Simon Tolkien - Orders from Berlin

‘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to the floor, wishing that he were behind the wheel of Quaid’s high-powered Wolseley police car instead of pushing an out-of-date Austin 7 beyond its limit.

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.