The police hadn’t seen them through the fog, and a few yards away the argument was still raging. The fireman ran back across the pavement to the back of the engine, half crouching, the others climbing over silently and following. ‘Come on!’ the young man breathed. ‘Up the back!’
It was a difficult climb – over six feet up the side of the fire engine on slippery metal steps. There David found himself in the open back of the vehicle, and they all crouched down, beside the long, coiled hose and the lower end of the turntable ladder, crowded closely together. The fireman whispered, ‘Hold onto something, we’ll be going fast!’ David grasped a rail as tightly as he could. Like everything in the smog, it felt wet and slippery. He saw the fireman was clutching a pistol.
He heard footsteps returning to the fire engine, the cab doors shutting and the revving of a motor; the firemen must have persuaded the policemen to move their car. Then he was jolted backwards as the fire engine started up. In a blare of noise they were off, the police car and the shadowy figures around it disappearing in a blur. They sped on down the main road, at what seemed a mad, suicidal pace. They passed a car that was crawling along ahead of them, grazing it, the jolt running through their bodies. Beside David the young fireman let out a whoop. ‘We did it, we fucking did it!’ He brandished a fist in the air. ‘We’ll go down in fucking history for this!’
On David’s other side Natalia’s hair was flying in the wind. She said to the fireman, ‘There was another man with us, he’s very important. He panicked and ran off.’
The young man turned to her. ‘We’ve got him too! He turned up at the local church, they’ve got him safe.’ There was a loud hoot from a car coming in the opposite direction, only visible for a second before the fire engine managed to swerve aside. David hoped to God they didn’t hit a pedestrian, or a wall. But he knew that fire-engine drivers were incredibly skilled, and the huge, powerful vehicle could knock any other vehicle aside. He looked at the fireman. ‘He’s all right? Frank?’
The young man’s face was alive with excitement. ‘Yes. That’s what I mean! We’re going down in fucking history!’
It sunk in then: Frank was alive.
GUNTHER SAT AT HIS DESK IN Senate House, four photographs laid out on his desk. There was also a blank sheet of paper,
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.’
