Dominion by C. J. Sansom Read Free Book Online Page B

greater even than the Italian festivities earlier in the year to mark Mussolini’s thirty years in power.
    He arrived at Westminster and turned into Whitehall. It was a raw, chilly afternoon. The few people about walked along in their drab clothes, huddled into themselves. David had
watched, for over ten years, people growing slowly shabbier, looking more alone. A poster from last year’s Festival of Empire at Greenwich hung, soot-smeared, on a hoarding; a young couple
helping a child feed a calf against a background of hills.
‘A Prosperous New Life in Africa.’
    The Dominions Office was on the corner of Downing Street. David could see the policeman standing outside Number 10. Nearby the pile of wreaths at the foot of the Cenotaph was looking sad and
tatty now. He walked up the office steps. There was a frieze above the doors showing a panorama of Empire: Africans with spears, turbaned Indians and Victorian statesmen all jumbled together, black
with London grime. Inside, the wide vestibule was empty. Sykes, the porter, nodded to him. He was elderly, but sharp-eyed.
    ‘Afternoon, Mr Fitzgerald. Working Sunday again, sir?’
    ‘Yes. Duty calls, I’m afraid. Anyone else in?’
    ‘The Permanent Secretary, up on the top floor. Nobody else. People sometimes come in to work on Saturday, but seldom on Sundays.’ He smiled at David. ‘I remember, sir, when I
started here. Assistant Secretaries often didn’t come in till eleven. Nobody here at weekends except the Resident clerks.’ He shook his head.
    ‘The trials of Empire,’ David said, returning the smile. He signed the day book. Sykes reached back to the row of numbered keys on the board behind him, and handed David the one to
his office, on its metal tag. David walked to the lift. It was ancient and sometimes marooned people between floors. He wondered if one day the hundred-year-old cables might break, sending everyone
inside to perdition. Creaking, it rose slowly to the second floor. He pulled aside the heavy gates and got out. In front of him was the Registry, where during the week clerks endlessly checked
files in and out from behind a long counter, the clacking of typewriters audible beyond the door of the typing pool. At the far end of the counter Carol’s desk stood empty, in front of a door
with its smoked glass panels marked
Authorized Personnel Only.
David looked at it for a second, then turned and walked down the long narrow passage. It was strange how footsteps echoed in
here when you were alone.
    His office was half of a big Victorian room, an elegant cornice cut off by a partition. He saw, in the centre of his desk, the fat High Commissioners’ Meetings file, the draft agenda he
had prepared for Hubbold pinned to the front with a note in his superior’s tiny scrawl.
We spoke
.
Let us discuss further, on Monday.
    David took off his coat, then retrieved the tiny silver camera from his pocket. It was, ironically, German, a Leica; not much bigger than a Swan Vestas matchbox, you could photograph dozens of
documents just by the light of a lamp. The camera had seemed an extraordinary thing when he was first given it, like something out of a science-fiction story, but he was used to it now. He lit a
cigarette to steady himself.
    After that first meeting on Hampstead Heath, the next time David saw Geoff at the tennis club he had asked, ‘That man Jackson, he’s in the Civil Service,
isn’t he?’
    A spasm had crossed Geoff’s face, annoyance and guilt mixed together. ‘I can’t answer that, old boy; you have to realize, I can’t.’
    ‘Jackson knew a lot about me. Is he interested in me for some particular reason?’
    ‘I can’t tell you. You have to decide first whether you’re willing to support us.’
    ‘I do support you. You mean, am I willing to
do
things for you?’
    ‘
With
us. Things are hotting up, now we’re illegal.’ Geoff gave his quick sardonic smile. ‘You may have noticed.’
    David had heard the radio broadcasts