The Leader

by Guy Walters

  He placed the dynamite, detonator and battery in the kneeler, and gently secured the elements in place with some horsehair and straw. As soon as he had done so, he had a thought, and asked Lucy and Nick to forage around the house for some old nails and tacks, in fact anything small and metallic. After ten minutes they returned with handfuls of what Armstrong intended to use as shrapnel. Taking thirty of the nastiest and sharpest pieces, he inserted them around the dynamite and battery.

  Armstrong found his hands starting to shake as he proceeded to the next stage of manufacture. It wasn’t an attack, merely the result of nervousness brought on by the delicacy of the task in hand. He got up and walked to the window, looking out on to the damp and foggy East End street. A boy was leading a tired-looking grey pony down the road. He must have been about Philip’s age, Armstrong thought. The similarity caused him to wince, made him well up. He allowed himself to watch until the boy and his pony had reached the end of the road, then disappeared down another street, merging into the fog.

  He went back to the bomb. He held out his hands and found they were satisfyingly steady. Good, he thought, because this was the hard part. Out of his shirt pocket he removed a large nail cutter, the type in which a small metal arm is rotated and then squeezed to apply pressure on two blades. With a small screwdriver he undid the screw that held the two blades together, then glued a piece of rubber where the screw had been. When the adhesive had dried, he squeezed the arm, but found that the blades connected far too easily. He bent one of the blades away from the other, and tried again. This time they required a decent amount of effort to connect them.

  Armstrong covered the existing parts of the mechanism with more horsehair, straw and nails, leaving the second wire from the detonator exposed, as well as the wire attached to the positive terminal on the battery. He kept these wires as far apart as possible – if they touched, parts of him would be spread over the ceiling.

  With a soldering iron, he affixed the wire leading from the battery to one of the blades on the nail cutters. Now came the part in which he was exposing himself to the most risk. With another deep breath, he soldered the wire from the detonator to the blade that had not been connected to the battery. Without the piece of rubber, the blades would be touching, thereby creating a complete electric circuit, which would set the detonator off. The nail cutters were in effect a switch – a switch that could be operated only by applying pressure to the small metal arm.

  He gingerly placed the nail cutters on top of the layer of packing, keeping the metal arm uppermost, then gently pressed more horsehair and straw around and over the switch, until the mechanism was completely covered. Only then did he call Lucy in.

  ‘You’ve done it?’ she asked, wide-eyed.

  Armstrong nodded. He wiped his brow, finding it to be soaking.

  ‘I need you to sew the cover back on,’ he said.

  ‘Now?’ she asked.

  ‘If you’re up to it.’

  ‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

  She came and knelt next to Armstrong.

  ‘I’ll stay here while you do it,’ he said.

  Lucy shook her head.

  ‘No, that’s not right,’ she said. ‘The same logic should apply to all of us. There’s no point in both of us getting hurt.’

  Her logic was right, thought Armstrong, of course it was, but it felt wrong to leave someone alone with a bomb that he had created. He was confident that it was stable, but even so, he didn’t care to abandon her.

  ‘I mean it,’ said Lucy.

  ‘All right,’ said Armstrong. ‘But please be bloody careful. For your information, the switch is here, about half an inch down.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Lucy, and Armstrong could see the intensity in her expression.

  He got up, wished her luck, and left the room.

  For the next hour, Armstrong, Alec and Nick waited for an explosion to come from upstairs. Nick made them a cup of tea, but it was impossible to drink it, to do something so mundane when Lucy was risking her life.

  Eventually her voice came through the floorboards. ‘It’s done!’

  Armstrong ran upstairs and into the bedroom. Lucy was smiling triumphantly, and lying on the bed was an innocent-looking kneeler.

  ‘Well done,’ said Armstrong. ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’

  ‘Next time, you should learn how to sew.’

  ‘Point taken,’ he said.

  ‘So what’s that going to do to him?’ she asked.

  Armstrong paused before replying. He knew the effect of explosions only too well.

  ‘It’s going to remove enormous chunks of him,’ he said. ‘It’ll certainly blow his legs clean off, and send pieces of shrapnel into his lower torso. I expect his face and upper torso might be protected by the shelf on the pew, but there’s a good chance something will smack into his chest and head.’

  ‘So there’s no chance of him surviving?’

  ‘None, absolutely none. Even if he does survive the blast – which he won’t – all that shrapnel and straw and horsehair carries enough infection to ensure that his blood will be poisoned, and that’ll kill him instead.’

  Lucy felt a little light-headed. Armstrong was talking about it so clinically.

  ‘You sound as though you’re an . . .’ she began.

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve seen it happen before,’ Armstrong said.

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘And those around him?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s a good chance they’ll get hurt too.’

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘Quite likely. That’s why I put in the shrapnel, in order to make the bomb more lethal. I couldn’t put in too much, though, as the kneeler would have been too heavy.’

  The two of them stood in silence, looking down at the kneeler. Armstrong hadn’t realised it before, but it bore an embroidered image of Christ.

  ‘Now we’ve just got to get it back where it belongs,’ he said.

  Otto loves coming here. He knows the NKVD would frown on it, because the Flash is a real fascist nightclub, but he cannot resist it. The women here are something else, the best in London. Who would have thought Englishwomen would be so attractive! Perhaps these are not Englishwomen; perhaps they are Italians and Germans, maybe even French, but who cares? They are all ripe young things, thinks Otto, ripe and available.

  The cognoscenti say that the Leader sometimes comes here, but Otto has never seen him. It would be impossible for Mosley to go anywhere incognito, but he certainly has a reputation that would suggest that the Flash would be very much to his liking. The women are dressed in the latest styles, fashions that are mainly based on the Blackshirt uniform. Some are even wearing long black boots, which drives Otto wild. In this he is not alone.

  Otto sits at the bar, drinking whisky. One girl on the dance floor catches his eye, a real belle de nuit, just the type of girl Otto likes. Her hair is dark, and she moves – oh, how she moves! She is on her own – a whore perhaps? Who cares! – and once again she looks over at him. Otto smiles back at her, all but licking his lips in anticipation. This is the type of club they should have had back in Vienna, the type of club he knows they would never have in Moscow. Anyway, all that is a long way away. Tonight Otto knows that he is going to make love to the dark-haired girl, because that is what he is good at, and that is what he deserves.

  Within two hours, Otto is in the girl’s hotel room, unpeeling her tight silk top. She is stunning, this girl, her breasts firm and ready for Otto’s hungry mouth. He knows full well she is a whore, but after he has been with her, she will not want to charge. She will not regard Otto as a duty, as a chore, because Otto is more of an expert at sex than she is. Otto moves his way down the bed, and starts to kiss those breasts, gently at first, his tongue poised above each nipple, letting her feel his hot breath before his mouth closes around them.

  What Otto is not expecting is the cold press of a muzzle against the back of his hot neck. Neither does he expect to find his head being violen
tly yanked back by his hair, which causes him to yelp in pain. Otto is clever enough to know that he is a dead man, to know that he has been a fool to fall for this, the oldest method of entrapment in the book. He knows that he deserves to die, and he is ready for it, because he knows that men like him often die like this, with a bullet to the back of the neck. Normally it happens back in the Lubyanka, so perhaps he is lucky to die here, with the last thing he sees being this tender-titted whore rather than the wall of a shit-covered cell.

  ‘One question,’ says a voice. ‘Just one question.’

  ‘Fire away,’ says Otto.

  The voice is momentarily checked. Otto knows that the man will be impressed by the fact that he can make a pun in such circumstances – and not even in his own language!

  ‘Who is Dog?’ asks the voice. ‘Tell me who Dog is.’

  Otto pauses. Perhaps he has another forty years left in him. How would he spend them if he got out of this? There is only one way to find out.

  * * *

  Ribbentrop’s Mercedes pulled up in Downing Street at ten o’clock on Monday morning. The German ambassador stepped out of the car, briefly exposing himself to the torrential rain, and then dashed into the dry warmth of the hall of Number 10. A distinguished-looking gentleman in full Blackshirt uniform approached him and raised his arm in a fascist salute, a gesture that Ribbentrop returned.

  ‘Herr von Ribbentrop, would you follow me, please?’

  Ribbentrop nodded and walked up the thickly carpeted stairs behind the functionary. He noticed that many of the portraits which lined the staircase had been changed – gone were the oils of many former prime ministers, replaced with paintings the Leader evidently felt more in keeping with the tenor of his regime. Ribbentrop climbed past Henry VIII, Elizabeth, Richard III, and, unsurprisingly, Oliver Cromwell, although he saw that Lloyd George had kept his place.

  Mosley stood as Ribbentrop entered the room. They exchanged rigid fascist salutes, followed by a stiff handshake.

  ‘Good morning, Ambassador,’ said Mosley warmly. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  Ribbentrop did so, on a small chair in front of Mosley’s desk. This was all part of the effect of making him feel like a schoolboy, Ribbentrop thought, and Mosley the headmaster.

  ‘How can I help you, Herr Ribbentrop?’

  Ribbentrop smarted at Mosley’s refusal to use the ‘von’. There were many who disputed his claim to the title, although Ribbentrop would be quick to say that he had inherited it – quite legally – from his aunt, Gertrud von Ribbentrop, who had adopted him when he was thirty-two. What the ambassador failed to mention was that he provided his aunt with an income of 450 marks per month in return for this favour.

  ‘I have some important news for you concerning the Führer’s visit this weekend,’ said Ribbentrop.

  Mosley leaned back in his chair. Ribbentrop could tell that he had already worked out what the ambassador was going to say next.

  ‘Carry on,’ said Mosley.

  ‘The Führer has informed me, with great regret, that he is no longer able to attend the Coronation of King Edward VIII and Queen Wallis.’

  Ribbentrop paused, enjoying his moment, enjoying the spectacle of Mosley’s attempt at maintaining sang-froid.

  ‘Is the Führer good enough to let the British people know why he cannot attend this joyful occasion?’

  ‘The Führer has indicated to me that he feels that attending the Coronation would present an unnecessary risk to his person,’ said Ribbentrop.

  Mosley made a scoffing sound.

  ‘Herr Ribbentrop,’ he said, ‘I assure you that our security arrangements are as stringent as possible. It is quite unfounded for your Führer to feel that he would be at risk if he came here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir Oswald, but you do have a problem with terrorists here. There was the bombing in Westminster the other week, and there is talk that there was an escape from the Tower of London too. These are not safe times . . .’

  ‘These times are perfectly safe!’ Mosley shouted, thumping the table. ‘And what’s more, they are times in which we can show the people of Europe that fascism is a united force, and that it meshes well with the traditions of the past. This opportunity is too good for us to miss! I really do insist that you ask the Führer to reconsider his decision. His personal security will be taken very seriously indeed.’

  Ribbentrop slowly shook his head.

  ‘I am sorry, Sir Oswald, but you know what the Führer is like when he has made up his mind.’

  He looked straight into Mosley’s eyes, which were bulging furiously.

  ‘In that case, Herr Ribbentrop, I bid you good day.’

  * * *

  Armstrong regretted taking the Underground at eight o’clock the following morning. He and Lucy were on the District Line from Tower Hill to Westminster, and the train was crammed with people on their way to work. Armstrong was standing, his canvas bag between his feet. If someone fell on him or knocked it, there was a chance that the kneeler inside might explode. He did his best to distract himself by studying the advertisements for products such as Brylcreem and Lifebuoy soap on the inside of the carriage. There was even a poster depicting a large wooden cabinet, into the top of which was built a small screen. ‘Radio receives its sight!’ read the poster. ‘Here is the new “His Master’s Voice” television instrument . . .’ Armstrong’s attention was not focused on the television itself, however, but on the image on the screen. It was Mosley. Was there no getting away from him?

  He studied his fellow passengers. These were the people he was trying to save, ordinary people who just wanted to get on with their lives, and not live in fear of each other. What would happen if he succeeded? Would they get their revenge on Mr Perkins at number 29, quiet Mr Perkins who someone said – they could swear to it – was an informer for the secret police? And if they got their revenge, how would it be manifested? Would they beat him up, perhaps even kill him? As soon as they seized control, a new government would have to ensure that such reprisals did not take place, that the due process of the law was obeyed.

  Further down the carriage, Armstrong could see a Blackshirt, his eyes scrutinising a copy of Action. Armstrong noticed that there was more space around him than there was around anybody else. It was clear many would rather endure more cramped conditions than have to stand next to a Party member. The Blackshirt seemed oblivious, unaware that he was the object of a silent and fearful derision.

  The train started to slow for the next stop: Blackfriars. A few passengers would get off here, but it was likely that many more would get on, as Blackfriars was a mainline station. Armstrong looked down at the bag. Could it take any more jostling? It wasn’t only the presence of the other passengers, but also the rocking of the train itself that was making him concerned. He turned to look at Lucy, whose face indicated that she was sharing his worry.

  Armstrong looked through the windows to see that the platform was thankfully not too crowded. He sensed that many passengers were about to alight, so he stayed still. The train came to a stop, and people started to stream past him. He stood firm, holding on to an overhead rail, not allowing anybody to move him.

  As Armstrong was watching the passengers get on the train, he didn’t notice the pair of dirty hands gently grabbing the handles of his bag. He only realised that it was being stolen when he felt its sides brush against the insides of his calves. He glanced down, saw that the bag had disappeared, and then looked up to see a boy of about fifteen or sixteen darting out of the carriage.

  For a moment, indecision. Chase him? Attempt to wrestle it from him? That might set it off, killing both of them. But he needed the contents of that bag desperately, and he was not going to let some chancer just run away with it.

  ‘Stop him!’ shouted Armstrong, pointing at the thief. ‘Stop him!’

  The thief was running through the passengers on the platform, the bag being waved wildly around as he weaved in and out of the bemused office workers. Armstrong jumped
out of the carriage, not knowing whether Lucy was following him. He had to stop him; he had to get his bomb back. Not only that, he couldn’t just let the thief blow himself up – that seemed wrong, an excessive punishment.

  Armstrong knocked into countless passengers as he gave chase.

  ‘Stop him!’ he shouted. ‘He’s got my bag!’

  The boy was getting away – not only was youth on his side, but his slightness and, presumably, his experience at such chases were also in his favour. With each second, Armstrong was expecting a sudden explosion, which would tear the boy to pieces and shower those on the platform with a savage hail of shrapnel.

  The boy was nearing the end of the platform, and was about to run up a staircase. Armstrong cursed as people just gormlessly turned their heads rather than do as he requested. The boy was sprinting up the stairs now, sprinting far faster than Armstrong could ever hope to. He could feel the wounds on his chest straining as he panted, feel the scabs being torn off with the heaving exertion.

  Armstrong reached the stairs and took them three at a time. The boy was nearly at the top – the stairs had not slowed him down at all. Armstrong urged himself to go faster, to find the same reserves of strength he had had in the boat with Craven. Come on, he said to himself, come on. Mosley was not going to stay in power just because of some random encounter with a thief.

  At the top, Armstrong caught sight of the boy once more. He was making his way to the foot of a large wooden escalator. Shit, thought Armstrong, just what he needed.

  ‘Stop that boy!’ he shouted at the passengers on the escalator. ‘Stop him!’

  The boy ran up the escalator, the bag knocking into people. Surely it would go off – any second now there would be carnage. Part of Armstrong wanted to keep his distance, but the other part knew that he had to stop innocent people being ripped to pieces.

  ‘Stop him!’ he shouted once more.

  Someone had to do something, because the boy was already halfway up and would soon disappear from view. Armstrong started up the escalator, following the thief’s route through the maze of indignant passengers.