Dominion

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘What do you cling on to?’

  She blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Beating the Fascists.’

  David said, ‘I hope this smog goes on. If it stops them moving the Jews to the Isle of Wight. The Germans would take them east then, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’ Natalia cast her eyes down. ‘I’m afraid the fog can’t go on for ever.’

  He hesitated, then said, ‘Natalia, you haven’t told anyone, have you? About me being half-Jewish? Only there was something in the way Mrs O’Shea looked at me earlier . . .’

  She frowned. ‘No, I have said nothing. I promised.’ She looked at him seriously. You should tell our people about yourself,’ she added. ‘We are all against what is being done, you know that.’

  ‘Perhaps. Only – I’ve kept it secret so long.’

  ‘Are you ashamed?’ she asked. ‘That you are a half-Jew?’

  ‘There are no half-Jews left in Europe, Natalia. You know that. You’re either a Jew or you’re not. No, I’m not ashamed of being Jewish, though I’ve no idea what it’s like to be a Jew; and why should it matter what your parents were, why should it mean anything? But nationality and race – that’s all that matters now.’

  ‘I know. All over Europe.’

  ‘What I’m ashamed of is secrets. Even though my parents kept mine to help me get on.’ He smiled sadly. ‘It was good practice for being a spy, I suppose.’

  She nodded, sympathetic now.

  ‘You know,’ David said suddenly, ‘I’m afraid of seeing her again. My wife.’

  ‘Don’t you want to?’

  ‘All the secrets I kept from her.’ He shook his head. ‘So many. You know, this is the first time I’ve been away from Sarah since we were married. But in other ways we’ve been apart for years. I really don’t know if we can come together again. I’ve taken away her house, her safety, any reason for her to trust me again. I don’t know if she’ll even want to try.’ He bit his lip, then said, ‘Or if I do.’ He looked down. He felt Natalia step closer, put a hand on his arm. He glanced up at her in surprise. She smiled softly. She was giving in to him, she had wanted to all along. And he wanted to cling to her, to cling to a woman but especially to her, more than he ever had in his life. But then, abruptly, he shook his head. ‘No. You were right. Not now.’

  She smiled sadly, and stepped away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, turning away to the stairs.

  Chapter Forty-One

  AFTER SHOOTING THE POLICEMAN, Meg had led the way rapidly up the road to Kenton Station. Sarah could hardly believe what she had done; she kept seeing the vase shatter against the policeman’s head, the blood and the porcelain shards flying out. But he’d had a gun and would have killed them all.

  She stumbled; Meg turned and gave her an angry glare. ‘Come on,’ she snapped. ‘Before that man’s missed and a hundred of them come down on us. Don’t draw attention, try and look normal. But hurry.’ Sarah tried to compose herself. She thought of what it must have been like for Meg, walking up and down her street, waiting for Irene to go, then seeing the policeman enter the house. She seemed quite unaffected by cold-bloodedly shooting a man. Were they all like this in the Resistance, this brutal? Was this what David was like, underneath?

  They reached Kenton Station. Meg bought a couple of tickets. A tube came quickly and soon they were clattering down to London. They got off at Piccadilly Circus. ‘This is it,’ Meg said briskly. A queue of excited children and their parents, wrapped against the cold, waited outside a shop where a large poster over the door proclaimed, Santa Claus is here this afternoon! Meg looked at it, disapproval glinting in her eyes behind their steel spectacles. ‘Christmas is supposed to be a time to remember the birth of our Saviour,’ she said.

  They crossed the road. The traffic was heavy, it was starting to get dark. Sarah thought of her house, the dead man lying there. Meg led her into a maze of streets full of coffee bars, shops selling exotic foods, run-down pubs and shopfronts with black-painted windows.

  ‘Godless place,’ Meg muttered angrily.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Den of Satan. Nobody cares about morality any more. It’s all because of the Catholics.’

  ‘What is?’ Sarah began to wonder if Meg was a little mad.

  ‘The Blackshirts. The Nazis. They’re all tools of the Pope. It all started in Rome with Mussolini, didn’t it? Look at Italy, or Spain, or France. The Catholics are hand in glove with the Fascists. They run everything really.’

  ‘I know the Catholic Church collaborates, but they’re not in charge—’

  ‘Undermining Protestant morality, that’s what they’re doing. I used to teach in a secondary school, I’ve seen it, boys swaggering around in Blackshirt uniforms, making obscene comments to teachers and getting away with it, that’s why I left . . .’ She stopped, so suddenly that Sarah almost walked into her, and turned into a dirty alleyway. She rang a bell beside a door with worn green paint, turned to Sarah and smiled grimly. ‘I hope you’re not easily shockable.’

  There was the sound of footsteps and a young woman opened the door. She was tall, with striking red hair, wearing a green polo-neck sweater. She looked at Meg, who gave her a prim nod.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ the woman said without enthusiasm.

  Meg nodded brusquely towards Sarah. ‘I’ve brought her.’

  The woman gave Sarah a friendly smile. ‘Hello. I’m Dilys. Come on in.’

  She led them into a tatty hallway, up a flight of stairs and through a door into some sort of waiting room, hard chairs around the walls. A man was sitting on one of the chairs, a big man in his fifties in a dark coat with a velvet collar, a bowler hat and umbrella on the chair beside him. He stood up and extended a hand to Sarah. He smiled but his eyes were cold and hard.

  ‘I’m Mr Jackson,’ he said. ‘Mrs Fitzgerald?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There was trouble,’ Meg said bluntly. ‘She had her sister with her and I had to walk up and down the street for ages. Then a copper came. We had to get rid of him.’ She looked at Sarah. ‘She knocked him on the nut. I shot him.’

  Jackson frowned. ‘They won’t like that. One of their own, they’ll be redoubling their efforts.’

  ‘He could have identified me. And her sister.’

  Sarah staggered; suddenly she thought she was going to faint. She said, ‘I’m sorry. I just can’t believe – what I did,’ as Dilys helped her to a seat.

  ‘This is war, dear, better get used to it,’ Meg said implacably.

  Jackson frowned at her. He said over his shoulder to Dilys, ‘Get us a cup of tea, will you, there’s a good girl?’ Dilys, who had been glaring at Meg, went away.

  ‘What is this place?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘It’s a brothel,’ Jackson answered, his voice quite matter-of-fact. ‘Meg here doesn’t approve but there we are, it takes all sorts.’ Jackson smiled again, condescendingly, Sarah thought. ‘I expect all this has been a bit of a shock for you.’

  ‘Please, do you know where my husband is? I’m desperately anxious—’

  ‘He’s safe. With us. Geoff Drax, too. They’ll rejoin you later.’

  ‘Please, you must tell me—’

  Jackson’s tone hardened. ‘There’s no must about it, Mrs Fitzgerald. We’ve gone out of our way to rescue you, and as Meg said she put herself in no little danger.’

  ‘How long has David been working for you? Can you tell me that at least?’

  ‘Quite some time. He’s a good man, your husband. Tenacious, trustworthy. He’s been helping us, getting information from his department. Unfortunately something went wrong and he risked exposure. We’re lucky he got out.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Sarah said. ‘The Germans questioned me. At Senate House. But I had nothing to tell them.’

  Jackson and Meg exchanged a sharp look. He leaned forward. ‘They asked you about your husband?’

  ‘Yes. But I didn’t know anything.’

  ‘Did they mention the name Frank Muncaster to y
ou?’

  ‘Frank?’ She frowned. ‘Yes, they did. They didn’t say why, though.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘That I’ve never met him. David gets Christmas cards and the odd letter from him. I just know he was a friend of David’s at Oxford, had problems, mental problems I think. David used to sort of protect him. Is he one of your people, too? They told me Geoff Drax was.’

  Jackson looked relieved. He gave her a gentle smile. ‘Drax is, yes. I’m sorry you’ve been caught up in all this. But we take pride in getting our agents’ families to safety. I understand you are a pacifist,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Perhaps you don’t approve of us.’

  ‘I’ve never believed in violence. But now, everything that’s happening, some of the things I’ve seen . . .’ She shook her head.

  ‘Well, events are moving our way. Adlai Stevenson’s just made a speech saying the United States is to start trading with Russia. And the new Russian offensive seems to be pushing the Germans back all along the front. They may take a couple of cities this winter.’

  ‘All this blood,’ Sarah said.

  ‘It will end one day. Your husband is part of a network of Civil Service people I hope will take over running the country, stop the Reds running wild. And the Catholics, too, eh, Meg?’

  Meg bristled. ‘I know you think it’s a joke . . .’

  Jackson gave a wintry smile. Sarah didn’t like him. And Meg was some sort of Protestant fanatic.

  Dilys returned with a tray. Jackson rubbed his hands together. ‘Ah, tea. No bickies, well, never mind.’ He took a cup and handed it to Sarah. ‘Now, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he said, slowly and seriously. ‘This is the plan. Dilys is going to dye your hair, cut it in a different style. Give you some new clothes. People will be looking for you, you see. Then we’re going to send you down to the south coast.’

  ‘The south coast? Why?’

  ‘That’s where your husband will be going, quite soon. We’ll be able to send you tomorrow, I hope, though the trains are a bit erratic this week. We’re shutting up shop here, Dilys is leaving tomorrow. We’ll give you a new identity card, and a cover story – you’re a widow, going to the south coast for a bit of a break. You’ll be staying with some of our people. Now, is all that clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you reasonably good at memorizing things?’

  ‘Yes. But when will my husband arrive?’

  ‘In a few days we hope. Then we have a plan to get you all away. I can’t say more than that for now, Mrs Fitzgerald.’ He smiled again, that patronizing smile. ‘You have to trust us.’

  Jackson and Meg left shortly after. Dilys took Sarah into an adjoining room, with peeling wallpaper and a big, dirty unmade bed, and sat her down at a dressing table. Sarah had flinched a little as she realized she was in a prostitute’s bedroom, but Dilys was friendly, a relief after Meg. She put a hairdresser’s cape around Sarah’s shoulders.

  ‘I’ll cut it short first, then dye it. You’re going to be a redhead, dear.’

  Sarah smiled bravely at her in the mirror. ‘Well, my life’s been turned upside down already; I suppose a different hair colour won’t make much difference.’

  She sat still as Dilys cut her hair, quickly and efficiently. Sarah wondered if she had been a hairdresser once. ‘I’ve met your husband, you know,’ the woman said. ‘Careful, dear, don’t jerk your head. Mr Jackson used to meet his civil servants in the flat next door. And your husband came yesterday, after he went on the run. He’s a nice chap, isn’t he, good-looking, too. I like dark men. I asked him if he had any Maltese blood.’

  ‘He’s Irish. I know you wouldn’t think it to hear him talk.’

  ‘He’s got a nice voice. Like Mr Jackson, but not so pompous.’ They both laughed.

  ‘So you have to move,’ Sarah said.

  ‘We have to change houses quickly sometimes. I’ll miss the woman who used to stay at the old flat. East European, very smart. She’s a painter, she was a bit upset at having to leave her pictures behind. I saved a couple, in case I ever saw her again. There’s one over by the wall there. I knew it was her favourite.’

  Looking in the mirror Sarah saw the painting, snow and mountains and what seemed to be fallen soldiers in the foreground: grey figures with red splotches of blood.

  ‘So this woman knew David, too,’ Sarah said. A whole world of people she had had no idea about.

  ‘Yes.’ Dilys smiled reassuringly. ‘But don’t worry; I could see your husband’s the loyal type.’

  Loyal, Sarah thought. And Jackson had called him trustworthy. They didn’t see the irony, though they must all have known that he had lied and lied to her, for years.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  DRESSED IN A BATHROBE, Gunther stood looking through the window of his flat, into the smog. It was horrible, poisonous, greasy stuff; it had appeared in the middle of the day and got steadily worse. Walking home from Senate House he had had to feel his way, one of thousands of shadowy figures groping along the dark streets, his throat smarting painfully. He had just watched the weather forecast on television and it was going to continue; some expert had appeared and talked about high streams of warm air trapping cold air underneath, the effect of millions of coal fires in the Thames valley. This will make our task even harder, Gunther thought.

  He turned away, tiredness and a sense of failure in his very bones. At the embassy, Gessler was a pale shadow of his old self; Gunther often found him sitting staring blankly into space, helpless. After the events of the past week it was an easy state to fall into. Five days, five days since the lunatic Muncaster was lifted from the asylum, and they still had nothing. Every enquiry had drawn a blank.

  Gessler had been very different on Monday, when the news came through that Muncaster had been taken. He had raved and shouted, full of angry panic. Gunther, though, had stayed calm, the remote calm that often came upon him in a crisis, though inside he felt a sinking in his stomach, as though he were in a lift whose descent went on and on.

  ‘This is a hunt now, not an enquiry,’ Gessler had said when he calmed down a little. ‘If only we’d got Muncaster out before! It’s not my fault, I won’t be blamed!’

  ‘The important thing now, sir, is to find him.’

  Gessler flicked him an angry glance. ‘I will be blamed, you know, and so will you. If he gets away – we’ll be shot. Scapegoats for Berlin’s failure to get him.’

  More likely we’ll both be sent to some dangerous posting out East, Gunther thought. That was what he had craved anyway, an honourable end to his lonely life, though something in him resisted the idea now. He wanted, very much, to find Muncaster, to complete his mission. He said, ‘If we’re to find him, and those who took him, we’ll need to bring Special Branch in fully now. We’ll have to let them have everyone involved in the Civil Service spy ring.’

  ‘I know. I’ve spoken to Berlin.’ A note of self-pity, then a sharp glance. ‘I’ve had to tell them about the mess-up at the Fitzgerald house.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gessler replied. On Saturday afternoon, Gunther had learned how the SS man, in plain clothes, had got to the old air-raid shelter, broken in, and then spent hours watching the house through binoculars. As nobody entered or left, and no lights came on as it got dark, the man realized there was nobody there. Then a police car came and some men went up to the house, then round the back. The SS man ran across the little park to the house and knocked on the door. An angry policeman answered. Behind him another uniformed officer was lying dead in the hall. Sarah Fitzgerald was gone, had been before their man arrived.

  Gessler said, ‘I was hours on the phone yesterday. I couldn’t get hold of the right people, nobody was available, the senior people are all in meetings. Something big’s happening over there. But there’s nothing we can do about it. More hours wasted.’ He drew himself upright in his chair. ‘They confirm that from now on it’s full co-operation with the British Special Branch. I don’t know what the information is that Muncaster has, only l
ittle hints, but if the British police find out—’ He shrugged. ‘It’ll be up to Berlin to sort it out with Beaverbrook. And forget what I told you about eliminating Syme if he got hold of anything from Muncaster. As I say, full co-operation. The Branch are being asked to devote major resources to finding Muncaster. A nationwide manhunt. You and Syme will work on the Fitzgerald angle. Dabb and Hubbold and the Bennett woman are being arrested tonight and brought here. You and Syme are to question them, then chase up everyone connected with Fitzgerald and Drax. Everyone.

  ‘They’re clever, our enemies. The Bolsheviks and Jews,’ Gessler continued, with quiet anger. ‘We always knew that, we knew how hard the fight would be.’ He shook his head. ‘The Jews were going to be moved to the Isle of Wight today, but this damned smog’s put paid to that.’

  ‘It won’t last, sir. And we will win,’ Gunther said. But, along with relief that he would not have to kill Syme, doubt was flickering inside him now, about the possibilities of success for the mission and what was happening in Germany; it was eating him up, exhausting him.

  When he met Syme in his office, late on Sunday, Gunther expected the Special Branch inspector to be full of himself, triumphant that the Branch were taking the lead. But he wasn’t. Syme was angry that Muncaster had escaped, that, as he put it, ‘the bloody bastard Resistance had scored’. And killed a policeman, one of their own. Gunther could understand that.

  ‘We’ll get that fucking loony,’ Syme said viciously.

  ‘I’m glad you feel like that.’

  Syme gave him a hard look. ‘You should have taken Muncaster earlier.’

  ‘I know. We met with all sorts of political difficulties.’

  ‘We think we’ve found the identity of the attendant, the one who left with Muncaster. A Scottish Communist, we’ve been after him for years. We think they gave him a new identity and a new trade when things got too hot for him up North. He was already working at the mental hospital so they used him with Muncaster. Some of the things that Scottish bastard’s done –’ he shook his head ‘– even before he got involved in politics – you wouldn’t believe the sort of scum they recruit.’ Syme continued, ‘It seems likely Fitzgerald and Drax were already working as spies and then were brought into this because they knew Muncaster.’