Macmillan scowled and dropped his part of the Churchill Memorandum back into the drawer. He locked it again. He began a muttered claim that “dear old Footie” could be dispensed with when the time was right. But he was interrupted by Foot’s own sudden appearance in the room.
“Glorious news!” he crowed. He laughed and began a little dance of triumph. “My people have called to say Dr Markham’s friend is dead. They got the rest of the document from him, and will be here in your car within the hour.”
“Well, that is absolutely splendid, Michael dear,” Macmillan beamed at him. He got up for another glass and handed it, brimful of clear liquid to Foot. He then refilled his own glass and mine also. “All our little local difficulties are neatly solved. I am, of course, deeply embarrassed that young Edward’s people weren’t so naïve as we thought them. But we managed to cut off his telephone call before he could say anything. And we can be sure that neither young Markham nor his friend has been in touch with the authorities. We simply need to press on with redoubled speed. Before Halifax can get back to England on Monday, everything can and will be in place. I think the time has come to break out the vodka and wish everyone a most sincere nastrovje!”
They both drained their glasses. As Foot plainly speculated on whether he could get away with dashing his empty glass into the fireplace, I sipped cautiously on what smelled rather like one of the cheaper brands of generator reagent.
“One thing, I suppose does remain,” Macmillan said after an appreciative suck on his pipe. “Young Markham has been kept alive so he can authenticate the reunited Churchill Memorandum. Before we all turn in, I think we can go through some of the questions and responses we shall need for my own little gathering, and then for the interview Michael will conduct on his television programme.”
“Than help either of you bastards,” I said, trying to control the shaking of my hands, “I’d rather step into one of Foot’s acid baths.”
“That can easily be arranged, Dr Markham,” came the gloating response.
“No it can’t, Michael!” Macmillan said impatiently. “This is my conspiracy, and I’m the one who decides on who gets killed, and by who.”
“Isn’t it ‘by whom’, darling Harold?” Foot asked with silken charm. “We are only proposing to reshape the world. Or have you revolutionary designs as well on the rules of grammar?” Macmillan’s response was a flash of what seemed his first genuine anger in the time I’d known him. He dropped the idea of rehearsing my own contribution to his dastardly treason. Foot also said nothing more about his acid baths.
In ill-natured silence, we sat smoking and drinking for what may have been an hour. The log in the fire grate burned through and finally collapsed upon itself. Once or twice, Macmillan seemed about to pull himself back in order and start a new conversation. Foot gave me the occasional speculative leer—perhaps wondering what volume barrel he might need for getting me up to my chest in acid. My own spark of courage, that had burned so unexpectedly bright and for so unexpectedly long, was burning down faster than that log in the grate. I wondered, with an increasingly chilly stomach, if my end, when it came, would involve one of Macmillan’s bullets, or if he’d give me over to Foot.
At last, a light flashed on the telephone beside Macmillan. He looked at it a moment, then over at where Foot was sitting. The flashing went on until I thought the caller would lose patience. But Foot heaved himself up and grabbed at the receiver. He grunted his name and listened awhile, and made a few noncommittal replies. He looked once at me and said a firm “yes.” After perhaps thirty seconds, he put the receiver down and smiled.
“I am given to understand, Dr Markham, that we have another body,” he said. This is sad for your brown friend, though—since I shall then be short of sulphuric acid—good news for you.” He got up and bowed ironically. “I trust you will forgive my leaving you for a couple of minutes.”
He got up and hurried from the room. Macmillan took the key from his pocket and looked nervously down at the drawer. He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. Once again, I thought he was about to begin another conversation.
But now the door opened behind me. I saw Macmillan’s eyes open wide with surprise.
“Goodness gracious me!” a familiar voice burbled from the doorway. “I should have gone easier on the beast I tortured. It really is Mr Harold Macmillan himself I’m beholding!”
Was there a faint smell of curry in the room?
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
“Look out—he’s got a gun in his pocket,” I managed eventually to blurt out. Pakeshi tightened his arm about Michael Foot’s throat and pulled him up to give better cover. He pushed his own gun harder into Foot’s right temple.
“My dear fellow,” Macmillan said calmly at Pakeshi, “this is a peaceful house. We need no trouble here. If you’ll only sit down and have a little drinkie, I’m sure we can reach an agreement to our complete mutual satisfaction.”
“Open that drawer,” I shouted at him. “I want all those pages.”
“In the name of God, do as he tells you!” Foot squealed from behind me. “Please, Harold—don’t let him hurt me.” Macmillan smiled and relaxed.
“If you try opening my drawer, Anthony,” he drawled, “I’ll go for my gun. It’s hard to say who’ll get killed in the resulting fire. But you’ll certainly wake the house, and that will be an end to any chance of a smooth escape.” He patted the key in his pocket and then blew a kiss at Pakeshi, or at Foot. Then he leaned back in his chair and smiled.
“Though we haven’t bothered so far with introductions,” he said, still smiling, “I do assure you that I’ve made my enquiries. I know exactly who you are, Dr Pakeshi, and what you’re about. Why the authorities have insisted so that you died at poor Anthony’s hands is a bit of a mystery at present. But I’m sure you can see its convenient side. Now, Srindomar, supposing I were to promise not only continued death, but also a new identity and a one way trip to somewhere like Brazil—might that persuade you to unclamp your left forearm from Michael’s windpipe and join me in a glass of this superb single malt?”
Pakeshi remained silent for just a moment longer than I’d have liked. Then, Foot still held firm, he was backing towards the open door.
“We must go at once, Anthony,” he said. “I think I saw your hat and coat laid out in the hall.” Macmillan took up his glass and grinned at me.
“The word the Frenchies use, I think, is adieu,” he said. “Do leave Michael in the drive. I’ll come out and see if he’s alive once I’ve heard you drive off into the night.”
I looked back from the billiard room. He was sucking complacently on his pipe.
Out in the drive, there were armed men stood between us and the usual car. It took every breath in his half-strangled body for Foot to make them stand aside. Pakeshi pulled him into the back seat of the car. That left me to do the driving.
Dear me! The last time I’d sat behind the wheel of this sort of car was in 1943, just before petrol went through the roof and my father switched over to horse and buggy. I looked at the dashboard and felt for the pedals. I tried to think what I’d seen earlier of poor Krellburger’s driving. Fortunately, the engine was already ticking over. It was just a matter of getting into gear and then of steering the thing….
I managed an uncontrollable lurch backwards, followed by a sickening stop as we backed into a little fountain. I heard Foot scream on the back seat and something obscene from Pakeshi. Outside, in the drive, Foot’s men were fanning out with drawn guns. Holding his gun out in both hands, one of them was now aiming straight at me. I shoved the correct pedal into the floor and pulled on the gear handle. The car shot forward half a dozen yards. I saw two men jump hurriedly out of the way. The one who’d been aiming wasn’t to be seen. We were still pointing at the front door of the house. I saw Macmillan just inside the door. He’d straightened his tie and refilled his glass. He put up his free hand for shade as the headlamps shone fully on him. I eased off the brake and went forward again, now slowly. I twisted the appallingly heavy steering wheel, and the car began to turn. I felt a scrape of leafless branches on the passenger’s side of the car, and we were looking at the open gates. I stepped again on the accelerator, and we sped forward through the opening. There was a crunch as one of the mirrors on the front bonnet hit against something and came away. But we were through the gates, and I pushed harder on the accelerator. I heard the back door open and Foot’s horrified wail as Pakeshi kicked him out of the car. The door slammed shut again, and we were speeding down the smooth road towards the village of Horsted Keynes.