by Guy Walters
At that moment, a large man wearing a heavy brown overcoat turned round to face the boy, his bulk blocking the escalator. The boy tried to shove past him, but the man was too strong and held the thief by his biceps.
‘Get off!’ the boy was shouting. ‘Fuck you!’
The man was shaking his head, and Armstrong thought he heard him say, ‘You’re going nowhere, chum.’
But Armstrong was not listening any longer, because the boy had dropped the bag. For a second, Armstrong watched as it fell on to the reservation between the up escalator and the down escalator. He had to be quick – if it slid all the way to the bottom and hit the ground, there was a good chance that it would explode. In fact, it was unlikely that it wouldn’t.
There were two people between Armstrong and the reservation, two people whom Armstrong was now shoving brutally out of the way, ignoring their pleas that he be more mindful. The bag was gaining momentum, and Armstrong doubted that he would be able to reach out and stop it.
He leaned over, stuck his left arm out and stretched, but he was too late and the bag careered past the end of his fingertips. He shut his eyes. There was about to be an explosion that would kill maybe half a dozen people, perhaps more. Instinctively, Armstrong ducked, readying himself for the pieces of shrapnel.
‘Down!’ he shouted, grabbing the woman next to him and shoving her on to the slatted wooden step.
Nothing. Surely it must have reached the bottom by now? Another second, and still nothing. Tentatively he stood up and looked down. What he saw made him almost collapse with relief, because there, near the bottom of the down escalator, was the diminishing figure of Lucy, who was clutching the bag by its handles.
‘Thank God,’ he said out loud.
Armstrong stumbled as the escalator reached the top. He was met by the struggling figure of the thief and the man who had stopped him.
‘Shall we take this blighter to the police then?’ the man was asking.
Armstrong, who was still breathless, shook his head. He looked the boy in the eye.
‘Today,’ he said, ‘is your lucky day.’
The boy tried breaking free, but the man’s grip was so powerful that he could barely move.
‘You really don’t want to hand him over?’ the man asked.
‘No,’ said Armstrong, ‘I’m just happy I’ve got my bag back. If you want to take him, then fine, but I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.’
The man looked back at him quizzically, but before he could speak, Armstrong had turned away and was heading towards the down escalator.
* * *
Ousby had never seen the Leader in such a foul mood. He had already heard on the Blackshirt grapevine that Hitler was not attending the Coronation, and now there were rumours that not even Mussolini was coming. Of course, no announcements had been made in public, although with the ceremony only a few days away, Ousby knew that the Leader would have to tell the people why the leaders of Britain’s closest allies were not joining in the festivities. That morning, just as Armstrong and Lucy were emerging from Westminster Underground station, the head of His Majesty’s Secret State Police was sitting a few hundred yards away in 10 Downing Street. He was being left in no doubt as to who was to blame for the two great men cancelling their visits.
‘Perhaps,’ Mosley snarled, ‘I should have taken up Hitler’s offer and allowed this man Heydrich to come over and hold your hand!’
Ousby did not reply. He was not going to be drawn into a discussion he knew he could not – or rather, would not – be allowed to win.
‘Armstrong has made a mockery of us!’ Mosley continued. ‘I’m told that people know that he has escaped, and that he has eluded us at every turn. The Germans and the Italians have got wind of it, and they quite understandably fear the risk of assassination. I cannot say I blame them! Why else do you think that my good friends the Chancellor and the Duce are not coming? Eh?’
Ousby sat impassively. He knew the Leader was lying, knew that he was looking to blame anyone but himself.
‘Ousby,’ said Mosley, getting up from his desk, ‘do you have any idea where Armstrong is? What he is doing? Who he is with? Anything at all?’
‘I’m sorry, we don’t,’ Ousby replied in a monotone. ‘He’s just disappeared.’
‘Disappeared? Despite all the new powers and resources I have given you, all you can simply say is that he has disappeared?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir, yes. That is the short of it.’
‘Well it’s not good enough! Even the King has been asking me about him. He and the Queen are concerned that Armstrong poses some sort of risk to them, maybe even to the Coronation itself. I have of course assured them that matters are being taken care of, and that they are not to worry, but the Queen seemed most anxious.’
‘You can assure the Queen that the security arrangements for Saturday are completely watertight,’ said Ousby.
‘I hope so, Ousby, I do hope so.’
Silence. Ousby looked at the flames of the fire gently lapping away at the glowing nuggets of coal. The Leader was right, of course, the HMSSP had fouled up, or at least they had appeared to.
* * *
It was a morning for thanking God, and Armstrong had the opportunity to do so again when he saw the familiar faces of the two policemen on duty at the Abbey’s west door.
‘A little late this morning, aren’t we?’ said the policeman, examining their passes.
‘The Underground,’ Armstrong replied.
‘Hasn’t got any better, has it?’ said the policeman with a smile.
Was this a trap? Was this what policemen did now – tricked you into making an unpatriotic comment and then arrested you for it?
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Armstrong.
The policeman winked.
‘All right,’ he said, handing back their passes, ‘in you go, with your rabbit glue or whatever it was.’
Armstrong was tempted to correct him, but thought better of it. As they walked past the shrouded figure of Disraeli, he mused that ‘I wouldn’t know’ summed up the way in which so many people dealt with the regime. Did you see what happened to our Jewish neighbours the other night? I wouldn’t know. Do you know where so-and-so went? I wouldn’t know. There’s not as much food in the shops as there used to be, is there? I wouldn’t know. Do you know that the police took away that nice young chap the other day? I wouldn’t know. How do you think the Leader is doing? I wouldn’t know. Feigned ignorance, thought Armstrong, that was one of the true friends of the regime.
The finials were just as they had left them – scratched. Although neither he nor Lucy had the first idea how to regild them, Lucy had bought a tin of gold paint from a toyshop, which Armstrong said would just have to do. They placed their bags on the pew, and after casually looking around, Armstrong removed the kneeler. It occurred to him that perhaps the device was not working, but then he assured himself that it had to be. It certainly would have exploded back in the Underground station had he not enlarged the gap between the two blades. He had only moved them a quarter of an inch further apart, but it was enough.
He hung the kneeler on its hook and then turned away. There was no point in looking at it – mere observation would not guarantee its success.
‘Where’s this paint then?’ Armstrong asked.
‘Here,’ said Lucy, and threw the pot over to him.
* * *
‘Here it is,’ said General Galwey, thrusting the telegram at Major-General Clifford.
The two men were sitting alone in Clifford’s operations room in Chelsea late that night, both nursing large undiluted whiskies, their medal-festooned tunics hanging over the backs of their chairs. An orderly had just left the room, having presented the telegram to the generals with a shaking hand. Clifford scanned its contents.
‘Everything looks ready at his end,’ said Clifford. ‘But hang on – I don’t like this here: “Suspect some of the partygoers are in on the surprise, start party an hour earlier.” What does
that mean?’
‘It means Armstrong believes that some of those we’re rounding up might be waiting for us. He wants us to go into action before Mosley is removed.’
Clifford looked down as he swilled the whisky around his glass.
‘But if Ousby’s men know the score,’ said Clifford, looking up, ‘then we’re done for.’
Galwey shook his head, a relaxed smile on his lips.
‘I doubt that,’ he replied. ‘If that was the case then I’m sure our good captain would have called it off. No, he just wants us to be careful, exercise some caution, and of course he’s quite right. With only a few hours to go, I suspect rumours will be gathering pace. So, in order to scotch any nonsense, he simply wants us to carpe diem a little earlier, that’s all. We’d better signal our units.’
Clifford drained his whisky glass.
‘But if we’re taking control before the assassination,’ he said, ‘then Armstrong might not need to kill Mosley.’
‘Oh good God,’ said Galwey. ‘I don’t fancy trying to hold on to power with that bugger still around, do you? There’d be civil war! No, killing Mosley is very much part of it. When he’s gone, our control is absolute. Like all good soldiers, Armstrong is simply keeping his plan adaptable.’
‘He’s a clever man,’ said Clifford.
‘Wasted as a politician!’ said Galwey, causing them both to laugh.
‘If he’d stayed in the army he might have done one of us out of a job,’ said Clifford.
‘You’re probably right,’ said Galwey, draining his glass. He looked at his watch. It was two o’clock.
‘Bedtime I think,’ he said. ‘Big day tomorrow and all that. You’d better get that signal out now. Tell them they’ll be expected, but that H-hour is one hour earlier. All right?’
Clifford nodded and smiled. It was typical of the general to be so unflappable. He would make a good interim leader of the country, he thought, a steady pair of hands. Who else could remain so calm the night before he was to assume full martial control of his country?
Chapter Fourteen
Temporal Kingdom
SHE WAS ACTUALLY going to be crowned tomorrow. The thought made her feel giddy, intoxicated her. To think! All the way from Baltimore to becoming the Queen of England! Yes, yes, she was already Queen, but to actually wear the crown – that would secure it. Poor David – he was so nervous that she’d insisted he take a sedative. He said he wasn’t feeling that bad, just a whisky would do, but she had snapped at him, told him that if he knew what was good for him he would do as he was damn well told. So David had obediently taken the sedative, and now he was asleep in his bedroom, no doubt sharing his bed with one of those darn pugs. Ugly little creatures.
The Queen examined herself in the mirror – an elegant eighteenth-century girandole bearing two slim white candles. It was late, around half past one, but she was not tired. She smiled at herself. She had won. They had lost. Those who told her that she was a plain little thing, those who said that she was merely a two-bit twice-divorced Yank without a cat’s chance in hell. Those were the people who claimed that the British would never accept her as their Queen, and yet here she was! The British adored her! She was in the papers, in the newsreels, even on fine bone china – they loved her, for God’s sake!
She was satisfied with her reflection. The only light in the room came from the candles, which gave her face a healthy, warm glow. Around her was darkness and silence, barring the occasional creak of an expanding palatial timber. It was as though she was floating in a nether world, a special place that only she could inhabit. She held a glass of vodka up to her lips, winked, and then drained its contents. Vodka was all she drank these days. Lettuce was nearly all she ate. She stayed slim that way, never to become the fat little Wallis she had always feared.
Licking her lips, she set the glass down next to a vase with seventeen red carnations in it – one for every time they had done it. He had been imploring her to allow him to add another carnation, but she enjoyed stringing him along. Poor Joachim, he was so devoted, such a puppy. Perhaps she would let it happen again – maybe she would even wear her crown for him. Now there was a thought. She took the stopper out of the vodka bottle. Just one more glass, and then bedtime for the Queen. Tomorrow was, after all, going to be a big day.
‘Are we all clear?’ asked Armstrong.
Everybody in the room nodded. Armstrong could tell they were nervous, but that was understandable. By this time tomorrow night, they would either all be dead, or presiding over a newly freed Britain. He tried not to dwell on the sheer weight of history invested in them and their plan. The stakes were so high, it was almost impossible to play the game. Better just to pretend it didn’t matter, play it for the mechanics and not for the stake. Forget the fact that an entire fortune depended on rolling a double six; just go ahead and roll it.
‘Lucy,’ said Armstrong, ‘tell me what you’re going to do.’
Lucy stared at him.
‘We’ve been over this . . .’
‘Just tell me, Lucy.’
Armstrong’s voice had an air of impregnable authority. Lucy sighed.
‘All right – I’m going to be with you throughout the day. We’re going to leave here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning and walk over to Westminster, mingling with the crowds. When the bomb goes off I’m going to accompany you with General Galwey and members of Colonel Merriman’s battalion into the Abbey, where we’re going to arrest senior members of the regime.’
‘Good,’ said Armstrong. ‘What about you, Nick?’
‘I shall be in Clifford’s operations room on Chelsea Bridge Road,’ he replied. ‘At precisely ten thirty – about fifty minutes before the bomb goes off, I shall go with a company of the London Regiment along with thirty members of the Freedom Council to the main studios of the SBC in Portland Place. We shall storm the building at exactly eleven fifteen.’
‘Excellent,’ said Armstrong. ‘And what will you do when you’ve got there?’
‘As soon as we hear the code word for the assassination on the army frequencies, we shall broadcast your proclamation to the entire nation.’
‘And your opposition cells? Are they ready to help?’
‘Martin tells me they are just waiting for the word.’
Armstrong gave Nick a thumbs-up before turning to Alec.
‘And finally Alec – you’re all clear?’
‘Certainly, James. I’ll also be with Clifford, co-ordinating things from there. I’m going to help to ensure that all our units up and down the country act as swiftly and as firmly as possible.’
‘All right, good,’ said Armstrong. ‘And just to recap, my movements will be these: I shall leave here with Lucy at nine o’clock. We shall get as close to the Abbey as possible. As soon as the bomb goes off, General Galwey and I will lead in a detachment of Merriman’s battalion and take control of everybody inside. Once I am satisfied that Mosley has been killed, I shall have the code word broadcast to the operations room. I will announce to the congregation that there has been a change of government, and that forces loyal to democracy and freedom have taken control of key installations around the country. My role is to pacify the congregation, and if any resistance materialises to order Merriman’s men to meet force with force. We can be thankful that the many thousands of other soldiers who are involved in the ceremonies will not be armed.
‘After I have made any necessary arrests, I shall then make my way to Downing Street, where I will make arrangements for a meeting to be held as soon as possible between myself, General Galwey, the head of the civil service, the head of the Metropolitan Police, the Chief of the Imperial General Staff, and the head of the prison service. I shall tell them that parliamentary democracy will be restored after a period of martial law under General Galwey and that political prisoners are to be immediately released. And then, well, I think I shall have a very large whisky.’
‘I think we all will,’ said Alec.
‘One thing,’ sai
d Lucy. ‘What about the King and Queen?’
‘I hadn’t forgotten about them,’ said Armstrong. ‘I shall respectfully suggest that they go back to Buckingham Palace and stay there.’
‘But how about in the future? In a few weeks, I mean.’
‘Hopefully,’ said Armstrong, ‘he will have the good sense to abdicate, which he should have bloody done in the first place.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’ asked Nick.
‘Then it will be explained to him that the first Act of Parliament after the restoration of parliamentary democracy will be to strip him of his crown and place it on the Duke of York’s head. Whatever the constituency of the House, I see no problem in getting such an act passed.’
‘If the House is going to be filled by those I would wish to be there,’ said Lucy, ‘then there will be no more monarchy full stop.’
‘Too right,’ said Nick.
Armstrong smiled.
‘If you Communists win a general election fair and square, then you’re entitled to do what you like,’ he said. ‘That, after all, is democracy. I don’t agree with your politics at all, as you well know, but I’m fighting – we’re all fighting – for a Britain in which we allow others to speak their minds, no matter how misguided we feel they are.’
‘Misguided?’ said Lucy, incredulous.
‘All right then,’ said Armstrong. ‘Let’s just say idealistic.’
‘You’re on thin ice.’
‘I’m getting used to it,’ said Armstrong. ‘All right then, let’s get some sleep.’
The call from the Leader came at two o’clock in the morning. Ousby was in his office, attending to some last-minute details with his deputy and a handful of commissioners.
‘Ousby?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘How are your arrangements for tomorrow? Or today rather?’
‘Just going over them now, my Leader.’
‘And I assume you don’t have any good news to give me about Armstrong?’