Dominion (39 page)

Outside, fog settled slowly over the city. Towards noon David got up and put the light on. At lunchtime he went out for a swim, but first he phoned Sarah. She answered at once, her voice level,
normal.

‘It’s me, darling,’ he said. ‘Any news?’

There was a tired, ragged edge to her voice. ‘Yes, they told me at Friends House that Mr Templeman had phoned to say his wife had died of a heart attack. I rang him, to give my
condolences. Poor man, he was trying to be brave but you could hear his voice was about to break.’

‘A heart attack?’ David repeated incredulously.

‘Yes. The police called round to say she’d dropped dead outside the station at Wembley. They told him it was a heart attack. He said there’ll be a post-mortem. They’ll
fake the result, won’t they? I saw the blood . . .’ Sarah’s own voice was close to breaking now.

‘It’ll be a Home Office pathologist, it won’t be the first time they’ve faked something.’

‘Mr Templeman said the funeral’s next week. I want to go.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Would you like me to come too?’ he asked.

‘Why? You never met her. To make sure I don’t say anything stupid?’

David closed his eyes. ‘No. To support you.’

Sarah sighed. ‘I’m sorry; I just – yes, please come.’

‘Listen, this means they’re going to cover it up, but they’ll still be looking into what happened. We have to go on taking care.’

‘I know. When will you be home?’

‘I’ll try to get away a bit early.’

‘Do.’ She paused, then said, ‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Yes, it’s hard.’

He walked back to the office, huddled in his coat. Carol was in the lift, along with other people returning from lunch, the tip of her thin nose red with cold. She smiled
brightly, ‘Hello, David. Putrid weather, isn’t it?’

It was hard to speak cheerily, conversationally. ‘Dreadful. Hope this fog doesn’t last.’

‘They say it won’t.’

They got out on the second floor. Carol looked at him with concern. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Bit of a cold, I think.’

She smiled. ‘You look a bit peaky, if you don’t mind me saying.’

He wondered what Carol thought about the deportations. She was a kind woman, but you never knew; perfectly decent people could turn out to condone terrible things.

‘I hope you’re better in time for Friday,’ she said.

‘Friday?’

‘The concert. Bartok, at St Mary’s.’

‘Ah, yes, of course, I’m sure I’ll be better by then.’ He had forgotten.

‘There’s one at the Queen’s Hall, on the ninth of December. Beethoven’s Fifth. I know it’s a bit of a trek over there, but if we asked for an extra half-hour at
lunchtime . . .’

‘I’ll see.’ He turned away, aware of her hurt look at his curtness.

A little after three there was a peremptory knock on his door, and Hubbold came in. He sat down, took out his little silver snuff box. ‘I’ve just been with the
Permanent Secretary,’ he said abruptly. ‘This business with the Jews will put the cat among the pigeons. The Canadians and Aussies will be up in arms at this week’s High
Commissioners’ meeting. Our line will be that this is for their own protection as well as ours. Handle the issue with kid gloves, that’s the word from on high. Thank God the
agenda’s gone out, they’ll have to bring it up under Any Other Business.’ He stared at David, the eyes behind those thick lenses impossible to read as usual, but there was a note
of challenge in his voice, as though to emphasize this was just a piece of business like any other.

‘Yes, sir. I see.’ David kept his voice neutral.

‘Thanks for fixing up that meeting between the SS and the South Africans, by the way.’

‘I think the South Africans are going across to Senate House on Wednesday.’

Hubbold nodded. ‘Good. I expect they’ll tell the Germans their problem is that they were never able to disarm the Russians. They never let the blacks anywhere near a gun.’

‘Yes,’ David agreed. ‘It’s all about who has the guns.’

Hubbold nodded slowly. All at once he looked uneasy, embarrassed. David wondered whether he, too, had been shocked by yesterday’s events, was going to say something unplanned. But instead
he said, ‘There’s a problem with one of our files. One of the secret files I’m cleared for. The Canadian one. I found a document that didn’t belong there, to do with South
African military assistance to Kenya. It was in the wrong file.’

David thought, I put it there, the Sunday before last, when Hubbold came down to Registry. He stared at his superior. Hubbold said, ‘You had that file for last week’s meeting. Did
you notice whether the Kenya paper was there?’

‘No. It wasn’t one I needed to consult.’ He managed to speak steadily. ‘I remember it though, it’s a few weeks old, isn’t it?’ To his relief, Hubbold
just nodded his white head thoughtfully.

‘Yes, it would have passed through a number of hands. I’m checking with the people in this department who had it. But I haven’t come up with anything. Ten to one that girl of
Dabb’s misfiled it.’ He frowned. ‘But I don’t see how the Kenya file would have got into her possession. It’s restricted, but not top secret. You’re friendly
with her, aren’t you?’ he added.

‘Quite friendly.’ David’s heart thudded in his chest so hard he feared Hubbold might hear it.

‘D’you think she’s up to the job? You know how scatty women can be.’

‘I’ve no reason to think not.’

Hubbold seemed to slump a little in his chair. ‘I’ll have to tell the Permanent Secretary. There’ll be an investigation. He’ll keep it internal, he won’t want those
MI5 clowns clumping around in here.’ He shook his head. David thought, he’s frightened this will be a black mark before he retires. Hubbold stood up, smiled ruefully. ‘Well, thank
you. Obviously, keep this between ourselves.’ He went out.

David sat staring at the door for a moment, then reached for a cigarette. This could get serious. For the first time he had been careless. He felt danger closing all around. And Carol, what
about Carol? Was he going to end up taking her to the bottom, too?

He got an interdepartmental messenger to take a note to Geoff. Could he meet him after work for a drink, outside the office at five? A reply came back, yes, certainly.

When he left the building the fog was quite thick, cars and buses moving at a crawl, the office workers crowding out of their buildings, then quickly disappearing into the murk. He waited on the
steps of the Dominions Office, and after a minute Geoff appeared, pipe in mouth, dressed like David in dark coat and bowler hat, looking tired and, as he always did, somehow rumpled.
‘Let’s take a turn around Trafalgar Square,’ David said. ‘I’ve got some news.’

Geoff looked at him. ‘So have I.’

They walked up Whitehall, moving slowly along with the crowd. David thought of the Jews, all those trapped, frightened people, crammed together somewhere while London commuters went home as
usual. In the distance the chimes of Big Ben sounded.

In Trafalgar Square the traffic was almost at a standstill. A newsvendor on the corner called out, ‘
Evening Standard
! Railwaymen threaten new strike.’

Geoff said, ‘Let’s see if we can get across into the square. It’s a bit quieter there.’ An old man passed them, hunched over, coughing in the sharp tang of the fog: a
dreadful hacking noise.

They crossed the road with care, choosing a point where the traffic had come to a halt. They passed in front of a stationary bus, the engine rattling. Passengers stared wearily out of the
condensation-smeared windows. A small boy in a school cap stuck his tongue out at them cheekily.

There were few people on the big concrete island in the centre of Trafalgar Square. Nelson’s Column was virtually invisible. They began walking round the broad circle of pavement, beside
the crawling traffic. Geoff said, ‘There’s some bad news from Ben Hall at the mental hospital.’

‘About Frank?’

‘Yes. We had word this afternoon that – well, he’s tried to hang himself.’

David stopped. ‘Oh, God.’

‘He didn’t succeed. He tried to use a picture hook in a wall, but it wouldn’t take his weight.’ Geoff sighed. ‘Let’s keep walking. Frank’s been taken to
a room where he can’t harm himself. A padded cell and a straitjacket, I’m afraid.’ Geoff’s face twisted with distaste.

‘Poor bloody Frank.’ David took a deep breath. ‘What happens now?’

‘Frank’s going to have to be got out. They want us both involved. They’re looking at the practicalities. It could mean another trip to Birmingham, David, at very short
notice.’

‘Jesus.’ David looked at his friend. ‘Listen, I’ve a problem.’ He told Geoff about the paper he had misfiled. ‘Hubbold’s going to have to set an
investigation in train.’

‘Is there anything to lead them directly to you?’

‘No. Several people have had the file. But we’ll all be questioned. When they don’t get an answer they’ll bring the security people in. Hubbold doesn’t want that,
but they’re bound to do it before too long.’

Geoff halted. His pipe had gone out. He chewed on the stem. They were beside the plinth where one of the colossal bronze lions stood guarding Nelson’s Column. It reared up, a wall of sooty
wet granite. On the other side of the pavement the traffic was moving slowly again. Geoff said, with a tight smile, ‘It’s getting pretty difficult, isn’t it?’

David nodded.

‘Well, we always knew it might.’

‘That’s not all. Sarah found herself in the middle of a riot yesterday. The police were leading a group of Jews away, and a few people sat down in the street in front of them. Sarah
did, too. Some Jive Boys joined in and it got out of control.’

Geoff nodded. ‘Our people have heard the deportations hadn’t gone smoothly everywhere.’

‘It was worse than that. People were killed. Including a woman Sarah knew.’

‘Good God! Was she arrested?’

‘No. Some of the Jews escaped, and a couple of them helped her get away. Students. But she’s pretty shaken up. Her friend who was killed – her husband’s been told she had
a heart attack in the street, they’re hushing it up. But they won’t let it drop. The trail might lead to Sarah.’ He paused, then said, ‘I’m a risk now, Geoff.’
The wild thought had come to David, maybe the Resistance could help Sarah and him to disappear, maybe get them out of the country with Frank. Before his deepest secret, that he was a half-Jew, was
discovered.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Geoff said.

‘Some of it is,’ he answered bleakly. ‘Misfiling that paper.’

Geoff stopped and took his arm. ‘Stop blaming yourself for everything. That’s your biggest weakness, you know that, it always has been.’

‘What the hell are we going to do?’

Geoff’s face set doggedly. ‘Find a telephone box. And tell Jackson.’

E
ARLY ON
T
UESDAY MORNING
Gunther was woken by a telephone call from Gessler’s office, ordering him to present himself
there in person at eight. As he dressed he hoped they could move forward now, get Muncaster safely to Senate House.

He had a few minutes to spare, and he switched on the television for the news. There had been no further announcements about the Jews since Sunday. An item about the Russian war was showing; a
British reporter broadcasting from a V3 base somewhere on the North Volga; one of the enormous rockets stood on a launching pad a little way off. There was a countdown in German and then the V3,
belching fire from its base, shot into the sky with a low, deep rumbling. The camera followed the rocket, as it became a dot and vanished. The reporter said, ‘
This rocket is headed for a
Russian town somewhere in Western Siberia. Faced with such a sight, one has to ask, how can a race even as obstinate and fanatical as the Russians survive such a continual onslaught?
’

Gunther grimaced. He knew that however much damage the rocket might do to some Siberian city, the Russians had dispersed their war production over dozens of sites scattered across the immensity
of the Siberian forests, many beyond even V3 range. He crossed to the window and looked out. The fog had cleared overnight. On the opposite side of the street was a newsagent. Outside the door
there stood a wooden figure of a little beggar boy with polio, both legs in calipers, his painted face sad. He held up a sign saying,
Please Give
. There was a slot in the top of his head for
people’s donations. Gunther had seen polio victims, dragging themselves painfully along the London streets. Far better, he thought, to end such a child’s suffering with a quick,
painless injection.

At Senate House Gessler was in his office. He looked angry today, spots of red in his cheeks. He glared at Gunther, then said brusquely, ‘That lunatic Muncaster tried to
hang himself last night.’

‘Why would he try to kill himself now? I thought he had been very quiet all the time he was there. Was it because we came? Or the other visitors perhaps?’

‘Who knows why lunatics do anything?’ Gessler’s brow creased with fury. ‘Apparently he’s refusing to talk at all now. Not a word. Won’t even confirm the names
of his visitors. I’d get it out of him soon enough. But we’ve got a problem with that Dr Wilson. He’s become obstinate; our friends at the Home Office have asked him to turn
Muncaster over to us but he won’t, says he can’t just transfer someone so ill for interrogation. If he is to be questioned he wants it to be under hospital supervision.’

Gunther frowned. ‘Why is he doing this?’

‘British obstinacy and self-assertion, I think.’

‘Yes. That still rears its head from time to time.’

‘The problem is that Wilson has gone to this cousin who works for the junior Minister of Health, Church. He spoke to him yesterday and he’s backing Wilson.’

‘I thought the Health Department was full of eugenicists now. Isn’t Marie Stopes advising them on sterilizing lunatics?’

‘Yes, and the Duke of Westminster’s in charge of the Ministry. Beaverbrook put him in to show social issues aren’t a priority for this government, but though he’s one of
us, he’s stupid and old. And that Department’s still full of pre-war do-gooding types. Berlin are working on it, but they’ve told me they’re going to have to be careful. It
may take some days. If what we want gets Mosley’s Home Office and the Health Department involved in a Whitehall turf war, the British government are going to get curious about why we want
Muncaster.’