The Leader

by Guy Walters

  About the Book

  Great Britain, 1937:

  Edward VIII will not abdicate. He and his new bride, Wallis Simpson, are preparing for their coronation.

  Winston Churchill is a prisoner on the Isle of Man.

  The Prime Minister, Oswald Mosley consults the new Chancellor of Germany, and his close ally, Adolf Hitler on a more ‘permanent’ solution to the ‘Jewish problem’.

  The secret police have Britain in an iron grip.

  But one man, James Armstrong, a hero of the Great War, is organising the resistance against the government. While ‘the leader’ is determined to see him hang, Armstrong, constantly on the run, is every bit as clever and resolute as his enemy.

  In the tradition of Robert Harris’s Fatherland, Guy Walters has written a compelling, page-turning what-if thriller that imagines a nightmare vision of a Britain that could have been, if history had gone the other way.

  About the Author

  Guy Walters is the author of six books on the Second World War, including Berlin Games. A former journalist on The Times, he writes widely on historical topics for the national press. He lives in Wiltshire with his wife, the author Annabel Venning, and their two children.

  For more information on Guy Walters and his books, visit his website at www.guywalters.com

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Guy Walters

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue: A Day to Remember

  Chapter One: The Party

  Chapter Two: Rule Britannia

  Chapter Three: A Funny Place

  Chapter Four: He Do the Police

  Chapter Five: Washing Hands

  Chapter Six: Friends in Need

  Chapter Seven: Fellow Travellers

  Chapter Eight: Special Relationships

  Chapter Nine: Evening Out

  Chapter Ten: Days Dwindle Down

  Chapter Eleven: Blacker Still

  Chapter Twelve: Idiots

  Chapter Thirteen: Nail Cutting

  Chapter Fourteen: Temporal Kingdom

  Epilogue: Higher Forms

  Select Bibliography

  Also by Guy Walters

  Fiction

  The Traitor

  The Occupation

  The Colditz Legacy

  History

  The Voice of War (edited with James Owen)

  Berlin Games

  Hunting Evil

  This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Epub ISBN: 9781446436134

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  A Random House Group Company

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Copyright © 2003 Guy Walters

  The right of Guy Walters to be identified as the author of

  the work has been asserted by him in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2003

  by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters – other than the obvious historical figures – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 0 7553 0058 0

  This book is for

  WILLIAM

  Acknowledgements

  I AM EXTREMELY grateful to several people for helping me breathe life into The Leader.

  On the Isle of Man, I was shown around Peel by William Bolton and Eddie Leece, the founder of the excellent Leece Museum. Its curator, Roy Baker, took the trouble to supply me with various documents concerning the internment camps during the Second World War. I am also thankful to Sandra Bolton for allowing me to rummage through her vast collection of Manx books.

  In Galloway, I was well looked after by Mr and Mrs Collins at Damnaglaur House near Drummore. Visitors to the Rhinns could do no better than to stay with them.

  I am indebted to the following for helping me with my research: John Lee for his encyclopedic political knowledge; Vanessa Andreae for allowing me once again to pick her medical brain; my father Martin Walters for his knowledge of steam engines; my mother Angela Walters for supplying a vast amount of pertinent books and newspaper cuttings; Adrian Weale for explosives manufacture; Meryl Keeling at Buckingham Palace for matters of royal protocol. Members of staff at the Wiener Library were kind in allowing me to view Captain Ramsay’s ‘Red Book’. Long may the library flourish.

  Once again, my editor, Marion Donaldson, has been immeasurably helpful in ensuring that what follows is up to scratch. I have an enormous respect for her abilities, not least because she is eerily capable of zeroing in on any shortcomings and not letting me get away with them. My agent, Tif Loehnis, has provided support on an intravenous basis, and her advice is always spot on. I am lucky to have the backing of two such capable professionals. Their respective assistants, Sherise Hobbs and Carl Parsons, have also tolerated my demands with good grace.

  Finally, I am indebted to my wife Annabel Venning, and her parents Richard and Venetia Venning, for enduring my authorial moans and complaints. Now that Annabel is an author herself, I hope that I will be capable of providing as comprehensive a support service for her as she has afforded to me. However, this book is not dedicated to Annabel, but to a joint project whose gestation period exactly coincided with the writing of these pages.

  Prologue

  A Day to Remember

  June 1937

  HE HAD AT least a hundred flags to put up – eighty down The Mall, and another twenty or so in front of Buckingham Palace. Neatly folded and piled up in the back of his van, half of them had only arrived last night. He had wanted to make a start a few days ago, but was told he had to wait until all the flags had arrived. But couldn’t he just put up what he had and wait for the rest? No, absolutely not, he most certainly could not do that. That would give out the wrong message, they said, that would not do at all. But didn’t they know how long it took to put up a hundred flags? They didn’t care, and furthermore, if he didn’t do as he was ordered, he would lose more than his job.

  So Albert started work at five that morning, the day before the state visit. He had young Eric to help him, and together they started to unload the flags in a companionable silence. It was a good time of day, thought Albert, the early morning air clear and golden. He loved London like this, quiet, majestic, the centre of the world.

  It was Eric who broke the silence.

  ‘Hang on, what’s this?’

  ‘What?’ said Albert.

  ‘This one,’ said Eric. ‘This don’t look like a Union Jack.’

  Eric was spreading a vast flag out on the pavement under the plane trees. Together they looked down at it. It was blood red, a white circle in its centre, a circle that bore a black swastika.

  ‘When did that happen?’ asked Eric. ‘When was we supposed to put up German flags?’

  Albert took off his c
ap, scratched the top of his scalp, and then put his cap back on.

  ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘P’raps there’s been a mistake. Must have been slipped in the van accidentally. A mistake, it has to be a mistake.’

  Albert repeated the word ‘mistake’ a few more times, as if by the repetition he would ensure that he was right. He walked round to the back of the van and climbed in. In the gloom he could make out the neat piles, and as his eyes got used to the darkness he could discern the patterns on the folded edges of the flags. Around half of them showed a mixture of red, white and blue, but the remainder showed only red. In a near panic, he lifted a couple of Union Jacks up to reveal what he had already suspected – another German flag underneath them.

  ‘So?’ said Eric.

  Albert looked back.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ he replied. ‘At least half of them are bleedin’ Nazi flags.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Course I’m sure! This can’t be a mistake, they’ve got to be for the visit.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Eric, ‘not one bit.’

  ‘Ssh! People might hear!’

  And indeed there were a few people around, tradesmen on horse-drawn carts, the odd early-bird on his way to work, and, several yards away, a couple of policemen.

  ‘But Nazi flags, Albert . . .’ Eric started.

  ‘I don’t care!’ Albert snapped. ‘Let’s just get on with it! It’s not our business if they change the flags, is it?’

  Eric did as he was told. He was getting used to doing so these days. He wondered how many would turn up tomorrow, how many really wanted to see the German leader. He knew he wouldn’t, that was for sure, but he’d heard that people were being forced to come. Some neighbours in Eric’s street in Peckham had been sent tickets, tickets stating that they had been picked out of a hat to attend the German leader’s visit, and that therefore they were very lucky indeed. But Eric had heard that there was a catch – apparently the tickets said you had to go, and if your ticket was not used then you could expect an investigation into your ‘patriotism’. Eric had tried telling Albert about that, but once again Albert had told him to keep quiet, to keep his opinions to himself. It was for the best, he said, these days it was for the best.

  Later, much later, when they had finished, even Eric had to admit that The Mall looked magnificent. The Nazi flags and the Union Jacks were splendidly triumphant in the evening light, their colours marvellously bright in amongst the lush green of the plane trees. And as they had worked, they had received a lot of attention. Passers-by had pointed at the flags, some with smiles on their faces, but most with frowns, frowns accompanied by grim shakes of the head, before walking briskly away.

  They saluted with little enthusiasm, if any at all. They knew that in their midst there were those who would report them if they didn’t, and so they saluted as bored children might, sarcastically slowly, limply. Brass bands lining The Mall drowned out an absence of cheers, an absence that would have been especially felt when the open-top cars went past.

  In the first car, the crowds could glimpse King Edward VIII and Adolf Hitler saluting back at them. The two heads of state were smiling, talking easily to each other. In the second were a beaming Queen Wallis and the Leader, Sir Oswald Mosley, his chin thrust proudly upwards; in the third, the German ambassador Joachim von Ribbentrop and the Leader’s beautiful wife, Diana.

  The Treaty of London had been signed that morning, and the future had been sealed. Today was a good day for Britain, the Leader said, a good day for Germany, a good day for Europe, fascist Europe. The Germans are our friends now, he said, good National Socialists, fellow travellers. We have lots of work to do, and much to achieve. Herr Hitler has brought miracles to his country, and I shall do the same to ours. But for now, enjoy this day, a day which means we can work together in peace.

  There was a loud cheer when the six stepped out on to the balcony of Buckingham Palace. Stalwart Party men and diehards had been placed there, been given special tickets to ensure enthusiasm up at the front. In picture palaces all over the country, the newsreels showed the delight on the faces of those on the balcony, while a breathless State Broadcasting Corporation newsreader commented on the fact that the King was wearing his fascist uniform for the first time, and that both the Queen and Lady Mosley were sporting very elegant Party armbands, which featured a black circle with a silver lightning flash through it. A great day indeed, said the newsreader, a day to remember in our hearts.

  * * *

  At Peckham police station late that evening, one of the regulars at the Black Lion found himself filling in a form, reporting some anti-patriotic remarks he’d heard earlier at the bar. Today of all days, said the duty sergeant, not a good day to be making jokes about the Leader. Your friend Eric had better mind his tongue.

  Hampstead, March 1937

  Otto regrets wearing his overcoat as soon as he has walked a hundred yards down the road. He thinks about going back to the flat, but a glance at his gold Omega tells him that he doesn’t have the time. Instead, he takes it off and drapes it over his left arm, cursing its unexpected weight in Russian. This little slip – and it is only little, because no one could have heard him – causes him to curse further, but this time in English.

  ‘Shit,’ he says.

  Otto doesn’t normally make mistakes like that. Even though he is only thirty-two, Otto is very experienced, one of the best Moscow has ever employed. His Austrian passport says that he is a ‘university lecturer’, and indeed he could be, because he has a PhD – with distinction – in chemistry from Vienna University. But Otto rarely frequents universities, and spends much of his time engaged in meetings similar to the one he is about to have.

  The walk up to Belsize Park underground station takes little more than five minutes. Predictably, the station’s lift is out of order, and soon he is walking down the damp and winding stairwell that leads to the platforms. Although he can neither see nor hear anybody following him, Otto knows that does not necessarily mean he is not being followed.

  Otto walks to the southbound platform, and sits on a bench shined by countless weary backsides. He looks casually up and down the platform, taking in his fellow passengers. A couple of young women seemingly engaged in some revelatory gossip, a slightly shabby man whom Otto fancies to be a schoolteacher, a bowler-hatted businessman reading The Times, even a vicar carrying a suitcase – a typical smattering of mid-morning passengers all on their way into London.

  Which one is it? Otto wonders. Certainly not the vicar, because he is too noticeable, and besides, he is hampered by his suitcase. The businessman? No, and not the schoolteacher either. He suspects one of the young women, the one who occasionally looks up from her conversation, as if to check for the arrival of a train. Otto allows himself a brief smile, because he knows the woman is looking at him. How can he be sure? He just is, and even if he is wrong, there is no harm in it, for you can never be too cautious.

  Otto feels a cool waft of stale air stroke his face. The train will be here in a few seconds, and he watches the other passengers move towards the edge of the platform, as if pulled by some invisible force. The young women continue to talk, letting out loud peals of laughter that struggle to compete in volume with the arrival of the train, the train that he knows he is not going to take.

  He stands up, deliberately leaving his overcoat on the bench, and walks towards the decelerating carriages. Their interiors are largely empty, a contrast to how they would have been a couple of hours ago. He waits for them to stop, and after the doors have opened he gestures the vicar on to the train before him. He would have done the same for anybody, because Otto thinks of himself as a gentleman. However, he has little time for priests, because he is a mosaisch, an observant Jew, and he takes his religion almost as seriously as he does his love for the Communist Party.

  Otto takes a seat and sits back, seemingly waiting for the doors to close. He has seen the young women get into the same carriage, which has confir
med his suspicions, as they were standing nearly two carriage lengths further down the platform. He waits for five seconds, and then stands up abruptly.

  ‘My coat!’ he says to no one in particular, in the sudden outburst of the eccentric, and then jumps off the train, just as the doors close behind him.

  He walks to the bench and picks up what has become a useful prop. He turns to see the train start to move away, and can draw no conclusion from the fact that the two women are just as engrossed in their conversation as they were before. The businessman flashes a look over the edge of his newspaper and then he is gone, along with the train and its temporary cast of characters.

  Otto smiles once more, and then crosses over to the northbound platform. He will eventually end up going south, but he needs to make sure. He looks at his watch – there is enough time to go to Golders Green and from there to take a number 13 bus down to Baker Street. It seems preposterous, a real waste of time, but it is a delay he has allowed for.

  It takes Otto an hour and a half to complete a journey that should have taken just over a third of that time. When he arrives at the café near Clapham Common station, he is only five minutes late, which he knows will cause his contact no concern. They have met many times before, and have no need to explain why delays are all too common.

  The café goes by the name of Gordon & Eve’s OK Café, and Otto sees Gordon and Eve themselves behind the counter. Gordon waves a hairy arm at him through the smoky air, a gesture that is met with a distracted but perfectly polite nod, for Otto is looking for his contact amongst the gaggle of clerks and labourers.