of Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8, Berlin, and it was signed at the end with the single letter ‘D’ above the date, 19 September 1940.

  Trave read quickly, handing each page to Ava as soon as he had finished. Within a few sentences it had become obvious to him that D was Seaforth and that he was indeed a high-level spy working for Nazi Germany.

  Elegantly phrased and carefully written, the document described Seaforth and Thorn’s meeting with Churchill on 15 September and suggested that Heydrich should provide further intelligence of sufficient interest to engineer a summons to a second meeting with the Prime Minister, at which Seaforth would shoot Churchill and Thorn and blame the assassination on Thorn. In a separate section added at the end, Seaforth told Heydrich that his radio message sent on 17 September had been intercepted and decoded by British intelligence. He said that one man, the former chief of MI6, had understood the significance of the message but that Seaforth had eliminated him and believed that his cover was now once again secure, provided future communications were sent only by ‘the traditional route,’ whatever that might be.

  There was no mention in the document of Seaforth’s personal grudge against the British Prime Minister, but Trave felt he could sense behind the dry, careful language Seaforth’s belief that he was an instrument of destiny. And it would be difficult for Seaforth to think otherwise, Trave thought, given the unexpected opportunity that had presented itself to exact a personal revenge on the man who had signed his brother’s death warrant.

  ‘Come on,’ said Trave, gathering the papers. ‘We need to find a way to warn Churchill. Seaforth’s going to carry out this plan as soon as Thorn gets back from the hospital. I know he is.’

  ‘Why? How can you be so sure?’ asked Ava. She was in a state of shock, finding it almost impossible to come to terms with what she’d just read. She wanted to sit down for a minute and try to absorb the full measure of Seaforth’s perfidy.

  ‘I can’t be sure,’ said Trave, answering her question. ‘But he’s seen me round at Broadway asking questions and he’s going to want to strike quickly before things start to unravel – assuming that he’s got the intelligence he needs from Berlin, which seems likely, given that this document was sent nearly two weeks ago. I’m sure Heydrich will have given him the go-ahead. The plan looks like a good one from what I can see. It’s simple and daring and it may well succeed if he gets the chance to put it to the test.’

  ‘Can’t you call someone?’ asked Ava, pointing at Seaforth’s telephone.

  ‘Who? I’m just a lowly detective, remember? I don’t know how to get in touch with 10 Downing Street any more than you do. No, we need Thorn. He’s the one with the access. I bet he’s back at 59 Broadway by now. And I don’t have the number for MI6, either, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I know I should have got it from Thorn, but he wasn’t in any state to tell me after he got hurt, and so I’m going to have to go over there and find him.’

  ‘Not without me, you’re not,’ said Ava. ‘Remember what you promised.’

  Trave nodded reluctantly, looking as if he wished there were some way he could take back his words.

  They didn’t meet anybody on their way down in the lift, but there was a group of frightened-looking residents in the front hall, congregated around the old man who had let them in. Trave walked quickly through the throng, holding on to Ava’s arm, and went down the steps to the car.

  He gunned the engine to life and hurtled round the corner towards Sloane Street, passing a police car coming fast in the opposite direction with a clanging of bells. Trave glanced down at his watch – it was twenty past three. He pressed the accelerator pedal to
the floor, wishing that he were behind the wheel of Quaid’s high-powered Wolseley police car instead of pushing an out-of-date Austin 7 beyond its limit.

  CHAPTER 12

  The summons came at a quarter past three. A car with an official driver pulled up outside 59 Broadway with orders to bring Thorn and Seaforth round to 10 Downing Street at the double and an instruction to Seaforth to bring his copy of the intelligence briefing with him so that he could discuss it with the Prime Minister.

  The call had come earlier than Seaforth had anticipated, but he’d baited his hook well and it didn’t surprise him that Churchill had bitten so quickly. The Prime Minister had a well-earned reputation for acting quickly when his interest was aroused, and how could it not be when Seaforth’s memorandum appeared to offer a way to save the country from the threat of invasion without the loss of any more blood, sweat, and tears.

  Seaforth was delighted. Everything was going according to plan. No, better than that. There had been no trouble from Thorn, who had stayed shut up in his office ever since Seaforth had told him his lie about C, and the car meant that there would be no time for Thorn to start asking awkward questions before they reached their destination.

  Seaforth sent Jarvis up to fetch Thorn, as he thought this would make Thorn less suspicious than if he did it himself.

  ‘Tell him the PM wants to see us right away and that there’s a car waiting downstairs to take us to Downing Street.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell ’im yourself?’ asked Jarvis, who had just made himself a cup of tea and was looking forward to enjoying it with a couple of McVitie’s digestive biscuits that he’d got down from the store cupboard in his basement cubicle. He liked Seaforth, but he didn’t like being ordered about, unless it was by C, for whom Jarvis was prepared to do practically anything.

  ‘Because I have to fetch some documents to take to the meeting. I’d appreciate your help with this, Mr Jarvis,’ said Seaforth, looking knowingly at the Boer War Veterans Fund collection box close to Jarvis’s elbow.

  ‘All right,’ said Jarvis, getting up. ‘But I ’ope I don’t get my ’ead bitten off by ’is majesty up there. That bomb’s made ’im a lot worse to deal with than ’e was before,’ he added as a parting shot.

  Back in his office, Seaforth unlocked the top drawer of his desk and took out the Colt semi-automatic pistol registered to Alec Thorn that he had brought from his apartment that morning. He placed it carefully inside a secret compartment concealed under a false bottom in his black leather briefcase, pushed the cover of the compartment back until he felt it lock into position, and then placed the carbon copy of the briefing he’d sent to Churchill on top. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he closed the briefcase. Everything was in order and he was ready.

  Thorn was in the hallway, looking irate, when Seaforth got back downstairs. He’d waited patiently for C’s return and now he was being made to leave without having seen him. He knew perfectly well that he wasn’t going to change C’s mind about Seaforth without some significant new evidence, but he hoped that C would at least start taking the espionage threat seriously once he’d heard that Reinhard Heydrich was the one behind the mysterious plan.

  And Thorn had hoped too that he might have heard something from Trave by now. Maybe the detective had found out something about Seaforth, although he remembered that he’d stupidly not given Trave his telephone number, so there was no way Trave could call if he had gone to Scotland as Thorn had begged him to do. The bomb in Battersea had been a disaster, incapacitating him just as he felt he was beginning to make progress through the maze, although he realized that he’d been lucky to survive and that his injuries could have been a lot worse. They’d told him at the hospital that he’d been a fraction of an inch away from losing his right eye, and the worst damage had turned out to be the concussion, which had left him wandering in and out of consciousness for the first twenty-four hours after he got hurt. The doctors had wanted to keep him longer for observation, but he’d insisted on discharging himself as soon as he felt able to walk. Now he wondered whether it had been a wise decision. He was feeling worse with each hour that passed and was in no state to participate in a demanding meeting with the Prime Minister, where he would be expected to be at the top of his game.

  ‘Why does he want to see us?’ he demanded as soon as they’d got in the car.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Seaforth, looking away from Thorn out of the window as the car turned into Great George Street, passing the entrance to the underground bunker where Churchill had seen them before. This time they would be meeting above ground, and Seaforth preferred it that way.

  ‘You don’t know!’ Thorn repeated sarcastically. ‘Well, I don’t believe you. Churchill’s not going to be hauling us over to Downing Street without any warning just for the fun of it. There’s got to be a damned good reason he wants to talk to us, and I reckon you’re behind it. More false intelligence like the last time, I expect.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Seaforth. ‘And if you want my advice, old man, I’d stop throwing all these wild allegations about. You’ll find they’re like boomerangs – they’ll come back and hit you in the face.’

  ‘I don’t want your advice and I’m not your old man,’ said Thorn furiously. ‘I know what you’re up to, Seaforth, and you’re not going to get away with it. Do you hear me?’ If Seaforth’s intention had been to provoke Thorn, he’d certainly succeeded beyond his wildest expectations. Thorn was red in the face and breathing heavily. Drops of perspiration were visible on his forehead.

  ‘Certainly I hear you,’ said Seaforth, retaining his composure. ‘Just like I’ve heard you before. And before that. And I’ve got to tell you that everyone’s getting a little tired of your accusations. So unless you’ve got something to back them up with—’

  ‘I’ll find something,’ said Thorn, interrupting loudly. ‘I promise you I will. Something that’ll link you to that bastard Heydrich—’ He stopped in mid-sentence, now furious with himself. What had he told Trave about not going after Seaforth in the open? And yet here he was, revealing his entire hand to his enemy for no reason at all, except that he couldn’t control his temper.

  Seaforth had kept his head turned away from Thorn, but now he turned round to look at him. ‘What’s Heydrich got to do with it?’ he asked. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

  Thorn bit his lip, refusing to reply. His angry outburst had left him feeling faint, and he was nauseated too, probably from some drug they’d pumped into him at the hospital, he thought miserably. Outside the car window, the statues in Parliament Square seemed to be shaking on their foundations and the sky was tumbling down towards him. He looked over at Big Ben and was able for a moment to focus on the hands of the clock standing at half past three. But then the car made a sharp turn into Whitehall and everything began to shake again. Thorn closed his eyes and immediately felt worse. He thought he was going to be sick, but somehow he succeeded in fighting back the bile rising in his throat and then used his remaining strength to wind down the car window. Leaning out, he took deep draughts of the fresh air like a man who’d just escaped death by drowning.

  And it was in this condition that he arrived outside 10 Downing Street a minute later. Looking at Thorn as he stumbled out of the car, Seaforth rubbed his elegant hands together in anticipation. What did it matter if Thorn had stumbled on the connection with Heydrich, he thought, if the fool had only a few minutes left to live?

  Trave stopped the Austin 7 outside 59 Broadway with a screech of brakes, jumped out of the car, and immediately began hammering on the front door. He didn’t stop until Jarvis opened it.

  ‘What the ’ell – ,’ Jarvis began, but Trave cut him off.

  ‘Where’s Seaforth?’ he demanded. ‘And Thorn? Are they here?’

  ‘I’m not telling you. Who the bloody ’ell do you think you are coming round ’ere—’

  ‘No, you are going to tell me. Believe me, you are,’ interrupted Trave
, taking out his gun and pointing it at the caretaker’s head.

  Jarvis stepped back, trying to shut the door, but Trave was too quick for him. He threw himself to the side, stopping the door from closing, and then grabbed hold of the collar of Jarvis’s overall with his free hand and pulled the old man into the street.

  Shocked, Jarvis lost his balance and fell onto the pavement. Trave knelt beside him and pushed the muzzle of his revolver against Jarvis’s temple.

  ‘Tell me,’ he ordered. ‘Tell me where they are or I swear I’ll—’

  ‘They’ve gone to Number 10,’ said Jarvis, giving in. He had a strong instinct for self-preservation and no way of knowing that Trave had neither the intention nor the capacity to shoot – the hammer on the gun wasn’t even pulled back.

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘About ten minutes,’ said Jarvis, keeping his terrified eyes fixed on the gun. ‘Now let me go. I ain’t done nothing.’

  But Trave didn’t reply. He was already focusing all his attention on the task ahead. Pocketing the gun, he leapt back in the car and then drove off without a backward glance at Jarvis, who was now sitting up on the pavement, shaking his fist at the Austin 7 as it disappeared around the corner in a cloud of dust.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Ava, who’d been too far away to hear Jarvis’s strangled responses to Trave’s questions. She’d seen the gun in Trave’s hand, however, and she felt scared by the way he seemed to be losing control. Now he was driving like a maniac, blowing his horn repeatedly to clear the road in front. One panicked motorcyclist swerved and mounted the pavement before crashing into a postbox, but there was no time to see if the man was all right, as Trave had already turned the corner, narrowly missing a bus that had the right of way.