‘I don’t care,’ David said. ‘I’ve had enough, I won’t stand for it.’
Ben nodded agreement. David couldn’t help wondering, would Ben’s reaction have been different if it were the Russians who wanted Frank’s secret? Who knew? Everything was in flux now, with the three of them at the centre.
Frank was hard to wake, a little groggy at first, but he came to himself as they ate. He asked Ben for his morning pill. Ben said he would ask the staff, exchanging a look with David and shaking his head slightly; if the worst came to the worst Frank should be fully awake. They went to the little toilet in turns to wash and shave. When they returned to the room, Ben told Frank some people wanted to talk to them.
‘What about?’ His eyes were instantly wary.
‘We’re no’ sure.’ Ben looked at David. ‘Might be a committee of bigwigs, we think. To talk about what’s to happen to us next. That’s what we hope anyway.’
Frank dropped his knife and fork with a clatter. ‘What do you mean by that? What else could it be? Bigwigs? You said nobody would ask about my brother, about what happened, they’d just try to get me out to America.’ He turned to David. ‘I can’t tell them, I won’t—’
‘A promise is a promise,’ David said steadily. ‘It’s all right, we’ll be with you.’
Ben looked into Frank’s eyes. ‘All the way, pal,’ he said. ‘Understand? All the way.’
Chapter Fifty
TWO SOLDIERS WITH RIFLES LED THEM downstairs, to a long corridor. At the far end they could hear several voices behind a closed door. They were taken into another, nearer room, a big window giving a view of the parkland outside. The room was some sort of study, crowded with paintings, dominated by a large desk with a comfortable chair behind it. It had a high, arched oak-beamed roof, medieval or Tudor; this must be the oldest part of the house. There was a bust of Napoleon on the desk, another of Nelson. A row of hard chairs stood against one wall. The three of them were told to sit there and wait.
Frank spoke in a quiet, fierce tone David had never heard from him before, almost hissing, ‘I won’t tell them anything, I won’t.’
‘Maybe they won’t ask.’
‘Give me one of your pills, now, please.’
Ben and David exchanged a look. If they gave him one he might just take it right away. ‘No,’ Ben said. Frank sat forward, clutching his hands together.
‘I won’t. Whatever they do—’
‘We’ll sort it for you,’ Ben said.
There were sounds from outside, a muted hubbub of voices; the door at the far end of the corridor had opened. Several pairs of footsteps approached the room, and the door opened. A tall, stern-looking man in early middle age came in. He was immaculately dressed in a dark suit, the edge of a snow-white handkerchief projecting from his breast pocket. He said, ‘Stand up, please, gentlemen.’
They stood. Two armed soldiers came in, taking their places on each side of the door. They were followed by a very old man, walking with the aid of a stick. He was heavily built, stooped, his big round head with its sparse white hair thrust forward. He wore an extraordinary outfit, a sort of blue boiler suit, open-necked, a shirt and spotted bow tie beneath. David was astonished by how old Winston Churchill had become; the pictures of him on the ‘Wanted’ posters dated from years ago. The Head of the British Resistance walked slowly round the desk and sat down heavily. He looked pale, exhausted. Only when he had seated himself did Churchill turn and look at the three men standing by their chairs. It was a fierce, challenging look, the blue eyes still keen, the big square chin and the lower lip thrust out aggressively though the skin at the neck beneath was loose and wrinkled. Frank leaned forward, in a sort of stoop of his own, staring at Churchill in astonishment and terror. The tall man in the suit went and stood beside Churchill’s desk.
‘So, you got here,’ Churchill growled in the deep, lisping voice David remembered from thirties newsreels.
‘Yes, sir,’ he answered.
‘At much cost in life and trouble, Mr Colville tells me.’ He nodded at the man in the suit, who was staring at them expressionlessly.
‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ David said.
‘Hitler is dead,’ Churchill said gravely. ‘You have heard?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That evil man.’ There was weariness in his voice. ‘Who knows what will happen in Germany now? Perhaps they will make peace with what is left of Russia.’ The eyes flashed. ‘But Germany is still a terrible enemy.’ He looked at Colville. ‘They are still here, on the Isle of Wight, in Senate House, no doubt they have representatives in these wretched camps where they have taken the Jews. Britain is still under their fist, Nazi fingers in every dark corner of the state.’ He scowled, knitting his brows, lost in thought for a moment. Then he looked directly at Frank. David tensed, leaning an inch closer to his friend.
‘Dr Muncaster,’ Churchill said evenly. ‘It seems the Germans want you as badly as the Americans.’ Frank began to breathe fast; David saw his legs were trembling slightly. He thought angrily, they’ve set all this up to shock him, the secrecy, the waiting, Churchill appearing suddenly. It’s all to scare him into talking. He put an arm on Frank’s. ‘It’s all right,’ he said soothingly.
‘Leave him!’ Churchill snapped. He glowered at David, then looked at Frank again. Something in his mobile face softened and he said, more quietly, ‘Here, Dr Muncaster, come and sit down. John, bring across that chair.’ Churchill beckoned to Frank to sit. ‘I won’t harm you,’ he said with a sort of gentle impatience. ‘I merely want to speak with you.’
David realized that if Frank went over and sat down it would be very hard to get a cyanide pill to him. The two soldiers by the door had been watching them closely all the time. He would have to make a sudden dash, Frank would have to be ready. But Frank looked as though he might faint. Then, slowly and reluctantly, he stepped forward and sat opposite Churchill, staring at him with a sort of terrified fascination.
Churchill asked, ‘Do you know where you are, young man?’
Colville murmured, ‘We thought it better not to tell them, sir.’
‘Did you indeed?’ Churchill gave him a glare. ‘Bloody security.’ He turned back to Frank, and spoke proudly. ‘You are at Chartwell, in Kent. This used to be my country house. It’s my son Randolph’s now. He pretends to be working with them, it means they leave this place alone.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘Poor Randolph, they think him dishonourable; he has paid that price for me.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I come here as often as I can, it helps me think. Though my guardians believe it is dangerous, eh, Jock?’ He looked at the tall man again, laughing throatily, then turned back to Frank. ‘What d’you think of my house, eh?’
‘I saw the view this morning, sir,’ Frank said, hesitantly. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Finest view in England!’ Churchill smiled. ‘They tell me you have been ill. In hospital. A breakdown of some sort,’ he added gently.
‘Yes, sir.’ Frank looked down.
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I myself have suffered from depression all my life. My black dog, I call it.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes I have wanted to end it all.’
Frank looked up at him in surprise. ‘Have you, sir?’
‘I have. But the answer is action, always action.’ Churchill’s look was suddenly fierce. ‘But perhaps you do not see it that way.’
Frank took a deep breath. ‘I’ve always been too afraid to act.’
He and Churchill looked at each other for a long moment. David was conscious of a clock ticking somewhere. Then Churchill said, quietly, ‘You found something out, didn’t you? A scientific matter. My advisers believe it may be important. Some sort of breakthrough in weapons science the Americans have made.’