always has been, is that Muncaster spills the beans, but apparently he’s on some sort of strike, won’t talk. Well, that suits us.’
‘I don’t imagine it suits Frank much,’ David said.
Jackson frowned. ‘Fortunately Hall can keep an eye on him.’
‘The suicide attempt,’ Geoff asked. ‘Was it serious, or just a cry for help?’
‘Oh, it was very serious, according to Hall. But we can’t rely on Muncaster staying quiet.’ Jackson took a deep breath. ‘The people at the top have said he is to be lifted, and soon.’ He looked around the room. ‘They want the three of you involved. You’ve been to the asylum before, and Drax and Fitzgerald know him. You may be able to get his co-operation.’
‘How would it be done?’ Natalia asked.
Jackson got up, began pacing the room once more. ‘Ben Hall will get himself on night duty. He can’t do it for a few days unfortunately, he doesn’t want to put in an urgent special request in case it arouses suspicion. Apparently all the patients are drugged at night to get them to sleep and there’s only a skeleton staff. It will be down to him to get Muncaster out, and you’ll be waiting in a car outside. You’ll take him down to the coast, short rides via a series of safe houses over two or three days. We’re fixing that up now. And an American submarine will be waiting, at a point we’re arranging with the Yanks, to pick him up. Ben Hall will go with you. You’ll have to take leave – some sort of family emergency.’ He stopped and looked between them, his tone suddenly gentle. ‘I won’t pretend there won’t be danger. But you’ll have false papers, cover stories, and so far as we’re aware nobody knows that Muncaster is any more than just an escaped lunatic.’
‘We’re kidnapping him,’ David said. ‘That’s what it boils down to. Kidnapping Frank.’
‘For his own good,’ Natalia said. ‘His own safety.’
‘I know,’ David said, looking at her and then Jackson. ‘I know we have to do it.’
Jackson nodded. ‘Good. Ben Hall will keep him drugged, sleepy. He’ll be given new clothes. To other people he may just seem a bit subnormal.’ Jackson raised his eyebrows. ‘It’ll be several more days before we can get all the pieces on the chessboard, I’m afraid.’
David said, ‘And he’ll be taken to America. Then what?’
Jackson shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Questioned. Afterwards, perhaps given some scientific work, a new life. Ben Hall will go with him, his cover will be completely blown at the asylum.’
‘Could Frank be locked up like his brother?’
‘His brother broke the law. Frank Muncaster’s circumstances are quite different.’
‘We’ve no way of knowing what they’ll do to him,’ Geoff said.
Jackson spread his hands. ‘What else can we do?’ He spoke angrily. ‘What other chance does he have?’
‘None.’ David thought a moment. He took a deep breath, then said, ‘What if I went on the submarine as well? With Sarah. Then we wouldn’t be a risk any more.’
Jackson stared at him. ‘What do think your wife would say to that?’
‘I think, now, she’d take any chance to get out of England.’
‘We can’t just do that, Fitzgerald,’ Jackson said impatiently. ‘If you go on the run, disappear from your job, there really will be a big enquiry, our whole network in the Civil Service would be in danger. That’s a very last resort.’
‘I’m a danger,’ David said. ‘I’m a risk.’
Jackson said, ‘So far as getting Frank Muncaster out is concerned, you’re one of our biggest assets.’
‘What will you tell Sarah?’ Geoff asked.
‘I’ve got an old uncle out of town, I pretended he was ill when we went to visit Frank; I can say he’s died. I’ll say I have to go to Northampton to make arrangements.’
Jackson said, ‘Good.’
David asked him suddenly, ‘What the hell is it that Frank knows?’
Jackson reflected a moment, then spoke quietly. ‘The world is at a tipping point. Hitler’s illness, the Germans losing the war in Russia, resistance growing everywhere, the new American president. And what Muncaster knows, if the other side get hold of it –’ he held out a big, manicured hand, tipping it gently from side to side – ‘it could just tip that balance the wrong way.’
ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, Sarah drove with David to Mrs Templeman’s funeral. It was held at an ugly modern church in Wembley, not far from the stadium. On a wall nearby someone had painted a Resistance ‘R’; it made Sarah’s heart rise a tiny bit. A hearse was waiting at the churchyard gate, a flower-covered coffin in the back. Sarah’s stomach clenched as she thought, the lid must have been nailed down after the autopsy, nobody would be allowed to see that ruined head. It was cold for late November; as she walked up the path arm in arm with David she noticed frost on the grass around the graves. She remembered Mrs Templeman, on the train last Sunday, saying brightly, ‘
People in black were gathering in the doorway of the church. She recognized some from Friends House committees; others must be family and friends. She was introduced to Mr Templeman, a small, thin man, his face white as paper under his Homburg hat. He seemed to have collapsed into himself with grief, leaning heavily on the arm of a woman who, from their resemblance, must be a sister. Sarah thought, thank God the poor man has family; she remembered Mrs Templeman saying their son had died in the 1940 war. Mr Templeman shook her hand and smiled without recognition when she offered her condolences; he must have forgotten speaking to her on the telephone. A top-hatted undertaker came and murmured quietly to the sister. She said, ‘Yes, we should go in now.’
Sarah glanced back down the path. The coffin was being unloaded from the back of the hearse. She looked at the houses opposite the church, wondering if there might be a Special Branch policeman at one of those windows, watching who went in and out. David said, ‘Come on, darling.’ She turned and went into the church.
Sarah had been dreading the funeral, and that morning had occupied herself by doing some mending, then preparing lunch for David, who was coming home to pick her up. She put the radio on, hoping the Light Programme might relax her a little, but when the doorbell rang she jumped.
On the doorstep was a man in his sixties, in cap and brown overalls. He touched his cap. ‘Mrs Fitzgerald?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Mr Weaver. Weaver and Son. You asked us to estimate for some redecoration. Your staircase.’ Sarah had forgotten they were coming this morning. She asked him in and showed him the torn, discoloured wallpaper where the gates had been. ‘We’ll need to change the wallpaper all the way up if it’s to look right,’ he said. ‘I won’t be able to find an exact match.’
The man took measurements, then asked what sort of wallpaper she wanted. Sarah realized she had no idea. He produced a book of patterns and she chose something more or less at random.
‘Can I leave it with you now?’ she asked the man. ‘Only I’m getting my husband’s lunch.’
‘All right. I’ll send you an estimate.’ The decorator smiled. ‘What was it you had there, a child’s gate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Old enough to get up and down stairs now, is he?’
‘Yes,’ Sarah said quickly, ‘that’s right.’ Only a short time ago the man’s words would have brought her close to tears.
‘Well, I’ll get on,’ the man said. ‘I’ll let you have a full quote in a couple of days. Would you like it done before Christmas?’
‘As soon as possible, really.’
The cheerful dance music from the kitchen had stopped for the twelve o’clock news. At the end of the broadcast, as after every bulletin that week, the announcer asked any Jews not yet relocated to attend at the nearest police station. Mr Weaver said, ‘Looks like some are still at large.’ He spoke neutrally, the way people did nowadays to someone whose political views they didn’t know.
‘Yes,’ Sarah agreed. After closing the door she looked up the staircase. She felt somehow that Charlie had
