The Leader

by Guy Walters

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want us to be disturbed.’

  ‘Disturbed by who?’

  ‘The crew.’

  ‘But I thought you said . . .’

  ‘I know, I know, old Harry can be a bit of a fibber at times.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he insisted. ‘We’ll be quite alone. Just you and me.’

  A belch, and then Harry started fumbling with his trouser buttons. He waddled over to her, sticking out his stomach.

  ‘Here,’ he said, thrusting his groin in her face, ‘this is your job. Undo ’em!’

  Oh God, not that, thought Lucy. His smell was overpowering, almost causing her to retch. With a trembling hand she reached towards his groin.

  ‘Come on, love!’ said Harry. ‘Are you new at this or something?’

  Lucy looked up at him.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Are you? If you are, I want a cheap rate, ’cos I ain’t paying top whack if you’re no bloody good.’

  Lucy could take no more. Something snapped inside her, something that told her she didn’t have to put up with this. What this man was saying was repellent. Her outstretched hand rapidly curled itself into a fist, and with a savage jab she smashed it into the captain’s groin.

  Her victim bent double, his mouth opening but no sound coming out. She punched him again, harder this time, her fist connecting sharply with his testicles.

  ‘You . . . you bitch!’ he gasped.

  She punched him again. A further attempt was blocked by his hands.

  ‘You fucking whore! I’ll kill—’

  No you won’t, Lucy thought, landing a well-aimed fist on the captain’s nose. That caused a yelp of agony, at which point Lucy stood up and punched him hard in the stomach. Her fist sank into his rolls of flab, barely making an impression. The face, she had better go for the face. Another punch, this time in his left eye, and to Lucy’s surprise he fell back, moaning. For good measure she took a well-aimed kick at his ribs. Bastard, she thought, you utter bastard. She kicked him again, unaware of the hammering on the door.

  ‘Open up!’

  She turned to the door. About time too, she thought.

  ‘Come on! Let us in! Are you all right in there?’

  The voice was Armstrong’s.

  ‘Yes! I’m . . . fine. Hold on!’

  It was only now that the captain felt Lucy’s hands near his groin, though they were not there to arouse him, but to remove the key from his pocket.

  ‘Thank you, Captain.’

  The captain merely groaned in response. Lucy got up and unlocked the door, pulling it open to reveal three startled faces.

  ‘Lucy!’ Armstrong exclaimed. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ja—’

  Armstrong firmly clamped his hand over Lucy’s mouth and brought a finger to his lips. Lucy nodded – she knew what she had done wrong. He released his grip and stepped past her into the filthy little cabin. He removed a rubber cosh from his jacket pocket and struck the captain twice over the head, which had the instant effect of silencing his groans.

  Lucy held up her hands.

  ‘I’m so sorry . . .’ she began.

  ‘No need,’ said Armstrong. ‘Find his wallet and take it. I want this to look like a simple case of petty theft. After you’ve done that, lock the door and throw the key into the water.’

  Lucy nodded and Armstrong turned round to speak to Ted and Nick.

  ‘Right, let’s see what we’ve got here. Have you got the knapsacks?’

  Nick nodded.

  ‘Good, well let’s get on with it then.’

  In silence, they broke open one of the wooden boxes. To Armstrong’s delight it was packed with dozens of sticks of dynamite. Within a couple of minutes they had loaded four knapsacks with about twenty sticks each – enough to blow up half the street, Armstrong thought. Nick had also found a box of fuses and timers, which he stuffed into a knapsack.

  ‘Right,’ said Armstrong. ‘Seal the box and swap it with one at the back. I don’t want them to miss this little lot for a while.’

  Nick replaced the lid. As it had splintered upon opening, it did not close securely. Nick looked up at Armstrong.

  ‘No matter,’ said Armstrong. ‘Let’s hide it up here.’

  Together the three men hauled the box on top of another and then shoved it into the darkness. That would have to do, Armstrong thought.

  The sound of approaching footsteps caused them to freeze.

  ‘The crew,’ Lucy whispered.

  Armstrong stared at her in the darkness, flashing her a filthy look.

  ‘You might have bloody told me.’

  Lucy shrugged in apology.

  ‘How many?’ Armstrong said.

  Lucy shrugged again.

  ‘Christ,’ Armstrong murmured.

  Laughter rang out. It sounded as though there were just two of them. And now voices.

  ‘I could have done with her meself!’

  ‘Typical ’Arry – I don’t know how he does it.’

  ‘Tell you what – let’s surprise him!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Burst into his cabin, catch ’im doin’ her.’

  ‘Nice one!’

  ‘Sssh! Not a squeak!’

  Armstrong allowed himself a slight smile. The crewmen would be on the wrong end of an entirely different type of surprise. He gestured to the others to hide behind some boxes, then drew out his cosh and indicated to Nick, who was standing on the other side of the passageway formed by the cargo, that he should do the same.

  The crewmen made a bad job of getting on to the barge quietly, barely managing to suppress their grunting laughter as they climbed down the steps.

  ‘’Arry’s not making a lot of noise!’

  ‘Sssh!’

  Armstrong listened as the men crept noisily towards them. He estimated they must still be twenty feet away.

  ‘Do yer think ’e’s ’ere?’

  ‘Sssh, I said!’

  With ten feet to go, Armstrong flashed a look at Nick, who was raising his cosh in readiness. Some more laughter came from the crewmen.

  ‘She must be good, this one!’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Pete, shut it!’

  After another few seconds the first crewman drew level. Sensing Armstrong’s presence, he turned to his left, only to be rewarded with a cosh smacked directly to the side of his head. He crumpled to the floor.

  ‘Phil!’ shouted the other crewman, but Nick was upon him, his cosh connecting with the man’s cranium. However, he only managed to strike a glancing blow, and the crewman lashed out wildly. Nick attempted to hit him again, but was repulsed by the man punching him on the side of his neck, knocking him painfully on to a box.

  Armstrong stepped over the fallen man and laid into the second crewman violently. It was too bad that the chap was innocent – one day he would like to explain to him why it was that he was being attacked with such ferocity by, of all people, the Conservative chief whip. Until then, he could make no apology for the repeated blows of his cosh, blows that were dispatching the man into an unconscious sprawl on the deck.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Armstrong hissed.

  The others needed no further prompting. As they stepped out of the barge, Armstrong looked at his watch. Ten to eight. They should make it back to the safe-house just after the curfew began.

  * * *

  Henry Allen unlocked the front door of his large house in Belgravia. To his surprise, his wife Louisa was there to greet him, her fingers anxiously twiddling her necklace.

  ‘Darling,’ she said haughtily, ‘there’s an American here.’

  Allen couldn’t establish whether his wife was put out by the fact that they had a visitor, or that the visitor was an American.

  ‘He was most insistent that he wait for you,’ she continued, ‘so I showed him to your study.’

  ‘Does he have a name, your American?’

  ‘He’s not my American, Henry, he’s your
s,’ Louisa replied, handing him a card.

  ‘One Carl Parsons from the United States Embassy, no less,’ said Allen. ‘Never heard of him. Did he say what he wanted?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Is he on his own?’ he asked.

  His wife nodded, her eyes bulging.

  ‘And how long has he been here?’ Allen asked, removing his coat.

  ‘Just over an hour,’ she said, taking the coat and hanging it on an elegant oak stand.

  ‘An hour?’

  ‘That’s right. One hour.’

  Allen started to walk along the long corridor towards the large sweeping staircase.

  ‘Henry?’

  He turned round – there was an edge to her voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  Allen lifted his shoulders and dropped them again, letting his hands gently slap against the sides of his thighs.

  ‘You know as much as I do, my dear,’ he said. ‘I shall reveal all after I’ve seen him.’

  She nodded, her eyes narrowing. She didn’t believe him. Henry had not been the same since that dinner at Emerald Cunard’s. He was agitated, nervous. He had even lost weight. Perhaps he had taken a leaf out of her book and was having an affair – it would be about time. But this American – well, it was very odd.

  ‘You’d better,’ she replied. ‘I don’t like strange Yanks in my house.’

  So it was her house now, was it? Henry bowed towards her, the exaggeration of the gesture revealing its utter insincerity. Then he turned and walked up the stairs, knowing full well the type of face Louisa would be pulling behind his back.

  That the visitor was not sitting in Henry’s desk chair was a good sign. Instead, he was perched awkwardly on an old nursing chair that had somehow found a home in Allen’s study because his wife said there was no room for it elsewhere. He stood up as soon as Allen entered.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Allen,’ he said, confidently extending his arm. ‘My name is Carl Parsons. I’m the—’

  ‘I remember you now,’ said Allen, shaking Parsons’ offered hand. ‘You’re the one who was tickled by my remark about our Minister for Information.’

  ‘The very same,’ Parsons replied.

  Allen sat behind his desk.

  ‘What do you want, Mr Parsons? I must tell you that it’s most irregular of you to have invited yourself in – you have caused my wife considerable distress.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Parsons. ‘I am truly sorry.’

  Allen nodded and opened a drawer, from which he removed a wooden box.

  ‘Cigar, Mr Parsons?’

  Parsons lifted his hand to refuse and Allen lit one for himself. He removed a loose scrap of tobacco from his lower lip and deposited it in the ashtray.

  ‘Go on then.’

  Parsons took a deep breath. He looked scared, Allen thought, even going so far as to look over his shoulder. He shifted uneasily in his seat before replying.

  ‘You have to understand that this visit is . . . unofficial. My ambassador does not know I am here. I know it is a liberty, sir, but I would like to request that things stay that way.’

  ‘I shall not tell Mr Bingham a thing,’ said Allen, trying hard to mask his keenness to hear what it was that Parsons had to say.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Allen, it is much appreciated.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Another deep breath.

  ‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ said Parsons. ‘There’s a Commie plot to overthrow your government.’

  Allen said nothing. Parsons paused, somewhat taken aback by Allen’s sang-froid.

  ‘Two weeks ago,’ he continued, ‘a senior Soviet intelligence officer defected to the US. He was fully debriefed in Washington, and during that debriefing – which I understand is still in progress – he revealed that there is a network of agents, here in Great Britain, who are plotting to topple Sir Oswald and install a Soviet leadership in his place.’

  Allen puffed on his cigar and sat back. He wanted to lean forward, but refused to allow himself to do so.

  ‘Carry on,’ he said, as calmly as possible.

  ‘It’s not clear exactly how they mean to do it,’ said Parsons, ‘but what we do know is that some of these agents are very highly placed within the British – I mean the fascist establishment.’

  ‘You mean to tell me that these agents are British nationals?’

  ‘Quite so, sir. Absolutely.’

  A small piece of ash fell from Allen’s cigar on to his right lapel. Parsons was about to point it out, but then remembered a nugget of etiquette about the British upper classes – they never flicked the ash off their cigars, and let it fall where it might. There were others who would clean it up.

  ‘Do we know who these people are?’ Allen asked.

  ‘No – but we do know their code names. There’s one called “Top Hat”, who’s meant to be very close indeed to Sir Oswald – perhaps even in the Cabinet itself. Then there’s “Dog”, who the defector says is a new recruit. He says he knows very little about him, except that he’s key to the whole plot. There are some other minor players, but those are the two main guys. And then of course there is their controller.’

  ‘Controller?’

  ‘Goes by the name of “Otto”. He’s an Austrian apparently, and a real NKVD pro.’

  ‘And what do we know about him?’

  ‘Again, not much, except that he’s smart, very smart, and he’s been here for a few years.’

  Allen paused.

  ‘And this defector is certain that these men are planning a coup – he’s quite sure about that?’

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  ‘And why are you telling me all this? I would have thought Mr Bingham would have already met the Leader and Sir Roger Ousby of the HMSSP.’

  ‘Well, the thing is, I’m afraid my ambassador thinks the whole thing is baloney.’

  ‘Baloney?’

  Parsons smiled faintly.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Baloney – I guess it means what you guys call rubbish.’

  ‘So why haven’t you gone to Sir Roger yourself?’

  ‘Because if Bingham found out I’d done that, he’d pack me off to the Congo, or some other damn place. Besides, I doubt very much that Sir Roger would listen to a mere office boy like myself.’

  ‘You are being far too modest, Mr Parsons. My other question is, of course, why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because I believe the United States has much to lose if these isles end up as a satellite of Moscow. As you know, we are building up a good relationship with the regime . . . I mean, Government.’

  Allen chewed it over.

  ‘And you think that I should go to Sir Roger myself?’

  ‘That is your decision, sir, but I think you would be wise to act, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. This defector knows his onions.’

  Allen smiled to himself at Parsons’ use of English idiom.

  You would be wise to act. In some ways, it was the last thing Allen wanted to do. But the idea of the Bolsheviks plotting here in London to overthrow His Majesty’s Government – even if it was a government that Allen no longer approved of – well, it repelled him.

  The two men talked for a further hour, Parsons furnishing Allen with as much detail as he could remember from the dossier. When they eventually left the study, Allen was surprised to find his wife outside the room, apparently straightening a large rococo mirror.

  * * *

  The state banquet at the Reich Chancellery was magnificent. As befitted the presence in Berlin of der Britische Führer Hitler had ordered a full honour guard of the SS – men from the elite Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler – to lead a torchlit procession of the dignatories into the Great Hall. Even the Leader’s wife, who had witnessed many Nazi theatricals, was deeply moved by the spectacle and grandeur of the occasion. The food was suitably fine, especially the venison, which had been shot the previous week at Karinhall, the estate of Hermann Goering. L
ady Mosley noticed that Hitler was only served vegetables. Once again she was impressed by the man’s charm, and he even asked after her ‘enchanting sister’.

  The Leader found that the banquet dragged on, although he did his best to affect an air of contentment. In truth, he was tired, and he was also rattled by the fact that Armstrong was still on the run. Hitler had even mentioned the fact in his car on the way from Tempelhof airport, asking whether Sir Oswald’s secret police needed any assistance. There was a young man on Himmler’s staff by the name of Reinhard Heydrich, he said, a very capable man who might be able to go over to England and advise Sir Roger.

  Mosley had bristled at the suggestion, telling the Führer that it was only a matter of days before Armstrong was captured, and besides, Sir Roger and the HMSSP easily rivalled the Gestapo in efficiency and thoroughness. Hitler had laughed at this, and had even gently smacked Mosley on the arm with a leather glove. He didn’t doubt it, he said, but obviously Armstrong was not a man who should be on the loose come the forthcoming Coronation of King Edward. That was still a few weeks away, said Mosley; Armstrong would certainly be dead by then. The Führer, he insisted, was not to worry about it. Hitler had just shrugged, and then started talking about his plans for a new boulevard that would run through the centre of Berlin.

  On Tuesday, the day after the banquet, the two leaders spoke for many hours about what Hitler called the ‘Jewish Question’. Mosley forcefully told him that Great Britain could. no longer be a dumping ground for Germany’s Jews; such a small island could simply hold no more than the 350,000 it already contained. Hitler said he understood Mosley’s unwillingness to take on any more of the swine, and suggested they had better work together to find a more final answer to the problem. Mosley said that his Government were in the process of following the Reich’s lead by putting the Jews to work in camps, but ultimately, somewhere else would have to be found for them.

  At this point Hitler looked distracted, and said that Mosley had to think more radically than mere resettlement. After all, Jewry was a disease, something that was barely human, and needed to be dealt with as such. So long as the Jews infected the fabric of the German Reich and the British Empire, they would never be safe from the menace of communism. Perhaps somewhere in Africa could be found, said Hitler, but Mosley should never underestimate the wiles of the Jew, who was always ready to emerge from his pestilential swamp, no matter how deeply he was buried.