The chauffeur came round and opened the door for Wolf and Wolf stepped out. He straightened his tie, brushed his hair to one side of his forehead.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome, sir.’
Wolf nodded. Then he took the invitation out of his breast pocket and marched to the entrance of the house.
‘Help you, sir?’
They were fresh-faced boys, really. They wore the Union’s futuristic uniform – high-waisted black trousers and black tight-fitting tunic tops that showed off their pectorals, and the whole thing set off by a wide black belt with a large square silver buckle. They looked like they belonged on a rocket ship from one of the American pulps. Most of them sported a pencil moustache, aping their leader. They looked like bulls: well-fed and aggressive. On the left breast of their tunic tops was the jagged lightning bolt of the BU.
‘My invitation.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The boy scanned the card and stepped aside. Wolf nodded to him civilly enough and went in.
Inside, a pungent cloud welcomed him: eau de toilette, eau de cologne, eau de parfum. Full-bodied cigars and slim ladies’ cigarettes and lawyers’ fragrant pipe-tobacco: it made his eyes water.
‘Wolf!’ It was almost a shriek. He turned and there, descending the grand staircase, was Lady Mosley in a fetching Parisian dress. Jewels sparkled on her wrists, at her neck. She came down to his level and hugged him.
‘Diana,’ he said.
‘It is so good to see you!’ Diana Mosley said.
‘Thank you for inviting me.’
‘But of course! My dear Wolf – it is Wolf, still, isn’t it?’
‘It is, yes.’
‘Wolf. How romantic.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘It’s been so long!’
Wolf nodded his head in silent acquiescence.
That night in ’34 he had been welcomed to their apartment like an exiled prince – valued, sympathised with, even admired – yet one whose power had waned, whose time had come and gone. He had come like a beggar, limping with the wound in his leg that he had sustained in the concentration camp, and they had spoken of what had passed and what was to come, but it was obvious to all of them, by then, that Germany was lost.
He had left. He would not take charity. Since then he never went back. Mosley then was a minor figure in British politics, almost a figure of ridicule. In the intervening years, with the dark shadow of communism growing ever longer across the Channel, he too had grown, in both power and status. And Wolf had not been invited back; there was that, too, to consider.
Until now.
‘You poor dear!’ Diana continued on, in that prattle British society women were so well-practised in. Wolf knew better than to underestimate her. None of the Mitford sisters were entirely stupid, though one of them, Jessica, was a devoted communist. Diana touched Wolf’s cheek, lightly. ‘What happened to your poor face?’
‘I fell.’
‘Did the police do this? How utterly dreadful. Things like this will never happen when Oswald is in power.’
When, Wolf noted. Not if.
‘I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.’ Still, he was angry: the anger was never far from the surface. ‘There was a Jew inspector—’
‘A Jew! How ghastly!’
‘Well, it is of little significance.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘Oswald is just dying to see you,’ she said. ‘But he can wait. Come. Let’s get you something to drink.’
She led him into a large room with high windows. Guests milled about and he saw familiar faces, politicians and film stars, the usual assortment of trash one could find at any such gathering. A buffet ran from one wall to the other, every manner of beast and fowl represented, and Wolf realised just how hungry he was. Diana Mosley, née Mitford, brought him a tall glass. He took it from her. ‘Fresh orange and strawberries,’ she whispered, smiling. ‘We have them shipped over, darling. I made sure we’d have something waiting especially for you. Come. You must be ravenous!’
One buffet table, Wolf saw, was covered in vegetarian dishes, from an Indian-style curry to Italian lasagne and British shepherd’s pie. Diana took a plate and began to heap food onto it. ‘Here you are.’
He took it from her. Put his drink down on the table. Picked up a fork. Delicately sampled the curry. Diana watched him like a wife. ‘Eat!’ she said.
Wolf ate. The assortment of foods all blended together. He barely tasted any of it, the hunger was so strong. He ate with quick strong strokes, like a swimmer – like that good Aryan boy Johnny Weissmuller, who played Tarzan in the pictures.
When he was done he put the plate down and in seconds a waiter whisked it away. Wolf picked up his drink and took a sip. ‘You look well,’ he said.
‘I feel well,’ Diana said, and laughed. She touched his arm. ‘It really is so good to see you, Wolf. You have always been such an inspiration, to both of us, you know. Oswald values you highly.’
‘Is he here?’
‘He’s around. He would be delighted to see you.’
‘And I, him,’ Wolf said, politely.
‘Good!’ She clapped her hands. ‘But do let me show you around first, Wolf! It’s not often we get such distinguished company.’
‘You’re too kind, really.’
Wolf found himself dragged along in her wake. Her hand on his arm was surprisingly strong. She had always liked him more than she should have, he thought. The way her sister had. Now he was her prize, for one night. She was determined to show him off, the way she did her jewels. But unlike gold, Wolf’s value had not gone up in the intervening years.
‘Ah, Lady Mosley. What a delightful party.’
‘Thank you so much! Wolf, this is Mr Fleming. He’s a stockbroker.’
The man was handsome, with the bearing of a military man. ‘Call me Ian, please.’ He had a strong grip when they shook hands.
‘Mr Fleming almost bought our old flat from us, do you know!’ Diana said. ‘In the end we bought the whole place and did it up instead.’
‘A great gain for all of us,’ Fleming said, smiling. He looked at Wolf. That same look he always got. ‘You remind me of someone.’
Wolf shook his head. ‘I get that a lot,’ he said.
‘You are German!’
‘Austrian, actually.’
‘I studied in Austria. Kitzbühel.’
‘Did you,’ Wolf said. It was not exactly a question.
‘I’m sure you look like someone.’
‘Believe me, I am no one.’
Fleming peered at him closely. ‘Have you been in a fight?’ he said.
‘Really, Mr Fleming!’ Diana turned to Wolf, apologetic. ‘Mr Fleming was a journalist, you see. He was in Moscow, in fact, in ’33. At the time of the …’ she hesitated.
‘The Fall?’
Wolf noticed that the Fleming fellow had lost his smile. His eyes took on a cold aspect. Wolf knew that look, too.
Recognition.
‘Excuse me,’ Fleming said. He turned rather abruptly and went to join a group of City men by the half-open windows.
‘How rude!’ Diana said. ‘I am so sorry, Wolf.’
‘I take it he is not a supporter of the BU, either?’
Diana shrugged. ‘This is a private party, not a political one.’
‘I see that is Lord Rothermere of the Daily Mail there, talking to the writer – Williamson?’
‘Henry Williamson, yes. Wonderful writer. Wonderful. Have you read A Chronicle of Ancient Sunlight? No, well, anyway, of course yes, both of them are supporters, naturally.’ She looked at him steadily. ‘Was that your point?’
‘I was just curious.’
‘Do you know,’ Diana said, whispering mischievously, ‘It is rumoured Mr Fleming is sleeping with Baron O’Neill’s wife? While not knowing meanwhile that she, at the same time, is also having an affair with Lord Rothermere’s heir?’
‘A busy lady.’
‘
Busy indeed!’ And Diana burst into laughter. ‘Poor Fleming,’ she said. ‘But he’s young.’
Wolf was rescued at that moment with the arrival of a young man as grey and unremarkable as his suit. Clearly, not a guest, but an employee. The man – a boy, really – whispered in Diana’s ear.
‘Yes, thank you, Alderman,’ she said. She turned to Wolf, apologetically. ‘Oswald is in his study, upstairs. He wishes to see you. Would you …?’ She gestured with her palm.
‘Of course.’
‘Just follow Alderman. It is so lovely to see you, Wolf.’
‘You too, Lady Mosley.’
‘Diana, please!’
Wolf took her hand and kissed it, gallantly. ‘Diana,’ he said.
‘Oh, Wolf!’
She fanned herself and laughed. Wolf took his leave, following the taciturn Alderman.
Up the stairs through more festive people, the men in suits and the women in dresses, and all expensive and expansive and all laughing gaily, and drinking and smoking, and chattering and parting before Wolf, like the Red Sea at the approach of Moses and the Israelites.
‘Please, sir,’ the boy said.
‘Yes, yes? What is it?’ Wolf said, impatiently.
‘I’m a big admirer of yours, sir.’
‘I see,’ Wolf said, who didn’t. ‘What of it?’
The boy reached into the breast pocket of his suit and brought out a small rectangular object and began to say, ‘Could you perhaps sign this—’ but Wolf wasn’t paying attention. ‘Mosley?’ he said, crossly, if only to the air. ‘Mosley, are you there? Blasted man.’
‘Here, sir,’ the young man said, with some obvious regret. Whatever it was he wanted to show Wolf had disappeared. They had reached the top floor. Oswald Mosley’s private office was in what had once been an attic. Alderman knocked, waited and pushed the oak door open. Beyond was a small, comfortable-looking room, with bookshelves and an antique desk and bronze lamps. It was warm and well lit. Behind the desk sat Oswald Mosley, perusing papers.
‘Mr Wolf to see you, sir.’
Mosley raised his head. He was a good-looking man, with thick black hair slicked back and a pencil moustache that made him look a little like a screen villain. He was dressed in a Savile Row suit rather than the BU uniform he had himself designed. The smile he gave Wolf was genuine, and beaming.
‘Sir Oswald,’ Wolf said.
‘Wolf!’ Mosley rose, his arms outstretched. ‘You may leave us, Alderman.’
‘Sir.’
Mosley advanced on Wolf as the door closed with a soft snick, leaving them alone in the room. Wolf bore the hug stoically. Before the Fall, no one would have dared greet him so informally.
‘It is so good to see you, my friend.’
‘And you.’ He was relieved when Mosley released him. He looked around the room. ‘You have come up in the world.’
Mosley shrugged. ‘I worked hard for it. There is much work before us. You of all people know—’
‘You are running for prime minister,’ Wolf said. He looked more closely at Mosley’s face, searching for those telltale signs of age since the last time they’d met. But it was strange. In recent months he had grown used to Mosley’s face, wherever he turned, looking down on him from billboards and posters glued to the city’s walls. At first no one had taken the British Union of Fascists seriously; now, the Blackshirts were everywhere and Mosley’s image, larger than life, haunted the dark city.
‘Yes,’ Mosley said. Shrugged with his palms open, disarmingly. ‘I am.’
‘Can you really afford to go to war with Germany?’
It was the question people were asking. Mosley ran on a platform opposing Marxism. He claimed a coming war was inevitable.
Mosley said, ‘Can we afford not to?’
‘A war with Germany is a war with Russia,’ Wolf said. ‘With Stalin and all his power.’
‘Marxism must be destroyed,’ Mosley said. ‘It is the poisoned ideology of the Jewish race.’
Wolf rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. To see Mosley, that clown, with such power! It filled him with irrational rage. Even the man’s words were second-hand.
‘But I am sorry to go on,’ Mosley said. ‘Please, sit down, my friend. Can I get you anything?’
‘Thank you, no. Your wife has been most kind.’
‘Diana is a loyal woman.’ Mosley re-seated himself behind his desk. Wolf had heard of the man’s little indiscretions. When Oswald was married to his first wife, Cynthia, he was also having an affair with her younger sister Alexandra, and with their stepmother. Sometimes Wolf wondered how the man ever found the time to be a Fascist. But then didn’t Mussolini carry on as if he were single-handedly responsible for repopulating the entire Earth after a holocaust?
Whatever the case, he knew they were weak men, where he was strong. And yet their hearts were in the right place for all that, as the English said.
‘So,’ Wolf said. He watched Mosley, who sat back in the chair and folded his hands in his lap.
‘So,’ Mosley said.
They regarded each other across the desk.
At last Mosley sighed. ‘Unfortunate business with that young prostitute,’ he said.
‘Nothing to do with me,’ Wolf said.
‘Of course. Of course. Nevertheless …’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s bad publicity, Wolf. I am fighting for my political life here! For the very future of this country, if not the world! I cannot afford even a whiff of scandal. Not now.’
‘What are you suggesting, exactly?’
Mosley raised his hands. ‘I am not suggesting you are embroiled in all this,’ he said. ‘This … murder and what have you. But the signs are all too clear. The swastika most of all. Not many would understand the clue of the tin drummer. Not any more.’
It was a stark reminder of how far Wolf had fallen.
‘Yes.’
‘I cannot afford to be linked to these murders.’
‘You invited me to your home.’
‘Diana did that.’
‘I see.’
‘I had asked the driver to bring you directly to me. Perhaps he misunderstood.’
Wolf thought of the chauffeur and his Munich accent and his veteran’s poise. A loyal man, he thought. But not to Mosley.
‘What is it you want?’
Mosley lowered his hands. He looked tired suddenly, older than his years. ‘I want to hire you,’ he said.
‘Hire me?’ Wolf had not expected that. ‘To do what? To disappear?’
‘No, no.’ Mosley shrugged. ‘Look, I apologise. The murderer will be caught. So far I have managed to keep the details out of the newspapers. It is a problem, but it is a matter for the police. As for that Jew, Morhaim, I shall make sure he is dealt with. We do not want Jews in our police force, do we? But these are critical times, and I cannot be seen to interfere directly. Not yet.’
‘So you would do nothing.’
A hurt look entered Mosley’s eyes. Then he smiled.
‘You were always the most astute of us all,’ he said.
I was always your superior, Wolf thought, but didn’t say.
‘Thank you for getting me out,’ he said.
‘It was the least I could do.’
‘Something is troubling you.’ He adopted his detective’s voice. The voice of a confidant. ‘Tell me what it is.’
‘Someone is trying to kill me.’
‘Oh?’
‘Three nights ago an assassin opened fire on my car as I was driving to a rally in Derby,’ Mosley said. ‘I lived. The assassin escaped. We had kept the news from the papers.’
‘You must have been shaken.’
‘I was certainly bothered, yes,’ Mosley said. Wolf thought, You pompous coward. I bet you all but pissed yourself.
‘You were very brave.’
‘I serve a greater purpose,’ Mosley said.
Yes, your prick, Wolf thought.
‘Sorry? Did you say som
ething?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘And two weeks ago there was an attempt on my life as I stepped out of a soiree in Kensington. My men found a suspicious package taped to the undercarriage of the car. It turned out to be a bomb. Only by luck it did not go off.’
‘So you are suggesting an orchestrated campaign?’
‘I am afraid, Wolf. I am afraid that next time they will succeed. I am afraid not for myself, but for the world I shall leave bereft of my leadership.’
Wolf would have been happy at that point to kill Mosley himself. But he brought himself under control. He always did.
‘Do you know who they are?’ he said, calmly.
‘Who do you think?’
‘Jews?’
‘Who else? They call themselves the Palestinian Liberation Front. The PLO.’
Wolf said: ‘Palestine?’ The word left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.
‘They want it for themselves. A land for the Jews. They demand Parliament cede it to them. Just imagine! Next thing you know the Indians will be demanding independence, or the blacks in—’ he waved his hand vaguely, ‘Bongo Bongo Land. Can you imagine, Wolf?’
‘It is a way of, in the first instance, removing the Jews from Europe,’ Wolf said. Such a plan had been put forward before, by Himmler, Göring, even Julius Streicher. ‘Surely that should be the main objective?’
‘Our problem in Britain has never been a large population of Jews,’ Mosley said. ‘Until recently, at any rate. The Fall and the influx of immigrants is rallying the country round to my way of thinking, at long last.’
‘But they are blaming all immigrants, not just the Jews.’
As an alien in Britain he had experienced his share of hostility, but he was not going to mention that to Mosley. He had his pride.
‘The Jews are behind it. They are behind everything. And is communism not just a Jewish ploy? But this is getting us nowhere, Wolf. The point is that the Jews have formed in recent years – no doubt emboldened by the rise of their kind in the communist East – several covert military groups even as they engage in illegal immigration to Palestine – very much against British Mandate law, I should add. They buy ships! They purchase false papers! And Palestine is a lawless land, a Wild West – we can hardly spend the resources to administer it properly.’
A Man Lies Dreaming Page 7