72

Three cars sat next to each other, parked under the redwoods. Big, black, expensive.

The front door was open, and undefended, William Washington evidently elsewhere. Voices came from the library and I stopped to listen.

‘Get this right and they’ll give you Sussex and Kent.’

‘What about you?’ Vaughn said.

‘Hitler’s got something else in mind for me.’ A different voice. Older. More confident. A man who lived his life with absolute certainty. ‘I’ll be the King’s right hand. The power behind the throne.’

‘The King?’ Vaughn said.

‘The real King.’

Footsteps behind gave me warning. I turned to see two men looking at me as if I were a mess the dog had made.

One of the men pulled a gun and levelled it at my chest. He was a giant. Seven foot at least, and thick with muscles. His nose gave him away as a boxer, and his face was vaguely familiar, in the way of someone you might have seen in the back pages of a newspaper. He was dressed in a stylised manner – tight black trousers, a well-fitted black polo-neck sweater, and a thick belt with an oversize buckle. He looked like a film designer’s version of a man from the future. I’d seen the look in newsreels. One of Mosley’s Blackshirts. Their uniforms a nod to Hitler’s SS -Stormtroopers. The Blackshirts had travelled with Mosley to rallies around the country, acting as part bodyguard, part provocation. Every event had ended in violence, a predetermined part of the show.

The second man was dressed identically. He was smaller than me. Wiry. Dark-complexioned, from southern Europe perhaps. One side of his face was cross-hatched with scars, and as he stood in the hall a flick knife appeared in his hand like a magic trick.

‘Nice costumes,’ I said.

‘Is that you, Cook?’ Vaughn called from the library. ‘Come in, man.’

I gave the Blackshirts a nod. Neither of them put their weapon away, but they didn’t frighten me. I knew the type. Foot soldiers. If they’d been smart enough, they’d have been given more responsibility. But they weren’t. They were smart enough to get out of bed in the morning and get themselves dressed, but it didn’t go much further than that. If it came to it, I’d take them down as I’d taken down so many of their type.

What did they see as they looked at me, in the dusty hall? An aging farmer, dripping on the floor in his sodden rain gear. A nobody. That was fine with me. Under-promise, over-deliver.

Vaughn was sitting by a smouldering fire. Freddie, as usual, hovered in the background, fidgeting with the drinks at the sideboard. In the other armchair, opposite Vaughn, was the visitor.

I recognised him instantly, as anyone in the country would. Lord Lisl Howe, the Duke of Wessex, a vocal supporter of Mosley and the British Union of Fascists, before they were outlawed. A black sheep in the royal family. They said he refused to travel in the same car as his luggage. Not -something a gentleman would do. Hence the three cars outside. One for him. One for his briefcase. One for the Blackshirts.

‘Vaughn says you’re ready to go in,’ Howe said, matter-of-fact.

‘It’s now or never,’ I said. In my experience, it was the kind of thing men like Howe liked to hear from their subordinates. Gave them carte blanche to authorise action that would give a rational man pause. It worked on the men as well. A multi-purpose saying. Said when you wanted them to put aside their better judgment. I’d seen it work in desperate situations, and it worked here. Freddie smiled.

‘Now,’ Vaughn said. ‘I’m tired of planning.’

‘Where do you fit into all this?’ Howe asked me, giving me an appraising look.

Freddie hooked his arm around my shoulders. ‘If it -weren’t for Cook, we’d still be pasting up leaflets.’

‘What do you get out of it?’ Howe asked.

‘Same thing we all want,’ I said. ‘Peace.’

Howe smiled and nodded.

‘Correct,’ he said. ‘But perhaps you want a prize once the dust has settled?’

‘Big house like this wouldn’t hurt,’ I said.

‘I’m sure we’ll be able to come up with something,’ Howe said, pleased he’d got the measure of the man in front of him.