Cometh the Hour (The Clifton Chronicles 6)

“That’s wonderful news.”

“But not without some considerable risk, because it will require a bit of luck, and a lot of courage from two young women in particular.”

Giles swung his legs onto the floor, sat on the edge of the bed and listened carefully to what the West German foreign minister expected him to do. By the time Walter had finished, it was no longer dark outside.

* * *

Giles dialed the number again, hoping he’d be in. This time the phone was picked up immediately.

“Good morning, John.”

“Good morning, Sir Giles,” said Pengelly, immediately recognizing the voice.

Giles wondered how long it would be before he dropped the “sir.” “John, before I get in touch with the relevant department at the Home Office, I need to know if Karin has ever applied for a British passport.”

“Yes—or at least I did on her behalf, when she was still thinking of going to Oxford,” said Pengelly.

“Don’t tell me it’s locked away somewhere in East Berlin?”

“No, I picked it up from Petty France myself, and intended to take it back when I returned to East Germany but of course never did. That was some years ago so heaven knows where it is now. Even if I could lay my hands on it, it’s probably out of date.”

“If you can find it, John, it’s just possible you may be seeing your daughter far sooner than you’d expected.”

* * *

Although Griff Haskins invited Giles to attend the count in the Council House, he couldn’t face it. Having tramped the streets with the candidate for the past four weeks, attended countless public meetings and even delivered eve-of-poll leaflets on the Woodbine Estate, when ten o’clock struck on Thursday 20 May, Giles shook hands with Bob Fielding, wished him luck and drove straight back to Barrington Hall.

On arriving home, he poured himself a large glass of whisky and ran a warm bath. He fell asleep within minutes of climbing into bed. He woke just after six, the most sleep he’d had in a month. He got up, strolled into the bathroom and covered his face with a cold, wet flannel, then put on a dressing gown and slippers and padded downstairs.

A black Labrador strolled into the drawing room, his tail wagging, assuming it must be time for his morning walk. What other reason could the master have for being up so early? Giles said, “Sit!” and Old Jack sat down beside him, tail thumping the carpet.

Giles switched on the radio and settled back in a comfortable armchair to listen to the morning news. The prime minister was in Paris holding talks with the French president on the possibility of Britain joining the EEC. Normally, Giles would have been the first to acknowledge the historic significance of such a meeting, but not at this particular moment. All he wanted to know was the result of the Bristol Docklands by-election. “Mr. Heath dined with President Pompidou at the Elysée Palace last night, and although no official communiqué has been released, it’s clear that now General De Gaulle is no longer a political force to be reckoned with, Britain’s application is finally being taken seriously.”

“Get on with it,” said Giles and, as if he’d heard him, the newsreader stayed with Ted Heath, but returned to England.

“Another setback for the Tories,” he declared, “who lost the by-election in Bristol Docklands last night to the Labour Party. The seat had become vacant following the death of Major Alex Fisher, the sitting Conservative member. We now join our West Country correspondent in Bristol, for the latest news.”

“In the early hours of this morning, Bob Fielding, the Labour candidate, was declared the winner of the by-election here in Bristol Docklands by a majority of 3,127, representing a swing of eleven percent from Conservative to Labour.”

Giles leapt in the air, and the dog stopped wagging its tail.

“Although the turnout was low, this was a resounding victory for Mr. Fielding, who, at the age of thirty-two, will be one of the youngest members in the House. This is what he had to say following the announcement of the result: ‘I’d first like to thank the returning officer and his staff for the exemplary way they have—’”

The telephone on the table beside him began to ring. Giles cursed, turned off the radio and picked up the phone, assuming it had to be Griff Haskins, who he knew wouldn’t have gone to bed.

“Good morning, Giles, it’s Walter Scheel…”

10

GILES COULDN’T SLEEP the night before he was due to fly to Berlin. He was up long before the sun rose, didn’t bother with breakfast and took a taxi from his home in Smith Square to Heathrow hours before his flight was due to depart. First flights in the morning were almost the only aircraft guaranteed to take off on time. He picked up a copy of the Guardian in the first-class lounge, but didn’t get beyond the front page as he drank a cup of black coffee and went over Walter’s plan again and again. It had one fundamental weakness, what he’d described as a necessary risk.

Giles was among the first to board the aircraft and, even though the plane took off on time, kept checking his watch every few minutes throughout the flight. The plane touched down in Berlin at 9:45 a.m. and, as Giles had no luggage, he was sitting in the back of another taxi twenty minutes later.

“Checkpoint Charlie,” he said to the driver, who gave him a second look before joining the early morning traffic heading into the city.

Soon after they’d passed the dilapidated Brandenburg Gate, Giles spotted the white Mercedes coach Walter had told him to look out for. As he didn’t want to be the first person to board, he asked the taxi driver to stop a couple of hundred yards from the crossing

point. Giles paid the fare and began to stroll around as if he were a tourist, not that there were any sites to look out for, other than a graffiti-covered wall. He didn’t start to make his way toward the coach until he’d seen several other delegates climb aboard.