The Shadow of Treason (21 page)

Brigden ignored her. Now he sensed the full picture.

‘So that’s it!’ he roared. ‘You’re working for British Intelligence, aren’t you? All of you! Capitalist scum! And you think you can stop the revolution! Well, you’re wrong!’ He spoke curtly to his men. ‘They’ll all have to go. I’ll take Webber
and the policeman. Garrett, you take the other two men.’ He nodded to Mick Chase, Garrett’s friend. ‘You take the woman.’

Chase, the late recruit, was shaken. In truth, he wasn’t an ideal conscript for this job. A career criminal, his line was theft and burglary, with a little Grievous Bodily Harm thrown in when necessary. Although in the pub he bragged of ruthless violence, he’d actually never been involved in murder. And he had a morbid fear of hanging.

He spoke nervously. ‘Just a minute, guv. You got the book and that. Do we really need to top them?’

‘Don’t argue with me, man!’ shouted Brigden. ‘They know all the plans, and they’ve still got time to wreck them! Now get on with it!’ He raised his own gun and pointed it at the young man’s head.

Like Adam earlier, Hoskins knew it was now or never. And, once again, a rearrangement of furniture seemed the best answer. He’d positioned himself so that his raised left hand was near the light switch. And the daylight had finally gone. He flicked the switch off and shouted, ‘Everyone down on the floor!’

As he went down, Hoskins pushed over the table, making a barrier between his group and the intruders.

Brigden and his men fired into the darkness as the table hit their legs, and all the shots missed, except one. Adam, still stiff with pain, had been slow to move, and one of Garrett’s bullets hit him in the chest. He sank to the floor with a groan.

‘Wait!’ shouted Brigden. ‘Switch the light on! And keep calm! We’re the ones with the guns! Hold your fire till we can see them!’

Garrett tried to recall where the light switch was and then, as he lurched forward with a groping hand, he stumbled against the crouching Barron, who’d taken his gun from its
shoulder-holster
. Garrett swore loudly and Barron, recognizing his voice, fired upwards twice, killing him instantly. The man fell
sideways
against the workbench, knocking the Bunsen burner to the floor.

The noise of gunfire in the confined space was deafening, and Mick Chase felt he’d rather be elsewhere. He turned and dashed out through the door and across the pier-head platform towards the escape ladder. Now Brigden knew the odds had changed. He was on his own, and up against armed men. If they shot him, they could reclaim the vital logbook and the decoded pages. And he needed to stay alive for the day of action. It was time for retreat.

He fired another shot in the general direction of the foe, leaving three bullets in his gun. Then he spun round and fled through the still-open door and across the planking.

‘Look after Adam!’ Hoskins bellowed at Leo Newman and Dr Bird. Then he and Barron struggled to their feet, picked their way past Garrett’s body and the upturned furniture, and emerged onto the deck.

The navy had fixed hooded working-lights to the perimeter of the pier and, by their pale light, the two men could just make out the figure of Brigden ahead of them. They set off in pursuit.

Suddenly, there were more voices everywhere. The sound of shots had brought startled people out of their offices and
workshops
. And then up went the cry most dreaded in a wooden structure: ‘Fire!’

The fallen Bunsen burner had ignited the waste-paper basket, and the flames quickly spread to the plywood partitions.

Edith Bird ran to the door of the cabin and shouted, ‘Help! There are wounded men in here!’ Two workers in overalls ran to assist. Behind them, the duty fire crew were being called into action.

The fugitives had a good start on their pursuers and the deck had been clear when Chase and Brigden ran across it. Moments later, Hoskins and Barron were impeded by staff emerging from their workplaces.

So Chase was out of sight, and Brigden had half a minute to spare when he reached the top of the ladder. He swung his burly frame out onto the top rung, and began to climb down.

‘Bring the boat close!’ he bellowed at the top of his voice. He
wasn’t surprised when he heard no answering cry. He hadn’t expected one and, anyway, the mighty roar of the sea and the wind would surely swallow any response from the boat. Brigden was concentrating on placing his descending feet squarely but speedily on the wet and rusty metal steps. But then, as he neared the foot of the ladder, he heard the sound of the boat’s engine receding.

The shooting and the shouting had suggested to Henshaw that things had gone wrong. And when Chase appeared at the top of the ladder screaming, ‘We’ve got to get out! They’ve got guns!’, he’d decided that prompt action was called for. He was grateful for the warning but had felt no obligation to stay and thank the messenger. He’d revved up the engine and headed west. So the boat had been yards away when Chase made his despairing leap and landed in the water, bitterly regretting that he’d never learnt to swim.

Moving fast, the boat was almost out of sight when Brigden reached the bottom of the ladder and looked around him. Chase had already disappeared in the surging sea. The only things that met Brigden’s startled eyes were angry waves and flying spray.

Thirty yards below the safe, wide public arena at the sea-end of Southend Pier, there’s a lower platform, a criss-cross of metal struts which, at low and middle tides, is used by adventurous anglers to get closer to their prey. It’s covered by a foot of water at high tide or in bad weather, so the base of its uprights and the iron grid of the floor are festooned with seaweed and barnacles.

At this stage, the sea was just starting to bubble up through the grilles which formed the base of the structure: soon the whole surface would be awash. A dismal place indeed but it was the only refuge open to the desperate Brigden. He swung out from the ladder and in towards the platform. He had to jump the last yard and landed awkwardly on the slippery floor, crashing his shoulder against an upright. The razor-sharp barnacles tore his sleeve and the flesh beneath.

Cursing, he steadied himself and moved into the inner
regions of the lower pier, thinking hard. With the boat gone, he had few options. Surrender was impossible: he’d hang for murder. There were two imperatives. He must survive, to play his part in the coup. And he must prevent the enemy regaining the logbook.

He saw two possibilities. At worst, he could take to the water. But the sea was cold and rough, and land was a mile away. It would be better if he could eliminate his pursuers. Then he could go back up the ladder and down the pier, unobserved in the darkness and confusion.

He was suddenly aware of a hubbub on the upper deck, and saw flames through cracks in the planking high above him. So the pier was on fire! That should help him. People would be too busy fighting the fire to bother about Brigden. Only those at the research centre were likely to come after him: Webber was dead or crippled, the couple in white overalls seemed
non-combatant
. That left the policeman and one other man: two opponents, and he had three bullets left.

Brigden knew his best shot at the policeman would come when the man reached the foot of the ladder and had to perform the same tricky manoeuvre that he himself had done. He’d have to pause and then swivel his body, presenting a good target. Brigden waited patiently, half-hidden behind a stanchion.

The whole scene was becoming like a medieval painting of hell: the petrified forest of slimy green pillars now glowing with angry red light from the flames overhead. In the fierce wind, the fire was surging rapidly through the ancient tarred timbers, the salt spitting and spluttering in protest. Bits of blazing debris were starting to fall with a hiss into the water around Brigden’s feet.

Then the moment arrived. Barron stood at the bottom of the ladder, conveniently silhouetted against a slight residual glow in the western sky. He began to pivot in towards the platform. Brigden took careful aim and fired.

As he did so, Barron’s right foot skidded on the last rung of the ladder and he plunged sideways. Brigden’s bullet passed
above his head, and harmlessly on into the night. The policeman fell halfway into the water, drenching his body from the waist down. But he kept his gun dry and fired back. The noise echoed shrilly through the cast-iron underworld, and Barron’s bullet expired against an upright that was cushioned with seaweed.

With surprising agility, the bulky officer hauled his body clear of the waves and flattened himself on the watery platform, soaking wet, but no longer an easy target. Then he crawled forward to the cover of a broad pillar, before getting up and setting out to stalk Brigden. Now the two men fought a battle of wits, moving between pillars, always seeking cover. Each was saving his bullets till he got a clear view of the other. Then, suddenly, came Brigden’s chance.

As Barron moved swiftly between two pillars, a piece of burning timber fell from the upper deck and hit his back, knocking him over and briefly illuminating the scene. His gun went sliding across the floor.

Brigden could scarcely believe his luck. One of his remaining bullets would despatch the helpless policeman. After that, he could re-arm himself with the other man’s gun. He walked to the defenceless man and took careful aim.

And then his own gun fell from his hand, as the weighted end of Hoskins’ umbrella smashed down on his wrist. Appearing now from the shadows, Hoskins had come down by an easier route. Separated from Barron in the hurly-burly on the upper deck, he had used a stairway on the eastern side of the pier-head, which he knew of from earlier visits. This time his blade had remained sheathed. He wanted this villain alive for interrogation.

As Brigden staggered backwards, clutching his shattered forearm, Barron rolled free from the fallen timber, retrieved his gun and pointed it at Brigden.

‘All right, Bob, don’t shoot!’ Hoskins shouted. ‘I need a chat with this cove!’

But Brigden had other ideas. His only remaining purpose
now was to prevent the enemy from getting the logbook back. He wrenched it from his pocket with his undamaged hand and hurled it into the sea. The wind carried it several yards before a wave caught it and it was submerged. Hoskins moved forward to grab Brigden, who formed the wild notion that the man was about to dive and try to rescue the prize. He pushed Hoskins away, reclaimed his own gun, and managed to fire a random shot with his left hand. Hitting one of the pillars above the seaweed level, the bullet ricocheted across to another before falling to the floor.

The shot Barron fired was more accurate. It thudded into Brigden’s heart, knocking him backwards. For a moment the man tottered, and then he toppled off the platform into the sea.

Hoskins was not pleased. ‘You silly idiot!’ he cried. ‘I told you not to fire!’

‘I wasn’t taking any risks,’ said Barron. ‘I knew a man in Stepney who could shoot with either hand.’ He dragged himself to his feet. ‘So we’ve lost that bloody notebook after all,’ he observed. ‘Still, I suppose it doesn’t matter. We’ve got the decoded version.’

‘Yes, thank God,’ said Hoskins. And then his mouth went dry. ‘You picked it up, did you?’

‘No,’ said Barron. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘No,’ said Hoskins.

I
N THE
N
EWS
S
TUDIO
, on the sixth floor of Broadcasting House, Alvar Lidell studied the printed sheets in front of him. The war news was all good: the Allies were advancing everywhere. The last German soldiers had been driven from France, large parts of Belgium and Holland were now liberated, and Germany itself was being invaded by British and American troops from the west, and by the Russian army from the east.

Lidell checked the unfamiliar foreign names in the
forthcoming
bulletin. After each word that might give trouble, the BBC Pronunciation Unit had written the correct delivery, spelled phonetically in capital letters. Guidance was required mainly with foreign towns and individuals. But occasionally help would be offered with British names, as in the fourth item in today’s news, which he was studying with interest.

‘The main structure of Southend Pier, ravaged by the fire which started on Tuesday night, has now been declared salvageable. Old timbers had continued to smoulder in some inaccessible areas until this morning, according to Southend’s fire chief, Superintendent John Cowper (pronounced COOPER). But these sections have now been cut away, and emergency work has begun to construct temporary facilities for use by the Royal Navy.’

Lidell reflected that he did know how to pronounce Cowper. And, recalling pleasure trips before the war, he hoped they’d remember to restore permanent facilities for use by the public.

Jim Owen, the engineer, was checking all the sound
equipment 
that would carry the newsreader’s voice by landline to the Droitwich transmitter, which would broadcast it to the nation. For millions of listeners at home, the one o’clock news was a focal point in the day. After a moment, Owen was reassured. Everything was working.

He pressed a button to switch on the red light outside the studio that said ‘Live Transmission: No Entry’. There were still eight minutes to go before they went on air, but Owen was a cautious man. He didn’t want messengers barging in at the last moment.

And then an amazing thing happened.

The studio door was thrust open violently, and in came half a dozen men in khaki, carrying guns. Their leader, in an officer’s uniform, walked over to Alvar Lidell and pointed a pistol at his head. ‘The studio is commandeered,’ he said. ‘Move out of this chair.’

Lidell was too astonished to move, but managed to blurt out, ‘What? Who the devil are you?’, before a burly soldier grabbed his arms and pulled him up and out of the way.

Jim Owen reacted quickly, and was reaching for the
telephone
, when another intruder crashed a rifle butt down on his wrist and dragged him from his seat.

‘Put these two over there,’ barked the officer, ‘and keep them covered.’

Lidell and Owen were hustled into a corner, where a man with a corporal’s stripes waved a Sten-gun at them. Now another soldier entered, escorting a civilian, a broad young man with a flabby face. This man went to Owen’s seat and took charge of the control panel.

Owen recognized him. ‘Good God! Alex Price! What the hell are you doing here?’ Price had been one of his engineer colleagues at the BBC, until his dismissal for drunkenness last year. Ignoring Owen, Price did his own technical check. He was soon satisfied. ‘All set to go,’ he declared.

The officer went to the door and called, ‘We’re ready for transmission, sir!’ Then in came Robert Westley and another man, both in grey suits.

He then led Westley to the chair vacated by Alvar Lidell. His voice was very respectful. ‘This is your mike, sir. Perhaps you’d like to test your voice level for the engineer.’

‘Thank you, Major Fry,’ said Westley.

While the mike test was going on, the BBC men could only watch in outraged bewilderment, Owen wincing with pain and nursing his wrist. Lidell noticed that each intruder wore a bright red band on the sleeve of his khaki battle-dress.

Soon the studio clock showed a minute to one. Westley moved out of his chair and spoke to his companion. ‘Barrett, you’d better sit here first for the introduction.’ Barrett slid into the seat and nodded to the engineer. Then, as the minute hand reached one o’clock precisely, Price pressed the switch for the time signal and, after the familiar six pips, Barrett addressed the microphone. He had been chosen for his voice: clear and authoritative, but not posh.

‘This is the British Broadcasting Corporation in London,’ he said. ‘In place of the one o’clock news today, we are
broadcasting
an important message to the nation, from the Right Honourable Robert Westley, hitherto Minister of State for Internal Affairs.’ Then Barrett moved out of the chair and Westley took over. He tried to convey a mixture of strength and friendliness.

‘Good afternoon,’ he began. ‘I’m here to announce a radical change in the government of this country, which takes effect immediately and will concern us all.

‘I have to tell you that, as the war in Europe draws to a close, I and many others who believe in democracy have become aware of a plot by top members of the Churchill government to thwart the will of the British people.

‘They have been planning to expel from power all Labour and Liberal members of the coalition government, who have contributed so much to the war effort. They would replace them with right-wing extremists.

‘There would then be a snap election, rigged to install in power the most reactionary government this country has ever
known. That government would increase the power of the wealthy classes, and prevent the reforms and moves towards social justice which this country so sorely needs: reforms which you and your fellow citizens have been promised, as you worked and fought to win this bitter war.

‘In the face of this threat to our democracy, it was necessary to take rapid and decisive action. My colleagues and I have therefore been working for many months on forming an
alternative
group to undertake the running of this country, and to implement the many changes you have all been hoping for. Our plans are now complete.

‘Accordingly, from 1 p.m. today, the Democratic Socialist Party of Great Britain has taken over the reins of government. As a senior minister, with four years’ experience of national affairs, I have accepted the post of president. And I have appointed many prominent parliamentary figures, whom you know and trust, to take important posts in my cabinet: among them are Ernest Cox, who takes over as prime minister, Gerald Collis, Charles Bell, Reginald Fox, and William Ford, who will serve as my vice president. Great Britain is now a republic. The former King and Queen, together with Winston Churchill and other leading members of the Tory Party, have been placed under house arrest.

‘Countries which have fought alongside us in our struggle against Nazi Germany are expected to welcome Britain’s change of regime. A message of congratulation has already been received from our greatest ally, Soviet Russia.

‘Most senior figures in the police and the armed forces endorse our actions: though some obstruction may be expected from reactionary elements. There may also be opposition from members of the upper classes, who see their unearned wealth and privilege threatened: as indeed they will be. Therefore, until everyone’s allegiance is clear, the decisions and policies of our new government will be enforced by volunteers from the Home Guard, that fine organization which has guarded our shores for the last five years. The large proportion of Home
Guard soldiers who actively support our radical movement are wearing red armbands on the sleeves of their uniforms. These soldiers with red arm-bands will be known as The People’s Militia, and will be acting at all times with the authority of the state.

‘Since this change of government reflects the wishes and
aspirations
of the British people, it is hoped that the transition will be made peacefully and without bloodshed. Let us act together as brothers. However, it is important to remember that orders issued by The People’s Militia must be obeyed. And, for your security, a form of martial law has been put in place with
immediate
effect.

‘I look forward to working with all of you to build a new and fairer Britain.’

Having finished his speech, Westley moved out of the chair, and Barrett slid in to deliver the tailpiece. ‘That was the
president
of the Democratic Republic of Great Britain, Robert Westley,’ he stated. ‘This station will broadcast news and instructions every hour. It is important that all citizens should go about their normal business in the usual way.’

Alex Price turned off the microphone, and the soldiers in the studio applauded. Barrett rose and shook Westley’s hand. ‘Well done, sir. I think you made everything very clear.’

‘Thank you,’ said Westley, and then he turned to the Home Guard leader. ‘And I thank you and your men, Major, for a very efficient operation.’

Barrett added his congratulations. ‘I’d never have thought a big organization like the BBC could be taken over so easily.’

‘We had the benefit of inside information, from our young friend here,’ said the major. Price smirked. ‘Plus the advantage of being completely unexpected. There were only half a dozen commissionaires to deal with, and a couple of rather dozy
security
men. They didn’t give us much trouble.’

‘Let’s hope it’s being as easy as that for our other units.’

‘They’ll have met much stiffer resistance at military sites, of course,’ cautioned the major. ‘But they all had surprise on their
side. They’re heavily armed, and each attack has been
meticulously
planned to the last detail.’ The major was in buoyant mood.

‘You did the midnight check-up, as planned?’ asked Westley.

‘Yes. Between 12 and 1 a.m. I spoke to every group leader in the country.’

‘And there were no hitches?’

‘Just one. Brigden, CO at Tilfleet, has disappeared.’

‘Brigden’s disappeared?’

‘He went on a mission to Southend and didn’t come back. They think he must have got caught up in the fire on Southend Pier.’

‘Unfortunate. He’s a key man, isn’t he? Or was.’

‘No one’s indispensable, sir. All our people work as a team. His number two has taken over. Sergeant Crowe, he’s a very good man – he won’t let us down. Rest assured, sir, all our units were fully prepared, and ready to strike at noon plus fifty minutes.’

‘Have you heard anything since?’

‘No, I ordered complete telephone and radio silence between 1 a.m. and 1 p.m., to prevent any last-minute leaks. Price told me the direct number for this studio, and I told all local commanders to ring here as soon as their job’s done. For the next few hours this is our national control centre.’

‘Thank you, Major,’ said Westley. ‘Well done.’

Barrett addressed his president with some deference. ‘Presumably, sir, you’ll move into 10 Downing Street as soon as it’s taken over?’

Westley was extremely positive. ‘Yes, certainly. That’s the vital location. Symbolic, plus a lot of good practical reasons.’

‘It shouldn’t be long,’ said the major. ‘I put one of our three crack units on that job.’

‘And the other two?’

‘One’s gone into the Home Office, the other the Ministry of Defence.’

‘Excellent. Fox and Collis will take up their duties as soon as
we hear those buildings are clear. When do the street
demonstrations
start?’

Barrett responded enthusiastically. ‘Any minute now. They’re planned for ten past one, as a spontaneous reaction to your broadcast.’

‘Good,’ said Westley. ‘They’re very important.’

‘They are indeed. Something we’ve learned from our Russian comrades. Our Intelligence people will have crowds of
republicans
celebrating in Whitehall and Portland Place, and in all major cities. Plus, of course, around Buckingham Palace. By the end of the day, the coup should be a fait accompli.’

Amid all this exuberance, Westley was beginning to wish the phone would ring and bring some reassuring news. There was a hint of tension in his voice as he turned back to his military commander. ‘No doubt you’re ready to defend this building against any counter-attack by reactionary forces?’

‘Most certainly.’ The major exuded confidence. ‘I have fifty heavily armed men deployed around the ground floor, and guarding all entrances. And there are two trucks full of
reinforcements
, with mortars and tear gas, parked round the corner in Duchess Street. We’re totally secure here.’

As he spoke, there was thunderous noise and an explosion of activity, as twelve marine commandos came crashing in through the windows, boots first. They’d landed their
helicopter
on the roof and then abseiled down the face of the building. The News Studio’s soundproofing had kept their approach silent, but now all hell broke loose.

The People’s Militia had no time to react as the commandos surged in, some hurling smoke-bombs as they came, others firing from the hip. By the time their feet hit the floor, they’d identified the danger men, the ones brandishing guns; and they’d put them all out of action before any of them could pull a trigger. Three of the red-band soldiers were dead, and the rest had dropped their weapons.

As the smoke began to clear the studio door opened again, and in came the squad of uniformed police who’d been waiting
in the rehearsal room down the corridor. They were led by the commissioner of police and alongside him was James Hoskins, his umbrella as immaculately furled as ever.

The two men walked up to the little group by the
microphone
, and the commissioner spoke calmly. ‘Robert Charles Westley, I am arresting you on charges of high treason and conspiracy to commit murder. Anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.’

Westley, like all his men, had been stunned by events. But he’d recovered more quickly than most, and his voice was firm. ‘All I have to say to you, Commissioner, is this. Make the most of the next few minutes: because after that, you’re out of a job. Our forces are at this moment taking over Scotland Yard.’