surprise and he almost lost his balance. ‘His birthday!’ she repeated. ‘Why don’t you try that?’
Trave nodded, feeling stupid that he hadn’t thought of the idea himself. He turned back to the dial and entered the numbers, first with the nineteen and then without. And on the second attempt, the safe opened.
There were bundles of cash inside, which Trave didn’t disturb, an old book that looked like a diary of some kind — maybe the one that Ava had told him about — and at the back, several brown envelopes. Trave took them over to the desk and emptied their contents onto the blotter. Lists of names; letters in German; carbons of intelligence briefings marked ‘TOP SECRET’, and a four-page carbon document in English headed ‘PLAN’ in capital letters, which had been in an envelope on its own. On the first page it was marked for the attention of Gruppenfuhrer Reinhard Heydrich at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8, Berlin, and it was signed at the end with the single letter ‘D’ above the date, 19 September 1940.
Trave read quickly, handing each page to Ava as soon as he had finished. Within a few sentences it had become obvious to him that D was Seaforth and that he was indeed a high-level spy working for Nazi Germany.
Elegantly phrased and carefully written, the document described Seaforth and Thorn’s meeting with Churchill on 15 September and suggested that Heydrich should provide further intelligence of sufficient interest to engineer a summons to a second meeting with the Prime Minister, at which Seaforth would shoot Churchill and Thorn and blame the assassination on Thorn. In a separate section added at the end, Seaforth told Heydrich that his radio message sent on 17 September had been intercepted and decoded by British intelligence. He said that one man, the former chief of MI6, had understood the significance of the message but that Seaforth had eliminated him and believed that his cover was now once again secure, provided future communications were sent only by ‘the traditional route,’ whatever that might be.
There was no mention in the document of Seaforth’s personal grudge against the British Prime Minister, but Trave felt he could sense behind the dry, careful language Seaforth’s belief that he was an instrument of destiny. And it would be difficult for Seaforth to think otherwise, Trave thought, given the unexpected opportunity that had presented itself to exact a personal revenge on the man who had signed his brother’s death warrant.
‘Come on,’ said Trave, gathering the papers. ‘We need to find a way to warn Churchill. Seaforth’s going to carry out this plan as soon as Thorn gets back from the hospital. I know he is.’
‘Why? How can you be so sure?’ asked Ava. She was in a state of shock, finding it almost impossible to come to terms with what she’d just read. She wanted to sit down for a minute and try to absorb the full measure of Seaforth’s perfidy.
‘I can’t be sure,’ said Trave, answering her question. ‘But he’s seen me round at Broadway asking questions and he’s going to want to strike quickly before things start to unravel — assuming that he’s got the intelligence he needs from Berlin, which seems likely, given that this document was sent nearly two weeks ago. I’m sure Heydrich will have given him the go-ahead. The plan looks like a good one from what I can see. It’s simple and daring and it may well succeed if he gets the chance to put it to the test.’
‘Can’t you call someone?’ asked Ava, pointing at Seaforth’s telephone.
‘Who? I’m just a lowly detective, remember? I don’t know how to get in touch with 10 Downing Street any more than you do. No, we need Thorn. He’s the one with the access. I bet he’s back at 59 Broadway by now. And I don’t have the number for MI6, either, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I know I should have got it from Thorn, but he wasn’t in any state to tell me after he got hurt, and so I’m going to have to go over there and find him.’
‘Not without me, you’re not,’ said Ava. ‘Remember what you promised.’
Trave nodded reluctantly, looking as if he wished there were some way he could take back his words.
They didn’t meet anybody on their way down in the lift, but there was a group of frightened-looking residents in the front hall, congregated around the old man who had let them in. Trave walked quickly through the throng, holding on to Ava’s arm, and went down the steps to the car.
He gunned the engine to life and hurtled round the corner towards Sloane Street, passing a police car coming fast in the opposite direction with a clanging of bells. Trave glanced down at his watch — it was twenty past three. He pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor, wishing that he were behind the wheel of Quaid’s high-powered Wolseley police car instead of pushing an out-of-date Austin 7 beyond its limit.
CHAPTER 12
The summons came at a quarter past three. A car with an official driver pulled up outside 59 Broadway with orders to bring Thorn and Seaforth round to 10 Downing Street at the double and an instruction to Seaforth to bring his copy of the intelligence briefing with him so that he could discuss it with the Prime Minister.
The call had come earlier than Seaforth had anticipated, but he’d baited his hook well and it didn’t surprise him that Churchill had bitten so quickly. The Prime Minister had a well-earned reputation for acting quickly when his interest was aroused, and how could it not be when Seaforth’s memorandum appeared to offer a way to save the country from the threat of invasion without the loss of any more blood, sweat, and tears.
Seaforth was delighted. Everything was going according to plan. No, better than that. There had been no trouble from Thorn, who had stayed shut up in his office ever since Seaforth had told him his lie about C, and the car meant that there would be no time for Thorn to start asking awkward questions before they reached their destination.
Seaforth sent Jarvis up to fetch Thorn, as he thought this would make Thorn less suspicious than if he did it himself.
‘Tell him the PM wants to see us right away and that there’s a car waiting downstairs to take us to Downing Street.’
‘Why don’t you tell ’im yourself?’ asked Jarvis, who had just made himself a cup of tea and was looking forward to enjoying it with a couple of McVitie’s digestive biscuits that he’d got down from the store cupboard in his basement cubicle. He liked Seaforth, but he didn’t like being ordered about, unless it was by C, for whom Jarvis was prepared to do practically anything.
‘Because I have to fetch some documents to take to the meeting. I’d appreciate your help with this, Mr Jarvis,’ said Seaforth, looking knowingly at the Boer War Veterans Fund collection box close to Jarvis’s elbow.
‘All right,’ said Jarvis, getting up. ‘But I ’ope I don’t get my ’ead bitten off by ’is majesty up there. That bomb’s made ’im a lot worse to deal with than ’e was before,’ he added as a parting shot.
Back in his office, Seaforth unlocked the top drawer of his desk and took out the Colt semi-automatic pistol registered to Alec Thorn that he had brought from his apartment that morning. He placed it carefully inside a secret compartment concealed under a false bottom in his black leather briefcase, pushed the cover of the compartment back until he felt it lock into position, and then placed the carbon copy of the briefing he’d sent to Churchill on top. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he closed the briefcase. Everything was in order and he was ready.
Thorn was in the hallway, looking irate, when Seaforth got back downstairs. He’d waited patiently for C’s return and now he was being made to leave without having seen him. He knew perfectly well that he wasn’t going to change C’s mind about Seaforth without some significant new evidence, but he hoped that C would at least start taking the espionage threat seriously once he’d heard that Reinhard Heydrich was the one behind the mysterious plan.
And Thorn had hoped too that he might have heard something from Trave by now. Maybe the detective had found out something about Seaforth, although he remembered that he’d stupidly not given Trave his telephone number, so there was no way Trave could call if he had gone to Scotland as Thorn had begged him to do. The bomb in Battersea had been a disaster, incapacitating him just as he felt he was beginning to make progress through the maze, although he realized that he’d been lucky to survive and that his injuries could have been a lot worse. They’d told him at the hospital that he’d been a fraction of an inch away from losing his right eye, and the worst damage had turned out to be the concussion, which had left him wandering in and out of consciousness for the first twenty- four hours after he got hurt. The doctors had wanted to keep him longer for observation, but he’d insisted on discharging himself as soon as he felt able to walk. Now he wondered whether it had been a wise decision. He was feeling worse with each hour that passed and was in no state to participate in a demanding meeting with the Prime Minister, where he would be expected to be at the top of his game.
