visitor. The visitor has now left, I am certain. I cannot understand where Mr Hoskins can be—' The Indian seemed to be addressing a point just to the left of McBride's waist, and holding one hand in the other in front of his chest. McBride's impatience suddenly became fear.
'May I go up?' he said, pushing through the door. The Indian seemed flustered, yet attempted to stand on his dignity.
'I am the landlord here, sir. I will decide—'
'Look, it's important. I have an appointment with Mr Hoskins—' He showed the card, and the Indian examined it carefully, carrying it to the unshaded bulb in the hall.
McBride followed him in, closing the door behind him.
'Just a moment, please — I am landlord here—'
'First floor, right?' McBride said, taking the stairs two at a time, his immediate breathlessness a result of fear not effort. 'Hoskins!' he yelled.
'Just a moment, my good fellow — I am landlord here!' The Indian's voice had become a cry almost of despair.
'Hoskins!' McBride banged on the door. It swung open, and he knew what he would find inside the room. 'Hoskins?' he whispered, pleading for a reply.
Hoskins was in the bedroom, a pillow over his face, hands buried deep in it, claw-like, as if he had suffocated himself rather than been murdered.
'Oh, terrible, terrible—' the Indian wailed behind McBride when he saw the body. McBride felt weak, could not move the pillow from Hoskins' face. Murder.
PART THREE
Acts of Aggression
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Open Ground
Patrick Terence Fitzgerald lay on his narrow bunk, staring at the ceiling of his cabin aboard the British cruiser. The long Atlantic swell reached him as a swaying, restful motion in contrast to the dreams that had visited and eventually woken him. A cold blue light above the door of the cabin dimly illuminated the cramped space. Its chilly, submarine light gave him an increased, sharper sense of the sweat on his face and brow, as if he looked down on his own face and saw its fears, its clear registration of what had become his burden.
Roosevelt's words, accompanied by that famous easy smile, the big hands slapping the arms of his wheelchair.
He was to concentrate solely on estimating Britain's ability to fight through the rest of the winter into 1941, then to carry the fight to Hitler. If there was no way that was possible, then he had to tell his President so. Write Britain off.
In the wardroom that evening, as he dined with the ship's officers, he found himself studying their faces, as if he had asked them a serious, crucial question and was silently prompting them to give him the correct answer. Children — he wanted to prompt, give them clues, hint at the answer. But their faces answered without their knowing the question. Defeat. He knew already the answer he would give Roosevelt in three months' time.
Roosevelt's ambitions, Fitzgerald was sure, included making America the pre-eminent world power when this war was through. To do that, Japan would have to be defeated. Roosevelt wanted the survival of Europe, sure—
But, America first. Europe had to be savable before the President would make the attempt. Otherwise, he'd cut the umbilical with the Old World.
Fitzgerald, turning the dreams and images over in his conscious mind and feeling his heart still and the sweat on his body dry, became gradually unsurprised that his dreams were bad ones. The dreams lost their edge, their painful, black sharpness. He rolled out of the bunk, drank some water, then lay down again. He didn't want to do it, but he would. From him, Roosevelt would learn the unpleasant truth. Europe was lost. It was only a matter of time. These men on this British ship, they knew it as completely as if they could smell it in the air or taste it in their food.
Just a matter of time—
After a while, he was able to sleep, and his dreams did not come back that night.
Walsingham and Admiral March, out of uniform, were enjoying Dover sole at Prunier's in St James's Street. They were dining early so that their meal would not be interrupted, even terminated, by that night's air raid. Walsingham had no desire to seek the shelter of the nearest tube station — Green Park — and perhaps spend the night huddled against strangers, inhaling the mingled body odours that ripened in the darkness, overpowering the dry, charged air that wrinkled the nose with dust when the trains were running. He did not examine the fastidiousness of his wartime life, preferring to ignore what it hinted of his personality. At times, London pressed against him with a raucous, unwashed, grinning weight and he detested it.
Madame Prunier had given them a table near the rear of the restaurant where they could converse without interruption or the fear of being overheard. March ate his sole as if he resisted any intrusion by Walsingham, but the younger man understood that his superior merely wished to postpone discussion of the debriefing of McBride and Gilliatt — and
'We have to face facts, sooner or later,' he observed waspishly. Then placed a morsel of fish in his mouth, swallowed and picked up his glass. A good Chablis. March, disturbed, watched his actions studiously.
'We have an appointment with the First Sea Lord first thing in the morning, Charles,' he reminded Walsingham heavily, as if suggesting the discussion should not proceed.
'Yes.' Walsingham felt light-headed. It wasn't the wine, or the gin beforehand, merely some deep and surprising elation that had emerged during the debriefing and which had remained with him. He did not ask its cause, nor did he observe it in any moral light. He was, simply, right and had been all along. McBride had brought back the proof he required — no, not
March looked up suddenly, stung and humiliated by the insolent edge of Walsingham's tone. 'You want to know whether we're going to take in with us that abomination I have locked in my safe?' He studied Walsingham, then shook his head. 'You're a strange person, Charles. I wonder if you're a new breed, or just an evolutionary freak—' March broke off as someone emerged from the kitchens behind them. Walsingham smiled easily at the tall, bespectacled young industrial chemist who manufactured much of Madame Prunier's wartime vinegar for her. The chemist nodded at him. He wore his helmet and gas-mask over his shoulder, and presumably he was off fire- watching after his dinner in the kitchens. When Walsingham looked back at March, the old man seemed angry at Walsingham's distraction. 'A freak?' he added sourly, twisting his mouth to give the words emphasis.
Walsingham was angry. '
