Dominion

by C. J. Sansom

  ‘Trust me,’ Natalia whispered.

  They fell silent, straining to see and hear as much as they could of what was happening ahead. They heard a hiss of static, then a man’s voice, talking loudly. ‘It’s going to have to be a bloody powerful light to do anything at all in this damn stuff! Is it on a lorry?’ Other figures passed to and fro, bulky shapes revealed briefly by the car with the lit interior.

  Natalia said, ‘Move a little further into the trees, away from the railings.’

  They eased their way through the bushes, holding branches aside for each other to avoid making a noise. They came to a spot surrounded by trees but with a view of the roadblock. Ben said, ‘If they shine a searchlight on the park, will they be able to see us?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ David replied. ‘Like he said, it would have to be a pretty powerful beam.’ He looked at Natalia. ‘Should we go back to the street?’

  ‘No, we have to stay here. This is where I told our people we would be.’

  They were quiet for a minute. Then David whispered, ‘They killed Geoff, didn’t they?’

  Natalia said quietly, ‘I think so.’

  ‘He was the best friend I ever had.’

  She touched his arm. There was a rustle behind them. David whirled round, but it was only a grey squirrel, sitting on a branch looking at them. It made a chittering noise and disappeared.

  ‘Something’s happening out there,’ Natalia whispered urgently.

  They turned back to where the police were. They heard a sound, a jangling bell but much louder than a police car, approaching very quickly. ‘The lorry with the searchlight,’ David said. ‘Jesus, why is it moving so fast?’ His hand went to the pill in his pocket. Was this it?

  ‘No,’ Natalia whispered. ‘That’s our people.’

  The sound grew louder. There was something familiar in the tone. Then a huge shape, red behind powerful headlights, loomed out of the fog, travelling at a dangerous, reckless speed along the side of the park, towards the roadblock. It passed the spot where they were standing and came to a screeching halt just in front of the police car blocking the road. David saw to his amazement that it was a fire engine, huge, solidly and squarely built, the turntable ladder on top. The bell stopped and the light in the cab came on, illuminating the figures of several men in tall helmets who stepped down to the street. Staring through the railings David saw three policemen approach the firemen. He whispered to Natalia, ‘The Fire Brigade? Those are our people?’

  Ben turned to him with a grin. ‘Always been the most left-wing union in Britain, the firemen. Good Socialists. Let’s just say this is no’ a real call.’

  The firemen and policemen were talking urgently now. David couldn’t hear at first but then their voices rose, one of the policemen shouting, ‘This whole area’s cordoned off. Nobody in or out.’

  ‘But the police at Priory Street let us through the other end. We’re on our way to a big fire—’

  ‘They shouldn’t have! Orders are to seal these streets off!’

  ‘Listen, it’s a hospital fire! There’s people trapped, they can’t get out! And we’ve got to get another mile through this. D’you want to be responsible for kids and old folk getting burned to death? Do you?’

  David saw another figure slip down from the back of the fire engine, quiet and stealthy. He walked across the pavement, slipping along the park railings, and Ben shook a bush to attract his attention. A man in fireman’s uniform stood before them, a pale young face under a helmet that looked too big for him.

  ‘Quick,’ the young man whispered. ‘Get over the fence. Climb on the back of the engine.’

  The police hadn’t seen them through the fog, and a few yards away the argument was still raging. The fireman ran back across the pavement to the back of the engine, half crouching, the others climbing over silently and following. ‘Come on!’ the young man breathed. ‘Up the back!’

  It was a difficult climb – over six feet up the side of the fire engine on slippery metal steps. There David found himself in the open back of the vehicle, and they all crouched down, beside the long, coiled hose and the lower end of the turntable ladder, crowded closely together. The fireman whispered, ‘Hold onto something, we’ll be going fast!’ David grasped a rail as tightly as he could. Like everything in the smog, it felt wet and slippery. He saw the fireman was clutching a pistol.

  He heard footsteps returning to the fire engine, the cab doors shutting and the revving of a motor; the firemen must have persuaded the policemen to move their car. Then he was jolted backwards as the fire engine started up. In a blare of noise they were off, the police car and the shadowy figures around it disappearing in a blur. They sped on down the main road, at what seemed a mad, suicidal pace. They passed a car that was crawling along ahead of them, grazing it, the jolt running through their bodies. Beside David the young fireman let out a whoop. ‘We did it, we fucking did it!’ He brandished a fist in the air. ‘We’ll go down in fucking history for this!’

  On David’s other side Natalia’s hair was flying in the wind. She said to the fireman, ‘There was another man with us, he’s very important. He panicked and ran off.’

  The young man turned to her. ‘We’ve got him too! He turned up at the local church, they’ve got him safe.’ There was a loud hoot from a car coming in the opposite direction, only visible for a second before the fire engine managed to swerve aside. David hoped to God they didn’t hit a pedestrian, or a wall. But he knew that fire-engine drivers were incredibly skilled, and the huge, powerful vehicle could knock any other vehicle aside. He looked at the fireman. ‘He’s all right? Frank?’

  The young man’s face was alive with excitement. ‘Yes. That’s what I mean! We’re going down in fucking history!’

  It sunk in then: Frank was alive.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  GUNTHER SAT AT HIS DESK IN Senate House, four photographs laid out on his desk. There was also a blank sheet of paper, Unknown woman written on it in his small, neat hand. He looked at the pictures: Muncaster, his admission photograph from the hospital, the thin, beaky face wild-eyed and distorted in a monkey-like grin, showing every tooth in his head; the Civil Service personnel photos of Fitzgerald and Drax; and finally a young man holding a card with a prison number written on it, his face scowling and angry. Special Branch filing clerks had laboured hard to match Ben Hall’s personnel photographs from the asylum with this man. Real name Donald McCall; jailbird, member of the Communist Party since the thirties, and other things too, some very unpleasant.

  Gunther looked again at Drax’s photograph. The only one those Special Branch clowns had managed to catch in the raid. Shot in the chest, but still alive. Gunther looked at the long nose and chin, the fair hair and moustache. A strong face but not a happy one.

  Gunther had been right; the questioning of Resistance informers in London which he had set in train had thrown up the O’Sheas, known opponents of the regime, and loyal neighbours had spoken of a visitor with an upper-class accent who matched Fitzgerald’s description. But when Syme and the police raided the house there had been a firefight, and only Drax had been taken alive. Four of them had fled, including Muncaster from the descriptions. Now the police were putting up roadblocks, but the smog was delaying everything. Gessler had said, at least if the fugitives got away they could blame it squarely on the British. But Berlin still needed Muncaster, alive.

  Gunther had already had one interview with Drax. He lay on a bench in a cell downstairs, a heavily bloodstained bandage round his chest. Normally, it was a good idea to leave prisoners to stew alone in their cells for a few hours, work up a panic about what might be done to them, but Drax was too ill. He was coughing when Gunther came in; he looked at the end of his physical tether. He looked up at Gunther, the expression in his blue eyes one of helpless anger. Gunther said, ‘They’ve patched you up, I see.’

  Drax just gave Gunther a furious glare.

  ‘The doctor thinks you’ve a sinus infection as well as a ch
est injury. Not surprising, with this filthy smog. I get similar trouble with all the building dust in Berlin. Would you like some water?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was very hoarse.

  ‘Well, suit yourself. You had a cyanide pill on you, I’m told.’

  ‘My bad luck I didn’t get the chance to use it.’

  ‘I expect your friends have them too. We know Mrs O’Shea used hers.’

  ‘I won’t tell you anything,’ Drax said, bleakly, without bravado. ‘I know what you do to people who don’t talk, you might as well just get started.’

  ‘Geoffrey Simon Drax. You went to university with David Fitzgerald and Frank Muncaster, worked in Africa, then after you came back to a desk job in the Colonial Office you started supplying secrets to the Resistance. That whole Civil Service spy ring’s going to unwind now.’

  Drax just stared at him. Gunther studied his exhausted face. A very Aryan face, probably of Saxon or Norman ancestry. The sort of Englishman, he guessed, who believed in ‘noblesse oblige’, bringing civilization to the poor natives of the Empire, as though an empire could be built on anything but power. He admired Drax’s sort in a way, though, they were tough. ‘I’m not planning to hurt you,’ he said gently. ‘Why did you join the Resistance?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’ll say nothing.’

  Gunther shrugged. ‘It was just curiosity. We’re not interested in the Civil Service spies. The British authorities can deal with that. It’s Frank Muncaster we want to know about: why you took him, what you’re planning to do with him. What he knows, why you’re keeping him alive.’

  ‘I’ll say nothing.’

  It was the answer Gunther had expected, though it was a pity. Well, he had his plans. He turned back to the door. ‘I’ll get you that water,’ he said.

  Gunther made some telephone calls, then he had a long conversation with the naval people at Portsmouth about monitoring radio activity on the south coast. Finally he spoke to Gessler, who wanted to be present at the next interrogation stage.

  Half an hour afterwards there was a knock at the door and Syme came in. He looked tired and discontented and brought the sulphurous reek of the fog in with him. Gunther invited him to sit. Syme sat with one leg over the other, jiggling his foot. Gunther said, ‘You haven’t found them, have you? Muncaster and his people?’ If they had, Syme would have been cock-a-hoop.

  ‘No. There’s been another balls-up, we think they’ve got out of the area they were holed up in. We cordoned it off; we were starting a house-to-house search.’ He shook his head. ‘But the police allowed a fire engine right through the closed-off area. The firemen said they’d been called to a hospital fire. They waited till it had gone through before checking with the fire station and found out there was no sodding fire. We’re afraid they picked up Muncaster and his people. A fire engine and its crew have gone AWOL.’

  Gunther leaned back in his chair. He didn’t feel angry; he seemed to be past anger now with this mission. Syme continued, ‘The Fire Brigades Union were always fucking lefties, we made the union illegal as it’s a public service but some of the bastards are still there.’ He shook his head again. ‘I suppose the Gestapo would have taken the risk of letting a hospital burn down.’

  ‘We would, if we needed to catch important people.’

  Syme said, unexpectedly, ‘You must think we’re a bunch of useless fannies.’

  ‘Oh, we make mistakes too,’ Gunther said. They still needed Syme and his people. ‘Are you all right, you weren’t hurt in the raid?’

  ‘Not a scratch. Any word of the one we shot?’

  ‘He’s not co-operating. Unsurprisingly. I’m having steps taken to encourage him.’

  Syme gave a lubricious smile. It reminded Gunther of how much he disliked him. ‘Rough stuff?’

  Gunther inclined his head. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Good.’ Syme nodded at the photographs. ‘Is that them? The group in that house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Syme pointed at David and Ben. ‘I saw them. And a woman. Tall, pretty, brown hair. I’ve written down a description.’ He smiled sourly. ‘She was shooting at me at the time, so I remember her. And I glimpsed Muncaster again.’ He looked at Muncaster’s photo, then shook his head. ‘All this for that weird-looking loony.’

  The telephone rang. Gunther thanked the caller, then stood up. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘The arrangements I wanted are in place. I’m going down to see Drax again. Standartenführer Gessler is attending too, I must ring him.’

  Syme said, ‘Can I come?’

  Gunther hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yes, why not?’

  Drax was still sitting on the bunk but this time there was a man in SS uniform beside him: Kapp, a foxy little man in his thirties, lean but fit-looking, who Gunther knew specialized in what Syme had called ‘the rough stuff’. Gessler was there already, in a corner of the room, standing with his arms folded, glaring angrily at Drax through his pince-nez. One eyelid twitched occasionally. A grey-haired, bespectacled man in a technician’s white coat was setting up a cine camera on a tripod on the other side of the room; Drax was looking at him uncomprehendingly, Kapp with keen curiosity, Gessler with a little secret smile, because he knew what was coming.

  Gunther addressed Drax, inclining his head towards Syme. ‘You remember this man?’

  ‘He was at the O’Sheas’ house.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Syme said with a smile. ‘Chest all right?’

  Drax didn’t answer. The technician opened a circular can and inserted a roll of film into the projector. ‘What’s this?’ Syme asked.

  ‘We’re going to have a film show,’ Gessler said with a nasty smile. The technician unrolled a white screen and set it up against the opposite wall. He spoke to Gunther. ‘We should have the lights off, sir. They’re very bright.’

  ‘Yes.’ Gunther nodded to Kapp, who left the cell, switched out the light and returned, closing the door with a clang. The technician turned a switch and there was a whirring sound in the darkness. Then the image of another cell appeared on the screen. The film, Gunther noted with approval, was in colour. The other cell in the film had a metal table and a chair, and the woman Carol Bennett sat tied to the chair with ropes. Her hands were fixed to the table by straps on each wrist. She wore a stained white smock, and her hair was pulled back. Two guards stood behind her, one holding her shoulders. She looked terrified. Gunther heard Drax say, softly, ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Recognize her?’ Gunther asked.

  ‘It’s Miss Bennett, she’s a friend of David’s. She’s nothing to do with us –’ his voice rose ‘– she’s nothing to do with the Resistance.’

  ‘We know.’

  In the film another man stepped into view. He wore a long green smock, like a surgeon’s, and he held a large hacksaw with a serrated blade. Gunther glanced at Syme. He was leaning forward slightly.

  The man with a hacksaw said, ‘Hold the right hand steady.’

  Carol began to scream. ‘Stop! No! Stop, stop!’ She was struggling wildly now but one of the guards grasped her shoulders firmly while the other stepped forward and held her hand down. Without another word the man with the hacksaw leaned over and took a grip of her little finger. He brought the hacksaw down on it, just above the knuckle, and began to saw. Blood spurted over the table. Carol screamed and pleaded for them to stop but none of them took the remotest notice. They were implacable. In the dimness Gunther heard a horrified gasp from Drax, then a brief scuffle as he tried to get up. Kapp held him down. He started coughing again, a choking sound. Gunther looked back at the screen; Carol Bennett’s little finger had been severed, it was lying on the table, blood still leaking from her mutilated hand. She was still screaming as the man laid down his hacksaw, unstrapped her hand and with brisk efficiency held it up, tying a tourniquet round the wrist. The film ended suddenly, the screen going blank. The projector was still on, faintly illuminating the room. Drax shouted, ‘You bastards, you—’ His voice broke in another wild fit of coughing.


  ‘That took place a couple of hours ago,’ Gunther said quietly. ‘Before we turned her over to the British Special Branch. She’d warned Fitzgerald to get away from his office, you see.’

  Gessler stepped away from the wall. ‘That was just what you call the B picture. The main feature is next.’

  Drax had stopped coughing, gone quiet again. Through the semi-darkness Gunther caught the glint in his wild eyes. He nodded to the cameraman. The man clipped another reel to the projector, working with surprising agility in the near-dark; Gunther supposed he must be used to it. Another cell appeared on the screen, another chair and table. A man stood, clutching a heavy carving knife, dressed in a leather apron, leather gloves. The camera panned round, showing an elderly man and woman, each held by a guard. They were naked, white, wrinkled flesh exposed, the woman’s breasts long and sagging. They held each other’s hands; both were shaking, faces full of fear. Drax screamed out, ‘Mum! Dad! No! Stop!’

  The screen went blank again. Drax was still screaming, ‘Stop! No!’

  ‘Lights, please.’ Gunther spoke quietly. Kapp went out and switched the light on again. At a nod from Gunther the technician lowered the screen with a snap and began packing his equipment away. He kept his head averted from the others in the room; he had not looked at anyone the whole time. Syme was leaning against the wall, rather pale.

  ‘We’ve only made that first scene so far,’ Gessler said to Drax, voice full of sarcastic amusement. ‘It could be quite a long film if you want it to be.’

  Drax turned to Gunther with a desperate look on his thin face. ‘Don’t hurt them,’ he pleaded. ‘Please don’t hurt them. They know people, you’ll get into trouble—’

  ‘Not in this case,’ Gunther said quietly, almost sympathetically. ‘They’re only members of a provincial Conservative Party branch, Beaverbrook won’t do anything to protect little people like that. Since Muncaster escaped Berlin has been applying real pressure on your government, and he’s given them to us.’ He added, ‘I’m sorry you had to see that, but we need you to talk. Heroics won’t help here. Your parents are just a few doors away, we filmed what you saw ten minutes ago.’ He took a deep breath. ‘We’ve shown you what we’re prepared to do and if you don’t tell us what we want to know we’ll start on them. And afterwards we’ll show you the film.’ Gunther hoped Drax would talk now, he hadn’t liked any of this and would be pleased if one woman’s finger was all it cost.