They said little in the car. Geoff put the radio on and they listened to the Light Programme, cheerful music and, every hour, the news. The announcer said in his clipped, even voice that the threatened rail strike had been called off. Ben Greene, the Minister of Labour as well as Coalition Labour Leader, had reached agreement with the railwaymen’s unions.
‘Didn’t think that would happen,’ Geoff said.
Natalia agreed. ‘They were talking yesterday about using troops to run the railways, arresting men who didn’t turn up for work. Public sector strikes are illegal.’
David said, ‘Maybe they think they’ve got enough on their plate just now, without taking on the railwaymen as well.’
They drove on through the dark, along almost empty roads. Near Stratford they saw that one of the exits from the motorway was blocked off; armed Auxiliary Police standing beside a hastily erected wooden guard-post. David wondered if one of the new camps for the Jews was down there. He put his hand in his pocket where the tiny rubber pellet was. He knew he shouldn’t fiddle with it, but his hand was drawn to it like a tongue to a bad tooth. He thought of the gun Natalia was carrying, somewhere under the big trenchcoat she wore. He was very conscious of her presence, as well as his terrible anxiety about what might be happening to Sarah. But he knew he didn’t feel her loss, her absence, in his heart as a lover should.
The journey went without a hitch. There was no sign they were being followed and the narrow wooded lanes leading to the hospital were deserted, lights from farmhouses the only sign of life, everyone indoors on the cold, frosty evening. The rain had stopped outside London and it had got steadily colder as they drove north. They came in sight of the hospital, its big dark shape outlined against the top of the hill, only a few pinpoints of light visible within. It was well past ten o’clock now; the patients would be in bed, in their sad drugged sleep, with only a few night staff on duty.
They waited in a lay-by until almost eleven, then drove slowly along the asylum fence, towards the porter’s lodge. There was a dim light within, but no sign of any occupant. On Natalia’s instructions they drove past, drawing up a little way beyond and turning off the headlights. Natalia, briskly professional, said, ‘I’ll have a look. Geoff, if there is any trouble, drive away.’
She got out and walked steadily down the road. She had a hand in her pocket, holding onto the gun no doubt. David shifted to the middle of the back seat so he could see more clearly through the windscreen. He thought, how many missions like this has she done?
She approached the lit window of the lodge. She stood on tiptoe to get a good look inside, then turned and walked quickly back to the car, looking relieved as she got back in. ‘The porter’s tied up under his desk,’ she said. ‘He seems to be out cold. That means Ben is in the hospital now, fetching Frank.’ Unlike Jackson, she used his first name. ‘Put the headlights out for now, please.’
Geoff switched them off. ‘Will the porter be all right?’ he asked.
‘He should be. He’s gagged, if he wakes up he can’t move or shout.’
‘If someone’s gagged and unconscious there’s the risk of them being sick when they wake up, choking to death. There was a case in Kenya when I was there, a robbery that went wrong.’
‘Ben is a professional,’ Natalia replied steadily. ‘He knows how to do these things.’
‘I’m just saying—’
‘You know what’s at stake here,’ she answered sharply, her accent stronger. ‘There are risks we have to take – ’ She broke off. Something was happening at the gates. David saw one of them was slightly open. He leaned forward to look more closely. ‘Someone’s coming out – no, two people.’ As he watched a short, stocky figure slipped through, leading someone else, slight and stumbling, by the arm.
Natalia leaned over and switched the headlights on. Frank and Ben stared at the car, blinking. David opened his door and got out, Natalia and Geoff following as he walked over to them. He saw Frank sag suddenly, almost falling, but Ben held him. His head had flopped forward onto his chest. David touched him gently on the shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Frank,’ he said. ‘It’s me. Geoff’s here too, we’ve come to help you.’
Natalia took the wheel. They drove through a sleeping village. Just beyond it she slowed the car. Frank seemed to have fallen asleep, his head lolling on his chest. David gave him a little nudge; he grunted but did not wake. The country road was very dark. Natalia said, ‘We’re looking for a long brick wall, with the name Rose Grange on a plaque by the gate.’
‘Who lives there?’ David asked.
‘A retired military man. Colonel Brock. He spent most of his life serving in India.’
‘One o’ thae types,’ Ben said disapprovingly.
‘He’s been with the movement since 1940. He’s too old for action now, but he has sheltered many of us before. Look, there it is, the plaque.’
She stopped the car. Geoff got out and opened a pair of creaky iron gates, and they drove up a short gravel drive with shrubbery on either side. They passed a palm tree, the leaves looking shrivelled and dead, and drew up outside a Victorian detached house, probably once a country vicarage. There were no lights. Inside, a dog began to bark. Natalia got out and opened the rear door. ‘Bring him out,’ she said gently.
Ben and David eased Frank out of the car. He muttered a little, shivering as the cold air hit him. He couldn’t stand unaided but between them Ben and David got him to his feet. They stood supporting Frank on the gravel, while Natalia went up to the front door and rang the bell. It was very cold; you could smell the frost in the air.
A light came on in the hall. The barking grew louder. A man’s voice shouted, ‘Nigger, shut up!’ David and Ben walked Frank up to the front door. It opened and a man stood looking at them. He was tall, with thin grey hair and a lined, stern face.
‘Colonel Brock?’ Natalia asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Aztec.’ It was the code word for their party.
The old man nodded. ‘Mission accomplished?’ he asked quietly.
‘Yes. We got him out safe.’
‘Hiya, pal,’ Ben said cheerfully.
The colonel nodded stiffly, then looked at Frank. ‘That him? He looks pretty groggy.’
‘He’s drugged,’ Ben said. ‘He needs putting to bed.’
‘Come inside.’
They took Frank into the house. The cold had woken him up a little and he gazed fearfully around the hall, blinking in the light. The furniture was an odd mixture of shabby English fittings and exotic mementos of India – a little stone sculpture of an ox pulling a cart, a portrait of a royal-looking Indian in a turban. A big black Labrador stood beside Colonel Brock, looking uncertainly at the visitors. An inner door opened and a short, plump woman came out. ‘My wife,’ the colonel said, nodding at her. ‘Elsie, my dear, could you help our visitors to some food?’
‘Of course.’ The woman looked at them nervously, her gaze lingering on Frank.
‘He’s all right,’ the colonel said firmly. ‘We’re going to put him to bed. Come on now, darling, food. Chop! Chop!’ Colonel Brock led them to the stairs. David and Ben helped Frank, the old man walking ahead, a gnarled hand on the banister. David saw that though he tried to keep his back straight he had a stoop.
He led them to a little bedroom with a single bed: a boy’s bedroom, a map of the world with pictures of the peoples of the Empire round the edges, schoolbooks on shelves, old copies of the Magnet piled in a corner. On the front of the topmost comic Billy Bunter, trying to skate on an icy pond, was falling over, other boys laughing as he went up in the air. They eased Frank onto the bed, where he turned over and fell asleep at once. Ben checked his pulse, then eased off Frank’s shoes and put a blanket over him. ‘He’ll sleep till morning, I should think. But someone should stay with him.’ He looked at David. ‘I’ll sit wi’ him till say four, then can you take over? If he wakes he should see someone he knows.’