Up ahead, the dark vehicle was turning right. Wilde followed it, holding the Rudge as far back as he could. He hoped there was enough fuel in the tank.
*
Vladimir Rybakov sat perched on the truck’s front seat between Sawyer, who was navigating, and Dorfen, at the wheel. They stank of cordite and blood. This was a great deal less comfortable than the three-and-a-half hour flight from Bremen. Fears of bad weather closing in had proved unfounded. During the early part of the journey, Rybakov had flown up front with Hans Baur and his co-pilot.
‘The stillness of the night sky, Mr Rybakov,’ Baur had said cheerfully. ‘Beneath us the vast expanse of the North Sea – the water that links us to Britain.’
‘And keeps you separate.’
‘Indeed. You know, I love the dark hours. I flew the Führer by night across Germany during the election. I loved to show him the lights of the cities beneath us.’ He laughed. ‘The great man had a fear of flying.’
‘Hitler?’ Rybakov was surprised.
Baur laughed. ‘Don’t tell him I told you.’
Rybakov had spent the rest of the flight trying to calm the nerves of his men. Half of them were silent, the other half agitated. The fuselage smelt of gasoline and vomit; two men were airsick. Spain had been one thing; this was quite another. During their training sessions at Lichterfelde, there had been arguments about the operation. Great Britain was a friend to the White Russians, was it not? Could it be right to launch an attack in such a country even if it was to save the King? Only those who had not expressed these reservations had been selected for the mission, but still there were doubts. Doubts that, in his heart, Rybakov himself shared. But thus far, this was their best hope.
He was edgy. Dorfen kept saying the same thing over and over again. ‘You must speak Russian at all times. No German, no English. Only Russian. Do you understand, Rybakov?’
‘I understand. You have told us all this before. But, you know, some of my men are more fluent in French than Russian. They have grown up in France . . .’
‘Well then, tell them to keep their mouths shut. And if by misfortune any man is taken, he must say that he was landed by boat on the east coast of England, he does not know exactly where or from which port in the Baltic he left. He must say that you were met by an Englishman who spoke some Russian who had transport waiting. And that is all he knows.’
‘They understand. I understand. It was drummed into us.’
‘And all the weapons? No one has slipped a Mauser or Luger into their jacket?’
‘Only Tokarevs and PPDs. And this operation . . .’
‘Patience.’
‘At least tell me the target.’
‘Two English traitors. Two men who would depose their king, to whom they have sworn allegiance. This will be your most glorious night. The SS Romanov Division will be hailed by good men throughout the ages to come.’
‘Who are these traitors?’
‘Baldwin, the British prime minister, and the Duke of York, the King’s brother. Can you imagine any creature more loathsome – a man who would conspire to topple his own brother? Who would not wish to shoot such a dog?’
CHAPTER 36
They were winding their way through a series of country roads in an intricate, southerly direction, edging round to the west of Cambridge. It was a slow, complicated route, one that had been picked out to confuse: even if Eaton had succeeded in calling in the army, they would never find them. Wilde was alone. From the certainty with which each turn was taken, he guessed that the route had been rehearsed. Duncan Sawyer was nothing if not meticulous.
The vehicle ahead was going thirty to forty miles per hour and often slower than that, for the roads were mostly narrow and not in good repair. Wilde had no difficulty keeping in touch with it; the problem was how to remain unobserved: there was little other traffic. He kept a steady distance behind the truck, as far back as he could manage without losing it. At times, on a long stretch with good visibility ahead, he pulled into a layby and waited twenty seconds, even half a minute. Whenever he had the chance, he allowed another vehicle to overtake him. The cloud had mostly cleared, leaving the dull light of a half-moon. On certain stretches of the deserted road, he switched off the headlight.
He glanced at the fuel gauge. He’d been going for nearly two hours. Still over half full. Despite his heavy gauntlets, his hands were frozen. It was agony merely to grip the handlebar.
*
Yuri Kholtov lay curled up on the floor of the farm cottage. Every time he tried to move, he cried out in pain. His ankle was shattered. He was sure, too, that at least three of his ribs were broken. His head was throbbing where Eaton had beaten him again and again.
He was bruised and bloodied, but he had not been left for dead. Eaton had known he was alive, for he had said he would be back; there was unfinished business between them.
The little cat licked his face, savouring the salt. He no longer wanted the damned thing and pushed it away, but the effort sent a searing pain down along his arm into the side of his torso. And the pain was becoming worse, for the effect of the vodka was wearing off. How many hours had he been here? How long before Eaton returned to finish him off?
Think, he told himself. Steel yourself. You have been through much in your life. There is a way out of this. You are a survivor; you will survive this and look back on it and laugh.
Yet even if he could escape from this filthy cottage in the middle of nowhere, how long would it be before he was picked up by the police to face a murder charge?
But he had to try because waiting here was not an option. If a man cannot run, then he must walk. If he cannot walk, he must limp. And if he cannot limp, he must crawl.
And so he crawled, and somehow he made it to the open door.
*
Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin and Prince Albert, Duke of York, were unlikely men to be involved in a palace coup. Neither gave the impression of desiring more power than he had; neither seemed to have a reason to bear a grudge against the King. What they did have in common was an intense patriotism, a belief in doing the right thing for Britain and the Empire and the Church of England. And in the eyes of both men, the as-yet still uncrowned King Edward VIII was doing the wrong thing in wishing to marry the twice-divorced Mrs Wallis Simpson.
Now, this winter’s night, Stanley Baldwin was preparing to travel to Royal Lodge in Windsor Great Park, the home of the Duke of York. It had been a particularly trying year for Baldwin: a succession of crises in Europe, and a series of health problems. His doctor had told him he was suffering from nervous exhaustion. Not this night, though.
His fingers tightened round the glass. How could the King not understand? His wish to marry Mrs Simpson was irreconcilable with his position as head of the Church and Empire: right-thinking men and women were horrified. Those old enough to remember her wondered how the dear old Queen Empress would have viewed these goings-on. God’s teeth, even the humble marchers of the Jarrow Crusade were said to be appalled that a King of England could consider marrying a divorcee.
There were others, Baldwin acknowledged, who believed the King should be free to marry the woman he loved. Prominent members of the establishment: Winston Churchill, David Lloyd George, popular newspapers like the Daily Mail and Daily Express. Baldwin ground his teeth in frustration. It was he who held the reins of power and he was determined the King must either give up Mrs Simpson or renounce the throne. In this, he had the backing of his Cabinet. There could be no compromise.
Baldwin sipped his whisky as he considered Prince Albert. He was a shy, sickly man, his timidity accentuated by a speech impediment, a heavy smoker; but biddable enough. Although he had no desire to take the throne, he was driven by an old-fashioned sense of duty: please God, he would accept it. But nothing could be taken for granted. Baldwin knew he would have to exercise all his guile and charm to ensure that the transition went smoothly. The upheaval over Mrs Simpson was quite enough on its own; the country would be s
haken to its core by an abdication. Baldwin could not afford any hiccoughs.
He lit his pipe and considered the words he would use. Duty to Empire. Duty to God and country. We must put aside our own misgivings, Your Royal Highness. No one can take pleasure in your brother’s decision. In some respects, we are similar men, you and I. Neither of us seeks glory or fame. And yet there are times when a man must step into the breach. We must, indeed, steel ourselves to the task ahead.
Above all, he knew, he must use the duchess’s influence. Elizabeth was his greatest ally. She was wrought from iron. She knew her husband would make a greater sovereign than the undignified Edward could ever make. More than that, she knew that her place was at Albert’s side, as Queen and mother to his heirs, the little princesses, Elizabeth and Margaret Rose.
Baldwin finished off the whisky. He had a flask in his coat pocket for the journey. He turned to his aide.
‘Do we know what his thoughts are?’
‘I believe he has been quite calm since returning from Edinburgh, prime minister.’
‘Doesn’t tell us much. If I know him, his stomach will be churning.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘Any newspapermen about?’
‘No, prime minister,’ the aide said. ‘The coast is clear.’
The meeting with the duke had to be secret; the King must not know. He would see it as conspiratorial. It might even stiffen his resolve, make him turn away from abdication at the last moment and fight to remain monarch as bloody Wallis Simpson wanted him to do. Although Baldwin hated to admit it to himself, Edward had considerable pockets of support among his subjects, and even some support in parliament and the colonies. Word of this meeting must never get out.
‘How long will it take?’
‘Depends on the state of the roads, sir. About an hour. Perhaps less. There will be next to no traffic.’
Baldwin looked at his wristwatch: 11.00 p.m. ‘Call the duke and tell him we’re on our way. My apologies for arriving at such an ungodly hour. And tell him I would be grateful if the duchess could be in attendance.’
‘Yes, prime minister. I have already told them we would like her there.’
‘And fill my tobacco pouch for me, if you would. I fear this will be a long night.’
*
Wilde was bitterly cold. He had been looking at the fuel gauge with increasing concern. There was little petrol left, certainly no more than a gallon, and he would be lucky if he managed another twenty miles.
By now, he knew that he was deep into the south of England. The countryside suddenly changed dramatically. This was nothing like the villages or country lanes through which he had passed. On his left, high walls loomed out of the darkness, but the truck carried on and he found himself in a wide-open parkland of oaks and bridleways. Suddenly, he recognised where he was. He had been here once before, researching his Walsingham book. This was Windsor Great Park. The cold knotted and twisted in his belly. The King had a home near here: Fort Belvedere.
Ahead, the dark truck took a sharp left turn up an incline. It accelerated, crashing through a wooden fence, and continued lumbering up the hill.
Wilde brought the Rudge to a halt at the side of the road and killed the headlight. The numbness of his hands and feet, the aching cold in his cheeks and eyes consumed him. He looked about him for a telephone kiosk or a house from which he could call, but there was nothing. He waited and watched as the black vehicle trundled, tank-like, up the grassy slope. Instead of disappearing into the copse ahead, it halted just before and extinguished the headlights. No more than half a mile away.
Just as Wilde was about to slide from the saddle, a car appeared, driving slowly along the main road.
*
Baldwin’s journey to Windsor Great Park from Downing Street had been as smooth as expected through the suburbs of west London, along the new stretch of the Great West Road, past thousands of brand-new houses costing £500 apiece and new factories bringing popular brands of bathroom products to the masses. Now, if anything, they were a little early.
In the back of the Rolls, Baldwin had a small electric torch. He checked his wristwatch: nearly midnight. He infinitely preferred meeting Prince Albert to his brother. They had similar tastes: liked the quiet life, hated flash; as did their wives. Both men were appalled by the louche set that surrounded the King and his dreadful American concubine. Baldwin sniffed. Too dignified a word for her, concubine. Tart was better. She was a tart.
The interior of the car was a rich fog of tobacco smoke. Baldwin drew on his pipe, but the glow had died. He fished in his pocket for his pouch, drew out a few strands of aromatic tobacco and tamped them into the bowl. He hadn’t touched the whisky in his flask. He might need it for the journey home. It had been a bad forty-eight hours. His spies had told him that Winston bloody Churchill had been meddling; he had visited Fort Belvedere yesterday to see the King. Two hours later a letter arrived at Downing Street from Winston begging the prime minister to delay the abdication. The King, he believed, was just a young man in love; he must be given leeway. Today had only made matters worse, with Winston issuing a statement to the press pleading for ‘patience’. Patience? What good would that do? This thing had to be dealt with as quickly as possible. Lance the boil before the poison leaks into the body.
Now the Whips were telling Baldwin that forty or more Conservative MPs were willing to back a King’s Party. Winston was already drawing up plans for an alternative Cabinet at his flat in Westminster. Meanwhile, in darker corners, the fascist-leaning Lord Londonderry was said to have his own designs on the premiership. Was that Churchill’s ulterior motive, too? You never could tell with Winston. One thing was certain, there had to be something in it for him; altruism and Churchill were words that did not sit well together.
At the last moment before they set off, Royal Lodge had told him that the duchess wouldn’t be there, that she was laid up with influenza. But as the car glided silently through Windsor Great Park, Baldwin still felt a glow of warmth. Albert would undoubtedly talk to her by telephone and her response was certain. ‘You must do this, Bertie,’ she would say. And he would not demur. Elizabeth always knew what was best for him.
By night, the world of the park was one of shadows. Nothing like it existed anywhere else in England; this was the country’s ancient heart. It was dark, but he could sense the thousands of undulating acres and its history all around him. It had been a vast forest, the hunting ground of monarchs through the centuries, a recreation ground for the royal and the great. The woods were thinned out now, but great trees still loomed all around, many decked with large, perfect bundles of mistletoe, ready for Christmas picking. Beneath them, the red deer huddled together, seeking warmth.
Nature nurtured, thought Baldwin. A little like myself. The rough edges smoothed off. The affable assassin.
*
Wilde watched the car coast by. As it passed, a match flared and momentarily lit the interior. Good God, Wilde thought. Stanley Baldwin. Where was he going?
He ran now, loping across open land following the direction taken by the truck. As he ran, he thrust his hand into his coat pocket and felt the cold steel of the Walther.
The half-moon gave him just enough silvery light. At first it seemed the ground was firm, but it soon became boggy underfoot and his shoes squelched into deep, cloying mud, up to the ankle.
He could see the truck up ahead, and slowed down. The terrain was littered with deadwood and old trunks blown down by the winter winds. They gave him some cover, but also impeded his progress. He was no more than a hundred yards from the vehicle when its rear doors were thrown open and light flooded out. Almost as quickly, the light was extinguished, but he had seen what he needed to see: a dozen or so men disgorged, all of them carrying arms.
Below him he could hear the sounds of the prime minister’s car sweeping on up the road, past the men and their truck, oblivious to their presence.
To the left, across parkland, Wilde saw the lights of a big house. That must be
where Baldwin was heading, unaware of the desperate danger he was in. Wilde gripped the little Walther, leapt from his cover and began running towards the house. He no longer felt the throbbing of his injured head. He ran low and fast and when he was thirty yards from the vehicle he stopped and caught his breath. Ahead of him, the militia had formed into a concave arc and was moving off, down the slope.
There was no time for choice. No time to do the sane thing and dodge past these men. No time to reach the house to warn those inside. He thought of his Harrow classmates. Half of them had died in the trenches. They had done their duty. They had known the terrible risks. Who was he to fail them now?
The sharp crack of the Walther shattered the night. The recoil jerked his right arm backwards. He fired again, and again: three times, in rapid succession. Gunshots in the night to alert a royal house to danger.
CHAPTER 37
Almost hidden away, very close to the centre of Windsor Great Park’s five thousand acres, sat the soft pink, almost white, walls of Royal Lodge, home of Prince Albert, Duke of York, his wife Elizabeth and their two daughters, Elizabeth and Margaret Rose. The duchess had presided lovingly over its restoration. Now it was full of light and life. A Hollywood house, fit for a Fairbanks or a Pickford. More than anything, it was a family home.
At the heart of the house was the saloon. Forty feet long, lit by three great chandeliers of Waterford crystal, it turned the building from a large, pleasantly appointed country house into something a little more palatial. This was where the duke received Stanley Baldwin. This was the room where it had been decided they were to die.
*
The Russians moved down the incline towards the house’s perimeter fence, dark shadows in the dull shine of the moon. They walked two metres apart, weapons at the ready.
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