“And the third,” Pakeshi broke in, “is why it was planted on you. And the fourth is why someone is trying to kill you to lay hands on it.”
Trust Pakeshi to lead me straight off the path of high politics to the brownish stains all over my sitting room. I looked into his grinning brown face. Time for another cigarette, I thought.
“Did you see the story in yesterday’s papers?” He asked. “The one about the big American loan being floated in London?” I hadn’t. But it was reasonably plain that his own mind was moving along the same course as mine.
“This agreement,” I said, “effectively made America into a satellite of Britain. Enough of it came into effect to show that Anslinger is our man. If this ‘Churchill Memorandum’ gets out, however, he’ll be torn apart by his own people.”
“And then the Americans will pull themselves together and look outwards again,” Pakeshi said with a snarled giggle. “And that will be the end of British world supremacy,” I took a long pull on the cigarette that turned half of it to ash. I smiled calmly back at him.
“I must correct you, my dear Srindomar,” I said—though more by reflex than from conviction. “A nuclear and fanatically anti-Communist America would put immediate pressure on Russia. That would divert all Russian interest from the Orient—no more funded subversion among your lot!”
“Whatever you say,” he said with a shrug. “But you know it will be the beginning of the end. England’s power has always rested on the weakness of everyone else—that, or playing off one stronger power against another. You see how long the Empire will last once America’s back in the world. All else aside, do you think they will forgive you for castrating them? It’s no secret how the Royal Navy watched the Japanese as they crept across to bomb Pearl Harbour. Didn’t Lindbergh himself threaten war over the rebel bases you allowed to operate in Canada?”
I would have gone through the motions of arguing with him. But it was clear he knew as much about diplomatic chess as I did. I could have speculated about some German interest. But what O’Brien had said couldn’t be denied—that the Germans would never have sent out an assassin got up like Herr Buchbinder. I also didn’t suppose they would have been interested to lay hands on the memorandum. Like us, they had everything they wanted. Why bank on the Americans to do other than start another civil war?
If it wasn’t the Germans who’d tried to kill me, it would obviously have to be some other person or persons. Who were these, and how had they known when and where to come looking? How, indeed, had it got into my luggage in the first place? I thought of Stanhope and swallowed. How he’d done this I couldn’t say. But he’d plainly set me up. I’d kept the boxes with me on the railway journey from Chicago. But there had been a good half day when those coloured porters in New York had had them all to themselves. Once more, I was back off the path of high politics.
Oddly enough, thoughts of Stanhope had steadied my nerve. He’d spoken about my duty to Queen and Country. Well, that was something in which I’d never fail—whatever it might be. I sat back and lit another cigarette. Other thoughts were now pouring into my mind. O’Brien would be back in the morning. He’d take the memorandum away. I could probably insist on his letting this be known to anyone who might otherwise still have some interest in killing me. I might even insist on some kind of explanation.
More important than any explanation, though, I now had the second volume of Churchill drifting into my head. I might not be able to tell the complete story. Indeed, I’d never be able to breathe a word of the truth. But there was enough left over to give an entirely different and more exciting tone to my second volume. At least once more, before the end, he’d taken his part in great events. And I might even squeeze another few hundred after all out of Richardson and his daughter.
I got up and poured myself a cup of water at the sink.
“We’ll leave that file on the table for Inspector O’Brien,” I said. “Everything else can go back in the boxes. I’d like to hang on to those. I won’t bother explaining their suddenly heightened value as source material.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The morning news was all about a speech Goering had made unannounced the night before—not in Warsaw but in Prague. It was a rambling, semi-senile performance. For some reason that no one bothered to explain, half of it had been in halting Czech. Nor did anyone in the studio notice the differences between the German subtitles and the English voiceover. The key passage—and this had been in German and was correctly interpreted—was a question he’d asked near the end. Bearing in mind British-backed Arab aggression, he’d bellowed round the half-empty stadium, was there any reason why Germany shouldn’t provide nuclear weapons to the Jewish Free State? This had already set off a run on all the markets, and there were calls for Halifax himself to fly home by rocket jet to make a statement that afternoon in the Lords. There was footage of the Prime Minister looking relaxed in Nairobi at the unveiling of a statue of the Queen. There was then a long interview with some doctor, who was talking about the way Goering’s face had kept drooping throughout the speech. Was this evidence of another stroke? Someone else with a faintly German accent came on to speculate on how much of the speech had been cleared in advance with Stauffenberg and Hayek.
I switched channel, and caught the end of an interview with the leader of the British Communist Party. In his whining staccato, Michael Foot was calling for Jewish working people everywhere to redouble their opposition to the “cancer of bourgeois-Teutonic Zionism”. No one could doubt this was the line that Moscow would confirm once Beria could be made fit with injections and vodka to face the cameras.
It was a change from Hitler celebrations, and even kicked the renewed communal rioting in Calcutta and Bombay out of the headlines. Normally, I’d have been straight on the telephone to The Daily Express, trying to flog another article about Churchill’s plan for a knock-out blow against Germany once Hitler was dead. As it was, I sat in front of the telly, enjoying my first smoke of the day, and making up the first paragraph of an article that would bring in much more than the usual tenner. Why, the larger crisis might even puff up the price of gold! O’Brien hadn’t said what time his people would come calling.
Even as that thought drifted into mind and prepared to sink straight below the level of consciousness, there was a knock on the door. I hadn’t time for jitters about the lack of a telephone call. It was only Pakeshi again. He now sounded panicky through the bullet hole.
“I’ve got to go away,” he whispered. “I’ll not blame you, my most esteemed and learned neighbour. But you are the vehicle by which troubles came to my door. I must beg the loan of two of your smaller suitcases.” Unshaven, still in my pyjamas, I unlocked the door again and let him in. He’d washed the red dot off his forehead, and was now dressed as if for going out to a home consultation. There was a rawness on his chin, where he’d been plucking again at the bristles. He looked at his watch before stuffing it back into his pocket. No point arguing. Fair’s fair—I had got him into trouble, and even three guineas worth of cowhide was the least he could ask of me. I took him into my bedroom. Before going to bed, I’d unpacked everything, and the suitcases lay empty on the floor. I’d been thinking to put them away on top of the wardrobe. But tiredness had finally got the better of me.
I was about to ask if Pakeshi had any religious scruples about the leather, when I heard a cough just beyond the still open front door.