The Suicide Exhibition: The Never War (Never War 1) (13 page)

Guy took Sarah’s elbow and steered her gently aside, past the steps.

‘Let’s see if there’s a cab.’

He sensed rather than saw the man at the top of the stairs following them.

‘Two of them now,’ Sarah said, confirming his fears.

Another man in raincoat and hat stood by the exit to the taxi rank.

Sarah had seen him too. ‘They probably know who we are anyway. Even if we get away from them now…’ she didn’t need to finish the thought.

They paused at a paper stall. ‘If we can get to my office,’ Guy said, thinking out loud, ‘then I might persuade Chivers, my boss, that I was following up a legitimate lead. Get him to call this lot off, whoever they are.’

‘And what about me? Am I following up a legitimate lead too?’

‘We’ll think of something.’

‘Who are they anyway?’ She looked round. The three men
were walking slowly towards them, confidently unhurried. ‘Police.’

Another figure had appeared from the exit to the taxis. A figure that Guy recognised at once – the man from the tube station, Alban. He stood watching, hands in his jacket pockets and a thin smile on his ruddy face.

‘MI5. Christ!’

‘Is that better or worse.’

‘Yes. No. Maybe – I don’t know.’

The acrid smell of smoke announced the arrival of another train more clearly than the station announcer. It was a busy train, and people streamed out from the platform and across the station concourse.

‘Now!’ Guy said, grabbing Sarah’s arm.

They disappeared into the mass of people, losing themselves in the middle of the crowd. Guy caught glimpses of the MI5 men looking into the mass. One of them pushed through, staring round as he tried to see where they had gone.

The tide of people swept them past the news stand back towards the exit. There was a narrow gateway past the main exit. As they reached it, Guy pulled Sarah out of the crowd and they hurried through. Her heels clacked so loudly on the flagstones that Guy was sure everyone in the station must be turning to look. He risked a glance back over his shoulder.

Nothing.

No one was following. He breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Taxi?’ Sarah suggested as they emerged into the dying rays of the evening sun.

He shook his head. ‘They might have someone watching.’

They set off briskly round the side of Euston and down a narrow alley that led away from the thoroughfare of the Euston Road and towards Cardigan Street.

‘We can cut through St James’s Gardens, take a back way to Whitehall and find Chivers.’

‘You really think he can help?’

‘I don’t know,’ Guy admitted. ‘You got any better ideas?’

‘I know a chap at the American embassy. Friend of mother’s.’

‘You said,’ he remembered. Was that an option? Maybe he could call Chivers from the embassy.

He was still considering the alternatives as they reached the gardens. They turned in at a narrow gate, past a low wall drilled with holes where the iron railings had been removed to be melted down for the war effort. Not that they were much use, but it was another way of showing that Something was Being Done.

A man coming the other way stepped back to let them through. Guy nodded a thank you, and the man acknowledged with a smile.

‘Keep walking,’ Sarah hissed as they entered the gardens.

‘What?’

‘That man – I’ve seen him somewhere before. He must be one of them.’

There was something familiar about him, Guy realised. He turned back to look.

And found the man was walking close behind them.

‘Looks like you’re going my way,’ the man said. His voice was cultured – almost plummy. He had a round, handsome face, with bushy eyebrows and dark eyes and looked to be in his early forties, with slicked back dark hair. ‘No, no, don’t run.’ The man glanced down, and Guy followed his gaze. The man’s right hand was in his coat pocket.

‘I really wouldn’t advise it, Major Pentecross,’ the man said. He smiled apologetically. ‘I promise you, I can shoot both you and Miss Diamond in less than a second and vanish into the evening in less than a minute. Or we can all go for a little stroll through the gardens, which I have to say are looking very fine despite everything. Now then, which would you prefer – smelling the roses, or pushing up the daisies?’

THE SUN WAS
dipping below the shattered London skyline. It bathed the ruined streets with an orange warmth that belied the destruction. Barrage balloons shimmered in the evening sky. An elderly lady picked her way through rubble balancing herself with a large bag in each hand.

Perhaps it was all she had left in this world, Guy thought. He wondered if, under different circumstances, he might have waded through the debris and offered to help. But right now that wasn’t an option. At some point Sarah had taken hold of his hand. Or perhaps he had taken hold of hers.

The man behind gave them terse instructions about which way to go. Guy had assumed it would be towards Piccadilly. MI5 had offices in St James’s Street, identified to those who knew – and disguised from those who didn’t – by a large ‘To Let’ board outside. But they seemed to be heading instead towards the lower end of Oxford Street.

‘Nearly there,’ the man said as they turned onto High Holborn.

There were more people around here, and Guy wondered if he should make a run for it. Could he and Sarah lose themselves in the crowd? Or would the man fulfil his boast and shoot them both within seconds? But even if they did get away – where could they go? The more he thought about his plan to get Chivers to intercede, the more he knew it wouldn’t
work. Chivers was relatively unimportant, even if he could be persuaded to stick up for Guy Pentecross. More likely he’d shake his head sadly and offer his universal mantra: ‘Rather you than me.’

Sooner or later both he and Sarah would have to account for themselves. Running for it now could only make things worse.

Guy was used to buildings not being what they appeared from the outside. There was no ‘To Let’ sign, but a polished brass plaque announced that the imposing building the man had led them to was ‘The Atlantean Club’. Sarah gave him a quizzical look as she too read the sign, and Guy shrugged. Inside, it was likely to be offices and desks.

Except that it wasn’t. A tall, thin man immaculately dressed in a dark suit stood inside the door.

‘Are you members?’ he asked, peering suspiciously at Sarah.

‘It’s all right, Charles,’ the man behind them said.

Charles was immediately deferential. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there, sir. Will you be dining with us tonight? The chef has, I believe, managed to acquire some mutton for a casserole.’

‘That sounds ideal.’ Their captor pushed past Guy and Sarah. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t need your ration books here. It’s all right, Charles, I’ll sign them in. Then if you could find us somewhere quiet?’

It felt more like a weekend party at a country house retreat than an interrogation. Guy and Sarah were shown into a large wood-panelled room, and invited to sit in small leather armchairs round a low coffee table. The man who had brought them here took a third chair, from which he had a good view of both his prisoners. He kept his jacket on, and his hand in his pocket.

‘What is this place?’ Sarah demanded. ‘Why have you brought us here? Who are you anyway?’

The man nodded. ‘Fair questions. In strict order of asking, this is my club, and I’ve brought you here for dinner.’ He smiled, and settled himself comfortably into his chair. ‘I’d offer
to shake hands,’ he said, ‘only…’ He smiled apologetically, his jacket twitching as what Guy knew was a gun barrel jutted against the material. ‘Harry Heslington-Smythe,’ the man went on. His voice was as affected as his name.

‘I suppose you want some answers,’ Guy said. Maybe if they cooperated things might not go so badly.

‘I suppose I do.’

Guy looked at Sarah. She gave a quick nod, then looked away. ‘We went to some crummy little village in the middle of nowhere,’ she said without looking at either of them. ‘That’s all there is to it. It’s a free country isn’t it?’

‘Well,’ Smythe said, ‘I’m not sure we really have long enough to debate that one. What people will give up to preserve their freedom, eh?’

‘Look – what do you want to know?’ Guy demanded. ‘Can you just stop being so damned affable and get on with it?’

‘I’m sorry if I’ve ruffled your feathers,’ Smythe said, his smile undercutting the apology. ‘But really I’d just like to know why you’re so interested in Colonel Brinkman and his merry men. What would induce a former officer now highly regarded in the Foreign Office and a young lady with a penchant for aeroplanes and fast cars to infiltrate a highly secret establishment?’

There was something in his manner, something in his voice which again made Guy think they had met before. It was more than just his appearance – he knew how the man sounded, recognised his voice.

‘Do you work in the FO?’ he asked.

‘Alas, no.’

‘But I know you from somewhere.’

‘So do I,’ Sarah said. ‘Have we met before?’

‘I’m sure I would remember. Perhaps I just have one of those faces. Now, are you going to answer my questions?’

‘Why should we?’ Sarah demanded.

‘Well, I did just save you from getting arrested.’ He glanced down at the hand still in his jacket pocket. ‘Amongst other reasons.’

‘You’re not going to shoot us,’ Guy said. Though even as he said it, he wasn’t at all sure. There was an underlying coldness about the man, despite his façade of good humour and cordiality.

‘It would be a shame to get blood on the floorboards,’ Smythe admitted. ‘Though I suspect it wouldn’t be the first time. This place has quite a history. I do hope you won’t be adding to that history in an unpleasant way. And I would hate to be barred. Now, you were going to tell me about your interest in Colonel Brinkman.’

‘What do you want to know?’ Sarah said with a sigh. She seemed suddenly deflated, and Guy guessed she was as tired and hungry as he was. He hoped the offer of casserole wasn’t an idle one.

‘Assume I know nothing. Tell me why you’ve been following the colonel and his colleagues.’ He leaned forward in the chair, hand still in his jacket pocket, eyes gleaming with sudden interest. ‘Tell me what you have found out, and what you think is going on.’

Again, Sarah told her story first. She gave a shorter account of events than she had treated Guy to in the pub. But she covered the essentials. Smythe listened attentively, nodding now and then, asking the occasional question.

‘You’re curious,’ he summed up when she paused, having reached the point in her narrative where she met up with Guy. ‘I can understand that. I’m a curious man myself. So then the two of you followed Brinkman to Bletchley and fell rapidly out of your depth.’

‘I guess so.’

Smythe was silent throughout Guy’s account. He again omitted any mention of his trip to Glasgow and his meeting with Hess. When he was finished, Smythe frowned.

‘Is that it?’

‘Pretty much. I’m curious too.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What do you mean?’ Sarah asked. ‘He told you what happened, how he got involved. You think Guy’s lying?’

‘Because I’m not,’ Guy insisted.

‘Oh I’m sure you are veracity incarnate,’ Smythe said. ‘I’m quite prepared to believed you’ve told the truth and nothing but the truth.’ He considered for a moment before going on: ‘Only, it isn’t the
whole
truth is it? There’s not enough in what you said to merit what you’ve done. I mean – an RAF interception you didn’t really understand, a burned German soldier, a rather vague warning from someone who you think works for MI5, and… Well.’ He smiled. ‘That’s about all there is, really. So what aren’t you telling me?’

‘He’s told you everything,’ Sarah said.

‘In that case I apologise and revise my question. What aren’t you telling
us
?’

For the first time Sarah seemed uncertain. She looked at Guy. He could tell from her expression that there was something in his own manner that gave him away. Rather than prolong the process he raised his hands in mock surrender.

‘All right. There was something else.’

Sarah’s expression hardened. She looked away. That upset Guy more than Smythe’s knowing smile.

‘I met Brinkman, just briefly. In Glasgow, back in May.’

‘What were you doing in Glasgow?’ Sarah wondered.

He was in too deep to stop now, so Guy told them. ‘I was there to interrogate a German pilot who’d crashed his plane. Except…’

‘Except he wasn’t just an ordinary German airman, was he?’ Smythe prompted. He must have guessed what was coming from the coincidence of the place and the date.

‘No. It was Rudolf Hess, the Deputy Fuhrer.’

When Guy had finished there was silence for several seconds.

Then Sarah shook her head sadly. ‘And you couldn’t tell me this before?’

‘I’m sorry. But there’s not really much to it. I saw Hess. He spoke to the Duke of Hamilton, not me. Whatever he told Hamilton evidently affected the man. Then Brinkman turned up and I was sent packing.’

‘But you think it significant?’ Smythe asked.

Guy nodded. ‘So now you know everything. Are you going to charge us? Or do you hand us over to the police for that?’

Smythe was all sympathy. ‘Before you’ve had your dinner? I promised you mutton casserole, I think. In any case,’ he added, ‘I can’t charge you with anything or hand you over to anyone.’

‘But – ’ Guy was confused. Confused and annoyed. ‘Look – who the hell are you, then?’

‘I know,’ Sarah said quietly. ‘I recognised you just now. Something you said, the way you said it, your expression.’

Smythe was smiling encouragingly. ‘Go on.’

‘I saw you in some Shakespeare play on Broadway back in ’37. You’re Leo Davenport – the actor.’

As soon as she said it, Guy could see that she was right. How could he not have recognised the man? He’d seen him on stage several times, and in more films than he could remember.

‘Perhaps I’m less impressive in the flesh,’ Smythe – or rather, Davenport – said, as if guessing Guy’s thoughts.

‘If you’re not MI5 or Special Branch, why are you keeping us here?’ Guy said. His anger was tempered with curiosity.