Simon Tolkien - Orders from Berlin

Seaforth could see from where he was sitting that the building opened up in all directions, and there were people coming and going on all sides. Some of them were carrying packing cases and there was a general atmosphere of upheaval. But there was little talking going on; the loudest example of that was coming from behind a closed door at the end of the ante-room in which they were sitting. There were two voices, one muffled and the other, unmistakably Churchill’s, growing steadily in volume, so that Seaforth was soon able to make out most of what he was saying.

‘Totally unacceptable … no excuse for this kind of inertia,’ and then even more loudly: ‘I’ll tell you what you sound like — like the secretary of some damned Surrey golf club. This isn’t golf we’re playing, General. It’s war. Do you hear me — war!’ Churchill practically roared the last word, and then, after a few less audible exchanges, the door opened suddenly and a purple-faced man in a medal-encrusted military uniform emerged, straightened his jacket as if making an effort to regain his dignity, then marched across the ante-room to the staircase and disappeared from view.

Opposite Seaforth, Thompson showed no reaction. He didn’t even move a muscle. The bodyguard’s intense static concentration worried Seaforth, and with every minute that passed he became more irrationally convinced that Thompson suspected him. He’d even have welcomed a renewal of Thorn’s questions to defuse the tension, but Thorn was silent, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, apparently lost in contemplation of the carpet but in fact trying desperately to fight the sickness that was threatening to overwhelm him.

Several minutes passed and the secretary who’d received them in the entrance hallway below reappeared as if from nowhere. He knocked on Churchill’s door, opened it, and indicated to Seaforth and Thorn to go in. Thompson got up too, and Seaforth inwardly despaired. His chances of success were zero with Thompson watching his back.

Seaforth took in the room in a moment. As he’d expected, it was full of smoke — from cigars and from a fire that was smouldering in a grate on the far wall. But the smoke was less oppressive than it had been in the bunker because of a slight breeze blowing in through a sash window. On closer inspection, Seaforth saw to his surprise that there was no glass in the frame, just a net curtain hanging over it, through which Seaforth could see the outline of the stone buildings on the other side of Downing Street. Below the window was a recessed seat on which a well-groomed, well-fed black cat was curled up on a fitted cushion, dozing with its yellow eyes half-open.

A large kneehole desk took up most of the space in the centre of the room, covered with papers and files and pens and a telephone, and a bottle of Pol Roger champagne with a half-empty glass beside it. And behind the desk was the familiar figure of Churchill, wearing a black silk dressing gown decorated with rampant red Chinese dragons.

He looked up as they came in and waved them to two chairs opposite him in front of the desk, then spoke over their shoulders to Thompson and the secretary, who were standing in the doorway behind where they were now sitting.

‘I shan’t be needing you for at least another hour, Thompson,’ he said. ‘See if they can rustle you up something downstairs. And no calls, John,’ he added, addressing the secretary. ‘I’m going to have to put my thinking cap on with Alec and Mr Seaforth here.’ Churchill smiled; his earlier ill humour seemed to have disappeared entirely.

The door closed, leaving Churchill alone with his two visitors. It was the perfect opportunity, thought Seaforth, who had decided in advance that he would need both Thorn and Churchill to be sitting down when he began shooting so they wouldn’t be moving targets. Now he could strike straight away without having to wait — Churchill first because he might be armed and then Thorn, who definitely wasn’t.

Seaforth picked up his briefcase, placed it on his knees, and opened the lid. But then, just as he was about to get out the briefing document and release the catch on the secret compartment, Churchill got up from his chair and went over to the fire. He placed a log carefully on top and poked the smoky coal repeatedly until it produced some reluctant flames.

‘I used to be good at fires. Learnt the art when I was a young man out in South Africa. But now I rely on other people and you can see what happens,’ he said, renewing his efforts with the poker. ‘It’s chaos here today. A bomb blew out the glass in most of the windows yesterday. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last, but Clemmie decided that she’d had enough, so we’re moving to a flat round the corner just above that damned bunker, and I have to sit in here while everything gets tossed about. I don’t like it and Nelson doesn’t like it either …’

‘Nelson?’ repeated Thorn, who had been trying to stay afloat by carefully following Churchill’s every word and was now nonplussed by his reference to a dead admiral.

‘The cat — my cat,’ said Churchill, pointing over at the sleek black animal watching them from the window seat. ‘Brought him here when I took over as PM, and he chased Munich Mouser, Chamberlain’s feline, out within a week, and we haven’t seen hide or hair of him since.’ Churchill’s pride in his pet was obvious. He went over and stroked Nelson for a moment before returning to his seat.

Seaforth had had enough. He’d come here to assassinate Churchill, not listen to him talk about cats. And his heart was racing — he knew he couldn’t cope with any further delay. He put his hand back in the briefcase and released the catch, then reached inside the compartment-

And outside the window pandemonium broke out — the screeching of a car’s brakes, people running, and a man shouting: ‘Thorn, can you hear me? Seaforth’s got a gun — he’s going to kill Churchill! You have to stop him! ’

And Seaforth did have a gun. He had it in his hand now. He lifted it out of the briefcase and pointed it at Churchill, and then, just as he was about to pull the trigger, he felt a great weight land on him from the side and he was falling to the floor. The gun went off in his hand once and then twice, and now the weight was heavier. It was dead weight. Thorn was dead. He was sure of it. And there was still time. He hadn’t lost hold of the gun. He pushed hard against Thorn’s body, rolling away towards the fire, and levered himself into a sitting position. He raised the gun and looked up at his enemy, the man he hated, the man who’d murdered his brother in cold blood. Looked up to watch him die but instead found himself staring into the muzzle of another automatic pistol, one he’d never seen before. And then the world exploded and he was gone.

Trave handed over his gun and the documents that he’d taken from Seaforth’s flat and was driven in an unmarked police car to an anonymous grey stone building in Whitehall by two plain-clothes policemen who refused to answer any of his questions about what had happened inside Number 10. They led him to a windowless, ground-floor room containing nothing except a table and two hard-backed chairs and a rather bad picture of the Tower of London, then locked him in.

Trave sat in one of the chairs and paced the room and then sat in the other one, drumming his fingers on the table. An hour passed and then another, and finally the door opened and a small bald man with thick glasses came in, bringing sandwiches, a flask of coffee, and some pieces of white paper and a pen.

‘You’re to write down everything that’s happened,’ said the man. ‘Leave nothing out. And then ring when you’re done,’ he instructed, pointing to a bell by the door.