The Mammoth Book of Alternate Histories

KEITH ROBERTS Weinachtsabend

The big car moved slowly, nosing its way along narrowing lanes. Here, beyond the little market town of Wilton, the snow lay thicker. Trees and bushes loomed in the headlights, coated with driven white. The tail of the Mercedes wagged slightly, steadied. Mainwaring heard the chauffeur swear under his breath. The link had been left alive.

Dials let into the seatback recorded the vehicle’s mechanical wellbeing; oil pressure, temperature, revs, k.p.h. Lights from the repeater glowed softly on his companion’s face. She moved, restlessly; he saw the swing of yellow hair. He turned slightly. She was wearing a neat, brief kilt, heavy boots, Her legs were excellent.

He clicked the dial lights off. He said, “Not much farther.”

He wondered if she was aware of the open link. He said, “First time down?”

She nodded in the dark. She said, “I was a bit overwhelmed.”

Wilton Great House sprawled across a hilltop five miles or more beyond the town. The car drove for some distance beside the wall that fringed the estate. The perimeter defences had been strengthened since Mainwaring’s last visit. Watch-towers reared at intervals; the wall itself had been topped by multiple strands of wire.

The lodge gates were commanded by two new stone pillboxes. The Merc edged between them, stopped. On the road from London, the snow had eased; now big flakes drifted again, lit by the headlights. Somewhere, orders were barked.

A man stepped forward, tapped at the window. Mainwaring buttoned it open. He saw a GFP armband, a hip holster with the flap tucked back. He said, “Good evening, Captain.”

“Guten Abend, mein Herr. Ihre Ausweis Karte?”

Cold air gusted against Mainwaring’s cheek. He passed across his identity card and security clearance. He said, “Richard Mainwaring. Die rechte Hand zu dem Gesanten. Fräulein Hunter, von meiner Abteilung.”

A torch flashed over the papers, dazzled into his eyes, moved to examine the girl. She sat stiffly, staring ahead. Beyond the Security officer Mainwaring made out two steel-helmeted troopers, automatics slung. In front of him, the wipers clicked steadily.

The GFP man stepped back. He said, “In einer Woche, Ihre Ausweis Karte ist ausgelaufen. Erneuen Sie Ihre Karte.”

Mainwaring said, “Vielen Dank, Herr Hauptmann. Frohe Weihnacht.”

The man saluted stiffly, unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt. A pause, and the gates swung back. The Merc creamed through. Mainwaring said, “Bastard.…”

She said, “Is it always like this?”

He said, “They’re tightening up all round.”

She pulled her coat round her shoulders. She said, “Frankly, I find it a bit scary.”

He said, “Just the Minister taking care of his guests.”

Wilton stood in open downland set with great trees. Hans negotiated a bend, carefully, drove beneath half-seen branches. The wind moaned, zipping round a quarterlight. It was as if the car butted into a black tunnel, full of swirling pale flakes. He thought he saw her shiver. He said, “Soon be there.”

The headlamps lit a rolling expanse of snow. Posts, buried nearly to their tops, marked the drive. Another bend, and the house showed ahead. The car lights swept across a facade of mullioned windows, crenellated towers. Hard for the uninitiated to guess, staring at the skilfully weathered stone, that the shell of the place was of reinforced concrete. The car swung right with a crunching of unseen gravel, and stopped. The ignition repeater glowed on the seatback.

Mainwaring said, “Thank you, Hans. Nice drive.”

Hans said, “My pleasure, sir.”

She flicked her hair free, picked up her handbag. He held the door for her. He said, “OK, Diane?”

She shrugged. She said, “Yes. I’m a bit silly sometimes.” She squeezed his hand, briefly. She said, “I’m glad you’ll be here. Somebody to rely on.”

Mainwaring lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Inside as well as out, Wilton was a triumph of art over nature. Here, in the Tudor wing where most of the guests were housed, walls and ceilings were of wavy plaster framed by heavy oak beams. He turned his head. The room was dominated by a fireplace of yellow Ham stone; on the overmantel, carved in bold relief, the hakenkreuz was flanked by the lion and eagle emblems of the Two Empires. A fire burned in the wrought-iron basket; the logs glowed cheerfully, casting wavering warm reflections across the ceiling. Beside the bed a bookshelf offered required reading; the Fuehrer’s official biography, Shirer’s Rise of the Third Reich, Cummings’ monumental Churchill: the Trial of Decadence. There were a nicely bound set of Buchan novels, some Kiplings, a Shakespeare, a complete Wilde. A side table carried a stack of current magazines; Connoisseur, The Field, Der Spiegel, Paris Match. There was a washstand, its rail hung with dark blue towels; in the corner of the room were the doors to the bathroom and wardrobe, in which a servant had already neatly disposed his clothes.

He stubbed his cigarette, lit another. He swung his legs off the bed, poured himself a whisky. From the grounds, faintly, came voices, snatches of laughter. He heard the crash of a pistol, the rattle of an automatic. He walked to the window, pushed the curtain aside. Snow was still falling, drifting silently from the black sky; but the firing pits beside the big house were brightly lit. He watched the figures move and bunch for a while, let the curtain fall. He sat by the fire, shoulders hunched, staring into the flames. He was remembering the trip through London; the flags hanging limp over Whitehall, slow, jerking movement of traffic, the light tanks drawn up outside St. James. The Kensington Road had been crowded, traffic edging and hooting; the vast frontage of Harrods looked grim and oriental against the louring sky. He frowned, remembering the call he had had before leaving the Ministry.

Kosowicz had been the name. From Time International; or so he had claimed. He’d refused twice to speak to him; but Kosowicz had been insistent. In the end, he’d asked his secretary to put him through.

Kosowicz had sounded very American. He said, “Mr. Mainwaring, I’d like to arrange a personal interview with your Minister.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I must also point out that this communication is extremely irregular.”

Kosowicz said, “What do I take that as, sir? A warning, or a threat?”

Mainwaring said carefully, “It was neither. I merely observed that proper channels of approach do exist.”

Kosowicz said, “Uh-huh. Mr. Mainwaring, what’s the truth behind this rumour that Action Groups are being moved into Moscow?”

Mainwaring said, “Deputy-Fuehrer Hess has already issued a statement on the situation. I can see that you’re supplied with a copy.”

The phone said, “I have it before me. Mr. Mainwaring, what are you people trying to set up? Another Warsaw?”

Mainwaring said, “I’m afraid I can’t comment further, Mr. Kosowicz. The Deputy-Fuehrer deplored the necessity of force. The Einsatzegruppen have been alerted; at this time, that is all. They will be used if necessary to disperse militants. As of this moment, the need has not arisen.”

Kosowicz shifted his ground. “You mentioned the Deputy-Fuehrer, sir. I hear there was another bomb attempt two nights ago, can you comment on this?”

Mainwaring tightened his knuckles on the handset. He said, “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. We know nothing of any such incident.”

The phone was silent for a moment. Then it said, “Can I take your denial as official?”

Mainwaring said, “This is not an official conversation. I’m not empowered to issue statements in any respect.”

The phone said, “Yeah, channels do exist. Mr. Mainwaring, thanks for your time.”

Mainwaring said, “Goodbye.” He put the handset down, sat staring at it. After a while he lit a cigarette.

Outside the windows of the Ministry the snow still fell, a dark whirl and dance against the sky. His tea, when he came to drink it, was half cold.

The fire crackled and shifted. He poured himself another whisky, sat back. Before leaving for Wilton, he’d lunched with Winsby-Walker from Productivity. Winsby-Walker made it his business to know everything; but he had known nothing of a correspondent called Kosowicz. He thought, ‘I should have checked with Security.’ But then Security would have checked with him.

He sat up, looked at his watch. The noise from the range had diminished. He turned his mind with a deliberate effort into another channel. The new thoughts brought no more comfort. Last Christmas he had spent with his mother; now, that couldn’t happen again. He remembered other Christmases, back across the years. Once, to the child unknowing, they had been gay affairs of crackers and toys. He remembered the scent and texture of pine branches, closeness of candlelight; and books read by torchlight under the sheets, the hard angles of the filled pillowslip, heavy at the foot of the bed. Then, he had been complete; only later, slowly, had come the knowledge of failure. And with it, loneliness. He thought, ‘She wanted to see me settled. It didn’t seem much to ask.’

The Scotch was making him maudlin. He drained the glass, walked through to the bathroom. He stripped, and showered. Towelling himself, he thought, ‘Richard Mainwaring, Personal Assistant to the British Minister of Liaison.’ Aloud he said, “One must remember the compensations.”

He dressed, lathered his face and began to shave. He thought, ‘Thirty-five is the exact middle of one’s life.’ He was remembering another time with the girl Diane when just for a little while some magic had interposed. Now, the affair was never mentioned between them. Because of James. Always, of course, there is a James.

He towelled his face, applied aftershave. Despite himself, his mind had drifted back to the phone call. One fact was certain; there had been a major security spillage. Somebody somewhere had supplied Kosowicz with closely-guarded information. That same someone, presumably, had supplied a list of ex-directory lines. He frowned, grappling with the problem. One country, and one only, opposed the Two Empires with gigantic, latent strength. To that country had shifted the focus of Semitic nationalism. And Kosowicz had been an American.

He thought, ‘Freedom, schmeedom. Democracy is Jew-shaped.’ He frowned again, fingering his face. It didn’t alter the salient fact. The tipoff had come from the Freedom Front; and he had been contacted, however obliquely. Now, he had become an accessory; the thought had been nagging at the back of his brain all day.

He wondered what they could want of him. There was a rumour — a nasty rumour — that you never found out. Not till the end, till you’d done whatever was required from you. They were untiring, deadly and subtle. He hadn’t run squalling to Security at the first hint of danger; but that would have been allowed for. Every turn and twist would have been allowed for.

Every squirm, on the hook.

He grunted, angry with himself. Fear was half their strength. He buttoned his shirt remembering the guards at the gates, the wire and pillboxes. Here, of all places, nothing could reach him. For a few days, he could forget the whole affair. He said aloud, “Anyway, I don’t even matter. I’m not important.” The thought cheered him, nearly.

He clicked the light off, walked through to his room, closed the door behind him. He crossed to the bed and stood quite still, staring at the bookshelf. Between Shirer and the Churchill tome there rested a third slim volume. He reached to touch the spine, delicately; read the author’s name, Geissler, and the title. Toward Humanity. Below the title, like a topless Cross of Lorraine, were the twin linked F’s of the Freedom Front. Ten minutes ago, the book hadn’t been there. He walked to the door. The corridor beyond was deserted. From somewhere in the house, faintly, came music; Till Eulenspiegel. There were no nearer sounds. He closed the door again, locked it. Turned back and saw the wardrobe stood slightly ajar.

His case still lay on the side table. He crossed to it, took out the Luger. The feel of the heavy pistol was comforting. He pushed the clip home, thumbed the safety forward, chambered a round. The breach closed with a hard snap. He walked to the wardrobe, shoved the door wide with his foot. Nothing there.

He let his held breath escape with a little hiss. He pressed the clip release, ejected the cartridge, laid the gun on the bed. He stood again looking at the shelf. He thought, ‘I must have been mistaken.’

He took the book down, carefully. Geissler had been banned since publication in every Province of the Two Empires; Mainwaring himself had never even seen a copy. He squatted on the edge of the bed, opened the thing at random.

“The doctrine of Aryan co-ancestry, seized on so eagerly by the English middle classes, had the superficial reasonableness of most theories ultimately traceable to Rosenberg. Churchill’s answer, in one sense, had already been made; but Chamberlain, and the country, turned to Hess…

“The Cologne settlement, though seeming to offer hope of security to Jews already domiciled in Britain, in fact paved the way for campaigns of intimidation and extortion similar to those already undertaken in history, notably by King John. The comparison is not unapt; for the English bourgeoisie, anxious to construct a rationale, discovered many unassailable precedents. A true Sign of the Times, almost certainly, was the resurgence of interest in the novels of Sir Walter Scott. By 1942 the lesson had been learned on both sides; and the Star of David was a common sight on the streets of most British cities.”

The wind rose momentarily in a long wail, shaking the window casement. Mainwaring glanced up, turned his attention back to the book. He leafed through several pages.

“In 1940, her Expeditionary Force shattered, her allies quiescent or defeated, the island truly stood alone. Her proletariat, bedevilled by bad leadership, weakened by a gigantic depression, was effectively without a voice. Her aristocracy, like their Junker counterparts, embraced coldly what could no longer be ignored; while after the Whitehall Putsch the Cabinet was reduced to the status of an Executive Council…”

The knock at the door made him start, guiltily. He pushed the book away. He said, “Who’s that?”

She said, “Me. Richard, aren’t you ready?”

He said, “Just a minute.” He stared at the book, then placed it back on the shelf. He thought, ‘That at least wouldn’t be expected.’ He slipped the Luger into his case and closed it. Then he went to the door.

She was wearing a lacy black dress. Her shoulders were bare; her hair, worn loose, had been brushed till it gleamed. He stared at her a moment, stupidly. Then he said, “Please come in.”

She said, “I was starting to wonder… Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

She said, “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

He smiled. He said, “I expect I was taken aback. Those Aryan good looks.”

She grinned at him. She said, “I’m half Irish, half English, half Scandinavian. If you have to know.”

“That doesn’t add up.”

She said, “Neither do I, most of the time.”

“Drink?”

“Just a little one. We shall be late.”

He said, “It’s not very formal tonight.” He turned away, fiddling with his tie.

She sipped her drink, pointed her foot, scuffed her toe on the carpet. She said, “I expect you’ve been to a lot of house-parties.”

He said, “One or two.”

She said, “Richard, are they…”

“Are they what?”

She said, “I don’t know. You can’t help hearing things.”

He said, “You’ll be all right. One’s very much like the next.”

She said, “Are you honestly OK?”

“Sure.”

She said, “You’re all thumbs. Here, let me.” She reached up, knotted deftly. Her eyes searched his face for a moment, moving in little shifts and changes of direction. She said, “There. I think you just need looking after.”

He said carefully, “How’s James?”

She stared a moment longer. She said, “I don’t know. He’s in Nairobi. I haven’t seen him for months.”

He said, “I am a bit nervous, actually.”

“Why?”

He said, “Escorting a rather lovely blonde.”

She tossed her head, and laughed. She said, “You need a drink as well then.”

He poured whisky, said, “Cheers.” The book, now, seemed to be burning into his shoulderblades.

She said, “As a matter of fact you’re looking rather fetching yourself.”

He thought. ‘This is the night when all things come together. There should be a word for it.’ Then he remembered about Till Eulenspiegel.

She said, “We’d honestly better go down.”

Lights gleamed in the Great Hall, reflecting from polished boards, dark linenfold panelling. At the nearer end of the chamber a huge fire burned. Beneath the minstrels’ gallery long tables had been set. Informal or not, they shone with glass and silverware. Candles glowed amid wreaths of dark evergreen; beside each place was a rolled crimson napkin.

In the middle of the Hall, its tip brushing the coffered ceiling, stood a Christmas tree. Its branches were hung with apples, baskets of sweets, red paper roses; at its base were piled gifts in gay-striped wrappers. Round the tree folk stood in groups, chatting and laughing. Richard saw Müller the Defence Minister, with a striking-looking blonde he took to be his wife; beside them was a tall, monocled man who was something or other in Security. There was a group of GSP officers in their dark, neat uniforms, beyond them half a dozen Liaison people. He saw Hans the chauffeur standing head bent, nodding intently, smiling at some remark; and thought as he had thought before how he looked like a big, handsome ox.

Diane had paused in the doorway, and linked her arm through his. But the Minister had already seen them. He came weaving through the crowd, a glass in his hand. He was wearing tight black trews, a dark blue roll-neck shirt. He looked happy and relaxed. He said, “Richard. And my dear Miss Hunter. We’d nearly given you up for lost. After all, Hans Trapp is about. Now, some drinks. And come, do come; please join my friends. Over here, where it is warm.”

She said, “Who’s Hans Trapp?”

Mainwaring said, “You’ll find out in a bit.”

A little later the Minister said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we may be seated.”

The meal was superb, the wine abundant. By the time the brandy was served Richard found himself talking more easily, and the Geissler copy pushed nearly to the back of his mind. The traditional toasts — King and Fuehrer, the Provinces, the Two Empires — were drunk; then the Minister clapped his hands for quiet. “My friends,” he said, “tonight, this special night when we can all mix so freely, is Weihnachtabend. It means, I suppose, many things to the many of us here. But let us remember, first and foremost, that this is the night of the children. Your children, who have come with you to share part at least of this very special Christmas.”

He paused. “Already,” he said, “they have been called from their crèche; soon, they will be with us. Let me show them to you.” He nodded; at the gesture servants wheeled forward a heavy, ornate box. A drape was twitched aside, revealing the grey surface of a big tv screen. Simultaneously, the lamps that lit the Hall began to dim. Diane turned to Mainwaring, frowning; he touched her hand, gently, and shook his head.

Save for the firelight, the Hall was now nearly dark. The candles guttered in their wreaths, flames stirring in some draught; in the hush, the droning of the wind round the great facade of the place was once more audible. The lights would be out, now, all over the house.

“For some of you,” said the Minister, “this is your first visit here. For you, I will explain.

“On Weihnachtabend, all ghosts and goblins walk. The demon Hans Trapp is abroad; his face is black and terrible, his clothing the skins of bears. Against him comes the Light-bringer, the Spirit of Christmas. Some call her Lucia Queen, some Das Christkind. See her now.”

The screen lit up.

She moved slowly, like a sleepwalker. She was slender, and robed in white. Her ashen hair tumbled round her shoulders; above her head glowed a diadem of burning tapers. Behind her trod the Star Boys with their wands and tinsel robes; behind again came a little group of children. They ranged in age from eight-and nine-year-olds to toddlers. They gripped each other’s hands, apprehensively, setting feet in line like cats, darting terrified glances at the shadows to either side.

“They lie in darkness, waiting,” said the Minister softly. “Their nurses have left them. If they cry out, there is none to hear. So they do not cry out. And one by one, she has called them. They see her light pass beneath the door; and they must rise and follow. Here, where we sit, is warmth. Here is safety. Their gifts are waiting; to reach them, they must run the gauntlet of the dark.”

The camera angle changed. Now they were watching the procession from above. The Lucia Queen stepped steadily; the shadows she cast leaped and flickered on panelled walls.

“They are in the Long Gallery now,” said the Minister. “Almost directly above us. They must not falter, they must not look back. Somewhere, Hans Trapp is hiding. From Hans, only Das Christkind can protect them. See how close they bunch behind her light!”

A howling began, like the crying of a wolf. In part it seemed to come from the screen, in part to echo through the Hall itself. The Christkind turned, raising her arms; the howling split into a many-voiced cadence, died to a mutter. In its place came a distant huge thudding, like the beating of a drum.

Diane said abruptly, “I don’t find this particularly funny.”

Mainwaring said, “It isn’t suppose to be. Shh.”

The Minister said evenly, “The Aryan child must know, from earliest years, the darkness that surrounds him. He must learn to fear, and to overcome that fear. He must learn to be strong. The Two Empires were not built by weakness; weakness will not sustain them. There is no place for it. This in part your children already know. The house is big, and dark; but they will win through to the light. They fight as the Empires once fought. For their birthright.”

The shot changed again, showed a wide, sweeping staircase. The head of the little procession appeared, began to descend. “Now, where is our friend Hans?” said the Minister. “Ah…”

Her grip tightened convulsively on Mainwaring’s arm. A black-smeared face loomed at the screen. The bogy snarled, clawing at the camera; then turned, loped swiftly toward the staircase. The children shrieked, and bunched; instantly the air was wild with din. Grotesque figures capered and leaped; hands grabbed, clutching. The column was buffeted and swirled; Mainwaring saw a child bowled completely over. The screaming reached a high pitch of terror; and the Christkind turned, arms once more raised. The goblins and were-things backed away, growling, into shadow; the slow march was resumed.

The Minister said, “They are nearly here. And they are good children, worthy of their race. Prepare the tree.”

Servants ran forward with tapers to light the many candles. The tree sprang from gloom, glinting, black-green; and Mainwaring thought for the first time what a dark thing it was, although it blazed with light.

The big doors at the end of the Hall were flung back; and the children came tumbling through. Tearstained and sobbing they were, some bruised; but all, before they ran to the tree, stopped, made obeisance to the strange creature who had brought them through the dark. Then the crown was lifted, the tapers extinguished; and Lucia Queen became a child like the rest, a slim, barefooted girl in a gauzy white dress.

The Minister rose, laughing. “Now,” he said, “music, and some more wine. Hans Trapp is dead. My friends, one and all, and children: Frohe weihnacht!”

Diane said, “Excuse me a moment.”

Mainwaring turned. He said, “Are you all right?”

She said, “I’m just going to get rid of a certain taste.”

He watched her go, concernedly; and the Minister had his arm, was talking. “Excellent, Richard,” he said. “It has gone excellently so far, don’t you think?”

Richard said, “Excellently, sir.”

“Good, good. Eh, Heidi, Erna… and Frederick, is it Frederick? What have you got there? Oh, very fine…” He steered Mainwaring away, still with his fingers tucked beneath his elbow. Squeals of joy sounded; somebody had discovered a sled, tucked away behind the tree. The Minister said, “Look at them; how happy they are now. I would like children, Richard. Children of my own. Sometimes I think I have given too much… Still, the opportunity remains. I am younger than you, do you realize that? This is the Age of Youth.”

Mainwaring said, “I wish the Minister every happiness.”

“Richard, Richard, you must learn not to be so very correct at all times. Unbend a little, you are too aware of dignity. You are my friend. I trust you; above all others, I trust you. Do you realize this?”

Richard said, “Thank you, sir. I do.”

The Minister seemed bubbling over with some inner pleasure. He said, “Richard, come with me, Just for a moment. I have prepared a special gift for you. I won’t keep you from the party very long.”

Mainwaring followed, drawn as ever by the curious dynamism of the man. The Minister ducked through an arched doorway, turned right and left, descended a narrow flight of stairs. At the bottom the way was barred by a door of plain grey steel. The Minister pressed his palm flat to a sensor plate; a click, the whine of some mechanism, and the door swung inward. Beyond was a further flight of concrete steps, lit by a single lamp in a heavy well-glass. Chilly air blew upward. Mainwaring realized, with something approaching a shock, that they had entered part of the bunker system that honeycombed the ground beneath Wilton.

The Minister hurried ahead of him, palmed a further door. He said, “Toys, Richard. All toys. But they amuse me.” Then, catching sight of Mainwaring’s face, “Come, man, come! You are more nervous than the children, frightened of poor old Hans!”

The door gave onto a darkened space. There was a heavy, sweetish smell that Mainwaring, for a whirling moment, couldn’t place. His companion propelled him forward, gently. He resisted, pressing back; and the Minister’s arm shot by him. A click, and the place was flooded with light. He saw a wide, low area, also concrete-built. To one side, already polished and gleaming, stood the Mercedes, next it the Minister’s private Porsche. There were a couple of Volkswagens, a Ford Executive; and in the farthest corner, a vision in glinting white. A Lamborghini. They had emerged in the garage underneath the house.

The Minister said, “My private short cut,” He walked forward to the Lamborghini, stood running his fingers across the low, broad bonnet. He said, “Look at her, Richard. Here, sit in. Isn’t she a beauty? Isn’t she fine?”

Mainwaring said, “She certainly is.”

“You like her?”

Mainwaring smiled. He said, “Very much, sir. Who wouldn’t?”

The Minister said, “Good, I’m so pleased. Richard, I’m upgrading you. She’s yours. Enjoy her.”

Mainwaring stared.

The Minister said, “Here, man. Don’t look like that, like a fish. Here, see. Logbook, your keys. All entered up, finished.” He gripped Mainwaring’s shoulders, swung him round laughing. He said, “You’ve worked well for me. The Two Empires don’t forget. Their good friends, their servants.”

Mainwaring said, “I’m deeply honoured, sir.”

“Don’t be honoured. You’re still being formal, Richard…”

“Sir?”

The Minister said, “Stay by me. Stay by me. Up there… they don’t understand. But we understand… eh? These are difficult times. We must be together, always together. Kingdom, and Reich. Apart… we could be destroyed.” He turned away, placed clenched hands on the roof of the car. He said, “Here, all this. Jewry, the Americans… Capitalism. They must stay afraid. Nobody fears an Empire divided. It would fall!”

Mainwaring said, “I’ll do my best, sir. We all will.”

The Minister said, “I know, I know. But Richard, this afternoon. I was playing with swords. Silly little swords.”

Mainwaring thought, ‘I know how he keeps me. I can see the mechanism. But I mustn’t imagine I know the entire truth.’

The Minister turned back, as if in pain. He said, “Strength is Right. It has to be. But Hess…”

Mainwaring said slowly, “We’ve tried before, sir…”

The Minister slammed his fist onto the metal. He said, “Richard, don’t you see? It wasn’t us. Not this time. It was his own people. Baumann, von Thaden… I can’t tell. He’s an old man, he doesn’t matter any more. It’s an idea they want to kill, Hess is an idea. Do you understand? It’s Lebensraum. Again… Half the world isn’t enough.”

He straightened. He said, “The worm, in the apple. It gnaws, gnaws… But we are Liaison. We matter, so much. Richard, be my eyes. Be my ears.”

Mainwaring stayed silent, thinking about the book in his room; and the Minister once more took his arm. He said, “The shadows, Richard. They were never closer. Well might we teach our children to fear the dark. But… not in our time. Eh? Not for us. There is life, and hope. So much we can do…”

Mainwaring thought, ‘Maybe it’s the wine I drank. I’m being pressed too hard.’ A dull, queer mood, almost of indifference, had fallen on him. He followed his Minister without complaint, back through the bunker complex, up to where the great fire burned low and the tapers on the tree. He heard the singing mixed with the wind-voice, watched the children rock heavy-eyed, carolling sleep. The house seemed winding down, to rest; and she had gone of course. He sat in a corner and drank wine and brooded, watched the Minister move from group to group until he too was gone, the Hall nearly empty and the servants clearing away.

He found his own self, his inner self, dozing at last as it dozed at each day’s end. Tiredness, as ever, had come like a benison. He rose carefully, walked to the door. He thought, ‘I shan’t be missed here.’ Shutters closed, in his head.

He found his key, unlocked his room. He thought, ‘Now she will be waiting. Like all the letters that never came, the phones that never rang.’ He opened the door.

She said, “What kept you?”

He closed the door behind him, quietly. The fire crackled in the little room, the curtains were drawn against the night. She sat by the hearth, barefooted, still in her party dress. Beside her on the carpet were glasses, an ashtray with half-smoked stubs. One lamp was burning; in the warm light her eyes were huge and dark.

He looked across to the bookshelf. The Geissler stood where he had left it. He said, “How did you get in?”

She chuckled. She said, “There was a spare key on the back of the door. Didn’t you see me steal it?”

He walked toward her, stood looking down. He thought, ‘Adding another fragment to the puzzle. Too much, too complicated.’

She said, “Are you angry?”

He said, “No.”

She patted the floor. She said gently, “Please, Richard. Don’t be cross.”

He sat, slowly, watching her.

She said, “Drink?” He didn’t answer. She poured one anyway. She said, “What were you doing all this time? I thought you’d be up hours ago.”

He said, “I was talking to the Minister.”

She traced a pattern on the rug with her forefinger. Her hair fell forward, golden and heavy, baring the nape of her neck. She said, “I’m sorry about earlier on. I was stupid. I think I was a bit scared too.”

He drank slowly. He felt like a run-down machine. Hell to have to start thinking again at this time of night. He said, “What were you doing?”

She watched up at him. Her eyes were candid. She said, “Sitting here. Listening to the wind.”

He said, “That couldn’t have been much fun.”

She shook her head, slowly, eyes fixed on his face. She said softly, “You don’t know me at all.”

He was quiet again. She said, “You don’t believe in me, do you?”

He thought, ‘You need understanding. You’re different from the rest; and I’m selling myself short.’ Aloud he said, “No.”

She put the glass down, smiled, took his glass away. She hotched toward him across the rug, slid her arm round his neck. She said, “I was thinking about you. Making my mind up.” She kissed him. He felt her tongue pushing, opened his lips. She said, “Mmm …” She sat back a little, smiling. She said, “Do you mind?”

“No.”

She pressed a strand of hair across her mouth, parted her teeth, kissed again. He felt himself react, involuntarily; and felt her touch and squeeze.

She said. “This is a silly dress. It gets in the way.” She reached behind her. The fabric parted; she pushed down, to the waist. She said, “Now it’s like last time.”

He said slowly, “Nothing’s ever like last time.”

She rolled across his lap, lay watching up. She whispered, “I’ve put the clock back.”

Later in the dream she said, “I was so silly.”

“What do you mean?”

She said, “I was shy. That was all. You weren’t really supposed to go away.”

He said, “What about James?”

“He’s got somebody else. I didn’t know what I was missing.”

He let his hand stray over her; and present and immediate past became confused so that as he held her he still saw her kneeling, firelight dancing on her body. He reached for her and she was ready again; she fought, chuckling, taking it bareback, staying all the way.

Much later he said, “The Minister gave me a Lamborghini.”

She rolled onto her belly, lay chin in hands watching under a tangle of hair. She said, “And now you’ve got yourself a blonde. What are you going to do with us?”

He said, “None of it’s real.”

She said, “Oh …” She punched him. She said, “Richard, you make me cross. It’s happened, you idiot. That’s all. It happens to everybody.” She scratched again with a finger on the carpet. She said, “I hope you’ve made me pregnant. Then you’d have to marry me.”

He narrowed his eyes; and the wine began again, singing in his head.

She nuzzled him. She said, “You asked me once. Say it again.”

“I don’t remember.”

She said, “Richard, please…” So he said, “Diane, will you marry me?” And she said, “Yes, yes, yes,” then afterwards awareness came and though it wasn’t possible he took her again and that time was finest of all, tight and sweet as honey. He’d fetched pillows from the bed and the counterpane, they curled close and he found himself talking, talking, how it wasn’t the sex, it was shopping in Marlborough and having tea and seeing the sun set from White Horse Hill and being together, together; then she pressed fingers to his mouth and he fell with her in sleep past cold and loneliness and fear, past deserts and unlit places, down maybe to where spires reared gold and tree leaves moved and dazzled and white cars sang on roads and suns burned inwardly, lighting new worlds.

He woke, and the fire was low. He sat up, dazed. She was watching him. He stroked her hair awhile, smiling; then she pushed away. She said, “Richard, I have to go now.”

“Not yet.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

He said, “It doesn’t matter.”

She said, “It does. He mustn’t know.”

“Who?”

She said, “You know who. You know why I was asked here.”

He said, “He’s not like that. Honestly.”

She shivered. She said, “Richard, please. Don’t get me in trouble.” She smiled. She said, “It’s only till tomorrow. Only a little while.”

He stood, awkwardly, and held her, pressing her warmth close. Shoeless, she was tiny; her shoulder fitted beneath his armpit.

Halfway through dressing she stopped and laughed, leaned a hand against the wall. She said, “I’m all woozy.”

Later he said, “I’ll see you to your room.”

She said, “No, please. I’m all right.” She was holding her handbag, and her hair was combed. She looked, again, as if she had been to a party.

At the door she turned. She said, “I love you, Richard. Truly.” She kissed again, quickly; and was gone.

He closed the door, dropped the latch. He stood a while looking round the room. In the fire a burned-through log broke with a snap, sending up a little whirl of sparks. He walked to the washstand, bathed his face and hands. He shook the counterpane out on the bed, rearranged the pillows. Her scent still clung to him; he remembered how she had felt, and what she had said.

He crossed to the window, pushed it ajar. Outside, the snow lay in deep swaths and drifts. Starlight gleamed from it, ghost-white; and the whole great house was mute. He stood feeling the chill move against his skin; and in all the silence, a voice drifted far-off and clear. It came maybe from the guardhouses, full of distance and peace.

“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,

“alles schlafte, einsam wacht…”

He walked to the bed, pulled back the covers. The sheets were crisp and spotless, fresh-smelling. He smiled, and turned off the lamp.

“Nur das traute, hoc heilige Paar.

“Holder Knabe im lochigen Haar …”

In the wall of the room, an inch behind the plasterwork, a complex little machine hummed. A spool of delicate golden wire shook slightly; but the creak of the opening window had been the last thing to interest the recorder, the singing alone couldn’t activate its relays. A micro-switch tripped, in-audibly; valve filaments faded, and died. Mainwaring lay back in the last of the firelight, and closed his eyes.

“Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh,

“Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh …”

2.

Beyond drawn curtains, brightness flicks on.

The sky is a hard, clear blue; icy, full of sunlight. The light dazzles back from the brilliant land. Far things — copses, hills, solitary trees — stand sharp-etched. Roofs and eaves carry hummocks of whiteness, twigs a three-inch crest. In the stillness, here and there, the snow cracks and falls, powdering.

The shadows of the raiders jerk and undulate. The quiet is interrupted. Hooves ring on swept courtyards or stamp muffled, churning the snow. It seems the air itself has been rendered crystalline by cold; through it the voices break and shatter, brittle as glass.

“Guten Morgen, Hans…”

“Verflucht kalt!”

“Der Hundenmeister sagt, sehr Gefdhrlich!”

“Macht nichts! Wir erwischen es bevor dem Wald!”

A rider plunges beneath an arch. The horse snorts and curvets.

“Ich wette dierfünfzig amerikanische Dollar!”

“Einverstanden! Heute, habe ich Glück!”

The noise, the jangling and stamping, rings back on itself. Cheeks flush, perception is heightened; for more than one of the riders, the early courtyard reels. Beside the house door trestles have been set up. A great bowl is carried, steaming. The cups are raised, the toasts given; the responses ring again, crashing.

“The Two Empires..!”

“The Hunt.!”

Now, time is like a tight-wound spring. The dogs plunge forward, six to a handler, leashes straining, choke links creaking and snapping. Behind them jostle the riders. The bobbing scarlet coats splash across the snow. In the house drive, an officer salutes; another strikes gloved palms together, nods. The gates whine open.

And across the country for miles around doors slam, bolts are shot, shutters closed, children scurried indoors. Village streets, muffled with snow, wait dumbly. Somewhere a dog barks, is silenced. The houses squat sullen, blind-eyed. The word has gone out, faster than horses could gallop. Today the Hunt will run; on snow.

The riders fan out, across a speckled waste of fields. A check, a questing; and the horns begin to yelp. Ahead the dogs bound and leap, black spots against whiteness. The horns cry again; but these hounds run mute. The riders sweep forward, onto the line.

Now, for the hunters, time and vision are fragmented. Twigs and snow merge in a racing blur; and tree-boles, ditches, gates. The tide reaches a crest of land, pours down the opposing slope. Hedges rear, mantled with white; and muffled thunder is interrupted by sailing silence, the smash and crackle of landing. The View sounds, harsh and high; and frenzy, and the racing blood, discharge intelligence. A horse goes down, in a gigantic flailing; another rolls, crushing its rider into the snow. A mount runs riderless. The Hunt, destroying, destroys itself unaware.

There are cottages, a paling fence. The fence goes over, unnoticed. A chicken house erupts in a cloud of flung crystals; birds run squawking, under the hooves. Caps are lost, flung away; hair flows wild. Whips flail, spurs rake streaming flanks; and the woods are close. Twigs lash, and branches; snow falls, thudding. The crackling, now, is all around.

At the end, it is always the same. The handlers close in, yodelling, waist-high in trampled brush; the riders force close and closer, mounts sidling and shaking; and silence falls. Only the quarry, reddened, flops and twists; the thin high noise it makes is the noise of anything in pain.

Now, if he chooses, the Jagdmeister may end the suffering. The crash of the pistol rings hollow; and birds erupt, high from frozen twigs, wheel with the echoes and cry. The pistol fires again; and the quarry lies still. In time, the shaking stops; and a dog creeps forward, begins to lick.

Now a slow movement begins; a spreading out, away from the place. There are mutterings, a laugh that chokes to silence. The fever passes. Somebody begins to shiver; and a girl, blood glittering on cheek and neck, puts a glove to her forehead and moans. The Need has come and gone; for a little while, the Two Empires have purged themselves.

The riders straggle back on tired mounts, shamble in through the gates. As the last enters a closed black van starts up, drives away. In an hour, quietly, it returns; and the gates swing shut behind it.

Surfacing from deepest sleep was like rising, slowly, through a warm sea. For a time, as Mainwaring lay eyes closed, memory and awareness were confused so that she was with him and the room a recollected, childhood place. He rubbed his face, yawned, shook his head; and the knocking that had roused him came again. He said, “Yes?”

The voice said, “Last breakfasts in fifteen minutes, sir.”

He called, “Thank you,” heard the footsteps pad away.

He pushed himself up, groped on the side table for his watch, held it close to his eyes. It read ten forty-five.

He swung the bedclothes back, felt air tingle on his skin. She had been with him, certainly, in the dawn; his body remembered the succubus, with nearly painful strength. He looked down smiling, walked to the bathroom. He showered, towelled himself, shaved and dressed. He closed his door and locked it, walked to the breakfast room. A few couples still sat over their coffee; he smiled a good morning, took a window seat. Beyond the double panes the snow piled thickly; its reflection lit the room with a white, inverted brilliance. He ate slowly, hearing distant shouts. On the long slope behind the house, groups of children pelted each other vigorously. Once a toboggan came into sight, vanished behind a rising swell of ground.

He had hoped he might see her, but she didn’t come. He drank coffee, smoked a cigarette. He walked to the television lounge. The big colour screen showed a children’s party taking place in a Berlin hospital. He watched for a while. The door behind him clicked a couple of times, but it wasn’t Diane.

There was a second guests’ lounge, not usually much frequented at this time of the year; and a reading room and library. He wandered through them, but there was no sign of her. It occurred to him she might not yet be up; at Wilton, there were few hard-and-fast rules for Christmas Day. He thought, ‘I should have checked her room number.’ He wasn’t even sure in which of the guest wings she had been placed.

The house was quiet; it seemed most of the visitors had taken to their rooms. He wondered if she could have ridden with the Hunt; he’d heard it vaguely, leaving and returning. He doubted if the affair would have held much appeal.

He strolled back to the tv lounge, watched for an hour or more. By lunchtime he was feeling vaguely piqued; and sensing too the rising of a curious unease. He went back to his room, wondering if by any chance she had gone there; but the miracle was not repeated. The room was empty.

The fire was burning, and the bed had been remade. He had forgotten the servants’ pass keys. The Geissler copy still stood on the shelf. He took it down, stood weighing it in his hand and frowning. It was, in a sense, madness to leave it there.

He shrugged, put the thing back. He thought, ‘So who reads bookshelves anyway?’ The plot, if plot there had been, seemed absurd now in the clearer light of day. He stepped into the corridor, closed the door and locked it behind him. He tried as far as possible to put the book from his mind. It represented a problem; and problems, as yet, he wasn’t prepared to cope with. Too much else was going on in his brain.

He lunched alone, now with a very definite pang; the process was disquietingly like that of other years. Once he thought he caught sight of her in the corridor. His heart thumped; but it was the other blonde, Müller’s wife. The gestures, the fall of the hair, were similar; but this woman was taller.

He let himself drift into a reverie. Images of her, it seemed, were engraved on his mind; each to be selected now, studied, placed lovingly aside. He saw the firelit texture of her hair and skin, her lashes brushing her cheek as she lay in his arms and slept. Other memories, sharper, more immediate still, throbbed like little shocks in the mind. She tossed her head, smiling; her hair swung, touched the point of a breast.

He pushed his cup away, rose. At fifteen hundred, patriotism required her presence in the tv lounge. As it required the presence of every other guest. Then, if not before, he would see her. He reflected, wryly, that he had waited half a lifetime for her; a little longer now would do no harm.

He took to prowling the house again; the Great Hall, the Long Gallery where the Christkind had walked. Below the windows that lined it was a snow-covered roof. The tart, reflected light struck upward, robbing the place of mystery. In the Great Hall, they had already removed the tree. He watched household staff hanging draperies, carrying in stacks cf gilded cane chairs. On the minstrels’ gallery a pile of odd-shaped boxes proclaimed that the orchestra had arrived.

At fourteen hundred hours he walked back to the tv lounge. A quick glance assured him she wasn’t there. The bar was open; Hans, looking as big and suave as ever, had been pressed into service to minister to the guests. He smiled at Mainwaring and said, “Good afternoon, sir.” Mainwaring asked for a lager beer, took the glass to a corner seat. From here he could watch both the tv screen and the door.

The screen was showing the world-wide linkup that had become hallowed Christmas afternoon fare within the Two Empires. He saw, without particular interest, greetings flashed from the Leningrad and Moscow garrisons, a lightship, an Arctic weather station, a Mission in German East Africa. At fifteen hundred, the Fuehrer was due to speak; this year, for the first time, Ziegler was preceding Edward VIII.

The room filled, slowly. She didn’t come. Mainwaring finished the lager, walked to the bar, asked for another and a packet of cigarettes. The unease was sharpening no w into something very like alarm. He thought for the first time that she might have been taken ill.

The time signal flashed, followed by the drumroll of the German anthem. He rose with the rest, stood stiffly till it had finished. The screen cleared, showed the familiar room in the Chancellery; the dark, high panels, the crimson drapes, the big hakenkreuz emblem over the desk. The Fuehrer, as ever, spoke impeccably; but Mainwaring thought with a fragment of his mind how old he had begun to look.

The speech ended. He realized he hadn’t heard a word that was said.

The drums crashed again. The King said, “Once more, at Christmas, it is my…duty and pleasure… to speak to you.”

Something seemed to burst inside Mainwaring’s head. He rose, walked quickly to the bar. He said, “Hans, have you seen Miss Hunter?”

The other jerked round. He said, “Sir, shh… please…”

“Have you seen her?”

Hans stared at the screen, and back to Mainwaring. The King was saying, “There have been… troubles, and difficulties. More perhaps lie ahead. But with… God’s help, they will be overcome.”

The chauffeur licked his mouth. He said, “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Which was her room?”

The big man looked like something trapped. He said, “Please, Mr. Mainwaring. You’ll get me into trouble…”

“Which was her room?”

Somebody turned and hissed, angrily. Hans said, “I don’t understand.”

“For God’s sake man, you carried her things upstairs. I saw you!”

Hans said, “No, sir…”

Momentarily, the lounge seemed to spin.

There was a door behind the bar. The chauffeur stepped back. He said, “Sir. Please…”

The place was a storeroom. There were wine bottles racked, a shelf with jars of olives, walnuts, eggs. Mainwaring closed the door behind him, tried to control the shaking. Hans said, “Sir, you must not ask me these things. I don’t know a Miss Hunter. I don’t know what you mean.”

Mainwaring said, “Which was her room? I demand that you answer.”

“I can’t!”

“You drove me from London yesterday. Do you deny that?”

“No, sir.”

“You drove me with Miss Hunter.”

“No, sir!”

“Damn your eyes, where is she?”

The chauffeur was sweating. A long wait; then he said, “Mr. Mainwaring, please. You must understand. I can’t help you.” He swallowed, and drew himself up. He said, “I drove you from London. I’m sorry. I drove you… on your own.”

The lounge door swung shut behind Mainwaring. He half-walked, half-ran to his room. He slammed the door behind him, leaned against it panting. In time the giddiness passed. He opened his eyes, slowly. The fire glowed; the Geissler stood on the bookshelf. Nothing was changed.

He set to work, methodically. He shifted furniture, peered behind it. He rolled the carpet back, tapped every foot of floor. He fetched a flashlight from his case and examined, minutely, the interior of the wardrobe. He ran his fingers lightly across the walls, section by section, tapping again. Finally he got a chair, dismantled the ceiling lighting fitting.

Nothing.

He began again. Halfway through the second search he froze, staring at the floorboards. He walked to his case, took the screwdriver from the pistol holster. A moment’s work with the blade and he sat back, staring into his palm. He rubbed his face, placed his find carefully on the side table. A tiny earring, one of the pair she had worn. He sat awhile breathing heavily, his head in his hands.

The brief daylight had faded as he worked. He lit the standard lamp, wrenched the shade free, stood the naked bulb in the middle of the room. He worked round the walls again, peering, tapping, pressing. By the fireplace, finally, a foot-square section of plaster rang hollow.

He held the bulb close, examined the hairline crack. He inserted the screwdriver blade delicately, twisted. Then again. A click; and the section hinged open.

He reached inside the little space, shaking, lifted out the recorder. He stood silent a time, holding it; then raised his arms, brought the machine smashing down on the hearth. He stamped and kicked, panting, till the thing was reduced to fragments.

The droning rose to a roar, swept low over the house. The helicopter settled slowly, belly lamps glaring, downdraught raising a storm of snow. He walked to the window, stood staring. The children embarked, clutching scarves and gloves, suitcases, boxes with new toys. The steps were withdrawn, the hatch dogged shut. Snow swirled again; the machine lifted heavily, swung away in the direction of Wilton.

The Party was about to start.

Lights blaze, through the length and breadth of the house. Orange-lit windows throw long bars of brightness across the snow. Everywhere is an anxious coming and going, the pattering of feet, clink of silver and glassware, hurried commands. Waiters scuttle between the kitchens and the Green Room where dinner is laid. Dish after dish is borne in, paraded. Peacocks, roast and gilded, vaunt their plumes in shadow and candleglow, spirit-soaked wicks blazing in their beaks. The Minister rises, laughing; toast after toast is drunk. To five thousand tanks, ten thousand fighting aeroplanes, a hundred thousand guns. The Two Empires feast their guests, royally.

The climax approaches. The boar’s head, garnished and smoking, is borne shoulder-high. His tusks gleam; clamped in his jaws is the golden sun-symbol, the orange. After him march the waits and mummers, with their lanterns and begging-cups. The carol they chant is older by far than the Two Empires; older than the Reich, older than Great Britain.

“Living he spoiled, where poor men toiled, which made kind Ceres sad. …”

The din of voices rises. Coins are flung, glittering; wine is poured. And more wine, and more and more. Bowls of fruit are passed, and trays of sweets; spiced cakes, gingerbread, marzipans. Till at a signal the brandy is brought and boxes of cigars.

The ladies rise to leave. They move flushed and chattering through the corridors of the house, uniformed link-boys grandly lighting their way. In the Great Hall, their escorts are waiting. Each young man is tall, each blond, each impeccably uniformed. On the minstrels’ gallery a baton is poised; across the lawns, distantly, floats the whirling excitement of a waltz.

In the Green Room, hazed now with smoke, the doors are once more flung wide. Servants scurry again, carrying in boxes, great gay-wrapped parcels topped with scarlet satin bows. The Minister rises, hammering on the table for quiet.

“My friends, good friends, friends of the Two Empires. For you, no expense is spared. For you, the choicest gifts. Tonight, nothing but the best is good enough; and nothing but the best is here. Friends, enjoy yourselves. Enjoy my house. Frohe Weihnacht….”

He walks quickly into shadow, and is gone. Behind him, silence falls. A waiting; and slowly, mysteriously, the great heap of gifts begins to stir. Paper splits, crackling. Here a hand emerges, here a foot. A breathless pause; and the first of the girls rises slowly, bare in flamelight, shakes her glinting hair.

The table roars again.

The sound reached Mainwaring dimly. He hesitated at the foot of the main staircase, moved on. He turned right and left, hurried down a flight of steps. He passed kitchens, and the servants’ hall. From the hall came the blare of a record player. He walked to the end of the corridor, unlatched a door. Night air blew keen against his face.

He crossed the courtyard, opened a further door. The space beyond was bright-lit; there was the faint, musty stink of animals. He paused wiped his face. He was shirt-sleeved; but despite the cold he was sweating.

He walked forward again, steadily. To either side of the corridor were the fronts of cages. The dogs hurled themselves at the bars, thunderously. He ignored them.

The corridor opened into a square concrete chamber. To one side of the place was a ramp. At its foot was parked a windowless black van.

In the far wall, a door showed a crack of light. He rapped sharply, and again.

“Hundenmeister. …”

The door opened. The man who peered up at him was as wrinkled and pot-bellied as a Nast Santa Claus. At sight of his visitor’s face he tried to duck back; but Mainwaring had him by the arm. He said, “Herr Hundenmeister, I must talk to you.”

“Who are you? I don’t know you. What do you want…”

Mainwaring showed his teeth. He said, “The van. You drove the van this morning. What was in it?”

“I don’t know what you mean…”

The heave sent him stumbling across the floor. He tried to bolt; but Mainwaring grabbed him again.

“What was in it…”

“I won’t talk to you! Go away!”

The blow exploded across his cheek. Mainwaring hit him again, backhanded, slammed him against the van.

“Open it..!”

The voice rang sharply in the confined space.

“Wer ist da? Was ist passiert?”

The little man whimpered, rubbing at his mouth.

Mainwaring straightened, breathing heavily. The GFP captain walked forward, staring, thumbs hooked in his belt.

“Wer sind Sie?”

Mainwaring said, “You know damn well. And speak English, you bastard. You’re as English as I am.”

The other glared. He said, “You have no right to be here. I should arrest you. You have no right to accost Herr Hundenmeister.’’

“What is in that van?”

“Have you gone mad? The van is not your concern. Leave now. At once.”

“Open it!”

The other hesitated, and shrugged. He stepped back. He said, “Show him, mein Herr.”

The Hundenmeister fumbled with a bunch of keys. The van doors grated. Mainwaring walked forward, slowly.

The vehicle was empty.

The Captain said, “You have seen what you wished to see. You are satisfied. Now go.”

Mainwaring stared round. There was a further door, recessed deeply into the wall. Beside it controls like the controls of a bank vault.

“What is in that room?”

The GFP man said, “You have gone too far. I order you to leave.”

“You have no authority over me!”

“Return to your quarters!”

Mainwaring said, “I refuse.”

The other slapped the holster at his hip. He gut-held the Walther, wrists locked, feet apart. He said, “Then you will be shot.”

Mainwaring walked past him, contemptuously. The baying of the dogs faded as he slammed the outer door.

“It was among the middle classes that the seeds had first been sown; and it was among the middle classes that they flourished. Britain had been called often enough a nation of shopkeepers; now for a little while the tills were closed, the blinds left drawn. Overnight it seemed, an effete symbol of social and national disunity became the Einsatzegruppefuehrer; and the wire for the first detention camps was strung…”

Mainwaring finished the page, tore it from the spine, crumpled it and dropped it on the fire. He went on reading. Beside him on the hearth stood a part-full bottle of whisky and a glass. He picked the glass up mechanically, drank. He lit a cigarette. A few minutes later a new page followed the last.

The clock ticked steadily. The burning paper made a little rustling. Reflections danced across the ceiling of the room. Once Mainwaring raised his head, listened; once put the ruined book down, rubbed his eyes. The room, and the corridor outside, stayed quiet.

“Against immeasurable force, we must put cunning; against immeasurable evil, faith and a high resolve. In the war we wage, the stakes are high; the dignity of man, the freedom of the spirit, the survival of humanity. Already in that war, many of us have died; many more, undoubtedly, will lay down their lives. But always, beyond them, there will be others; and still more. We shall go on, as we must go on, till this thing is wiped from the earth.

“Meanwhile, we must take fresh heart. Every blow, now, is a blow for freedom. In France, Belgium, Finland, Poland, Russia, the forces of the Two Empires confront each other uneasily. Greed, jealousy, mutual distrust; these are the enemies, and they work from within. This, the Empires know full well. And, knowing, for the first time in their existence, fear…”

The last page crumpled, fell to ash. Mainwaring sat back, staring at nothing. Finally he stirred, looked up. It was zero three hundred; and they hadn’t come for him yet.

The bottle was finished. He set it to one side, opened another. He swilled the liquid in the glass, hearing the magnified ticking of the clock.

He crossed the room, took the Luger from the case. He found a cleaning rod, patches and oil. He sat awhile dully, looking at the pistol. Then he slipped the magazine free, pulled back on the breech toggle, thumbed the latch, slid the barrel from the guides.

His mind, wearied, had begun to play aggravating tricks. It ranged and wandered, remembering scenes, episodes, details sometimes from years back; trivial, unconnected. Through and between the wanderings, time after time, ran the ancient, lugubrious words of the carol. He tried to shut them out, but it was impossible.

“Living he spoiled where poor men toiled, which made kind Ceres sad. …”

He pushed the link pin clear, withdrew the breech block, stripped the firing pin. He laid the parts out, washed them with oil and water, dried and re-oiled. He reassembled the pistol, working carefully; inverted the barrel, shook the link down in front of the hooks, closed the latch, checked the recoil spring engagement. He loaded a full clip, pushed it home, chambered a round, thumbed the safety to GESICKERT. He released the clip; reloaded.

He fetched his briefcase, laid the pistol inside carefully, grip uppermost. He filled a spare clip, added the extension butt and a fifty box of Parabellum. He closed the flap and locked it, set the case beside the bed. After that there was nothing more to do. He sat back in the chair, refilled his glass.

“Toiling he boiled, where poor men spoiled.…”

The firelight faded, finally.

He woke, and the room was dark. He got up, felt the floor sway a little. He understood that he had a hangover. He groped for the lightswitch. The clock hands stood at zero eight hundred.

He felt vaguely guilty at having slept so long.

He walked to the bathroom. He stripped and showered, running the water as hot as he could bear. The process brought him round a little. He dried himself, staring down. He thought for the first time what curious things these bodies were; some with their yellow cylinders, some their indentations.

He dressed and shaved. He had remembered what he was going to do; fastening his tie, he tried to remember why. He couldn’t. His brain, it seemed, had gone dead.

There was an inch of whisky in the bottle. He poured it, grimaced and drank. Inside him was a fast, cold shaking. He thought, ‘Like the first morning at a new school.’

He lit a cigarette. Instantly his throat filled. He walked to the bathroom and vomited. Then again. Finally there was nothing left to come.

His chest ached. He rinsed his mouth, washed his face again. He sat in the bedroom for a while, head back and eyes closed. In time the shaking went away. He lay unthinking, hearing the clock tick. Once his lips moved. He said, “They’re no better than us.”

At nine hundred hours he walked to the breakfast room. His stomach, he felt, would retain very little. He ate a slice of toast, carefully drank some coffee. He asked for a packet of cigarettes, went back to his room. At ten hundred hours he was due to meet the Minister.

He checked the briefcase again. A thought made him add a pair of stringback motoring gloves. He sat again, stared at the ashes where he had burned the Geissler. A part of him was willing the clock hands not to move. At five to ten he picked the briefcase up, stepped into the corridor. He stood a moment staring round him. He thought, ‘It hasn’t happened yet. I’m still alive.’ There was still the flat in Town to go back to, still his office; the tall windows, the telephones, the khaki utility desk.

He walked through sunlit corridors to the Minister’s suite.

The room to which he was admitted was wide and long. A fire crackled in the hearth; beside it on a low table stood glasses and a decanter. Over the mantel, conventionally, hung the Fuehrer’s portrait. Edward VIII faced him across the room. Tall windows framed a prospect of rolling parkland. In the distance, blue on the horizon, were the woods.

The Minister said, “Good morning, Richard. Please sit down. I don’t think I shall keep you long.”

He sat, placing the briefcase by his knee.

This morning everything seemed strange. He studied the Minister curiously, as if seeing him for the first time. He had that type of face once thought of as peculiarly English; short-nosed and slender, with high, finely-shaped cheek-bones. The hair, blond and cropped close to the scalp, made him look nearly boyish. The eyes were candid, flat, dark-fringed. He looked, Mainwaring decided, not so much Aryan as like some fierce nursery toy; a feral Teddy Bear.

The Minister riffled papers. He said, “Several things have cropped up; among them I’m afraid, more trouble in Glasgow. The fifty-first Panzer division is standing by; as yet, the news hasn’t been released.”

Mainwaring wished his head felt less hollow. It made his own voice boom so unnecessarily. He said, “Where is Miss Hunter?”

The Minister paused. The pale eyes stared; then he went on speaking.

“I’m afraid I may have to ask you to cut short your stay here. I shall be flying back to London for a meeting; possibly tomorrow, possibly the day after. I shall want you with me of course.”

“Where is Miss Hunter?”

The Minister placed his hands flat on the desk top, studied the nails. He said, “Richard, there are aspects of Two Empires culture that are neither mentioned nor discussed. You of all people should know this. I’m being patient with you; but there are limits to what I can overlook.”

“Seldom he toiled, while Ceres roiled, which made poor kind men glad. …”

Mainwaring opened the flap of the case and stood up. He thumbed the safety forward and levelled the pistol.

There was silence for a time. The fire spat softly. Then the Minister smiled. He said, “That’s an interesting gun, Richard. Where did you get it?”

Mainwaring didn’t answer.

The Minister moved his hands carefully to the arms of his chair, leaned back. He said, “It’s the Marine model of course. It’s also quite old. Does it by any chance carry the Erfurt stamp? Its value would be considerably increased.”

He smiled again. He said, “If the barrel is good, I’ll buy it. For my private collection.”

Mainwaring’s arm began to shake. He steadied his wrist, gripping with his left hand.

The Minister sighed. He said, “Richard, you can be so stubborn. It’s a good quality; but you do carry it to excess.” He shook his head. He said, “Did you imagine for one moment I didn’t know you were coming here to kill me? My dear chap, you’ve been through a great deal. You’re overwrought. Believe me, I know just how you feel.”

Mainwaring said, “You murdered her.”

The Minister spread his hands. He said, “What with? A gun? A knife? Do I honestly look such a shady character?”

The words made a cold pain, and a tightness in the chest. But they had to be said.

The Minister’s brows rose. Then he started to laugh. Finally he said, “At last I see. I understood, but I couldn’t believe. So you bullied our poor little Hundenmeister, which wasn’t very worthy; and seriously annoyed the Herr Hauptmann, which wasn’t very wise. Because of this fantasy, stuck in your head. Do you really believe it, Richard? Perhaps you believe in Struwwelpeter too.” He sat forward. He said, “The Hunt ran. And killed… a deer. She gave us an excellent chase. As for your little Huntress… Richard, she’s gone. She never existed. She was a figment of your imagination. Best forgotten.”

Mainwaring said, “We were in love.”

The Minister said, “Richard, you really are becoming tiresome.” He shook his head again. He said, “We’re both adult. We both know what that word is worth. It’s a straw, in the wind. A candle, on a night of gales. A phrase that is meaningless. Lacherlich.” He put his hands together, rubbed a palm. He said, “When this is over, I want you to go away. For a month, six weeks maybe. With your new car. When you come back… well, we’ll see. Buy yourself a girlfriend, if you need a woman that much. Einen Schatz. I never dreamed; you’re so remote, you should speak more of yourself. Richard, I understand; it isn’t such a very terrible thing.”

Mainwaring stared.

The Minister said, “We shall make an arrangement. You will have the use of an apartment, rather a nice apartment. So your lady will be close. When you tire of her… buy another. They’re unsatisfactory for the most part, but reasonable. Now sit down like a good chap, and put your gun away. You look so silly, standing there scowling like that.”

It seemed he felt all life, all experience, as a grey weight pulling. He lowered the pistol, slowly. He thought. ‘At the end, they were wrong. They picked the wrong man.’ He said, “I suppose now I use it on myself.”

The Minister said, “No, no, no. You still don’t understand.” He linked his knuckles, grinning. He said, “Richard, the Herr Hauptmann would have arrested you last night. I wouldn’t let him. This is between ourselves. Nobody else. I give you my word.”

Mainwaring felt his shoulders sag. The strength seemed drained from him; the pistol, now, weighed too heavy for his arm.

The Minister said, “Richard, why so glum? It’s a great occasion, man. You’ve found your courage. I’m delighted.”

He lowered his voice. He said, “Don’t you want to know why I let you come here with your machine? Aren’t you even interested?”

Mainwaring stayed silent.

The Minister said, “Look around you, Richard. See the world. I want men near me, serving me. Now more than ever. Real men, not afraid to die. Give me a dozen… but you know the rest. I could rule the world. But first… I must rule them. My men. Do you see now? Do you understand?”

Mainwaring thought, ‘He’s in control again, But he was always in control. He owns me.’

The study spun a little.

The voice went on, smoothly. “As for this amusing little plot by the so-called Freedom Front; again, you did well. It was difficult for you. I was watching; believe me, with much sympathy. Now, you’ve burned your book. Of your own free will. That delighted me.”

Mainwaring looked up, sharply.

The Minister shook his head. He said, “The real recorder is rather better hidden, you were too easily satisfied there. There’s also a tv monitor. I’m sorry about it all, I apologise. It was necessary.”

A singing started, inside Mainwaring’s head.

The Minister sighed again. He said, “Still unconvinced, Richard? Then I have some things I think you ought to see. Am I permitted to open my desk drawer?”

Mainwaring didn’t speak. The other slid the drawer back slowly, reached in. He laid a telegram flimsy on the desk top. He said, “The addressee is Miss D. J. Hunter. The message consists of one word. ‘ACTIVATE.’ “

The singing rose in pitch.

“This as well,” said the Minister. He held up a medallion on a thin gold chain. The little disc bore the linked motif of the Freedom Front. He said, “Mere exhibitionism; or a death wish. Either way, a most undesirable trait.”

He tossed the thing down. He said, “She was here under surveillance of course, we’d known about her for years. To them, you were a sleeper. Do you see the absurdity? They really thought you would be jealous enough to assassinate your Minister. This they mean in their silly little book, when they talk of subtlety. Richard, I could have fifty blonde women if I chose. A hundred. Why should I want yours?” He shut the drawer with a click, and rose. He said, “Give me the gun now. You don’t need it any more.” He extended his arm; then he was flung heavily backward. Glasses smashed on the side table. The decanter split; its contents poured dark across the wood.

Over the desk hung a faint haze of blue. Mainwaring walked forward, stood looking down. There were blood-flecks, and a little flesh. The eyes of the Teddy Bear still showed glints of white. Hydraulic shock had shattered the chest; the breath drew ragged, three times, and stopped. He thought, ‘I didn’t hear the report.’

The communicating door opened. Mainwaring turned. A secretary stared in, bolted at sight of him. The door slammed.

He pushed the briefcase under his arm, ran through the outer office. Feet clattered in the corridor. He opened the door, carefully. Shouts sounded, somewhere below in the house.

Across the corridor hung a loop of crimson cord. He stepped over it, hurried up a flight of stairs. Then another. Beyond the private apartments the way was closed by a heavy metal grille. He ran to it, rattled. A rumbling sounded from below. He glared round. Somebody had operated the emergency shutters; the house was sealed.

Beside the door an iron ladder was spiked to the wall. He climbed it, panting. The trap in the ceiling was padlocked. He clung one-handed, awkward with the briefcase, held the pistol above his head.

Daylight showed through splintered wood. He put his shoulder to the trap, heaved. It creaked back. He pushed head and shoulders through, scrambled. Wind stung at him and flakes of snow.

His shirt was wet under the arms. He lay face down, shaking. He thought, ‘It wasn’t an accident. None of it was an accident.’ He had underrated them. They understood despair.

He pushed himself up, stared round. He was on the roof of Wilton. Beside him rose gigantic chimney stacks. There was a lattice radio mast. The wind hummed in its guy wires. To his right ran the balustrade that crowned the facade of the house. Behind it was a snow-choked gutter.

He wriggled across a sloping scree of roof, ran crouching. Shouts sounded from below. He dropped fiat, rolled. An automatic clattered. He edged forward again, dragging the briefcase. Ahead, one of the corner towers rose dark against the sky. He crawled to it, crouched sheltered from the wind. He opened the case, pulled the gloves on. He clipped the stock to the pistol, laid the spare magazine beside him and the box of rounds.

The shouts came again. He peered forward, through the balustrade. Running figures scattered across the lawn. He sighted on the nearest, squeezed. Commotion below. The automatic zipped; stone chips flew, whining. A voice called, “Don’t expose yourselves unnecessarily.” Another answered.

“Die kommen mit dem Hubschrauber

He stared round him, at the yellow-grey horizon. He had forgotten the helicopter.

A snow flurry drove against his face. He huddled, flinching. He thought he heard, carried on the wind, a faint droning.

From where he crouched he could see the nearer trees of the park, beyond them the wall and gatehouses. Beyond again, the land rose to the circling woods.

The droning was back, louder than before. He screwed his eyes, made out the dark spot skimming above the trees. He shook his head. He said. “We made a mistake. We all made a mistake.”

He settled the stock of the Luger to his shoulder, and waited.