Dominion

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘The obvious answer is through the Americans. The brother will have told them all about what happened.’ Gessler nodded. Gunther thought, all about what? What exactly did Muncaster know? And how much did Gessler know of it?

  ‘And the old man definitely reported Muncaster as saying “The Germans mustn’t know”.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Given how important this could be, Berlin agrees Muncaster should be brought here and questioned. He would fold quickly, I am sure; we would soon find out whether he actually knows anything important.’

  Gunther said, ‘I think locking him in the basement and telling him a few details about what we can do should be enough.’

  ‘Good. Actual interrogation of a British citizen is politically tricky. They like to keep things in their own hands.’

  ‘I know.’

  Gessler frowned again, tapping his fingers on the desk. ‘And that is our problem. What I would like to do is send an SS squad into that hospital and just take him. But the orders from Berlin are that we must avoid doing anything that would cause a stir. If the British authorities realize Muncaster’s importance they may want to keep him. We don’t want the British secret services anywhere near this; they’re unreliable, full of wild adventurers. And if the Resistance people are onto Muncaster, too, it is vital they know nothing of our involvement; they might try to snatch or kill him first.’

  ‘They’ve had access to him already. If he has a secret the Americans don’t want to get out then why haven’t they killed him yet?’

  ‘Maybe the Americans want him alive. Maybe the British Resistance want his secret for themselves.’

  ‘What if these visitors come again?’

  ‘Dr Wilson will be told very firmly to ring a good friend of ours in the British Home Office. He’ll do it, he’ll huff and puff but he knows he could lose his job if things go wrong.’

  ‘Don’t forget he has a relative in the Health Ministry.’

  ‘It’s the Home Office that counts. Meanwhile we need to look into the people in that university photograph, two of whom the old man thought he recognized, which brings me to the next issue. How did Syme do yesterday?’

  Gunther had considered how to answer this. ‘Very well. Took the lead in questioning Muncaster, but took cues from me. I don’t think Muncaster even realized I’m foreign. Then Syme helped me get into the flat.’

  ‘How far do you trust him?’

  Gunther considered. ‘He’s not an easy colleague. Bit of a chip on his shoulder about us being in charge. He’s clever, he’s guessed there’s more to this than meets the eye. But he’s fond of money and the good life, and I’ve told him he’ll be rewarded for helping us.’

  Gessler tapped the photograph of the group at Oxford. ‘Would you trust him to look into this, find out the identities of the people in this picture? The names the visitors gave at the asylum were fake, of course.’

  ‘Yes. But I’d watch him; if it came to a conflict between British and German interests, I’m not sure which way he’d jump. He’s a good Fascist, but, as I say, with a chip on his shoulder. The question of reward would be important.’

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’ Gessler asked.

  ‘No. But that doesn’t matter. I think he can be very useful.’

  ‘Then let’s play on his greed.’ Gessler smiled. ‘It works often enough.’ He was his old confident self again, as though the conversation about Hitler’s illness had not taken place. ‘I’ll speak to his superintendent. Ask for him to contact Oxford, find out who was in that photograph. Take Syme to a top restaurant tonight, say the Cafe de Paris; we can arrange the booking. Thank him for his help, talk about a grateful German government opening a Reichsmark account for him.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘And now, I have a call from Berlin due shortly. Go back to your flat, contact Syme, butter him up. Apart from that, wait in for the telephone.’ He looked at Gunther sharply again. ‘But be ready now, for anything. And remember this, Heydrich himself wants Muncaster in our hands. And if it comes to it, Syme is dispensable.’

  That night Gunther took Syme to dinner at the Cafe de Paris as arranged. When he got back to the flat he had telephoned Syme’s office, put on an artificially jovial voice. Then, as he was not supposed to go out, he phoned the embassy to ask if they could get him a dinner suit. They delivered one an hour later, just the right size, with a crisply ironed shirt. They had booked places for them at the restaurant, too, which couldn’t have been easy at a few hours’ notice.

  He turned what Gessler had said over and over in his mind. He had known, objectively, that Hitler was ill and might die, and that the politics then could become difficult, but being told it was a strong possibility now was different. For over twenty years Gunther had believed the Führer was something more than human, delivered to a broken Germany by Fate. He remembered the posters on the streets in the thirties, All This We Owe to the Führer. He knew Martin Bormann was Hitler’s right-hand man, but also that he was a nonentity. Gessler was right, Goebbels was the key figure. Which way would he jump, towards the SS, or the army? Gunther sat and calculated, but underneath it all was cold fear at the thought that Hitler, the keystone of everything, could soon be gone.

  Eventually, worn out with thinking, he went and lay down on the bed. He fell into an uneasy doze, and had a dream about his young son. Michael was walking through a field of stubble, and Gunther knew there were mines in the field but somehow he was powerless to call out to the boy. Then he saw someone else crossing the field, walking towards Michael. It was his brother Hans. He knew that Hans and Michael were both about to be blown up, but though he tried to shout to them he couldn’t speak, could only utter a little croak. He woke up gasping for breath.

  There were no calls from the embassy and at seven he phoned Gessler’s office where his coldly efficient secretary confirmed they would contact him at the Cafe de Paris if need be. He walked up to Euston Square tube; there was fog in the air, a sulphurous tang that made him cough as London fogs always did. If it persisted he would have to get one of those facemasks. He remembered his nightmare. He felt full of emptiness and fear. He must show Syme no trace of it.

  On the tube platform he saw a huge garish poster: a man in a clown’s outfit with a painted face holding up a big flaming hoop through which a lion jumped. Billy Smart’s Circus Christmas Spectacular. He wondered if there were any circuses in Krimea.

  The Cafe de Paris was a huge basement room. Gunther had been there when he was posted in England before, usually for boring embassy functions. He had heard that in 1939–40, when the British were terrified of German bombs, it had been advertised as the safest restaurant in London. The lighting was low, little shaded lamps on the tables. Gunther had hoped for a place in the balcony area that surrounded the ballroom – somehow he always felt safer watching things from above – but he was led to a table near the dance floor, with a view of the band. They were playing loud, discordant jazz music.

  Gunther looked at his watch; he was early. He glanced over at the people at the other tables. Some older women wore ballgowns but most of the younger women had short dresses, some wide and flouncy, others daringly tight. Many had expensive mink stoles over their bare shoulders. Four Wehrmacht colonels sat together, probably military advisers from the embassy, Rommel’s people, part of the clique who wanted to cut a deal with the enemy. They looked cheerful and confident. At a big table nearby a group of middle-aged Englishmen accompanied by younger women who looked like prostitutes were getting cheerily, noisily drunk. From their shouted conversation he gathered they were from ICI, celebrating a possible new contract with Siemens. A waitress came and he ordered an orange juice. He didn’t want to drink too much alcohol tonight.

  Syme arrived a quarter of an hour later, in a dinner suit that was too big for him. Gunther sighed inwardly, then rose to shake his hand. They took their seats. Syme looked round, his expression appreciative. ‘Quite a place, eh? I’ve heard of it, but never been.’

  �
��We wanted to show our appreciation.’ A waitress appeared. ‘What will you have to drink?’

  ‘A brandy if that’s all right. Push the boat out. What’s that you’ve got?’

  ‘Orange juice. But I’ll have a brandy now.’

  Syme said, quietly, ‘I got called in by the superintendent today.’

  ‘Did you?’

  He smiled conspiratorially. ‘They want me to carry on helping you.’

  ‘And what do you think about that, William?’

  ‘I’ll be glad to.’ A serious expression came over his thin face. ‘Sounds like you put in a good word for me. I’m grateful.’

  ‘Whatever we can do.’ The drinks came. Gunther raised his glass. Syme shifted in his chair; Gunther wished again that he wouldn’t twitch about all the time.

  ‘Let me know what you need.’ Syme laughed. ‘We’ll be like Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, solving the great crimes.’

  Gunther smiled, though he had always thought the Sherlock Holmes stories contrived and moralistic, not like the real world. The band finished their number, to Gunther’s relief, but then an exaggeratedly handsome, Latin-looking man in a suit with sparkly lapels walked onto the stage. Everyone clapped, and Syme gave a little whistle. ‘Wow, that’s Guy Mitchell.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘American singer. He’s big, not like Crosby or Sinatra but pretty good. They’re always playing him on the radio.’ He laughed with pleasure. The man sang a couple of numbers; he had a good voice but the lyrics were nonsensical. Syme had turned to watch, foot jigging in time to the music. Gunther was relieved when the singer bowed and left the stage; his stomach was grumbling and he wanted to order. Syme, who was on his third brandy now, turned back to him.

  ‘Good stuff, eh?’ He looked speculatively at the girls with the businessmen’s party. ‘There’ll be dancing later. Those tarts look taken but there might be others who aren’t.’ He raised his eyebrows. Gunther noticed his Cockney accent had returned as the drink loosened his tongue. How foolish, this English obsession with class. As a Fascist Syme should know it was race and nationality, not class, that mattered. He said, straight-faced, ‘Your voice has changed.’

  Syme smiled sardonically. ‘You need to try to talk a bit posh if you’re aiming to reach the top of the Service. Don’t drop yer bleedin’ aitches. Now, what about lookin’ for some nice juicy tarts?’

  Gunther shook his head. ‘I don’t seem to have the energy these days. And I must get up early tomorrow.’

  A waiter came and they ordered. The food was good but the band started again and they had to raise their voices to talk. Syme said, ‘Don’t you like the music?’

  ‘No. It is like all the American influences I see over here. Loud and brash, tuneless.’

  Syme looked at him with amusement. ‘What do you prefer, German classical stuff?’

  Gunther shrugged. ‘Anything but this.’

  ‘Our Arts Ministry’s trying to encourage traditional folk music, morris dancers waving silly twigs around village greens, blowing penny whistles.’ He laughed. ‘I prefer something with a bit of a swing.’

  ‘Negro music. I thought you didn’t like blacks.’

  Syme leaned across the table. He said seriously, ‘You know, mate, I like you, but you should take the chance to enjoy life a bit. Let the old juices flow.’

  Gunther smiled ironically. ‘I have given my life to duty.’

  ‘The generation that has sacrificed everything to save Europe?’

  ‘And you for your Empire, too.’

  Syme leaned further forward. ‘Listen, I know the Russkies aren’t completely sorted out yet, but they will be. And everywhere else, we’re top dogs. We’ve got everything. All the Jew money, like you got when you carved up Switzerland with the Frogs and the Wops in 1940.’ He laughed. ‘That was a masterstroke. You got all the Swiss banks, confiscated all the assets the German Jews put there after you came to power. Russian assets too. Germany and us together, we call the shots, so we get the goodies. We should take advantage of it.’

  Gunther smiled and inclined his head. ‘If things go well with this,’ he said, ‘grateful people in Germany might open an account in Basel for you.’

  Syme’s eyes sparkled. ‘That would be – great.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve already been promised that if things go well there’s a four-bedroomed house in Golders Green earmarked for me, a Jew’s house, full of expensive furniture.’ He took a drink of the fine wine he had ordered. ‘Live a little, mate,’ he said, a half-friendly contempt in his voice. ‘I plan to.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  FRANK STAYED IN THE QUIET ROOM after David and Geoff left with Ben. He turned his chair round to the window again, so he couldn’t be seen from the half-open door to the ward.

  David had promised to help, look into the legal position, and Frank told himself he should cling onto that. It had been so strange to see him and Geoff after all this time; David didn’t look much older although his face had been full of uncomfortable anxiety, as had Geoff’s. Geoff had aged all right; his face looked strange with that fair moustache. Frank realized he must have looked terrible to them; he was used to his baggy, ill-fitting clothes and clumsily shaven head, he didn’t think about his appearance any more, but had been aware of how alien he must look to his old friends.

  There was something that had worried him, though, about the interview, something in a look David had exchanged with Ben, as though they shared some secret. And Ben hadn’t wanted David to talk to him on his own. Why was that? And they had asked him about his brother, just like those wretched policemen earlier. He told himself he was getting paranoid – a term often used in the asylum – David was bound to ask about the event that had brought him here. But there had been something that didn’t fit about both visits. He hadn’t liked the policemen – the tall one’s friendliness was false, Frank had seen it in his eyes, and the fat, silent sergeant had had something frightening about him. The inspector had glanced at the sergeant once or twice as though he were the more important one in the partnership. They weren’t like the policemen who had interviewed him before.

  ‘How’re ye daen, wee man?’ Frank jumped violently. Ben had come in and was standing beside him, looking down. ‘I’ve seen yer friends off, back doon tae London.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I think that went okay, didn’t it? Looks like they’ll dae what they can to help.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think they will.’

  Ben looked at him with those hard, sharp eyes. ‘Must’ve been a bit strange, seeing them after all this time. Just after the police came, too.’

  ‘It’s – it’s been a bit of a day.’

  ‘Ye seem jumpy, Frank. It’s gettin’ towards time for yer next pill. I’ll get it for you. I’m away off duty soon.’

  ‘Yes. All right.’

  ‘I think it might be best not tae tell Dr Wilson or the other staff about your friends helping you to get out of here,’ Ben said, his voice elaborately casual.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just for the now. Let your pals find out the legal position first. So that when they talk to Dr Wilson they’ve got all their ammo ready.’

  Although he nodded, Frank was suddenly, horribly certain that something secret was going on, something involving Ben and David and Geoff, and maybe the police, too. He thought, surely David wouldn’t betray me; but then why shouldn’t he, what did Frank really mean to him?

  ‘Good lad,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll get yer pill.’

  He went out again. Frank thought, I won’t take it, I’ll pretend to but I won’t. I need to think hard, I must think. He felt a stab of pain in his bad hand. He had been clutching the chair-arm so tightly he had hurt it; the damaged fingers were tingling.

  Later the older attendant, Sam, the one who had taken Frank to see the policemen, came to fetch him to dinner. Ben had come back and given him his pill with a glass of water. It was easy to slip it under his tongue and then as soon as the attendant turned to put it in his pocket. H
e needed to be awake, alert, not let himself be taken by surprise.

  ‘C’mon, Muncaster,’ Sam said impatiently. ‘Time for dinner. Along to the dining hall.’

  ‘All right.’

  Sam led him down the corridor to the dining room. ‘You’ve had a busy day.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did them coppers want?’

  ‘Just a new inspector wanting to go over the case.’

  ‘That older one, fair-haired, was he English?’

  Frank looked at Sam, alert. ‘I don’t know. He hardly spoke.’

  Sam said, ‘I saw him in the corridor and wondered if he was German. They hold themselves stiffly, even a fat man like that. If they’re soldiers, or officials. I was in a German prisoner-of-war camp in the Great War, y’know. Hard lot. Still, them’s what’s been needed to sort out the mess Europe was in, I suppose.’ He looked at Frank curiously. ‘He didn’t speak, you say?’

  ‘Hardly at all.’ Frank feigned disinterest.

  His mind was in a whirl, though, as Sam led him into the dining room with its smell of overcooked vegetables, crowded with long tables. The patients queued along the wall by the serving hatch, watched by Sam and two other attendants. Frank joined them, still desperately trying to fathom what might be going on. Had Edgar confessed to the American authorities about what he had let slip to Frank? But surely the Americans wouldn’t involve the British, still less the Germans.

  ‘Wake up, Muncaster,’ Sam said. ‘Join the queue or the food’ll be gone.’

  Frank felt trapped, like a rat in a cage. He took a tray to the hatch and received a plate of greyish liver and soggy vegetables, with lumpy mashed potatoes served from an ice-cream scoop. As he turned towards the tables a loud crash made him jump. A middle-aged, grey-haired man had turned and thrown his plate of food to the floor. The other patients looked on with mild interest; such things often happened. A burly attendant ran across, grabbing the man’s arm roughly. ‘Jack, what the fuck d’you think you’re doing!’

  ‘I won’t eat this food!’ the patient shouted. ‘There’s things in it, chemicals to sterilize us! I won’t!’