by Guy Walters
Armstrong sat at the kitchen table, looking at the clutter on the Welsh dresser. There were many framed snapshots of the family – Ted with Bridget, Ted with Bridget and their daughter Flora, who had to be – how old would she be now? Christ, she had been born just after the war, so she had to be almost twenty.
‘How’s Flora?’ Armstrong asked.
‘Sailing down in Dorset with her boyfriend,’ said Ted. ‘She’s mad keen on it. Says they’re going to buy a yacht and sail away from Britain now that Mosley’s in charge.’
‘Sounds like a sensible girl,’ said Armstrong.
Ted laughed and lit another cigarette.
‘Well, she is most of the time. Anyway, I can’t stand boats myself. Can’t remember about you – you a sailor?’
Armstrong found himself involuntarily cast back to the crossing from the Isle of Man. He could hear himself shouting out for Craven, see himself sitting on the rock and desperately scanning the grey-blue water, knowing that with every passing second the chances of him still being alive grew slimmer.
‘I’m a very bad sailor,’ said Armstrong. ‘The sea cost my friend Jim Craven his life.’
Ted passed over a cup of steaming black coffee.
‘I’m so sorry. They said on the radio earlier that they’d found his body up in Scotland. It was foolish of me to talk about sailing, I should have thought. Want anything stronger in that, by the way? No? All right – I might treat myself, though . . .’
Ted’s shaking left hand poured out an inch of whisky into a tumbler.
Armstrong sat forward.
‘On the radio?’ he asked. ‘What’s been on the radio?’
‘You have mostly,’ he replied. ‘Bridget heard an announcement on the SBC at six o’clock. They said you’d killed a couple of policemen yesterday morning.’
Armstrong looked down at his coffee.
‘Is it true, James?’
Armstrong nodded, then let out a deep sigh, and took a large mouthful of coffee.
Ted was in a bad way – that much was clear. Armstrong knew that he was a good drinker – most journalists were – but whisky for breakfast? It reminded him of the days before his own breakdown, when the whisky bottle had been his best friend. He could see the concern in Bridget’s face as her husband poured himself yet another drink. Ted wasn’t getting drunk, he was just drinking to make things look better. With the closure of the Sketch, he was out of a job, and was presumably not being paid.
But Ted was a good man and a good friend. Armstrong needed his help, and if Ted was willing to help, then he would need to know. Ted was on the side of the angels, thought Armstrong, even if he hadn’t always particularly cared for the editorial line taken by the Sketch. He would put him in the picture, from his arrest in Victoria to turning up here in Chelsea.
His account lasted through the whole of breakfast, and afterwards they sat down in the drawing room.
‘People are scared stiff, James,’ said Ted as he lit what must have been his tenth cigarette since Armstrong had arrived. ‘There are informers everywhere. It seems impossible to trust anybody at the moment. Things have changed hugely while you’ve been away. It’s difficult to explain – it’s as if everybody thinks everybody else is one of “them”.’
‘When in fact they’re probably not,’ said Armstrong.
‘Precisely. He’s doing just what Hitler and Mussolini are doing.’
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the letterbox.
‘That’ll be the papers,’ said Ted, looking at his watch. ‘Or what passes for them these days, now that decent journalists like yours truly have been put out of fucking business.’
He came back with a copy of Action, holding it up to show his guest. Armstrong looked back at a picture of himself taken nearly five years ago. In it he was smiling, which had given rise to the predictable headline, ‘THE SMILING KILLER’. Underneath ran the captions: ‘Two policemen brutally murdered by fugitive MP.’ ‘£5000 REWARD for information leading to the arrest of CAPTAIN JAMES ARMSTRONG, the country’s most wanted man.’
‘You’ve caused quite a stir,’ said Ted, the trace of a grin on his face.
‘I certainly have,’ said Armstrong. ‘Pass it here.’
He flicked through the pages, noticing a photograph of one of the dead secret policemen with his family. He ignored it, knowing that to dwell on it would do the very opposite of strengthening his resolve. Anyway, Armstrong thought, the man was a fully paid-up member of a regime that was trying to enslave its own people. In the absence of democracy, blood had to be shed.
He passed the paper back to Ted.
‘It’s a start,’ he said.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ said Ted.
The men sat in a ruminative silence for a minute or so. Armstrong looked around the room, every surface of which seemed to be dedicated to Ted’s journalistic career, in the form of printing plates, framed front pages, as well as photographs of Ted meeting politicians, sportsmen, and even the King. An empty whisky bottle stood stopperless on the mantelpiece. Armstrong also noticed a large collection of board games neatly piled up on a shelf to the left of the fireplace. One particular box caught his eye.
‘What’s Monopoly?’ he asked.
‘Oh,’ said Ted, suddenly mildly flustered, ‘Monopoly. Er, it’s a board game in which you have to bankrupt all the other players. It’s actually pretty good.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Well, it is brand new, although I suspect it may not be sufficiently in the spirit of collectivism for the present incumbent at Number Ten.’
‘Sounds fun,’ said Armstrong.
‘Anyway,’ said Ted, ‘let’s not talk about silly games. What in God’s name are you going to do now?’
Armstrong put down his cup and leaned forward.
‘I’m planning to kill Oswald Mosley,’ he said matter-of-factly.
Ted spluttered into his tumbler.
‘You’re . . .’
‘I’m not joking,’ said Armstrong.
‘But . . . how? When?’
‘At the Coronation.’
‘The Coronation?’
‘That’s right, Ted. I intend to plant a bomb as close to Mosley’s backside as possible.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘In Westminster Abbey.’
‘The Abbey?’
‘That’s right – unless you can think of somewhere better.’
‘But James, the Abbey . . .’
‘The Abbey can be repaired, Ted. A well-placed bomb would wipe out most of the hierarchy in one go. Just think, an instant end to not only Mosley, but the rest of those goons – Joyce, Francis Hawkins, Raven Thomson and Fuller. Kill them and we’re well on our way back to democracy. If we’re lucky, we might even kill a few foreign fascists as well.’
Armstrong paused. They all knew the implications of what he was saying.
‘But the place will be crawling with soldiers, policemen, secret policemen,’ said Ted. ‘It would be almost impossible . . .’
‘Almost,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’ve got to strike hard, and strike at the very heart. With any luck, I’ve still got the men in place to help, but they can only do so when they know we’ve succeeded in London. My job is to ensure that they have the best possible start. If I cut off most of Medusa’s heads, then her confusion will be all the greater.’
‘But won’t a bomb kill innocent people? Priests, for example?’
‘I’ve thought of that,’ said Armstrong.
‘And?’
‘First, the bomb will not need to be so massive that it obliterates the entire building. Remember, we need only to ensure that Mosley and a few others are killed, not the whole congregation. Second, as brutal as it sounds, we may have to consider the deaths of a few innocent people as a price worth paying. If we leave Mosley in power, then many more innocent people will die, many, many more.’
Ted breathed out.
‘Good God, James, you’ve set you
rself a tall order.’
‘That’s why I’m going to need you to help me.’
‘Help you?’
‘That’s right, Ted.’
Ted shifted uneasily in his seat before getting up swiftly, as though the cushion had suddenly reached boiling point.
‘But James, I have a family . . .’
‘So do I, so do a lot of people.’
‘But what can I do? I’m just a whisky-soaked hack with a slightly suspect ticker. I can’t do the sort of running around that you’d like.’
Armstrong reached down to the side of his chair and picked up the briefcase. He opened it and removed the green file, which he slammed down on the low table in front of him.
‘What’s that?’ asked Ted.
‘Just read it,’ said Armstrong.
Ted looked back at him quizzically.
‘Well go on,’ said Armstrong. ‘It won’t bite.’
Ted walked over to the table and picked up the file. As he read the cover, his eyes widened. He pulled open the red bow and started to leaf through the pages.
‘Good God,’ he said after half a minute, shaking his head slowly. ‘This is . . . this is madness, just . . . it’s just lunacy.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Armstrong.
‘If I’m reading this right,’ said Ted, ‘it looks as though Mosley means to get every Jew in this country to live and work in what can only be described as concentration camps. This is what they have in fucking Germany, not over here!’
Armstrong nodded.
‘Have you seen this one?’ said Ted, passing a sheet back to Armstrong.
Armstrong looked at it. Under the heading ‘Corporations Willing To Take On Forced Jewish Labour’ was a list of around thirty to forty household names.
‘I saw this one,’ said Armstrong. ‘You’ll notice that Iremonger is on this list.’
‘No,’ said Ted. ‘But I thought he was . . .’
‘So did I,’ said Armstrong.
Ted shook his head.
‘This is bloody dynamite,’ he said. ‘How did you get it?’
‘I found it in the back of the secret policemen’s car up in Scotland.’
Ted sat down with the file and continued to peruse it.
‘Ted,’ said Armstrong pointedly, ‘will you help me?’
Ted looked back at him. Armstrong thought that a moment’s indecision crossed his face, but then his features set themselves into an expression of determination that Armstrong had never before seen in his friend.
‘What do you want me to do?’
Armstrong smiled back gently. It was hardly surprising that Ted hadn’t immediately agreed to help – as he had said, he had a family.
‘For a start,’ said Armstrong, ‘I’d like you to take me over to the East End.’
‘Of course . . . May I ask why?’
‘I want to see Jim Craven’s widow. One of the reasons why Craven was escaping with me was because he had links with the Freedom Council . . .’
‘The Freedom Council?’
‘You mean you haven’t heard of them?’
‘Look, James, all we get to read and hear about these days is what’s put out by the fucking fascists. I don’t have the same—’
Armstrong held up his hands.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘sorry. The Freedom Council is a Communist – mainly Jewish – resistance group. They’re based in the East End. It’s vital that I speak to Craven’s widow and ask her what she knows about them, how we can contact them. Not only do I need their help, but I also think they should know about the contents of this file.’
‘You’re quite happy making allegiances with . . . with Communists, are you?’
‘I don’t see that we’ve got any choice,’ said Armstrong. ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend. The Freedom Council will be invaluable in whipping up support nationwide in the event that we successfully remove Mosley.’
Ted raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m being quite serious, Ted – this is not the time for being fussy. We need all the help we can get.’
Ted remained silent. Armstrong stood up and stretched, looking out of the window on to the narrow street. For a moment he felt unbearably claustrophobic, knowing that he couldn’t leave the house, not even to indulge in a stroll along the Embankment. He had plenty of friends out there, but for the time being he had to assume that Ted was the only one. He turned round to see Ted pouring another measure of whisky.
‘Ted,’ he said softly.
‘What?’
‘No more whisky, Ted.’
Ted’s eyes bulged furiously.
‘No more. You can get as blotto as you like when all this is over – who knows, perhaps I’ll join you – but for now I need you to stay sober.’
‘Come on, man,’ snapped Ted. ‘I’m just having a fucking sharpener!’
‘I’d have thought the contents of the file were enough of a fucking sharpener!’
Ted slumped forward, letting the tumbler fall an inch on to the table, sending a few droplets splashing over the rim. He held up his hands in surrender.
‘Mea culpa,’ he said. ‘Mea bloody culpa.’
Armstrong smiled.
‘Don’t beat yourself up – I’m not too sure I like playing nanny that much.’
‘I thought that’s what you politicians were good at.’
* * *
The call is taken by Otto’s wife Josefine later that morning. Josefine is not only Otto’s wife, she is also his radio operator, trained in Moscow to the very highest standards. She and Otto met when they were both working for the OMS, the Comintern International Liaison Department, and they married in 1929. Their partnership is an unusual one, because Otto believes in maintaining many sexual relationships, an arrangement that suits Otto more than it does Josefine. Nevertheless, she knows that Otto is loyal to her, and not simply because he needs her for his work.
‘Hello?’ says Josefine, her voice slightly groggy. She and Otto are still in bed – last night’s party at the Austrian Club was a good one.
‘Is Otto there?’
Josefine recognises the brusque voice. She has heard it many times before, although she has never seen the face it belongs to. It is Andrei from the Soviet Embassy.
‘Wait,’ she says, and hands the receiver over to her sleeping husband.
He does not move.
‘Otto,’ she hisses, nudging him in the side.
Still no movement.
‘OTTO!’
‘Hmm?’
‘The telephone!’
A hirsute hand reaches out of the blankets and makes a grabbing motion. Josefine smacks the phone into the palm.
‘Thank you, darling,’ says Otto sarcastically.
‘Otto,’ says the voice down the line, ‘I must see you immediately.’
Otto sits up. He knows that this must be serious.
‘Why?’
‘It’s Krivitsky.’
Andrei is referring to Major-General Walter Krivitsky, the NKVD’s man in the Netherlands.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s gone over to the Americans.’
Any colour that Otto had in his pasty, hungover face immediately disappears.
‘Krivitsky? He knows nearly everything . . .’
‘I’ll see you in the park at twelve,’ says Andrei before the line goes dead.
For a minute, Otto just stares towards the window, his eyes focusing on a point in the air somewhere between the bed and the partially closed curtains. This could mean the end of Top Hat, the end of Dog, the end of everything he has worked so hard to achieve. It could even mean the end of Otto.
Chapter Seven
Fellow Travellers
‘OUSBY!’
‘Sir?’
Sir Roger’s grip on the telephone tightened.
‘One question for you – I’m sure you can guess what it is.’
He could, but opted to say nothing. When the Leader was in a mood such as this, it was far better to st
ay silent.
‘Well, can you?’
Sir Roger hated to be treated like a child. Armstrong had been the only thing on his mind for the past few days – all his other work had been put to one side.
‘Armstrong,’ he said, ‘I take it this is about Armstrong.’
‘Well?’
‘No firm news, sir. However, there is a strong likelihood that he may be down here in London, disguised as a Blackshirt.’
‘As a Blackshirt?’
‘That’s right – yesterday afternoon a Blackshirt in Carlisle was brutally assaulted and stripped of his uniform. His assailant matches Armstrong’s description. We have further evidence from another Party member, who says he believes the man with whom he shared a train compartment on the way from Carlisle to Euston may well have been Armstrong.’
‘Who is this Party member?’
Sir Roger shuffled through some papers on his desk.
‘He’s called Fraser, Duncan Fraser. He’s a regional coordinator in Dumfries, down here for the conference on immigration.’
‘And you mean to tell me that this Fraser sat next to Armstrong for several hours on a train and did nothing?’
‘Well, he was disgui—’
‘Where is Fraser now?’ Mosley snapped.
‘He’s staying on the King’s Road,’ said Sir Roger, referring to the location of the Black House, the Party’s headquarters.
‘Arrest him,’ said Mosley. ‘And see to it that he never gets back home. Understood? The man’s an idiot, Ousby. I will not have idiots in the Blackshirts.’
Sir Roger calmly noted down the Leader’s request.
‘Very well, sir – it will be done immediately.’
‘So you have no idea where Armstrong went after he arrived at Euston?’
‘He told Fraser that he was called Andrew Carr and said that he was on his way back home to High Wycombe. However, it seems that he pulled some kind of stunt in order to get past the checkpoint.’
‘Stunt?’
‘Apparently he collapsed and had a fit. He was taken to University College Hospital, from where he discharged himself early this morning.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Ousby! How incompetent do your people get?’
Ousby didn’t reply. There was no point in justifying what had been a cock-up. He would personally deal with the officer in charge of last night’s arrangements at Euston.