Dominion

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 chest 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.

Kapp turned to him cheerfully. ‘Otherwise, you know.’ He shrugged. ‘First the fingers, then the toes. This little piggy went to market, then this one. None of them stay at home. Then we go for the eyes.’

‘We don’t need them alive, you see,’ Gunther continued. ‘And then, if you still don’t talk, it’ll be your turn, though in your case we’d probably combine the physical methods with drugs. We learned a few things from the Russians there. So you see, however brave you are personally, it won’t help in the end. But we’d rather have you fully awake. You’ll talk tomorrow at the latest, you should understand that.’ He looked intently at Drax. ‘There’s no shame in talking to save others. Four people are on the run, four lives. They’ll probably get caught but even if some of them get away the Americans will almost certainly kill them once they’ve got what they want out of Muncaster.’ Drax’s head jerked up at that. Gunther didn’t know what the Americans had planned for them, though he wouldn’t have been surprised if they killed Muncaster, given he had a head full of dangerous knowledge. He could see, though, that the thought hadn’t yet crossed Drax’s mind. ‘Weigh that against your parents being tortured to death.’

There was silence for several seconds, then Drax said, his voice desperately weary, ‘I don’t know anything. That’s how we do things, on a need-to-know basis only. I haven’t a clue why the Americans want Muncaster, I’ve no idea.’

Gunther nodded. ‘We know more than you think.’ He took a deep breath. Time for his bluff, while Drax was in a weakened, shocked state. He said, ‘You were planning to leave the country. A submarine, we believe, from the Sussex coast. The coasts are being watched, we’ll pick them up.’

Gunther saw from Drax’s surprised expression that his guesswork had been right; this was what they were going to do.

‘How do you know all this?’ Drax looked appalled.

Gunther didn’t answer, just inclined his head. The Englishman was silent for a moment, then lowered his head and began to cry, weeping like a child, his shoulders shaking, all that proud reserve gone. He had broken. Gessler smirked. Gunther closed his eyes.

‘If I tell you the little I know will you let my parents go?’ Drax’s voice was toneless and dead. ‘You seem to know all of it already.’

‘Of course. We’ve no further use for them.’

Drax’s shoulders sagged. ‘I don’t know where we were going to be picked up from, except that the rendezvous is only an hour from here.’

Gunther considered. An hour to the coast. Central Sussex. A lot of cliffs there, which narrowed down the places they could be picked up from. He said, ‘Thank you.’ He gestured at the wall where the screen had been. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that, I really am.’

Drax said, ‘All that you know – who told you?’

‘I’d worked it out; the look on your face confirmed I was right. And now we can narrow the pickup point down further.’

Drax’s head fell hopelessly forward, the way people’s often did after they broke. Gunther nodded to Gessler, who followed him and Syme out of the cell, leaving Kapp on guard. They halted a few feet along the corridor. Up ahead a young SS man was sitting at his desk, filling in forms. The telephone on his desk rang and he picked it up.

Gessler said, ‘Well done, Hoth. That was a masterpiece of interrogation. Admirable. We could turn this round after all.’

‘Thank you. I would ask you, please make sure the guards keep a careful eye on him. He’ll be a suicide risk. Guilt will come now.’

Syme said, ‘You bluffed him. About the submarine.’

‘Yes. We can tell our people on the Isle of Wight to look for an American submarine off the Sussex Coast. He’s not sophisticated. People like him are brave, but they have too narrow a focus. Since being captured he was probably thinking only about how to bear great pain himself. He would have held out a long time.’

Gessler laughed. ‘You had him crying like a child. Like a little girl.’

Gunther said sadly, ‘My brother used to say that for him that was the hardest thing to see. When grown men cried like children, kneeling beside the graves his men had made them dig.’

Gessler frowned at the unexpected remark. He said a little stiffly, ‘Well, keep me closely informed.’ He nodded at Syme and walked away down the corridor, boots clacking on the marble. The young SS man had put the phone down and was standing up. His face was very pale. He saluted Gessler, then said something to him in a low voice.

Gunther turned to Syme. ‘You need to work out the best methods for each individual, you see. I learned that a long time ago.’ He saw that Syme’s face had a film of sweat on it, he was blinking fast. He looked as though he might faint.

‘Are you all right?’ Gunther asked, extending an arm.

‘Yes,’ Syme said brusquely. ‘I was just expecting something a bit rougher, a bit more – basic. The film – I was a bit taken aback.’

‘It was too much for you?’ Odd, Gunther thought, what sensibilities appeared in the unlikeliest people. If they’d beaten Drax up, Syme would probably have been happy to join in.

‘’Course not,’ Syme answered sharply. ‘It’s just it was so bloody hot in there, all those people. And the camera, those things generate a lot of heat. A lot of heat,’ he repeated fiercely.

Sudden footsteps, Gessler was walking quickly towards them, his hands raised, as though he were trying to ward off something terrible. Behind him, at the desk, the boy had put his head in his hands.

‘What?’ Gunther asked.

Gessler’s face was stricken, his lips trembling. ‘It’s the Führer,’ he said. ‘He’s had a heart attack. Our Führer is gone.’