A Mighty Endeavor

Chapter Three ANALYSIS OF ALTERNATIVES

“This will not do; this will not do at all.” Churchill chomped down on his cigar and stared ferociously at his whisky-soda as he stomped backwards and forwards. “These are times when we, as a nation, must rise to meet the challenge and end the threat of dark tyranny that hangs over us all. We must stand up and fight this abomination that has taken place. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves, that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, ‘this was their finest hour.’”

The Duke of St. Albans applauded the bravado with a strong dose of irony at its incongruousness. “Well done, Winston. That would have made a great speech in Parliament.”

“It would have been one. I had it all written, but That Man forestalled me. He has silenced me, and when the time comes, I will silence him. There will be no last speech from the scaffold for him. He will lose his head in silence.”

“Speaking of losing heads, Winston, we cannot afford you losing yours. And you will if you appear now. You said it yourself the first night you appeared here. Protective custody one day, found dead in your cell the next. The Commonwealth is looking for leadership and you, you alone, can provide it. We have to get you to Canada. If we do not, the Commonwealth will not last one year, let alone one thousand.”

“That may be easier said than done.“ Churchill was thoughtful. The dreadful depression that had blanketed him earlier was lifting at last; his mind was already beginning to range through the possibilities. “You are right, of course. There is nothing to be done here. It would be better if That Man had actually broken the law anywhere but damn him, everything he did was legal. He brings shame upon the whole concept of the rule of law.”

The Duke mentally raised his eyebrows. Every time the subject of Halifax came up, Churchill went off into these diatribes. He was obsessed with revenge and it seemed he could think of nothing else. The problem was, there was so much else to think about. “Winston, it’s not just a matter of getting you out. That will be difficult enough. We have to deny the Germans as much of our technical and operational expertise as well. I’ve spoken, discretely of course, with Sir Henry Tizard about this and he’s putting together a group of his people from the Aeronautical Research Committee. They directed the development of radar, so I am told. The object is to get to the United States as soon as possible to brief them on a number of technical innovations. This has been planned for some time, so I understand, with the original aim of securing assistance in maintaining the war effort. In view of the way circumstances have changed, I believe that it will be necessary simply to give the Americans every piece of information we can.”

“A last bequest from a dying man to his children.” Churchill’s depression was reasserting itself. He scowled at the room in general and drained his glass. Quietly, the Duke feared for the future of his whisky supply if this visit continued much longer. “Is that what we have come to?”

“Needs must when the devil drives, Winston. That Man has taken us out of the war; now we must hand the torch on to others. This is the reality we must face. The information we will be giving up will have immense value after the war, of that I have no doubt. Yet it is a sacrifice we must make if we are to emerge victorious. We will be a poorer and much-diminished state post-war, Winston, but it is either that or existing only as a subdivision of a Nazi empire.” The Duke suddenly exploded in anger, his pent-up frustrations bursting out through the reserve his rank and position demanded. “Damn Halifax! Damn him to hell! He’s destroyed us and he doesn’t even realize what he has done. You called the Commonwealth and America our children, Winston. Well, I hope they have learned from the sins of their father, that’s all I can say. I pray that our children will strike back with all the rage and power that we should have had but have become too enfeebled to muster.”

The Duke stood there shaking as he tried to bring his emotions under control. He strode to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a stiff measure of rum, noted that his brandy and whisky supplies were in as sad a shape as he had expected, and drained it in a single toss. “Tizard’s party and you, Winston, should go out together. One of my relatives is coming over. An American cousin, by the name of Eleanor Gwynne. She is bringing some friends who are skilled in this kind of operation. They will arrange the departure and conduct you and the rest of the party out of this country. Exactly how they will do that, I have no idea.”

“Eleanor Gwynne? Nell Gwynne?” Churchill smiled for the first time since the coup. “I hope she has the wits and wisdom of her ancestor and namesake.”

“I think I can safely say that she does, Winston.”

There was something in the way the Duke made the comment that made Churchill look at him sharply, but he shook his head and dismissed the thought. “Are you not coming with us, Osborne?”

The Duke shook his head. “No. I will remain here. I am a peer of the realm for better and for worse. My place is here. And somebody has to organize the resistance to the night that is about to fall or we will all be gone and forgotten.”

“Shall I be mother?” Sir Martyn Sharpe picked up the teapot and carefully poured a cup for his guest. Working on the hallowed principle of milk in first, he’d already poured a little into his cup. His guest, on the other hand, preferred his tea without.

“Thank you, Sir Martyn. Have you heard from London yet?” Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru sipped his tea delicately. “Ahh, an excellent cup. I do not know what we would do without this establishment.”

“We have indeed. We received a blunt order from the Colonial and Dominions Office to obey the terms of the Armistice without question. Or else. The else is economic destruction. It is outrageous. Lord Linlithgow is still furious about it. I brought you a copy of the telex.”

“Most kind of you. Could I trouble you for another cup of tea?”

Nehru read the telex while Sir Martyn poured out the last of the pot and unobtrusively signalled for another pot of loose Assam. The Anglo-Indian waitress moved in almost immediately to see her guests had all their needs fulfilled. It wasn’t just the tea that was excellent here; the service was as well.

Sir Martyn looked at the cake stand and carefully removed a fishpaste sandwich from the lowest tier. The bread was superbly fresh, the filling home made and exquisite.

“As you say, an outrageous imposition. I can only imagine how badly you feel at having received such shabby and cavalier treatment at the hands of the authorities.” Nehru hesitated for a beautifully timed second. “Well, of course, I don’t have to imagine it. We have felt much the same way many times in the past. Not least with the current declaration of war against Germany. Thank you, Sir Martyn. Have you tried the egg finger-sandwich?”

“Indeed; the touch of garlic is an inspired addition. May I recommend in return the fishpaste? Of course, the tenor of the reply from London puts you in an even more difficult position than it does us. We are merely cast adrift, you on the other hand, are adrift without a paddle. More tea?”

“Allow me, Sir Martyn.” Nehru picked up the fresh pot and poured.

“How does this place us in a difficult position? Britain is defeated and forced out of the war. We can now withdraw as well.”

“Indeed you could. But there is a problem inherent with that. By doing so, you would be seen as following Britain’s lead in a most distasteful matter. Any claim you might make to independence would be seen in that light. A declaration would be treated as a matter of words, not backed up by any form of reality. Especially since Australia, South Africa and New Zealand are also ignoring the orders from London, for the moment at least, and remain in the war. India being the odd one out of the Dominions would be an unfortunate position for us.” Sir Martyn bit delicately at a cucumber sandwich, relishing the taste and texture of the chilled cucumber surrounded by the soft, crustless bread.

Nehru took a fishpaste sandwich and ate it thoughtfully. That was one of the great advantages of discussing issues over High Tea. Consuming sandwiches and small cakes while sipping tea gave each participant an opportunity to think carefully before answering. “Australia, New Zealand and South Africa? Does London know this yet? And what about Canada?”

“London has not been told, yet and Canada remains silent. But all three countries are treating this matter as a declaration of independence and a renunciation of dominion status. If we continue with the war, we will be placing ourselves in that camp. Independence, Pandit, now. In 1940; not in five or ten years.”

“But we could declare independence now. That is what much of the Congress Party wants. We could declare independence and also bow out of the war. That would gain us the best of both worlds. Shall we order another plate of sandwiches?”

“We could do as you suggest, Pandit. But if we declare independence, how would we then bow out of the war? If we follow the instructions from London, our declaration would be nothing more than an indulgence, lost and disregarded. But, if we underline our declaration with a decision to remain within the war, then the break is sharp and clear. Also, if we declare independence, how do we drop out of the war? One country may start a war, Pandit, but two countries must agree to end it. The Germans will not negotiate a fresh Armistice with us. In their eyes, the deed is done by the London Agreement. They have nothing to gain by recognizing our independence and much to lose.”

“But India also has much to loose by staying in the war. Not least of which are the lives of our young men.”

Sir Martyn’s mouth twitched slightly at that. He took an egg sandwich and carefully ate it. “Actually, Pandit, not as much as one might think. We can stay in the war, but what can we actually do? We cannot get to Europe to attack Germany and Germany cannot get here to attack us. There are some local issues that need our attention, but they will face us regardless of whether we are at peace or war. There is another factor here. This war will not end with the Armistice signed in London. It will go on. Germany will attack Russia. Probably not this year, but almost certainly next; if not then, the year after. The war will split the world into two parts, those who are aligned with the Nazis and those who are against them. Which side of that divide does India wish to be?”

Nehru nodded carefully and sipped his tea. His whole upbringing rebelled at the idea of remaining in this war, but the possibility of registering an effective Indian declaration of independence almost immediately was entrancing. He also knew what was happening in Europe and what sort or regime was in power in Germany. His spirit rebelled against being in their company. “What about Japan?”

“That is another good question. If we drop out of the war, effectively admitting that we are still part of the British Empire whatever we might say to the contrary, then Japan becomes a serious potential threat. They could make a claim that as the regional ally of Germany, they, rather than Britain, has a right to rule over us. You have seen how they have behaved in China. Their likely behavior here is beyond imagining. However, that lies in the future.”

Nehru looked at Sir Martyn curiously. “You keep saying ‘us’ and ‘we’, not India and Indian.”

Sir Martyn looked very pensive for a few moments. “In the years I have worked here, Pandit, I have come to know and love India. I have seen it in all its moods and tempers. In one sense, I go beyond you in ambition. Yours is to see India independent again. Mine is much more than that. I do not wish just to see India independent; I wish to see it become a great regional power again. To see India participating in the great councils of the world, to hear its voice spoken on a world stage.

“This is a great country, Pandit. It should be given the chance to become that again. No, that is wrong; it should not be given the chance, India should take every opportunity to seize its destiny. The final comment I would make is this. Staying in the war is buying time; it is a reversible act that we can change in the future if needs must. Coming out now is irreversible. We must live with the decision come what may.”

Nehru nodded. “Persuading the rest of the Congress Party will not be easy. But with us gaining immediate independence and leaving the Commonwealth in the due course of events, I can gain enough support, I think. I need time to persuade them. Can you win me time?”

“We will try and buy some more time but our ability to do so is limited.”

“That is good news, in part at least. But, we never decided on what sandwiches to order. Egg or fishpaste?”

Nehru took a deep breath and made his decision. “Fishpaste.”

“Welcome to the Irish Republic, Madam.” The white-coated steward was as deferential as his position dictated. Each of the forty odd passengers on the Pan-American Clipper had paid 375 dollars for a single ticket on the twelve hour flight over the Atlantic. They’d been served a six-course evening meal before the long night flight. Eleanor Gwynne had been woken by the jolt of the flying boat landing in the Shannon Estuary. She’d spent the night in her curtained bunk-bed, soothed into sleep by the drone of the engines and the tranquil rust and beige color scheme around her. Now she smelled the heady aroma of fresh coffee.

“Breakfast will be served shortly. In the mean time, please accept a glass of Irish coffee, with the compliments of Pan-American Airlines.”

Eleanor looked at the glass in front of her. A brandy glass, filled with black coffee, topped with a thick layer of fresh cream. The steward had already moved to the next passenger and was repeating the morning ritual. She sipped the coffee; her senses were kick-started into action by the strong dose of Irish whiskey. She finished it off with relish. Eleanor still had time to visit the lady’s dressing room before sitting down to the first course of breakfast.

“A fruit and cream cheese salad, Madam? Or perhaps you would prefer our green bean salad? We also offer a fine Caesar salad mixed to your order from the serving trolley. And your choice of fresh fruit juice?”

“I’ll have the fruit please, with orange juice.” To Eleanor’s amazement, the juice really was fresh-squeezed and the salad was made with fresh-sliced fruit. She looked over to Achillea who had just settled into her seat across the table. “We don’t eat this well at home.”

“Did you try that Irish coffee?” Achillea had settled for the green bean salad and pineapple juice. “We’ll have to try that out on Phillip when we get back. I’d like to know how they get the cream to stay on top of the coffee though.”

“Pour it over the back of a silver spoon, madam.” The steward was back. “I would caution madam that it takes some practice to get just right though. May we offer you a Creole omelette, eggs Florentine or a southwestern scramble with your choice of meats and hashed potatoes?”

By the time Eleanor had worked her way through her eggs Benedict, croissants and another Irish coffee, she was feeling slightly comatose. It was with a certain degree of relief that she heard the engines start up and felt the big flying boat taxying out to take off. That was when Gusoyn entered the cabin and joined them. He also looked well-fed. “I hope you unmarried ladies have been fed as well as us unmarried gents.”

Eleanor snorted slightly, one thankfully masked by a judicious roar as the four engines increased power. The passenger deck of the flying boat was divided into cabins; the cabin for unmarried women was well separated from that for bachelors. The niceties had to be observed. “Superbly. Thank you, ducks. How long until we get to Southampton?”

“I asked our steward. It is a two and a half hour flight so we should be landing in Southampton at ten. Our train for Nottingham leaves two hours later. We have a Pullman coupe reserved for us. We should be at your family home by six. Loki has told them which train we are on. By the way, I hope you did eat well. It may be our last chance for quite a while. Food is still rationed in Britain, you know.”

“You mean they’ve kept rationing in place, even though the war is over? Why?”

“Last year, Britain imported 20 million tons of foodstuffs per year, including more than half of its meat and three quarters of its cheese, sugar, fruits, cereals and fats.” Gusoyn reeled the figures off with gloomy relish. “Bacon, meat, tea, jam, butter, sugar, biscuits, breakfast cereals, cheese, eggs, milk and canned fruit have all been rationed. Bread and potatoes have not; not yet, at any rate. If it is any consolation, fish and chips is not rationed either although I am told it is very expensive. We will be given ration books when we disembark. If we stay at a hotel, we have to surrender them to the hotel management while we stay there and retrieve them when we leave. Oh, restaurant meals are not rationed but they are really expensive.”

“That shouldn’t worry us, ducks. We’ve got a big budget for this trip. Lillith’s done us proud on the money front. I’m not sure why.” Eleanor paused while the engines went to full power and the flying boat took off. Underneath, Ireland was richly green, the rolling hills running down to the deep blue of the Shannon River. She suddenly felt severely homesick and questioned her decision to leave her homeland. Then she settled down and common sense reasserted itself. England had held very little for her and the prospect of a new country had been overwhelming. Then again, there was a lot she had needed to hide.

Achillea was looking down at the same sights. In her case, she was seriously grateful for the fact that they were flying direct to Southampton. The last time she had visited the area they were now flying over, her behavior hadn’t been calculated to win friends and influence people. She was quite convinced there were people with memories long enough to put a bullet in her back if she ever returned to the small village of Béal na mBláth. “I guess Phillip wants to know what things are really like on the ground over here. We’re a reconnaissance party to him.”

“Keep that thought to yourself, ducks.” Eleanor looked around but they were alone in their section of the Boeing 314. “What’s a reconnaissance to him there could well be considered spying by the people here.”

“We have been given our instructions. It is for us to obey them.” Sir Richard Graham Cardew stuck his chin out pugnaciously. “There may have been some point in discussing whether we should follow London’s lead when we had no specific instructions to do so, although I could not see any merit in such a discussion and still do not for that matter. But now we have clear instructions and we have no option other than to obey them. That is the way it has always been and that is the way it shall remain.”

Lord Linlithgow frowned mightily, not quite so much at the content of the words but at the tone in which they had been uttered. The truth of the words might be argued; the tone of disrespect within them could not. He was already aware that Cardew was attempting to assemble a supporting clique from the traditionalists within the old guard of the Indian civil service. “Is there any word from the other Dominions?”

“There is indeed, Your Excellency,” Gerald Tarrant was actually having a hard job stopping himself laughing. The Australians might be an uncouth lot but they had a talent for a pithy phrase. They have sent a message to London which reads ‘if the Colonial and Dominion Offices had sent us a dispatch of the tone and content exemplified by this message, we would tell them to get stuffed.’ Prime Minister Robert Menzies has resigned, saying his identification with the London regime has rendered him unfit to lead Australia at this time.”

“Don’t tell me that cad John Curtin is the new Prime Minister there.”

Harold Hartley was appalled at the prospect.

“I think you underestimate Mister Curtin.” Tarrant spoke somberly. “I believe he has every prospect of being an excellent Prime Minister whose leadership promises to serve Australia well. In his inaugural address to the Australian Parliament, he tore up the message from London and threw the pieces on the floor, saying ‘good riddance to bad rubbish.’ That won him much applause from the House.”

“That is a disgrace.” Cardew wattled furiously. “Who do those people think they are?”

“People who face a dilemma that is exactly equivalent to ours in form and content,” Lord Linlithgow said mildly. “They have reached their conclusion with regard to their own opinions and interests, just as we shall reach ours with regard to India’s needs and interests.”

“Maintaining the Imperial Connection is the only need or interest India should have.”

“‘Should have’ is a matter of opinion, Sir Richard. ‘Does have’ is another matter entirely. Let us not forget there is a moral aspect to this conundrum. Obeying the demands of London mean knuckling under to an accommodation with Nazi Germany and that thought is abhorrent to any civilized person. I have thought this matter over in great depth and I believe that we cannot, in conscience, do what Lord Halifax would have us do. In isolation, I would tend to believe that we should join Australia in our defiance of this order. But, we do not act in isolation. Let us not forget this is India and we should bear the interests and opinions of the Indian people in mind.”

“Why bother?” Cardew’ spoke derisively, an obvious sneer in his voice.

“Because this is their country, Sir Richard. We rule it in trust for them. Sir Martyn, you have spoken with Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru? How does the Congress Party see things?”

“As usual, Your Excellency, they want independence now, if not sooner. Within that framework, however, there are many divisions. Nehru is now of the opinion that knuckling under to this order would make any rapid attainment of independence most unlikely and unproductive if attempted. On the other hand, continuing the war, for a short time at least, would underline India’s independence and bring their dream within easy reach. That is an attractive prospect for them. After some discussions, Nehru has come to the opinion that, since India is now in the war, it should stay in. May I add that his own abhorrence of the Nazi regime was of some importance in him reaching that position.”

“Communist rabble-rouser.” Cardew’s sneer cut across the room and more than one head nodded in agreement with him.

“Where do Nehru’s political opinions finally reside, Sir Martyn?”

Lord Linlithgow spoke quietly while he marked down those who had nodded. They would need to be maneuvered out of the way.

“There is no doubt he is a socialist your excellency, one who believes that the best model for developing this country resides within the framework of large, state-run enterprises. He would fit very well within the Labour Party in that respect. But a communist? I do not think so. His guiding light is the future of India and all else takes second place to that. To be a Communist would mean that he would place the interests of international Communism over those of India and that he will not do. There are Communists in the Congress Party, of that I have little doubt, but they do not dominate its leadership. There are fascists also. I would name Subhas Chandra Bose as prime in their number. He is closer to the leading figures than any communist. I would suggest it is in our interest to support the existing Congress Party leadership and ensure that neither of those factions gains any significant power.”

Lord Linlithgow nodded. “So the Congress Party would support us in continuing the war?”

“Nehru asks for time, Your Excellency. Time to persuade those who hold different positions from his own of what lies at stake here. That would allow him to present his position as that of the Congress Party, rather than just a faction of it. I have an idea of how we can buy some time at least.”

“Pray tell?”

“I understand that the undersea telegraph lines are experiencing erratic problems at the moment. Some messages are being corrupted in transmission and I believe that this was one of them. It may possess real content that is quite different from the corrupted version we have received. We owe it to the responsibility of our positions here to ensure that we have received a true and fair copy. I suggest we return a ‘copy corrupt’ signal and ask for a retransmission.”

“Your Excellency, I object. This is a lie; a damnable lie.”

“I think not, Sir Richard. Can you prove to us, here and now, that the message we received was not corrupted in transmission?’ Lord Linlithgow paused before continuing, “I thought not. Sir Martyn is right. Whole sections of critical importance may have been omitted. It has happened before. I would remind you of the time when the text of the Holy Bible was corrupted in transmission and the word ‘not’ was omitted from the Seventh Commandment. Sir Martyn, do as you propose.”

“There’s one person who will know how to get this information used.”

Branwen felt like ducking for cover as she made the suggestion. Mentioning Phillip Stuyvesant to Loki was akin to pouring gasoline on an already-raging inferno. Why can’t these two grow up? Sometimes Branwen felt as if she wanted to take both of them quietly to one side and bang their heads together. To her astonishment, Loki nodded in agreement. “I hate to admit it, but you are almost certainly right. If we send this material over now, it will get lost at best. Nobody in authority knows who we are.”

“May the gods be praised for that.” Branwen spoke fervently.

“Right. But now that very anonymity is turned against us. To the world at large, we’re just bankers and traders.”

Loki shook his head. He had just returned from Germany. What he had seen there turned his stomach. The reason behind his trip was a simple one. Five years earlier, a member of his family by the name of Morrigan had been framed as a communist by a man Loki had trusted and left to the tender mercies of the Gestapo. That had left Loki with only one practical option. He had made a trip to Germany, found her and put a bullet into her head before she could talk. She would have talked, eventually, and there was far too much she could tell her interrogators. Loki knew that. He also knew that his rifle shot had been the only mercy she was likely to receive. On that trip, his eyes had been fixed on what he had had to do and he had ignored what lay in clear sight around him.

That hadn’t been the case on this trip. It had been purely a matter of revenge. He had found Odwin Noth, the man who had betrayed Morrigan. Loki had framed him as a communist agent and then killed him. Only, this time his eyes had been open and he had taken full measure of the German regime in a way that not even Kristallnacht had made clear. He had also achieved something else. He was a banker, a Swiss banker; Germany was a country where everybody in authority wanted a numbered Swiss bank account of their very own. That made him a sought-after guest; in so doing, he had been able to recruit people right across the entire spectrum of German industry. Loki never asked questions that seemed to have direct military or political significance; he was far too astute for that. Instead, he expressed interest in little things that seemed to have no direct relevance to anything much. What his contacts never realized was that each piece of data was a part of a jigsaw. When fitted together, they provided a picture of German industrial production and planning that was completely unmatched. Quietly, Loki was proud of what he had created. Not just because nobody had ever achieved so complete a picture of a nation’s industry at war before, but because even those who had helped prepare it never knew the product existed.

“I took the liberty of contacting Phillip. He’s sending Igrat over to collect the information. She’ll have Henry with her as a bodyguard.” Branwen waited for the explosion. Dealing with a situation that involved both Phillip Stuyvesant and Loki was rather like juggling bottles of nitroglycerine. One could never be sure quite what was happening or when one would explode.

“That’s good. Is there any word from England yet?”

Branwen relaxed slightly. “On Churchill? No. He seems to have vanished completely. The general presumption is that he headed south as soon as news of the Coup broke and made it to Ireland. Our guess is that he’s still there, in hiding and waiting for things to settle down before flying over to Canada.”

“Interesting. Head of a government-in-exile I suppose. A lot of people who were over in the U.S. and Canada have refused to return. The entire British Purchasing Commission for a start.” Loki grinned at the thought. “And that gives any government in exile a useful civil service. Something most of them lack. Igrat’s coming over, you say?”

“That’s right.” And you’re pleased because it’ll give you another chance to get her into your bed. Something you only want because you think that sleeping with Phillip’s daughter will be a gesture of derision aimed at him. And Igrat won’t sleep with you because she’s smart enough to understand that.

“Good, I’ve got some German strategic plans here as well. One’s on an abortive plan Noth came up with. He thought of going East through Turkey and Persia to try and hit India. The other is the German decision to invade Russia. I hope the Americans will know how to use them.” Loki looked at the plan for the German advance on India. It had its author’s blood on the cover.

The CardenLloyd machine gun carrier came to an abrupt halt, its long antennas waving in the air. The tactical situation had been set up for this particular display. The presumption was that a Thai unit was advancing down a road and had run into a hostile roadblock, built around entrenched infantry and supported by artillery and machine guns. It was a well-built, well-sited position that would hold up the advance for several hours if not dealt with. The book answer was quite simple; some of the advancing infantry would pin the roadblock with a frontal probe while the rest of the unit outflanked the defenses and either wiped them out or forced them out of their position. Simple, but requiring too much time. A different answer was being evaluated here.

The key component of that answer was the machine-gun carrier. Or rather, the vehicle that had once been a machine gun carrier. It had been rebuilt; an enlarged and much taller rear structure had been added that housed two radios, their operator and an Air Force officer. One of the radios was tuned to Air Force frequencies and would be used to contact the Corsair dive bombers circling overhead. The other radio was a standard Army communications set. Inside the vehicle, the Air Force officer had seen the defenses and decided to do something about it.

“Cobra Section, attack target on road five hundred meters ahead of position. Green to red.”

Suriyothai watched as the flare arched upwards from the CardenLloyd and started to burn green. Half way through, the flare turned red.

Overhead, the drone of aircraft engines suddenly picked up in volume. Then it changed to the wailing scream of a dive bomber in its near-vertical plummet on the ‘enemy position’. The Air Force has taken a lesson from the German book and attached sirens to the fixed undercarriages of its Vought Corsair biplanes. She looked up; the four aircraft that formed Cobra Section were peeling over into their dive. It was a chilling sight; one that the world had become all too familiar with after the German displays in Poland and France.

Her binoculars tracked the dive bombers down as they slammed their weapons into the enemy position. We need better dive bombers; ones that can dive steeper and deliver heavier bombs than those old Corsairs. On the ground, the troops were running forward while the smoke from the bombs was still clearing. By the time the defenders could have recovered, the infantry were all over them. The position ‘fell quickly’ and the Thai flag was waving over it before the aircraft could return.

“Five minutes from spotting the defense to the dive bombers taking it out.” Field Marshal Plaek sounded more than pleased. “It took the Germans between twenty and thirty minutes to organize an attack like that, and everybody thought they were marvels for achieving it. And we took five!”

“Because we had the aircraft circling overhead and the observer on the ground ready to bring them in. That’s the real breakthrough. The dive bomber attack was reasonably good but it was nowhere near as skilled as the Germans. Our dive bomber pilots need to train more. They must fly more often and keep practicing. See to it please, Field Marshal.”

It was a sight that would confuse any conventional military officer. A woman in a Colonel’s uniform was casually giving orders a man in the uniform of a Field Marshal. Only the tiny handful of people who knew who the woman was would have found it, not just unsurprising, but routine.

“Do you miss military command, Your Highness?”

Suriyothai smiled in response. “Yes, I do. And I miss fighting with you by my side.”

Beneath her smile, her mind ran back to 1932 and the end of the absolute monarchy in Thailand. Her function, the whole meaning of her life, was to serve the monarchy and defend its interests. Sometimes, that meant changing it. 1932 had been one of those times. She had seen that the days of absolute monarchies had ended. They had ended years before, but a series of unusually able kings in Thailand had concealed that. But time had caught up with the monarchy and it had to change, become a constitutional monarchy, if the institution was to survive.

It had been the Great Depression that had ended things. The existing absolute monarchy had been unable to cope with the escalating financial crisis; economic ruin threatened. Suriyothai had moved to avoid the impending disaster. She organized a group of military officers and civilians and planned a coup that had taken place in June 1932. Her allies then had been a group of young intellectuals educated overseas led by a young French educated lawyer, Pridi Banomyong, and a military faction led by military officers Phraya Phahon and Plaek Pibulsonggram. The coup had been launched at dawn and was over by noon the same day. It went so smoothly that most people were hardly aware it had taken place. The King had acceded to the demands to avoid bloodshed and agreed to serve as the constitutional monarch. Not everybody approved of that. In October 1933, a rebellion by provincial garrisons led by Prince Boworadet, a former Minister of War, brought the country to the brink of civil war. Suriyothai had assembled a force of government troops and appointed Lieutenant-Colonel Plaek Pibulsonggram their commander. In order to make sure she remained in command, she had appointed herself a Colonel and so she had remained.

The fighting had started on 12 October when the rebels had captured Don Muang on the outskirts of Bangkok. Heavy street fighting had lasted for two days before they began to retreat. Suriyothai had led her regiment in pursuit and overrun the main rebel stronghold. Even then, she hadn’t stopped. Her troops had pursued and advanced to the rebel base in Nakhon Ratchasima. By 23 October, the rebels had been dispersed, and the revolt was over.

Implicated in the rebellion, the King had abdicated, stunned by the fact Suriyothai had taken the field against him. She had pointed out that she served the country and the monarchy, not an individual monarch.

She shook herself slightly, shaking off the old memories. Beside her, Plaek smiled; he had seen her perform as a soldier and found taking orders from her appropriate. It was simply recognition of ability. “Your Highness, may I introduce Wing Commander Fuen who devised the tactics we have seen today?”

“Well done, Wing Commander; a most impressive display. What do you call the observer on the ground?”

“A forward air controller, Your Highness.”

“Then train many forward air controllers. We should have one with radio equipment in every battalion at least. You have six months. And make sure our dive bomber pilots train hard. Far more than you can ever realize depends upon their skills.”

“Well, Phillip was right. France didn’t hold out very long after Britain caved in.” The passengers from the Boeing 314 had already disembarked but were stacked up waiting to get through French immigration. The chaos wasn’t the French officials’ fault; everything was still confused after the armistice signed in Paris had ended the fighting. The northern half of France was now under German occupation; the southern half was not. Igrat looked at the staff checking papers. Mostly they were the traditional French police, but there were some others lurking around, watching suspiciously. Gestapo. The flying boat anchored out in the bay was the first to arrive here since services had been suspended during the war. That apparently being over, Juan Trippe had moved quickly to reestablish his clipper service to Lisbon and Marseilles.

“Your name, mademoiselle?” The customs officer was looking at her passport, so the question was superfluous.

“Igrat Shafrid. Resident in Georgetown, Washington and Long Island, New York. I am here on a vacation trip.” Igrat’s French was fluent and won her immediate points with the immigration officials.

Not so much with one of the Gestapo officers. He pricked up his ears at the sound of Igrat’s name. “Do you have Jewish ancestry?” The question was snapped out.

Igrat switched smoothly to equally fluent German. “Certainly not. I am an American of Persian ancestry. You know, the original Aryans. My family has been in America since 1760. As for religion, the only God I believe in is printed by the United States Treasury and has pictures of presidents on it.”

“You can sure say that, sweetie.” Henry McCarty was playing the part of Igrat’s sugar daddy. That was the overt cover. As usual, there was a cover within a cover. The second-line cover was that he was actually a shady businessman who was looking for black market opportunities in a Germandominated Europe. Anybody who did a detailed investigation of the Broadway Baby and her sugar daddy would discover the corrupt businessman who had brought Igrat along as his cover. The best security was always to give people things to find.

The French official looked down and smiled. He’d recognized Igrat as an adventuress almost immediately and slightly envied McCarty for his companionship with her. Although, he had no doubt the stunning brunette would empty his wallet with great efficiency. “My apologies, mademoiselle. You will be staying in France long?”

“Only a few days. We are on our way to Geneva. My daddy has business with one of the banks there.” The note of boredom at the mention of business permeated Igrat’s voice.

“Now, sweetie, if Daddy doesn’t do his business, sweetie won’t get her presents.” Henry sounded almost pleading and the French official was desperately trying to not laugh.

“You promised we could go to the Champs Elysee.” Igrat pouted.

“I am sorry, mademoiselle. Paris is occupied by les Boches and nobody can go there from here. But the shops here in Marseilles are just as good.” The Frenchman spoke with the fervor of a man whose family had long resided in Marseilles and regarded Paris as having a collective case of a severely over-inflated ego. “And our restaurants are much better.”

“So I hear. Daddy promised me some real bouillabaisse.”

“Then you are in for the experience of a lifetime. Welcome to France.” Igrat’s passport was stamped and she was past immigration. McCarty followed her a minute of so later.

“Well done, Iggie. By the time you’d finished with him, I got through without a problem. The guy who spoke to you was Gestapo?”

“I think so. When I switched to German, he didn’t even blink. Are any of them following us?”

McCarty carefully looked behind. “I don’t think so. We’re clear. How do we get to the station?”

“It’s right there.” Igrat waved at a building in front of her. Bringing Henry along as a bodyguard had been Stuyvesant’s idea, not hers. Given her

own preference, she would have come alone. She was utterly confident in her

ability to slip through the backwash of a war without attracting any attention

and was convinced she could do this trip a day faster without having to worry

about her partner. “The train for Geneva leaves in just under an hour. The train

trip takes three and a half hours. We’ll be there for dinner.”

“Not bouillabaisse tonight then.” McCarty sounded disappointed.

“Don’t worry, we’ll have time for that later. The next clipper flight

back is in a week’s time, so we’ll have to kill time until then. By the way, you’d

better buy me some expensive presents. Keeping up the cover and all that. If

we are being checked out, we don’t want the checkers to think I’m losing my

touch. And we may need this cover in future.”

“That depends on whether Loki is for real or not. I’ve got a nasty feeling this is one of his practical jokes. This whole trip could be his idea of something funny.”

“It could be. Or an effort to get me over there. He’s been trying to get into my pants for years. We’ll only know when we get there. If this is one of his jokes, Phillip will get really nasty about it. I had to turn down a negotiable bonds delivery run for J.P Morgan to do this trip.”

McCarty nodded. The truth was that he was feeling a bit superfluous.

The ease with which Igrat talked her way past obstructions was only matched by the sheer organizational ability she showed in getting her trips set up. He’d always watched her courier runs around the world from the outside and thought her reputation in that line was overstated. Now, watching her at work close-up, he understood how much skill went into making her work look so easy. Fees for her services as an utterly trustworthy courier were her major contribution to the family income and had made her wealthy in her own right.

Now, he knew why.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, one eyebrow lifted and a broad smile on her face. “Why, whatever makes you think that?”

“Eleanor, how are you? How did your trip go?” The Duke of St Albans was delighted and relieved to see Eleanor Gwynne arrive. Especially with two such formidable-looking friends in tow.

“The clipper was a real treat, ducks. And so it should be for the money they charged. May I introduce my friends? This is Achillea Foyle and Gusoyn Rivers. We didn’t know what was going on over here, so I brought some help.”

“I think you’ll realize what the problem is when you meet my other guest. Come into the reception room, all of you.”

The Duke dropped his voice slightly. “One room or two for your friends?”

“Two if that’s possible, although one for the lot of us would be enough.”

“No problem. Your own room will be ready of course. You always have a home here. Now, let me introduce you to my guest, the Right Honorable Winston Churchill, M.P. and rightful Prime Minister. I need your help in getting him out to Canada. There’s a government-in-exile forming out there you know.”

“God’s fish, Osborne. You do know how to drop a basket of live eels into a girl’s lap, don’t you ducks?” Eleanor shook her head and then remembered her manners. “My apologies, Mister Churchill. It is a privilege and an honor to meet you.”

“And I you, Eleanor; although I entirely understand the alarm with which you received the news of my presence here.” Churchill paused for a second; he was familiar with the portraits of Nell Gwynne he had seen. “May I say you share more than just a name with your charming and beautiful ancestor?”

“Thank you, Sir.” Ever receptive to compliments, Eleanor dimpled at Churchill’s gallantry. “Have you and Osborne thought about how to achieve our ends?”

“Would you not rather wait until you have rested from your journey? An arduous trip over the Atlantic and then a harrowing ride on the London and North Eastern Railway requires some recuperation at least.”

“Osborne, a clipper flight to Southampton is hardly arduous. Although the railway ride could fairly be described as harrowing.” Churchill’s tones rolled around the room. “And my stay here puts you in danger, a risk that increases daily. I think our charming Nell is right. The least time we waste, the better it will be for our enterprise.”

“Perhaps you are right. Frankly, Eleanor, I’m at my wits end on this one. The ports are being watched, with special attention on the ones feeding the Atlantic liners and the ferries to Ireland. The airports too, and the flying boat terminal at Southampton. France has been cut off by its surrender. Then there is getting around inside England. The train stations are being watched; that much is obvious. Oh, the small country stations are all right, but there are passenger checks at all the main ones. Petrol is rationed and the number of cars around is much reduced. There aren’t many roadblocks, not yet at any rate, but getting between the road blocks will be just as hard as getting through them. And Winston is, well….”

“Osborne means to say I am easily recognized and well known. Frankly, Nell, I do not see how we can pull this off. Even the day of the coup it was hard enough, and now the steps taken by That Man make it much harder. The hand of the government is heavy enough already and I fear it will continue to get worse.”

“Who mans these checkpoints and carries out the inspections?”

Achillea was absorbing all the information that was flowing. “Surely the police don’t have the manpower to do it? Or the firepower, come to that.”

“That Man has formed a police auxiliary. He doesn’t trust the armed services, so he’s recruiting his own police force. We don’t see them much up here; they’re mostly in the ports and cities. You’d see more of them in the Home Counties than in the North.”

“Police auxiliaries.” Gusoyn was intrigued. “What are their uniforms? Nothing complex, I hope.”

“Black shirts and Army khaki trousers. And a Sam Browne pistol belt.” The Duke was indignant.

“Black and Tans.” Achillea was reflective. “And nobody sees them much up in this part of the world… ”

“They do bear the shame of the Black and Tans, yes. Now people already call them the Blackshirts.”

“There was nothing to be ashamed about with the Black and Tans.”

Achillea was still absent, rolling over information in her mind. “They had a rough job to do and didn’t do that badly at it.”

“They killed, burned and looted.” The Duke spoke heatedly. “In the name of reprisal, of course. No way for Englishmen to behave.”

“You know something?” Gusoyn was grinning. “I think Lord Halifax has just solved our mobility problem for us.”

The Duke had just been about to follow up on his disapproval of Achillea’s ready acceptance of the Black and Tan’s history. Gusoyn’s comment stopped him dead. Churchill beat him to the punch. “How could anything That Man does be of any help to us?”

“Well, when the police control all movement, only the police can move freely, is that not right? And up here, nobody knows who is in the Blackshirts or what they are supposed to be doing. In fact, I would surmise that they do a lot of the dirty work that needs doing and so nobody inquires too closely into their movements. So, I think it is about time we formed our own Blackshirt unit. Get ourselves established and nobody will dare ask who we are or what we are doing. We need some vehicles for transport though.”

“Army trucks.” Achillea was interested in the idea. “Units like that always have Army trucks. Can we get some?”

“Osborne’s nephew Charles is in the Army. Where is he Osborne? And does he know?”

“He knows. He’s in the Sherwood Foresters. Major in their headquarters. Come to think of it, they’re not far from here.”

“There is your answer then.” Gusoyn was happy. “He takes us to their motor pool; we pick up a pair of good, reliable trucks.”

“Lorries, Gusoyn. Be careful to use the right words or you’ll give yourselves away.”

“Thank you, your Lordship. We pick up a pair of good, reliable lorries and a Humber staff car and there is the transport we need. With those and our Blackshirt uniforms, we can go where we please.”

“That still doesn’t solve the problem of Winston. How do we hide him? He can’t pretend to be a Blackshirt?” Osborne was entranced by the sheer audacity of the plan that was forming in front of him.

“We don’t hide him.” Achillea had the ball now and was running with it. “We put him in the back of the lorry, handcuffed of course, and show him off to everybody who shows any interest. We tell them, in great confidence, that we’re taking him up north to be ‘disposed of’ and imply that anybody who knows about it will also be ‘disposed of’. Of course, we’ll be too dumb to realize that the list of people to be ‘disposed of’ will include us. The people on the checkpoints will guess that and keep their mouths shut. They’ll do anything rather than admit they’ve seen that lorry and thus qualify themselves for a trip on the next one.”

Churchill gave a great laugh that finally drove his black dog of depression away. “My word, Osborne. When you said you were calling for help from your cousin in America, I had my reservations. But now I tip my hat to her branch of the de Vere Beauclerk line. We’ve been worrying over this matter for days without getting anywhere, but she and her friends turn up and have a workable plan ready in less than thirty minutes. Nell, I salute you and your accomplices.”

The Duke’s mind was running overtime as well. “Eleanor, you and your friends have solved more problems than you realize. Sir Henry Tizard is putting together a group of key personnel and some scientific information that he believes should be given to the United States as it will aid in our eventual liberation. For the converse reason, it should also be kept out of German hands. Your convoy of lorries will give us what we need to move the men and material away.”

“Please, your Lordship, do not get ahead of ourselves.” Gusoyn was running his mind through the scheme. “We have solved how to move around but we have yet to work out how to get out of the country. Did you have any thoughts on that matter?”

The Duke sighed. “Our best idea was to go to one of the small fishing ports and hire a fishing boat to take us to the Irish Republic and then make our way to Shannon and out on a Clipper. But, it was a faint hope at best.”

Achillea shook her head. “Too many places that can go wrong. Although, eventually, it might do as a cover story. All it needs is somebody to ask questions or to pick the wrong fisherman and it’s all over.”

“I do not like any seaborne side of this; it is all too easy to get caught.” Gusoyn was thoughtful.

“We can’t help it. This is an island nation. We have to go by sea sometime.” Churchill was frowning.

“Not necessarily. We can fly out. We came in on a flying boat. Why can’t one pick us up from somewhere?” Eleanor was very taken with flying boats.

“All the flying boat stations are watched.”

“Then don’t use one. Isn’t there a loch or a bay somewhere up in Scotland we can use?”

The Duke drummed his fingers. “There might be, but how would we use one? We can’t just go and buy a flying boat.”

“Actually, we can.” Eleanor grinned. “It would have to come in from the States but we could buy one. Or rent one and not tell the owner what we are going to do with it. We need to talk to Phillip about that, and that means we need Iggie here.”

“She’s in Switzerland, won’t be back in the States until the end of the week.” Achillea had that piece of information to hand.

“Then telegram Loki. Get her to come straight over here once she’s finished with her delivery to Phillip. We need to give her a briefing on the situation here so she can brief Phillip. If all else fails, he’ll organize a flying boat to get us out of here. Now, let’s get some sleep.”

As the party broke up, the Duke stopped Achillea. “I am sorry I was short with you earlier, but I saw the Black and Tans at work. Surely you couldn’t approve of what they did?”

“So did I, your Lordship.”

“Ahh, so you are like Nell then?”

“I am and so is Gusoyn. When we had rebellions, we killed everybody involved, burned down their homes and salted their fields. We left desolation and called it peace. By those standards, the Black and Tans were merciful. But, soon I think, England and Ireland will learn what occupation by those who still regard desolation as a solution is like. What these Blackshirts will be like, we have yet to see.”