Winston’s War (71 page)

But Churchill is no longer listening. He cannot fathom why a book, one of his own, has been thrust at him during this Cabinet of all Cabinets, and he's not in the mood for mysteries. He tries not to be distracted by it, but he flips the cover and discovers the inscription he himself has written. To Burgess. Why, oh why, has he resurfaced here? Now? To what purpose? Damn him.

Chamberlain is intoning that he cannot leave office without taking the opportunity to thank them all personally for what they have done for him. Some of those present imagine that his gratitude is a little ironic, almost spiteful. Churchill isn't one of those, for he is no longer listening. Tucked inside the pages of the book he has found two sheets of paper, folded down the middle. In the circumstances, they are irresistible.

Chamberlain is talking about the one responsibility that still lies ahead of him, that of advising the King whom he should
appoint as successor. A ripple of anticipation washes around the table, but the expression on the face of Halifax is set in stone, his head bowed, as though in expectation of laurels. Churchill reads on.

“I have done my best,” Chamberlain is saying, “and my duty is to ensure that I pass on the mighty burdens of this office to someone who, I know, is more than capable and worthy of bearing them…”

“Prime Minister!”

A voice is raised; a collective breath of outrage is drawn. It is monstrous that Chamberlain should be interrupted during his valediction. They stare accusingly. It is Churchill.

“It is an unpardonable offense, I know, to intervene at such a moment, but I fear that you might end this meeting in your characteristic humble and modest manner without allowing any of us to express what we all so fervently wish to express to you. Which is our thanks.”

Churchill has stood up. No one stands up to speak at Cabinet, but Winston has always been outrageously theatrical and this is not, after all, like any other Cabinet meeting. If he insists on making a tribute—and who better?—let him be seen.

And as he stands, he slips across the two sheets of paper towards Chamberlain.

“I have had the honor of serving many Prime Ministers,” Churchill recalls, “both in war and during times of peace. Yet you, sir, have been unique, both in the breadth of your vision and the determination with which you have pursued your objectives. And your greatest objective, of course, has been peace.” He has prepared nothing, is speaking entirely off the cuff, but it's what is expected at such moments when assassins gather round the body to praise their victim's virtue.

Chamberlain is reading. No one notices, all other eyes are on Churchill, who is extolling the integrity of their fallen leader. “Never has a nation gone into battle with such
reluctance, having done so much to secure the peace, and having established in the eyes of the entire world its credentials as being blameless. Never has so much been owed by so many in our community of nations to just one man.” An awkward phrase, Churchill concludes, but one which might bear a little polishing.

And now Chamberlain's eyes are up, levered from the paper like limpets from a rock. He knows.

From the first sheet of paper he knows that a small British concern named Chiltern Investments has active shareholdings in foreign companies. These companies include several of the most significant German steel and arms manufacturers—Blohm und Voss, Daimler-Benz, Junkers, Krupp and Messerschmitt. Individually these holdings are not huge, but collectively they amount to a tempting portfolio. With grim irony, one of those companies in which Chiltern Investments figures as a shareholder is the Mauser Works at Oberndorf, the manufacturers of the rifles Churchill has attempted to acquire.

The other page that has been taken from Burgess's book is of slightly thicker paper. It is a photo-stat. Of the Certificate of Incorporation of the company known as Chiltern Investments. Joint proprietors: H. Wilson and J. Ball.

Who have become Chamberlain's hangmen.

His eyes overflow with betrayal and memories of how Wilson and Ball argued so fiercely against the profits tax on British arms manufacturers. He had told them to find an alternative. Evidently they have.

He feels numb, except for that part of his stomach where the pain cuts through him like a ragged sword. Only slowly does he begin to hear the words that come pouring forth from Churchill.

“…those who have served with you know of your courage. They know of your dedication. Above all, they know of your sense of public duty, passed down from father to sons, which
has long illuminated the great name of Chamberlain and which will continue to do so, so long as I have any part to play in matters.”

What? What is he saying? My family's good name—in his hands?

“A reputation is a fragile thing. In our modern and pitiless world, a reputation such as that of the Chamberlain family carries with it the envy of lesser men—men who always seem ready to cast stones and to bring the mighty low.”

Is he praising me—or trying to intimidate me?

“But you, Prime Minister, can leave office today, not only with our gratitude and—if I may use such terms—our love, but safe in the knowledge that your place in the annals of our country will be fixed this very day not only by your own merit but by the merits of those who you have carried with you on your great journey.”

Now Chamberlain knows. To others it sounds no more than an outpouring of emotion perhaps bred and brought forth by a good lunch, but Chamberlain knows better. These are no idle words being used by Churchill. They are a warning, and a terrible threat.

“I pray the indulgence of our colleagues a moment longer if I finish on an entirely personal note. No man's life is lived in isolation. It is carried out in the company of others…” That point again, so loudly beaten that no one but the meanest of fools could miss it.

“Great Caesar travels with many troops and I, for one, give boundless thanks to be here with you today so that I may express the hope that what you have given to us will be repaid a hundred-fold, and to ensure that the tributes which will be raised to you will do nothing but honor to the great name of Chamberlain.”

To most of those present in the room it seems a rhetorical gesture almost too far, yet eulogies are built not on morsels of
emotion but on vast buckets of the stuff, and if the room is awash with it, then no one will complain. As Churchill resumes his seat they beat their hands upon the table in approbation until their palms begin to sting. Yet to Chamberlain, the noise sounds like the beating of drums on his path to his place of execution.

“Is there nothing to be done, Mr. Chamberlain?” the King demanded in his clipped tones, clearly vexed.

“I'm afraid not, sir.”

“I was rather hoping…”

“Edward. Yes, a fine man. But not a man for this war. It is a wretched and terrible conflict which I fear will cover Europe in much blood. It needs to be fought by a man who understands such things.”

“I take your point.”

“So does Edward.” The King rose, there was no point in prolonging the audience. Chamberlain gazed out through the long windows at the palace forecourt and railings beyond, where only twenty months before a crowd of tens of thousands had stretched as far as the eye could see in order to acclaim him as their savior. Now there was no one, nothing but sandbags and khaki.

“I think you have been most cruelly treated by those around you,” the King concluded.

“Perhaps,” Chamberlain acknowledged. “But it seems that it is by the merits of those around a man that, in the end, he is judged.”

The telephone rang. It was the King's private secretary. Churchill was instructed to be at the palace at six. Not until the moment he replaced the telephone was he certain that he had won.

Clemmie had returned earlier that day from the deathbed of her brother-in-law and was there to wave him off. The drive
from the Admiralty to Buckingham Palace would take no more than two minutes and Churchill, too, noted that there were no crowds. There was, however, considerable resentment in many corners of Whitehall. Later he would hear that in the Foreign Office they had broken out champagne to toast not the new Prime Minister but the old. The King across the water, as they dubbed Chamberlain.

But Churchill did not worry about such things. Indeed, he felt nothing but relief. The crisis which now lay before him—before them all—was the challenge for which he had thirsted all his adult life and which would sweep aside the petty posturings. He was walking with destiny, and others would follow as they might.

His detective, Inspector Thompson, held the car for a few moments. “Want to make sure Mr. Chamberlain has got away, sir. Wouldn't be proper to pass him, you on your way in before he's even properly out.”

“No. These things must be done properly, Thompson.” Churchill sat silently in the back of the car, waiting, thinking of Chamberlain. The man who had fought so hard, with such intensity and passion, yet who had finally been felled. As they were mostly all felled, these Prime Ministers, hacked, stabbed, scratched, kicked, dragged from office. As he, too, in all probability would be. The only question was its timing.

Tears brimmed in his eye. He would never know another moment like this, not unless somehow he could conjure victory out of the tragedy that was taking place beyond the Channel and would soon sweep across it. A moment to relish, to stir around the palette and splash upon life's extraordinary canvas, even if at its end it meant he was to be put up against a wall and shot. At least he would have something to tell his father, when they next met.

It was time. Thompson was climbing into the car beside him.

“Just like to offer my congratulations, sir,” the inspector said as the car began moving off across the gravel of Horse Guards Parade.

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“You've deserved it.”

“No, Thompson, I fear I have not. But I hope by the time this awful ordeal has been met, that I shall have deserved it.”

Ball was not a fool. His time was at an end, but he might still decide the manner of his going. He knew that if the file he had left in Downing Street marked for the attention of the Prime Minister came into Churchill's hands, the manner of his departure would be as violent as the old man could devise. Better to go quietly and in one piece.

It had not been a day for processing paperwork in Downing Street. The file remained unopened. Before Churchill had returned from the palace, Ball had ensured that it was removed and destroyed: No one would know he had been prying into the new Prime Minister's private diaries.

The Secret Intelligence Service faced a similar dilemma. After all, there was no absolute proof that Churchill's money had come from Moscow, and even if it had, it wasn't necessarily illegal. And digging around in his bank account was scarcely going to be the best way to impress an incoming Prime Minister, particularly one with a notoriously sharp temper. So the file with the yellow flag disappeared, too.

Only the file concerning the personal medical records of Neville Chamberlain remained on Wilson's desk. Eventually it found its way, as instructed, to the Prime Minister. Churchill read it several nights later as he was catching up on paperwork. So, the news that Burgess had brought to him about Chamberlain's medical condition had found its way to Moscow…

“Brendan, what do you really think of Burgess?”

Bracken turned from pouring drinks.

“Strange man. Not as bad as I first thought, perhaps. But there's something about him which makes me—uncertain. Arm's length, I think. And a very long arm at that.”

“I agree,” said the old man, initialing the note and tossing it back onto the pile.

Mac limped up to the front door in Chigwell. He was carrying a small bunch of flowers.

Carol showed only a moment of surprise. “Hello, stranger. What you doing here?”

“Mr. Burgess sent me.”

Her face scarcely fell. “What does he want? Can't give him any more papers, I can't. Don't do cleaning any more.”

“No, I don't mean it like that. It's…well, he was in my chair yesterday and we were talking. He was very upset about things.”

It was raining very gently, forming a sheen of dew on his hair, but she made no move to invite him in.

“He was crying. Real tears. So I asked him why he cared so much about everything. He said he doesn't care about everything, that the only thing he loved was his country. He has no family, you see, says he never will, and he misses that. So his country is all he has.”

“Sounds a nice man, that Mr. Burgess. Compassionate. I'd like to have met him.”

“It's just…I don't have a country, not like Mr. Burgess has. It got me to thinking what I do care about—or have ever cared about. And there's only ever been one thing. You. That's why I got so upset to think of you with the other men. Because I have changed, I can truly care about something at last—your fault, that. So…”

“So you walked out on us.”

“What I've come to say, Carol, is that I care about you—and the kids—very much. I'm sorry for getting angry. About the Market.”

“Don't do the Market any more. Not cleaning, nor the punters. There's plenty of jobs now. There's a war on.” His face lit up. “That's wonderful, Carol. I'm so happy for you.”

“Me, too.”

“How are the children?”

“In bed.”

“And…you?”

“Bit like Mr. Burgess. Done a lot of thinking. And crying. About the things I care for.”

“I'm sorry if I—”

“You? Well, I must admit I had a little sniffle at the time. But that was four months ago, Mac.”

“I'd like to try to make up for it. If you'll let me.” He moved forward, to the very threshold, holding out the flowers. Burgess had said he should take flowers, had insisted. Nothing elaborate, just a few stems and a lot of sincerity. He'd even left a particularly large tip to cover the cost.

“We're moving, Mac. Going away.”

“But why?”

“Because like you and Mr. Burgess I care more than my life about something. The kids. Too much to keep them in London, not now there's a proper war.”

“Not too far—”