XPD (20 page)

‘Your car is miles away,’ Stuart reminded her.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said tartly. ‘I’m not frightened of little green men in flying saucers.’

‘Oh, go to hell,’ said Stuart and meant it. After he heard the front door close he went down, wondering if she would be waiting there for him, but she had gone home. He undressed and went to bed but it was not easy to go to sleep. Awake in the darkness, he listened to the sound of the traffic going along Millbank. The road alongside the river was never quiet; it was one of the penalties of living here. Would Kitty King report the conversation they had just had, he wondered. How would that affect his career prospects? He chuckled to himself: what kind of career prospects does a man have when he suspects that his employer is trying to kill him? And if his employer is also his father-in-law? It was a problem still unresolved by the time he drifted into a deep sleep. When he awoke, very late the next morning, the sun was shining and the green car outside the butcher’s shop and the men inside it had gone as if they had never existed.

So that, by Monday morning when he started work, the idea that someone from his own department would plot to have him killed was almost gone from his mind.

Chapter 16

At that same time – 10.30 on the morning of Monday, 2 July 1979 – Sir Sydney Ryden was attending the regular weekly intelligence meeting. It is held in a small conference room on the first floor of 12 Downing Street. The room contained a long polished table, with eight chairs, four coloured telephones, some red leather armchairs, a fireplace with highly polished fire irons, and a small oil painting by Winston Churchill placed above the hearth. The only incongruously modern item was a machine with two ‘letter boxes’ in its top: a paper shredder.

Those present for the final part of the meeting were a deputy secretary of the Cabinet Office representing the Prime Minister, the co-ordinator of intelligence, Sir Sydney Ryden, and his opposite number, the DG of MI5.

The only important such person missing was the chief of GC HQ, the head of the department which obtains intelligence from orbiting satellites and radio monitoring. The reason for his absence was that nearly all his best hardware had been financed by the American government, an investment secured by the presence of American National Security Agency employees in the most sensitive posts in his department. The chief of GC HQ had departed early. He always did when the agenda included as a last item ‘non-electronic systems’. It was a polite way of asking him to leave the room. It was better that he did not know what was discussed, rather than have to feign ignorance to his American colleagues.

‘In the absence of any hard and fast evidence we have to assume certain things,’ said Sir Sydney Ryden as soon as the GC HQ chief had departed. ‘We must assume that a large body of documentary evidence has fallen into private hands. We have to assume that this material has not been noted, indexed, inventoried, photocopied or seen by the US State Department …’

‘How can we be quite sure of that?’ said the man from MI5.

Sir Sydney turned and, raising a hand to press his hearing aid, scowled. The
MI5
man seemed ready to cower under the threat of the upraised hand. ‘I have people there,’ said Sir Sydney Ryden. ‘We have scoured the State Department archives.’

‘Even the classified ones?’

‘What else would be of use?’ His voice was low and resonant.

‘Quite,’ said the
MI5
chief, and was able to convey in that one syllable all his doubts that Sir Sydney Ryden had penetrated the secret archives of the US State Department.

‘We assume that the US government have no knowledge of it,’ continued Sir Sydney, glowering at his opposite number. ‘The material in question includes messages, telegrams, cables and conversations between various representatives of His Majesty’s government and the German leaders during the year 1940.’

The deputy secretary from the Cabinet Office looked at his watch. He had a great deal to do before lunchtime, and that included briefing the Prime Minister on this meeting. ‘I think we can all dispense with the euphemisms, Sir Sydney,’ he said. ‘We’re talking about the Hitler Minutes, aren’t we? We’re talking about the undated document headed “Framework for a negotiated settlement” that was passed to the German Foreign Office …’ he paused and wrinkled his brow, ‘via Stockholm, if my memory serves me correctly, in late May 1940.’

It was about time, thought Sir Sydney Ryden, that his colleagues started to share some of the nightmares that he had borne for the last few weeks. It was time for them to hear his worries. ‘How I wish that were all we were talking about, gentlemen,’ he said after a long silence. ‘But I can assure you that that dissertation of well-intentioned gobbledegook would never cause me to lose a wink of sleep at night. There would be no great difficulty in passing that off as a clever way of playing for time during the Dunkirk evacuation.’

‘What then?’

‘We’re talking about top-level exchanges in which specific concessions were discussed. The map of Africa was to revert to its nineteenth-century colours: German East Africa, German South-West Africa, Togoland and the Cameroons would reappear. And the British government would support German demands for a return of the Caroline Islands, the Mariannes and the Marshalls.’ He bared his teeth. ‘Samoa and German New Guinea would be transferred to them of course.’

‘My God,’ said the deputy secretary. Sir Sydney looked round the room, and was not disappointed with the horrified faces of the others. There was little need to detail the cataclysmic portent of such revelations.

Relentlessly, Sir Sydney continued his grim story. ‘The whole of Ireland was to be placed under what was to be known as an Anglo-German administration – you know Winston’s feelings about Ireland of course – and Cork and Belfast were to become permanent German naval bases for a newly created German Atlantic fleet. The ships for this would of course have been ours …’ He hurried on through the gasps of dismay and shouts of no. ‘Worldwide port facilities of the Royal Navy, from Hong Kong to Gibraltar, would immediately start refuelling and revictualling any German warships as required, as well as any merchantmen flying the German flag.’

The co-ordinator was flushed in the face by now. He clenched his fist on the table top. ‘If this is some sort of joke, Sir Sydney …’

‘No joke,’ said the DG. ‘How I wish it were.’

‘And the PM has been told?’

‘She is particularly distressed about the Irish dimension,’ said Sir Sydney. ‘You can see how this could be manipulated by the Dublin government or by the IRA.’

‘Hardly any need for manipulation,’ said the deputy secretary with uncharacteristic bitterness. He was the youngest man there and felt that this was a legacy that his elders and betters should not have left for him.

‘And credit guarantees,’ continued Sir Sydney. ‘Several hundred million pounds sterling was to be advanced for German purchases from Canada and the USA. This to be backed by the British gold reserves already there. And Churchill most unwisely discussed the use that the Germans might make of elements of the French fleet.’

‘Oh, my God,’ said the MI5 man. ‘Every last bloody friend Britain has in the world would be enraged overnight if this sort of stuff was ever made public.’ He took off his spectacles and polished them with exaggerated energy. In spite of his distress, he could not help feeling some gratification that this had landed on Sir Sydney Ryden’s desk rather than his own.

‘Any rumours that we were prepared to hand over parts of Africa to save Britain would certainly stiffen anti-white attitudes about Rhodesia,’ said the deputy secretary.

Sir Sydney nodded. ‘It’s a
political
problem of the first magnitude. It’s containable if only rumours emerge – such rumours have surfaced several times over the past fifteen or twenty years – but if there was written proof …’ Sir Sydney let it go.

‘Worse than Suez,’ said the deputy secretary, who was just old enough to remember that political upheaval. He had pencilled an elaborate maze all over his agenda sheet. Now he blocked off the beginning and end of it so that there was no way out.

‘Do you realize what this would do to our delicately balanced economy?’ said the co-ordinator. ‘Foreign investors would flee from sterling and the stock market would crash … the social consequences of that would be terrible to contemplate. The Kremlin is well provided with friends in our trade unions and on the shop floor who would welcome any opportunity for creating chaos.’

‘Our finest hour!’ said the co-ordinator. ‘Poor old Winston would be turning in his grave.’

‘I’m not sure you understand me,’ said Sir Sydney Ryden. ‘I’m referring to decisions in which Sir Winston Churchill played a major role. I’m referring to exchanges between Sir Winston and the German leader himself.’

‘Hitler?’ said the co-ordinator, his face reflecting his incredulity. ‘Adolf Hitler and Churchill?’

Sir Sydney Ryden stood up and closed the locks on his document case with a loud click. ‘Let’s not meet trouble halfway, gentlemen. Pray that my people get their hands on these wretched files before the press see them.’

The MI5 director also got to his feet. ‘I think we’ll have to point out that these documents are not authenticated.’ He looked at Sir Sydney meaningfully.

‘I take your point,’ said Sir Sydney. ‘I think it would be as well if we talked about the preparation of a couple of items.’

‘Forge them, and then prove to the press that they are forgeries, to discredit the rest of the material?’ The MI5 man nodded. He had a department which employed some of the most meticulous engravers, paper technicians and handwriting experts in the world. ‘Tomorrow lunch, eh? The Travellers’ suit you?’

Sir Sydney Ryden hesitated. It would mean rearranging his morning but this was urgent. He was not an inveterate clubman and he would have preferred a private dining room in his own building, but he nodded his agreement. At least they would get a decent claret at the Travellers’ Club. ‘One o’clock then. I dare say we’ll find somewhere to hide ourselves away, after we’ve eaten.’

The MI5 man noted the appointment in his tiny diary and replaced it into his waistcoat pocket.

‘It’s damnable timing,’ said the co-ordinator looking at the calendar. ‘Suppose it all leaked out while the Queen and Mrs Thatcher were both in Africa. Could it possibly be a plot with exactly that in mind?’

‘I don’t believe so,’ said Sir Sydney.

The deputy secretary picked up the agenda sheets and fed them into a shredder with a hand which visibly trembled. Like all shredders for top-secret waste, it reduced the papers to narrow worms then cross-chopped them before dropping the confetti into a large transparent plastic bag. ‘Churchill discredited. It would mean the end of the Tory Party,’ he said miserably. ‘That’s what I can’t bear thinking about.’

Chapter 17

Charles Stein was a happy man. The son of a Polish-born trade union official in the garment industry in New York City’s West Side, Stein had grown up in a house where a strike meant a bare dinner table. In such times the young Steins were fed on left-overs from the table of their equally penurious next-door neighbours.

Charles had never shared the interest in books that his father had stimulated in his brother Aram, but that did not mean that he grew up illiterate. Charles – or Chuck, as he was more usually called at the garment factory where he was eventually employed as an assistant to a senior salesman – could find his way through an order book or an account sheet with the natural ease that some untutored men bring to the intricacies of horseracing. And he was a generous boy who never begrudged the money that he paid each week into the family expenses, which in turn enabled his mother to send Aram cinnamon
khvorost
and some money to supplement his meagre scholarship at Johns Hopkins University. But Chuck was not entirely benign. From his father, Chuck Stein got an all-pervading hatred of Hitler and on Pearl Harbor day he joined the long line of men in Times Square who waited patiently to join the US Army. So did his young brother.

Charles Stein’s political convictions had now faded, but his natural ability to read an account book remained. It was this facility, together with the unmistakable power of his personality and the energy that even his immense bulk could not disguise, that had made Stein the leader of the men who called themselves ‘the Kaiseroda Raiders’. In spite of the military etiquette, the nostalgia and the respect that all of them showed towards Colonel John Elroy Pitman the Third, every last man of them knew that the important decisions were made by Charles Stein. And they preferred it that way.

‘You’ll like the
bau
,’ Charles Stein told his son. ‘They have shrimp inside. The chicken ones are not so tasty.’ He wiped his mouth on his napkin. That was the worst of eating ‘small chow’, one always got fingers and face covered in soy and sauce and bits of food. At least, Charles Stein always did.

‘I’ve had enough, thank you, dad. Why don’t you finish it?’

‘They’ll wrap it if you want to take it home.’

‘You have it, dad.’

‘I hate to see food wasted,’ said Stein. He wrestled with temptation. ‘I’ve had enough to eat really, but it’s a crime to see food wasted.’ He gulped a little of his jasmine tea and then filled the tiny cup again. ‘Paper-wrapped shrimp?’

‘No thanks, dad. I couldn’t eat another thing.’

‘These little eateries in Chinatown are the only places where you find the real thing. The Breslows took me to eat in a fancy Chink joint on La Cienega last Monday. Waiters in claw-hammer coats, finger bowls with lemon slices, linen bibs to protect your necktie, and everything. But at the end of the line, what have you got?’

Stein’s son shook his head to show that he didn’t know.

‘Chop suey. That’s what you’ve got,’ Charles Stein pronounced sagely. ‘Not these delicate little specialities that the cooks up here on North Broadway know how to put together.’

‘Is Breslow going to make that movie?’ said Billy.

‘He’s spending money on pre-production,’ said his father.