The Churchill Commando, page 17
Benedict looked at Barr for a moment, then rose, shaking his head. ‘I haven’t met the man, so I wouldn’t know. By all accounts, he’s pretty formidable. But I distrust these instant Messiahs. They either end up as live dictators or dead martyrs. And the cures they offer are usually worse than the disease.’ He went to the whisky bottle and gave Barr an enquiring glance.
‘No, thanks,’ said Barr.
Benedict twisted the bottle in his hands and put it down with evident reluctance. ‘I’ve been ordered to stay off the juice,’ he said. ‘This damned jaundice.’
‘I could cry for you,’ Barr said, without expression. ‘Big tears.’
‘What happened to Onslow?’
Barr told him.
‘Can you remember the General’s exact words?’
‘Not exactly. But how did he know about Onslow? He was so sure. No doubt in his voice. Listen. Someone warned the General about Onslow. Someone who knew. And that same someone must have told the General that I was O.K. Told him that I’d refused to work for MI5 or MI6 or what have you. Now, you tell me. How many people knew about that?’
‘Only two. Myself and George Lydd.’
‘How about those fellows who came to pick me up? One of them was a sergeant – name of Chandler.’
‘Errand boys. They didn’t know why we wanted to see you.’
‘Then it’s down to you and Lydd,’ said Barr.
‘That’s right,’ said Benedict. ‘And it isn’t me.’
A long silence fell between them. The atmosphere in the room felt stuffy and oppressive and Benedict, rising wearily, his face drawn, threw open a window. A gust of air fluttered the papers on the desk, bringing with it the blare of traffic from the street below. Benedict slammed the window shut, a frown on his face.
‘Anyway, that answers your question,’ he said.
‘Which one? There’s several you haven’t answered.’
‘Why the General hasn’t been picked up. I told you, it’s not my pigeon. It’s a domestic operation. Lydd’s department.’
‘What about the police – Special Branch?’
‘Listen – if Lydd is in with the General there must be others. A hell of a lot of others, I’d guess.’
‘OSSA?’
‘OSSA,’ said Benedict.
*
4
‘For God’s sake, man, you didn’t have to kill him!’ said McKinnon, his voice icy with anger.
‘What else was I supposed to do?’ Piotrowski faced the other man defiantly, and there was a touch of contempt in his tone. ‘He was getting down from that tree! In another few seconds he would have been off through the bloody woods! He was a reporter, he’d got the General’s name written down and the car number. If he’d got clear, it would have been splashed all over the papers and we’d have all been up the sodding creek! If you want someone to use a catapult, get yourself a Boy Scout.’
‘Do you suppose he came here without telling anyone? How long do you think it will be before someone starts wondering where he is, and begins to ask questions? You’re a first-class shot, Piotrowski, you could have put a bullet into his leg or his shoulder – then we could have taken him alive and found out just how much he had learned, who he had told. Now –’ McKinnon lifted and dropped a hand and sighed. ‘Get the N.C.Os. Tell them that I want all the stores and equipment loaded ready to pull out in one hour. You will personally supervise the operation. I want nothing left here, not even a wet dishrag. Clear?’
‘Clear,’ said Piotrowski. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll know that when I’m ready to tell you. Now – get on with it!’
Piotrowski moved to the door, and stopped. ‘What about the bodies – Onslow and this other laddie?’
‘Wrap them up in blankets and stow them in one of the trucks.’
‘Right.’ Piotrowski smiled. ‘My trouble is that when I shoot, I shoot to kill. Always been the same. Can’t seem to break myself of the habit.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ McKinnon said coldly.
When Piotrowski had gone, McKinnon lifted the telephone and dialled a number. He tapped the desk impatiently as the ringing tone went on for some time, but eventually a man’s voice came on the line.
‘Chief Superintendent Welwyn.’
‘Dalton’s Hi-Fi Service here, sir,’ said McKinnon carefully. ‘I’m afraid we’ve mislaid your order for the recordings. Would you mind giving me the details again?’
‘There were two. A song recital by Kathleen Ferrier, that’s on the Decca label, I think. And a Louis Armstrong record – a new issue by C.B.S.’
‘Can you talk?’
‘Not easily. Not now.’ Welwyn’s tone was guarded, careful.
‘Then listen. We’re pulling out. Contingency Plan B.’
‘When can I expect delivery?’ asked Welwyn in the same cautious voice.
‘In ninety minutes, two hours at the most.’
‘Right. Thank you for calling.’
Within the prescribed time, the first truck left Cresswold House, heading for a destination known only to the driver and the N.C.O. who travelled with him in the cab. Both men wore their civilian clothes, as did the mercenaries who sat among the stores in the darkness of the sealed interior. Thereafter, the other trucks left at staggered intervals, taking different routes towards the same destination. McKinnon was in the last truck to go. He was careful to lock the main gates behind him.
At noon, the Chief Constable of the County, together with Chief Superintendent Charles Welwyn, led a task force from the local police to Cresswold House. His officers had been assembling the force, calling the men in from their routine duties and from leave, and briefing them, for the past three hours. At least twelve trained marksmen, armed with Parker-Hale .222 rifles, were in the assault group. One party of ten men approached from the rear, through Heslop Wood to cover the rear gate and the perimeter fence.
Young P.C. Hayes had been called in from the far side of the county to take part in the operation. He felt a sense of pride, believing that but for him, the fake Institute would never have been exposed. He hoped that the Chief Superintendent would remember that he had shown commendable initiative.
It was a matter of some disappointment to him and to most of the others to find, when the entry was effected, that the place was deserted. There was no shoot-out, no sensational arrests, no Churchill Commando. Nothing.
Well, perhaps not quite nothing. There were sufficient indications of recent occupation, tyre tracks, prints, and other clues, to suggest that the house and the area within the perimeter fence had been used by the Commando. One policeman found a used cartridge in the grass by the fence, and in one of the huts someone had scrawled the motif of the Commando on the wall – the letter C in a triangle.
The Chief Constable left a squad of men to complete the search and went back to headquarters where he summoned the press. He was justifiably proud that it was his force which had made this first, important break-through, but he was a modest as well as an honest man, and he left the assembled reporters to draw their own conclusions. He was a little brusque with one man who asked why the police had allowed their quarry to slip so neatly away. Why had they not acted sooner?
The Chief Constable parried this by pointing out that valuable evidence had been found which would assist further investigation. The Commando had been flushed out of one base – they would find it more difficult to settle in another. And he added, for good measure, that the charges against them now included that of murder, since Gladstone, one of the victims of the mock hanging had died as a direct result of this experience.
‘I know that many people in this country have shown great sympathy for these so-called “Commandos”,’ he said sternly. ‘They admire their daring, the skilful way they have carried through their operations. Perhaps they see it as a sort of a joke, a rag. But make no mistake, gentlemen, it is a joke no longer. The police of this country do not treat kidnapping and murder as a laughing matter. We shall get these people and they will have to answer to the courts for their actions.’
He concluded with a tribute to Chief Superintendent Welwyn, who had played a key part in the investigations leading to the raid on Cresswold House. Welwyn, not to be outdone in modesty, gave full credit to P.C. Hayes, describing that young officer’s initiative as ‘being worthy of the highest traditions of the police force’.
It was very pleasant, and exciting for Hayes. When the formal proceedings broke up he was interviewed by some of the pressmen, and several photographers took his picture.
What a pity, he thought, as he tried to look suitably stern for the cameras, that Jeff Pilling isn’t here to write up the story for his paper.
*
5
‘We need a replacement for Onslow,’ said Benedict softly. He picked up the pistol and began to turn it in his hands.
‘No,’ said Barr, ‘oh, no.’
‘Someone Lydd doesn’t know about. Someone the General trusts.’
‘I said no.’
‘You owe us that.’
‘Christ!’ said Barr, ‘I owe you bloody nothing! Nothing!’
‘Then let’s say you owe Onslow.’
‘I didn’t set him up!’ said Barr. ‘He knew what he was doing. He went in with his eyes open, he knew what to expect if his cover was blown. He was a stool pigeon, and he would have turned us in without a second’s thought. All he got was the rate for the job – a bullet.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Benedict said calmly. ‘I thought you’d come here to avenge him, I thought that was the idea.’
He drew back his arm and tossed the pistol at the other man. Barr put a hand to his face in an instinctive movement of self-protection and fielded the gun neatly.
‘You’ve missed the point,’ said Barr. ‘It could have been me. If I’d taken your bloody job, I’d be where Onslow is now. I don’t like that, Harry, I don’t find it funny.’ He slipped the pistol into his pocket and stood up. ‘Where can I find Lydd? I’d rather like to talk to him.’
‘No,’ said Benedict, ‘no. You leave him to us. We’ll deal with Mr. Lydd.’
‘Not if I get to him first,’ Barr said. He moved to the door.
‘Tommy,’ said Benedict urgently, ‘leave this one alone. Lydd, the General, the lot. It’s too big, too rich for your blood. If you won’t help us, get out. Take your gear and go fishing. Don’t try and play a lone hand, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Thanks for the drink, Harry,’ said Barr amiably.
Down in the street the pavements seemed to be less crowded, although the little sandwich bar was busy with customers. The stout woman in the blue overall was still at her task, the knife moving mechanically across the slices of pale bread. Barr smiled to himself, wondering if she would ever stop, imagining her at the end of the day surrounded by mountains of sandwiches.
As he turned away, he saw a girl moving towards him, and he stopped in astonishment, his heart thudding. Iris! He took a half-step towards her, the name was on his lips, and she looked at him in surprised amusement.
‘Wrong lady,’ she said, and stepped neatly round him. A few paces further on, she glanced over her shoulder, still smiling, to see that he was still watching her. She bore a superficial resemblance to Iris, no more: she was a stranger, and he turned away, heavy with a sense of loss.
He glanced at his watch. It was still only 10.20, he had an hour and more to kill before joining the General at the Churchill Hotel. That was something he was still uncertain about. Maybe, as Benedict had said, it was too rich for his blood. Well, he had a little time yet. He decided to pay Noonan a call.
Looking down from the window, Benedict saw him cross the road, picking his way between the angry cars. Don’t get yourself killed, chum, he thought, don’t get yourself killed just yet.
He went to the telephone and called George Lydd. To his relief, Lydd was in his office and he was put through immediately.
‘I have to see you at once,’ he said.
‘What about?’
‘Something in which we have a mutual interest. It’s hot, very hot. Can you come to my office?’
‘Why not here?’
‘It’ll be easier at our place. I’ve stuff to show you.’
‘I’ve a departmental meeting in ten minutes. That will take the best part of an hour. I can be with you just before twelve.’
‘Fine,’ said Benedict. He smiled as he pressed down the bar of the telephone, cutting off the call. He waited for a moment, then lifted his hand and dialled another number.
A woman’s voice answered the call. ‘Conroy International,’ she said brightly. ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’
Benedict gave a code word and his name and her tone changed. ‘Yes, Mr. Benedict?’
‘Put me through to Special Duties Section, will you, Millie?’ he said.
Chapter Twelve
1
The boardroom was on the top floor of one of the city’s newest and most splendid buildings. From the windows it was possible to look down on the Stock Exchange, or to look across to the dome of St. Paul’s and, in the further distance, to Big Ben and Parliament. It was said that Lord Leggatt, on seeing the view for the first time, had remarked: ‘A perfect arrangement! The Stock Exchange, St. Paul’s, Parliament. We are on top of the city, not too far away from God, and we can still keep an eye on those damned politicians!’
In their first draft sketches the architects had suggested that the top floor should be laid out as a penthouse for the personal use of his Lordship, but Leggatt had calculated in an instant what this would cost per square metre of floor space, and rejected the idea. Apart from a modest two-room apartment at one corner, the area had been put to productive use as executive offices. He used the boardroom as his own office, working at the centre of the long, elegant, 18th century, mahogany and satinwood table, or from an equally beautiful rosewood writing-desk of the Carlton House type which was set at a right-angle to one of the windows. Leggatt had a passion for antique furniture and most of the offices of his top executives were furnished in similar, if somewhat less expensive style.
‘Buy modern stuff and its value drops every year. Buy good antiques – put them to productive use, don’t just look at them – and you’ve got an investment.’ It was a view he expressed often; he was very fond of talking about productive use.
He was sitting at the centre of the long table now, a tiny, spry, balding man with a brown, mischievous, gnome-like face and alert, slate-grey eyes. His feet only just touched the thickly carpeted floor. The General was at the head of the table to Leggatt’s left, and around them sat eleven other people, ten men and one woman. No-one had noticed that they were thirteen in number; they were too occupied with the business in hand to be concerned with superstitions or omens.
The discussion had been going on since nine o’clock and it was now well past ten-thirty. A buzzing sound came from the direction of Leggatt’s left wrist and with a little smile of apology to the others, he switched off the alarm on his watch. He believed firmly that no meeting, however important, should last longer than two hours; he considered that any decisions reached after this period tended to be hastily conceived and basically unsound.
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I think we have covered the business. We all have a good deal to do, so I suggest we go and get on with it. Are there any questions, anything on which you are not clear, anything you wish to ask the General?’
His eyes went round the table, moving from face to face. One by one, they responded with a little shake of the head.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I would simply like to stress one point, which is crucial to our whole campaign.’ He looked across at the two men sitting directly opposite. ‘This particularly concerns Ian and Allen, but of course, we are all involved. I have already given the necessary orders to the people running my papers, and I’ve had a discreet word with two or three key television people. Beginning with the press conference at noon, we must ensure maximum coverage for the General. Total, but total saturation, in all media. We haven’t much time. We ought to aim to get a quarter of a million people in Trafalgar Square on Sunday week to greet him – the biggest demonstration of modern times. In the next eight or nine days his name must become a household word. We’re already half-way there, he’s by no means an unknown quantity – and there’s plenty to build on. The soldier, the man of action, the patriot, the leader of men – that’s the picture we need to present.’
The General winced and moved uneasily in his chair.
‘I know, Hugh, I know,’ said Leggatt. ‘I know how you feel about the personality bit. But – with respect – you must look at it objectively. Thanks to you, we have the beginning – only the beginning, mark you – of a mass movement. We must draw that movement together behind a leader – and do so quickly or it will disintegrate as fast as it was built. And I’m afraid that means putting you under the spotlight.’
‘I’m worried about overkill,’ said the General. ‘If we go too far we could provoke the wrong reaction. The British tend to be suspicious of instant-heroes.’
‘They love ’em,’ said Leggatt, ‘believe me, they love ’em. And at the moment, they’re hungry for a big one. Present company always excepted, they’re fed to the teeth with the blotting-paper politicians at Westminster. There isn’t a real personality in the entire bunch, and they know it.’
The rippling chuckle that ran around the table died away into an uneasy silence before the cold gleam in the General’s eyes. Leggatt, reacting quickly, rose to his feet.
‘Perhaps you and I can have five minutes together, General. There are one or two points to talk over. Thank you, friends, and good luck. We’re only at the beginning, but at least, we know that the support is there. This last week has proved that.’ He pressed down on the table with the palms of his small, neat hands. ‘If we can mobilise it behind the General, then we must succeed. And succeed more quickly and more completely than any of us thought possible. Thank you again.’
‘Yes, thank you, friends,’ said the General.
As the others filed out, Leggatt said: ‘Please leave in the usual way. At intervals and by different exits. You will be notified of our next meeting.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Barr.
Benedict twisted the bottle in his hands and put it down with evident reluctance. ‘I’ve been ordered to stay off the juice,’ he said. ‘This damned jaundice.’
‘I could cry for you,’ Barr said, without expression. ‘Big tears.’
‘What happened to Onslow?’
Barr told him.
‘Can you remember the General’s exact words?’
‘Not exactly. But how did he know about Onslow? He was so sure. No doubt in his voice. Listen. Someone warned the General about Onslow. Someone who knew. And that same someone must have told the General that I was O.K. Told him that I’d refused to work for MI5 or MI6 or what have you. Now, you tell me. How many people knew about that?’
‘Only two. Myself and George Lydd.’
‘How about those fellows who came to pick me up? One of them was a sergeant – name of Chandler.’
‘Errand boys. They didn’t know why we wanted to see you.’
‘Then it’s down to you and Lydd,’ said Barr.
‘That’s right,’ said Benedict. ‘And it isn’t me.’
A long silence fell between them. The atmosphere in the room felt stuffy and oppressive and Benedict, rising wearily, his face drawn, threw open a window. A gust of air fluttered the papers on the desk, bringing with it the blare of traffic from the street below. Benedict slammed the window shut, a frown on his face.
‘Anyway, that answers your question,’ he said.
‘Which one? There’s several you haven’t answered.’
‘Why the General hasn’t been picked up. I told you, it’s not my pigeon. It’s a domestic operation. Lydd’s department.’
‘What about the police – Special Branch?’
‘Listen – if Lydd is in with the General there must be others. A hell of a lot of others, I’d guess.’
‘OSSA?’
‘OSSA,’ said Benedict.
*
4
‘For God’s sake, man, you didn’t have to kill him!’ said McKinnon, his voice icy with anger.
‘What else was I supposed to do?’ Piotrowski faced the other man defiantly, and there was a touch of contempt in his tone. ‘He was getting down from that tree! In another few seconds he would have been off through the bloody woods! He was a reporter, he’d got the General’s name written down and the car number. If he’d got clear, it would have been splashed all over the papers and we’d have all been up the sodding creek! If you want someone to use a catapult, get yourself a Boy Scout.’
‘Do you suppose he came here without telling anyone? How long do you think it will be before someone starts wondering where he is, and begins to ask questions? You’re a first-class shot, Piotrowski, you could have put a bullet into his leg or his shoulder – then we could have taken him alive and found out just how much he had learned, who he had told. Now –’ McKinnon lifted and dropped a hand and sighed. ‘Get the N.C.Os. Tell them that I want all the stores and equipment loaded ready to pull out in one hour. You will personally supervise the operation. I want nothing left here, not even a wet dishrag. Clear?’
‘Clear,’ said Piotrowski. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll know that when I’m ready to tell you. Now – get on with it!’
Piotrowski moved to the door, and stopped. ‘What about the bodies – Onslow and this other laddie?’
‘Wrap them up in blankets and stow them in one of the trucks.’
‘Right.’ Piotrowski smiled. ‘My trouble is that when I shoot, I shoot to kill. Always been the same. Can’t seem to break myself of the habit.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ McKinnon said coldly.
When Piotrowski had gone, McKinnon lifted the telephone and dialled a number. He tapped the desk impatiently as the ringing tone went on for some time, but eventually a man’s voice came on the line.
‘Chief Superintendent Welwyn.’
‘Dalton’s Hi-Fi Service here, sir,’ said McKinnon carefully. ‘I’m afraid we’ve mislaid your order for the recordings. Would you mind giving me the details again?’
‘There were two. A song recital by Kathleen Ferrier, that’s on the Decca label, I think. And a Louis Armstrong record – a new issue by C.B.S.’
‘Can you talk?’
‘Not easily. Not now.’ Welwyn’s tone was guarded, careful.
‘Then listen. We’re pulling out. Contingency Plan B.’
‘When can I expect delivery?’ asked Welwyn in the same cautious voice.
‘In ninety minutes, two hours at the most.’
‘Right. Thank you for calling.’
Within the prescribed time, the first truck left Cresswold House, heading for a destination known only to the driver and the N.C.O. who travelled with him in the cab. Both men wore their civilian clothes, as did the mercenaries who sat among the stores in the darkness of the sealed interior. Thereafter, the other trucks left at staggered intervals, taking different routes towards the same destination. McKinnon was in the last truck to go. He was careful to lock the main gates behind him.
At noon, the Chief Constable of the County, together with Chief Superintendent Charles Welwyn, led a task force from the local police to Cresswold House. His officers had been assembling the force, calling the men in from their routine duties and from leave, and briefing them, for the past three hours. At least twelve trained marksmen, armed with Parker-Hale .222 rifles, were in the assault group. One party of ten men approached from the rear, through Heslop Wood to cover the rear gate and the perimeter fence.
Young P.C. Hayes had been called in from the far side of the county to take part in the operation. He felt a sense of pride, believing that but for him, the fake Institute would never have been exposed. He hoped that the Chief Superintendent would remember that he had shown commendable initiative.
It was a matter of some disappointment to him and to most of the others to find, when the entry was effected, that the place was deserted. There was no shoot-out, no sensational arrests, no Churchill Commando. Nothing.
Well, perhaps not quite nothing. There were sufficient indications of recent occupation, tyre tracks, prints, and other clues, to suggest that the house and the area within the perimeter fence had been used by the Commando. One policeman found a used cartridge in the grass by the fence, and in one of the huts someone had scrawled the motif of the Commando on the wall – the letter C in a triangle.
The Chief Constable left a squad of men to complete the search and went back to headquarters where he summoned the press. He was justifiably proud that it was his force which had made this first, important break-through, but he was a modest as well as an honest man, and he left the assembled reporters to draw their own conclusions. He was a little brusque with one man who asked why the police had allowed their quarry to slip so neatly away. Why had they not acted sooner?
The Chief Constable parried this by pointing out that valuable evidence had been found which would assist further investigation. The Commando had been flushed out of one base – they would find it more difficult to settle in another. And he added, for good measure, that the charges against them now included that of murder, since Gladstone, one of the victims of the mock hanging had died as a direct result of this experience.
‘I know that many people in this country have shown great sympathy for these so-called “Commandos”,’ he said sternly. ‘They admire their daring, the skilful way they have carried through their operations. Perhaps they see it as a sort of a joke, a rag. But make no mistake, gentlemen, it is a joke no longer. The police of this country do not treat kidnapping and murder as a laughing matter. We shall get these people and they will have to answer to the courts for their actions.’
He concluded with a tribute to Chief Superintendent Welwyn, who had played a key part in the investigations leading to the raid on Cresswold House. Welwyn, not to be outdone in modesty, gave full credit to P.C. Hayes, describing that young officer’s initiative as ‘being worthy of the highest traditions of the police force’.
It was very pleasant, and exciting for Hayes. When the formal proceedings broke up he was interviewed by some of the pressmen, and several photographers took his picture.
What a pity, he thought, as he tried to look suitably stern for the cameras, that Jeff Pilling isn’t here to write up the story for his paper.
*
5
‘We need a replacement for Onslow,’ said Benedict softly. He picked up the pistol and began to turn it in his hands.
‘No,’ said Barr, ‘oh, no.’
‘Someone Lydd doesn’t know about. Someone the General trusts.’
‘I said no.’
‘You owe us that.’
‘Christ!’ said Barr, ‘I owe you bloody nothing! Nothing!’
‘Then let’s say you owe Onslow.’
‘I didn’t set him up!’ said Barr. ‘He knew what he was doing. He went in with his eyes open, he knew what to expect if his cover was blown. He was a stool pigeon, and he would have turned us in without a second’s thought. All he got was the rate for the job – a bullet.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Benedict said calmly. ‘I thought you’d come here to avenge him, I thought that was the idea.’
He drew back his arm and tossed the pistol at the other man. Barr put a hand to his face in an instinctive movement of self-protection and fielded the gun neatly.
‘You’ve missed the point,’ said Barr. ‘It could have been me. If I’d taken your bloody job, I’d be where Onslow is now. I don’t like that, Harry, I don’t find it funny.’ He slipped the pistol into his pocket and stood up. ‘Where can I find Lydd? I’d rather like to talk to him.’
‘No,’ said Benedict, ‘no. You leave him to us. We’ll deal with Mr. Lydd.’
‘Not if I get to him first,’ Barr said. He moved to the door.
‘Tommy,’ said Benedict urgently, ‘leave this one alone. Lydd, the General, the lot. It’s too big, too rich for your blood. If you won’t help us, get out. Take your gear and go fishing. Don’t try and play a lone hand, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Thanks for the drink, Harry,’ said Barr amiably.
Down in the street the pavements seemed to be less crowded, although the little sandwich bar was busy with customers. The stout woman in the blue overall was still at her task, the knife moving mechanically across the slices of pale bread. Barr smiled to himself, wondering if she would ever stop, imagining her at the end of the day surrounded by mountains of sandwiches.
As he turned away, he saw a girl moving towards him, and he stopped in astonishment, his heart thudding. Iris! He took a half-step towards her, the name was on his lips, and she looked at him in surprised amusement.
‘Wrong lady,’ she said, and stepped neatly round him. A few paces further on, she glanced over her shoulder, still smiling, to see that he was still watching her. She bore a superficial resemblance to Iris, no more: she was a stranger, and he turned away, heavy with a sense of loss.
He glanced at his watch. It was still only 10.20, he had an hour and more to kill before joining the General at the Churchill Hotel. That was something he was still uncertain about. Maybe, as Benedict had said, it was too rich for his blood. Well, he had a little time yet. He decided to pay Noonan a call.
Looking down from the window, Benedict saw him cross the road, picking his way between the angry cars. Don’t get yourself killed, chum, he thought, don’t get yourself killed just yet.
He went to the telephone and called George Lydd. To his relief, Lydd was in his office and he was put through immediately.
‘I have to see you at once,’ he said.
‘What about?’
‘Something in which we have a mutual interest. It’s hot, very hot. Can you come to my office?’
‘Why not here?’
‘It’ll be easier at our place. I’ve stuff to show you.’
‘I’ve a departmental meeting in ten minutes. That will take the best part of an hour. I can be with you just before twelve.’
‘Fine,’ said Benedict. He smiled as he pressed down the bar of the telephone, cutting off the call. He waited for a moment, then lifted his hand and dialled another number.
A woman’s voice answered the call. ‘Conroy International,’ she said brightly. ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’
Benedict gave a code word and his name and her tone changed. ‘Yes, Mr. Benedict?’
‘Put me through to Special Duties Section, will you, Millie?’ he said.
Chapter Twelve
1
The boardroom was on the top floor of one of the city’s newest and most splendid buildings. From the windows it was possible to look down on the Stock Exchange, or to look across to the dome of St. Paul’s and, in the further distance, to Big Ben and Parliament. It was said that Lord Leggatt, on seeing the view for the first time, had remarked: ‘A perfect arrangement! The Stock Exchange, St. Paul’s, Parliament. We are on top of the city, not too far away from God, and we can still keep an eye on those damned politicians!’
In their first draft sketches the architects had suggested that the top floor should be laid out as a penthouse for the personal use of his Lordship, but Leggatt had calculated in an instant what this would cost per square metre of floor space, and rejected the idea. Apart from a modest two-room apartment at one corner, the area had been put to productive use as executive offices. He used the boardroom as his own office, working at the centre of the long, elegant, 18th century, mahogany and satinwood table, or from an equally beautiful rosewood writing-desk of the Carlton House type which was set at a right-angle to one of the windows. Leggatt had a passion for antique furniture and most of the offices of his top executives were furnished in similar, if somewhat less expensive style.
‘Buy modern stuff and its value drops every year. Buy good antiques – put them to productive use, don’t just look at them – and you’ve got an investment.’ It was a view he expressed often; he was very fond of talking about productive use.
He was sitting at the centre of the long table now, a tiny, spry, balding man with a brown, mischievous, gnome-like face and alert, slate-grey eyes. His feet only just touched the thickly carpeted floor. The General was at the head of the table to Leggatt’s left, and around them sat eleven other people, ten men and one woman. No-one had noticed that they were thirteen in number; they were too occupied with the business in hand to be concerned with superstitions or omens.
The discussion had been going on since nine o’clock and it was now well past ten-thirty. A buzzing sound came from the direction of Leggatt’s left wrist and with a little smile of apology to the others, he switched off the alarm on his watch. He believed firmly that no meeting, however important, should last longer than two hours; he considered that any decisions reached after this period tended to be hastily conceived and basically unsound.
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I think we have covered the business. We all have a good deal to do, so I suggest we go and get on with it. Are there any questions, anything on which you are not clear, anything you wish to ask the General?’
His eyes went round the table, moving from face to face. One by one, they responded with a little shake of the head.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I would simply like to stress one point, which is crucial to our whole campaign.’ He looked across at the two men sitting directly opposite. ‘This particularly concerns Ian and Allen, but of course, we are all involved. I have already given the necessary orders to the people running my papers, and I’ve had a discreet word with two or three key television people. Beginning with the press conference at noon, we must ensure maximum coverage for the General. Total, but total saturation, in all media. We haven’t much time. We ought to aim to get a quarter of a million people in Trafalgar Square on Sunday week to greet him – the biggest demonstration of modern times. In the next eight or nine days his name must become a household word. We’re already half-way there, he’s by no means an unknown quantity – and there’s plenty to build on. The soldier, the man of action, the patriot, the leader of men – that’s the picture we need to present.’
The General winced and moved uneasily in his chair.
‘I know, Hugh, I know,’ said Leggatt. ‘I know how you feel about the personality bit. But – with respect – you must look at it objectively. Thanks to you, we have the beginning – only the beginning, mark you – of a mass movement. We must draw that movement together behind a leader – and do so quickly or it will disintegrate as fast as it was built. And I’m afraid that means putting you under the spotlight.’
‘I’m worried about overkill,’ said the General. ‘If we go too far we could provoke the wrong reaction. The British tend to be suspicious of instant-heroes.’
‘They love ’em,’ said Leggatt, ‘believe me, they love ’em. And at the moment, they’re hungry for a big one. Present company always excepted, they’re fed to the teeth with the blotting-paper politicians at Westminster. There isn’t a real personality in the entire bunch, and they know it.’
The rippling chuckle that ran around the table died away into an uneasy silence before the cold gleam in the General’s eyes. Leggatt, reacting quickly, rose to his feet.
‘Perhaps you and I can have five minutes together, General. There are one or two points to talk over. Thank you, friends, and good luck. We’re only at the beginning, but at least, we know that the support is there. This last week has proved that.’ He pressed down on the table with the palms of his small, neat hands. ‘If we can mobilise it behind the General, then we must succeed. And succeed more quickly and more completely than any of us thought possible. Thank you again.’
‘Yes, thank you, friends,’ said the General.
As the others filed out, Leggatt said: ‘Please leave in the usual way. At intervals and by different exits. You will be notified of our next meeting.’
