Simon Tolkien - Orders from Berlin

Seaforth had kept his head turned away from Thorn, but now he turned round to look at him. ‘What’s Heydrich got to do with it?’ he asked. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

Thorn bit his lip, refusing to reply. His angry outburst had left him feeling faint, and he was nauseated too, probably from some drug they’d pumped into him at the hospital, he thought miserably. Outside the car window, the statues in Parliament Square seemed to be shaking on their foundations and the sky was tumbling down towards him. He looked over at Big Ben and was able for a moment to focus on the hands of the clock standing at half past three. But then the car made a sharp turn into Whitehall and everything began to shake again. Thorn closed his eyes and immediately felt worse. He thought he was going to be sick, but somehow he succeeded in fighting back the bile rising in his throat and then used his remaining strength to wind down the car window. Leaning out, he took deep draughts of the fresh air like a man who’d just escaped death by drowning.

And it was in this condition that he arrived outside 10 Downing Street a minute later. Looking at Thorn as he stumbled out of the car, Seaforth rubbed his elegant hands together in anticipation. What did it matter if Thorn had stumbled on the connection with Heydrich, he thought, if the fool had only a few minutes left to live?

Trave stopped the Austin 7 outside 59 Broadway with a screech of brakes, jumped out of the car, and immediately began hammering on the front door. He didn’t stop until Jarvis opened it.

‘What the ’ell —,’ Jarvis began, but Trave cut him off.

‘Where’s Seaforth?’ he demanded. ‘And Thorn? Are they here?’

‘I’m not telling you. Who the bloody ’ell do you think you are coming round ’ere-’

‘No, you are going to tell me. Believe me, you are,’ interrupted Trave, taking out his gun and pointing it at the caretaker’s head.

Jarvis stepped back, trying to shut the door, but Trave was too quick for him. He threw himself to the side, stopping the door from closing, and then grabbed hold of the collar of Jarvis’s overall with his free hand and pulled the old man into the street.

Shocked, Jarvis lost his balance and fell onto the pavement. Trave knelt beside him and pushed the muzzle of his revolver against Jarvis’s temple.

‘Tell me,’ he ordered. ‘Tell me where they are or I swear I’ll-’

‘They’ve gone to Number 10,’ said Jarvis, giving in. He had a strong instinct for self-preservation and no way of knowing that Trave had neither the intention nor the capacity to shoot — the hammer on the gun wasn’t even pulled back.

‘How long ago?’

‘About ten minutes,’ said Jarvis, keeping his terrified eyes fixed on the gun. ‘Now let me go. I ain’t done nothing.’

But Trave didn’t reply. He was already focusing all his attention on the task ahead. Pocketing the gun, he leapt back in the car and then drove off without a backward glance at Jarvis, who was now sitting up on the pavement, shaking his fist at the Austin 7 as it disappeared around the corner in a cloud of dust.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Ava, who’d been too far away to hear Jarvis’s strangled responses to Trave’s questions. She’d seen the gun in Trave’s hand, however, and she felt scared by the way he seemed to be losing control. Now he was driving like a maniac, blowing his horn repeatedly to clear the road in front. One panicked motorcyclist swerved and mounted the pavement before crashing into a postbox, but there was no time to see if the man was all right, as Trave had already turned the corner, narrowly missing a bus that had the right of way.

‘Downing Street,’ he shouted. ‘But I don’t think we’re going to make it in time.’ Or if they were going to make it at all, he might have added. Trave could feel the Austin’s engine spluttering as if it were on its last legs. It wasn’t made for the kind of treatment he’d been subjecting it to since they left Battersea.

The clutch had gone — Trave realized the problem as they turned into Whitehall. There was no power in the car; it was going forward on its own momentum. Once he’d stopped there would be no starting again, and he needed to turn left into Downing Street across a steady stream of oncoming traffic.

‘Hold on!’ he yelled, and turned the wheel violently, rushing between the front of one car and the back of another. Ava closed her eyes and held her breath. She was gripping Trave’s thigh with one hand while she pushed against the dashboard with the other, thrusting herself back into her seat as she braced for the inevitable smash, the awful impact of metal on flesh. But nothing happened. Just the sound of screeching brakes and horns and shouts, and the car engine thumping violently once, twice, before it finally gave up the ghost.

She blinked when she opened her eyes because she was looking at a sight she’d seen before in newspapers and magazines but never in the flesh: a hanging glass lamp, a white-painted Georgian fanlight, a shiny black door with a lion knocker in the centre, and up above, the bright brass numeral 10. But there wasn’t a solitary policeman with folded arms standing outside. Instead, armed policemen were converging on their car from all sides. They were taking hold of her; they were taking hold of Trave — and he was shouting up at the empty windows: ‘Thorn, can you hear me? Seaforth’s got a gun — he’s going to kill Churchill! You have to stop him! ’ Shouting as if his lungs would burst, shouting over and over again until he was finally overpowered and forced to lie face down on the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back. And it was then they heard the crack of pistol shots coming from the windows above. One and two and then after a pause two more. And then silence.

Seaforth and Thorn got out in front of 10 Downing Street and showed the armed policeman on duty the day passes that their driver had given them. He knocked on the door and they were let inside. Thorn had been to Number 10 before, but it was Seaforth’s first time and he let out a gasp of surprise. The famous but modest outside entrance had not prepared him for the grandeur of the entrance hall, with its ornate fireplace and black-and-white marble floor laid out like a draughtboard. A young man in a grey suit came forward with a knowing smile, and Seaforth sensed that he had seen the look of surprise on visitors’ faces a thousand times before. He checked their passes, shook their hands, and asked them to follow him up a wide staircase lined with engravings and photographs of former prime ministers. Seaforth, an amateur student of history, recognized most of the faces and one in particular. At a turn in the staircase he hesitated for a moment in front of the picture of Spencer Perceval, who had been murdered with a pistol bullet in the House of Commons in 1812 — the only prime minister to date to have fallen victim to an assassination. But soon there will be another, thought Seaforth with grim determination as he resumed his ascent, followed by Thorn, who gripped the mahogany handrail tightly, fighting a resumption of the nausea he had felt in the car.

At the top of the stairs, the young man ushered them into a small, elegantly furnished ante-room and asked them to wait. They sat side by side on hard-backed chairs under a large nineteenth-century oil painting of a fat man in an enormous wig. And opposite them, a man in a suit and tie was sitting ramrod straight on a similar chair. Seaforth recognized his ascetic, humourless face from his last visit to the Prime Minister. It was Churchill’s bodyguard, Walter Thompson. Seaforth nodded at Thompson, who inclined his head briefly in response and then continued to stare straight ahead. There was something unyielding about Thompson that unnerved Seaforth, and he hoped that the bodyguard wouldn’t ask to see his briefcase before he went in. So far, just as on their last visit, there had been no search, but Seaforth was taking no chances, which was why he had concealed the pistol in the secret compartment of the briefcase rather than on his person. But he felt instinctively that Thompson would find the hiding place if he was given the chance.