by Guy Walters
He ran towards Lucy and the driver.
‘Get back in the car!’ he shouted.
The two of them turned to him in surprise. God knew what Lucy had been telling him, as the man already looked utterly bewildered.
‘What’s all this?’ he was saying.
His face seemed familiar, but Armstrong had no time to attempt to recall his name.
‘I’ve got a gun!’ said Armstrong. ‘Now get back in your bloody car!’
The man froze. He was evidently no Blackshirt thug, thought Armstrong; he looked too patrician, a little too well fed.
‘Get in the fucking car and drive!’
Still no movement.
‘Get back in your car!’
After what seemed an age, the man did as he was told. Armstrong grabbed Lucy’s wrist and dragged her with him into the back seat of the Bentley. The man was sitting in the front, although he had not yet started the engine.
‘Come on!’ Armstrong shouted. ‘Unless you want me to shoot you!’
The man started the engine and pulled away.
‘Where . . . where shall I go?’
‘Turn right on to Millbank, and then go over Vauxhall Bridge.’
‘Are you . . . are you kidnapping me?’
Armstrong glared at Lucy. This was a complete cock-up, but he wasn’t going to let on in front of their new captive.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Just do as I tell you, and you’ll be all right.’
They drove in silence for half a minute.
‘But . . . but . . .’ the man started.
‘Yes?’
‘But . . . why didn’t she want me to go into that building?’
‘You’ll hear soon enough,’ said Armstrong. ‘What’s your name?’
‘My n . . . name?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No. I wouldn’t be asking you otherwise.’
‘It’s . . . it’s Allen, Henry Allen.’
Gerald Reid had always hated the Jews. They were thieving scum, and they deserved what was coming to them. For a long time Gerald had kept these views to himself, although he would happily extemporise to his wife Enid about how the Jews liked to kill Christian children and drink their blood. He had read about this ‘Jewish blood libel’ in The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a work that confirmed all he had ever suspected. Gerald knew that his views were rather unpopular, and, unwilling to lose his job in the Ministry of Works, he kept them to himself.
Mosley had changed all that, giving ordinary men like Gerald the chance to speak out, to tell the world what was really happening. The Leader gave him a voice, gave him the courage to speak up for himself, to tell those around him that the immigrants would ruin the British way of life and that the only way to deal with them was to lock them up in some sort of camp. Gerald wore his black shirt with pride, and soon he was spending every night down at the Black House, his dedication to the cause ensuring that he was soon able to wear the full ‘Action Press’ uniform.
There was a light in his eyes now and a fire in his not inconsiderable belly. He had a new job in a new department that was the apogee of both his career and his convictions – he was finally using his administrative talents to bring about what he knew to be right. No longer was he carrying out the wishes of flabby lovers of democracy; now he was the executor – or executer! – of a tough new policy that would ensure that the Jews knew their place, a place that would hopefully grow smaller over time.
Along with two colleagues, Gerald was working late that night. He had only been with this department for three weeks, but it felt like three months, so heavy was the workload. It was worth the effort though. They were achieving great things, really making a difference. This evening they were putting the finishing touches to the problem of actually moving these damn people. How many trains? How many buses? Would the army be involved? How many Jews could they fit into a single carriage? How about goods vans – how many could they get in those?
And just this afternoon, brought round by a courier, a memorandum from the Leader’s office – signed by the Leader no less! – giving the department advance warning that they would soon need to add the following types to their list: homosexuals, Freemasons, Gypsies, habitual criminals, proven Communists. The memorandum estimated another 150,000 to 200,000 persons – initially. That meant a lot more work, but for the time being they were to concentrate on the Jews.
Gerald lit his pipe and got up from his desk. The light was fading, and with it, the temperature was dropping. It was time to shut the office window. He puffed his pipe vigorously as he walked across the room, his attention briefly held by the time displayed on the clock – just gone ten to eight. He had better telephone Enid – he would be here for another hour at least. Still, she knew how much he was enjoying his work. He shut the window and stood at it for a few seconds, gazing across the street at a building similar to the one he was in.
If he had stayed at his desk, Gerald Reid might have lived. He might also have lived if he had walked away from the window as soon as he had shut it. But his ruminative gaze cost him his life. His death was sudden, because the shards of glass from the window he had just shut removed the best part of his head, mangling the cherrywood of his pipe with fragments of his brain and skull. His chest also received a hail of glass, and at least two of the dagger-sharp pieces lanced into his heart. In addition, his abdomen, his genitals and the tops of his thighs were also severely lacerated. What remained of his body was thrown back towards his colleagues, one of whom received a long spear of glass straight through his right eye and into his brain. The other colleague, who had been standing just behind the metal filing cabinet, lived for twenty or thirty minutes, but the ensuing fire that was to gut the building produced enough smoke to suffocate him as he tried to crawl down the stairs.
Just as Gerald Reid was being blown across his office, Henry Allen’s Bentley was heading east down Albert Embankment. The explosion, although on the other side of the river, could be clearly heard by the car’s occupants. Lucy turned to Armstrong.
‘Was that . . .?’
‘Yes, it was,’ he said.
Armstrong saw Allen looking at them in his mirror.
‘That was a bomb, wasn’t it? It was! That was why you wanted me—’
‘Just keep driving,’ Armstrong snarled.
‘What did you blow up?’
It was Lucy who answered.
‘Since you ask,’ she said, ‘it was the Department of Labour Reassignment. We thought it best that it didn’t continue with its work.’
Allen didn’t reply immediately, although they could clearly hear him exhale.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘None of your business,’ said Armstrong. ‘Just shut up.’
The warehouse, thought Armstrong, that’s where they’d go. They needed to get this car off the road immediately – a Bentley in the middle of the East End would be far too conspicuous. Not only that, they also needed to find a way to silence the man who was driving them. There was no way Armstrong was going to leave him to go free and provide the police with full descriptions of him and Lucy.
‘You know the way to Tower Bridge?’ he asked.
Allen nodded.
They arrived at the warehouse fifteen minutes later. Nick, Martin and Ted were there, all three of them drinking from a bottle of whisky around a small brazier. They were also smoking their way through a packet of Ted’s Black Cap cigarettes, cigarettes that were hurriedly thrown to the floor as the Bentley roared in through the vast entrance gate.
‘What the hell is this?’ asked Nick. ‘Did you . . . ?’
‘Yes we did,’ said a furious Armstrong, springing out of the car. ‘Although we ran into a slight difficulty.’
He looked pointedly at Lucy before continuing.
‘Miss Craven here insisted on saving the owner of this car.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Ted, peering through the windscreen.
&nb
sp; ‘Out!’ Armstrong barked.
A terrified Allen slowly opened his door, and Armstrong roughly pulled him out.
‘This,’ he said, ‘is Henry Allen. He’s a Blackshirt MP, as well as one of Mosley’s confidants. His wife and his father-in-law are Blackshirts too. I also think I’m right in saying that you’ve even written a book about our dear Leader.’
Allen nodded. All eyes turned back to Armstrong.
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Lucy.
‘Part of my job,’ said Armstrong. ‘It’s now your job to work out what we are going to do with him.’
‘I think you can guess what I’d like to do,’ said Nick.
‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Armstrong.
‘Well, he would make a useful hostage,’ said Ted. ‘A good bargaining chip.’
‘No,’ said Armstrong. ‘I don’t want to go down that road – far too messy.’
‘We could simply lock him up here,’ said Martin.
‘Keep him on ice?’ said Armstrong. ‘That will do for the time being.’
He turned to Lucy.
‘And since you brought him here,’ he said, ‘you’re going to change his nappies.’
Lucy tried to protest, but Armstrong would not have it.
‘Not a word!’
For a moment the warehouse was filled with silence, its occupants cowering under Armstrong’s anger. It was Allen who spoke first.
‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’ asked Armstrong.
‘For saving me.’
Armstrong dismissed the words with a brisk wave of his hand.
‘My fucking pleasure,’ he replied.
‘I’m serious,’ said Allen. ‘I’m very grateful. I never thought I would have cause to thank a Communist.’
‘What makes you think I’m a Communist?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said Allen. ‘Anyway, I know all about your plot. You’re intending to get rid of Mosley and turn us into a Soviet republic.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what I’ve heard.’
Armstrong drew closer.
‘From whom?’
‘From the Americans.’
‘The Americans?’
Allen found himself surrounded by five pairs of inquisitive eyes.
‘That’s right,’ said Allen. ‘The Americans. And to be honest, good luck to you – at least in removing Mosley.’
‘Mr Allen,’ said Armstrong, ‘you have some explaining to do.’
So closely was Armstrong looking at Allen that he didn’t notice that Ted’s stare was more intent than the others’.
Allen told them about Carl Parsons and what little he knew. He told them about Krivitsky’s defection, and how the Soviet general had revealed that the plot was being run by an NKVD officer called Otto, who had at least two agents – going by the names of Top Hat and Dog – working for him. Apparently, said Allen, Top Hat was very high up, and might even be one of Mosley’s Emergency Cabinet members. Dog, on the other hand, was a more recent recruit, although usefully placed, and he reported to Top Hat.
‘Why are you telling us this?’ Armstrong asked.
‘Because I want you to succeed,’ Allen replied. ‘Let’s just say that I’ve had a Pauline conversion.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Armstrong.
‘It’s the truth!’
‘Crap,’ said Nick. ‘Come on – let’s beat the truth out of him.’
Armstrong held out his hand.
‘Give the man a chance,’ he said. ‘Go on then, Mr Allen, the floor is yours.’
‘May I have a cigarette?’
‘Certainly.’
Ted passed Allen a Black Cap and lit it for him.
‘All right, Mr Allen,’ said Armstrong, ‘I want you to tell us why you want Mosley overthrown.’
‘The short reason is this – he’s insane. He’s twisted fascism into a means of controlling people, rather than using it as it is meant to be used—’
‘Which is how?’ asked Lucy. ‘To pack Jews into camps?’
‘Fair point,’ said Allen. ‘But when people like me first turned to fascism, we saw it as a way of restoring Britain to its glorious past, of attempting to mimic the great achievements of Tudor society – that is our historical precedent for fascism. Each country looks back for its own. The Italians look at the Romans, the Germans look at Frederick the Great and Heinrich the First. Fascism was never intended to be a means of control; rather a way to enable the peoples of a nation to achieve great things. It was intended to unite, to bring us all together to form a highly productive unit. I always felt that democracy was too muddled, too inefficient, far too slow. One spent a lot of time electing people who were clearly incapable, and it struck me as common sense that you should allow a ruling class – based on meritocracy – to do just that, to get on and rule. Sacrifice some of the freedoms that slow you down, and in exchange you get progress, modernity, a real dynamism.’
‘Except it doesn’t work, does it?’ said Armstrong.
‘No,’ said Allen, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry to say that it doesn’t – it doesn’t allow for any opposition or discussion, and therefore it breeds corruption. That’s why, for the same reason, I don’t hold out any great hope for communism either.’
Lucy, Nick and Martin all spoke at once, although it was Lucy’s voice that carried.
‘Rubbish!’ she cried. ‘You only have to look at Stalin’s achievements. The five-year-plans are—’
‘Are killing thousands of peasants,’ said Allen.
‘Is that right?’ asked Lucy sarcastically. ‘Somehow I expected you to say something like that.’
‘This is not the time,’ said Armstrong.
‘It’s never the time, is it?’ said Nick.
‘When Mosley’s gone, then it will be the time,’ said Armstrong. ‘For now we have to work together, put these differences to one side, and resolve them democratically – in Parliament. Carry on, Mr Allen. You were saying that fascism doesn’t work, but that doesn’t tell us why you have turned against your own Party.’
Allen ground his cigarette out with his heel.
‘Well – it’s because I don’t like what they’re doing to people like you.’
‘Who?’
‘The Jews. But it’s also going to be Freemasons, convicted criminals, homosexuals . . .’
‘What are they going to do?’
‘Put them all into camps.’
Nobody spoke for a few seconds. The brazier was dying down, and the last smudges of daylight were slowly blending into the dark grey gloom of the warehouse.
‘If you’re so against all this,’ said Lucy, ‘what were you doing on Smith Street this evening?’
‘I was going to see what they were up to in there – I wanted to find out more.’
‘A likely story,’ said Nick.
‘I swear it’s the truth!’
Armstrong narrowed his eyes.
‘I want to meet your American,’ he said. ‘This Mr Parsons.’
‘But that will be–’
‘Perfectly possible, I’m sure,’ said Armstrong. ‘That way I’ll be able to work out if your story is true, won’t I?’
‘But . . .’
‘I won’t accept any objections.’
* * *
According to the SBC, Action and The Blackshirt, the building that had been bombed was none other than the recently established Department for the Welfare of Children. The outrage had clearly been carried out by the Jews, said Mosley, who were desperate to cover up the department’s investigation into the Jewish blood libel. The only accurate piece of information contained in the newspapers’ pages was that three hard-working civil servants had died in the blast. All would receive full fascist burials, complete with Blackshirt pipes and drums.
In private, the Leader was apoplectic. Neil Francis Hawkins, the Home Secretary, told him that the programme to get the Jews into their resettlement camps had been set b
ack by at least two months. Volumes of important paperwork had been lost, as well as the knowledge held by the three men who had died. Gerald Reid would be especially missed, he told the Leader, even though he had only worked in the department for a few weeks. Reid had been one of the most loyal and competent of Blackshirts, Francis Hawkins claimed. In that case, said the Leader, we shall build a memorial to him. The man was a hero, and heroes should always be remembered.
* * *
Sir Roger Ousby received the telephone call at midday on his private line.
‘Yes?’ he answered, expecting it to be his wife.
‘Sir Roger?’
Although the voice was female, it was certainly not familiar.
‘Yes? Who is this?’
‘Never mind – just listen to me.’
Sir Roger calmly picked up a pen. Calls from lunatics were sporadic, but he made a point of noting them all down.
‘A Mr Carl Parsons from the American Embassy has contacted Henry Allen MP. I repeat, Henry Allen. He has told Allen that there is a Soviet plot to overthrow the Leader.’
Sir Roger stopped writing. He didn’t want any record of this conversation.
‘And can you prove this?’
‘You had better ask him, hadn’t you?’
The line went dead.
‘Hello?’
Sir Roger gently put the receiver back down. He tapped the end of his pen against his chin. This was it; this was what he had been waiting for.
* * *
Wearing a bowler hat and a pair of spectacles with plain lenses, Armstrong turned up at Claridge’s hotel at half past three. He had ordered Allen to book a room under the name of ‘Mr Nugent’ and arrange to meet Parsons there at four o’clock. The only other person who knew the details was Ted, who had wanted to come along, but Armstrong had refused, saying that there was no point in both of them risking their necks.
Eschewing the front entrance, Armstrong entered via the kitchens, posing as an inspector from the Ministry of Health and carrying an official-looking clipboard. The staff were bemused, not least because they had had an inspection only two days earlier. When Armstrong was told this, he calmly pointed out that the whole efficacy of such inspections depended on their happening at the least likely time.