Free A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) by Edward Wilson

him.’
    Catesby stared at his host for a long second. When the explanation didn’t come, he said, ‘Is it not odd?’
    ‘What?’
    Catesby nodded at the talismans. ‘That the Cheka returned those to you. I didn’t realise that they were in the habit of returning personal belongings to the next of kin.’
    His host gave a sly smile. ‘I have my connections. The Soviet Union is one of the world’s most corrupt regimes – and that is why it is about to fall.’
    ‘And what will replace it?’
    ‘Monarchy, of course. Not the feeble sort you have in England, but absolute monarchy. It is the world’s most natural and civilised form of government. All our great monuments have been built under kings and queens – the pyramids, the cathedrals, the Potala Palace in Tibet. And all our great works of art too – S hakespeare didn’t write his plays in a socialist republic.’
    Catesby wasn’t going to alienate his host with counter-arguments. He regarded him as an agent, however mad, to be humoured and milked.
    ‘My kinsman was right. It must begin with the restoration of the great Khan’s empire – a movement spreading from Mongolia and Tibet. Let me get a map and I will show you the plan.’
    The man returned with an ancient atlas where Leningrad was still Petrograd and where the North Sea was the German Ocean. He described a pincer movement of new Mongol hordes heading west while Baltic, Ukrainian and Polish monarchists pressed eastwards. Pointing to Warsaw, he said, ‘The szlachta are fearsome horsemen, almost the equal of the Cossacks.’
    Never, thought Catesby, write off an agent as mad and useless. ‘How well do you know the Polish aristocracy?’
    ‘Very well, but many of them are mad and unreliable.’
    That seemed to describe his sister’s boyfriend, thought Catesby. It was worth a try. ‘Does the name Tomasz Król ring a bell?’
    The host gave a hearty laugh.
    ‘You do know him.’
    ‘Tomasz Król is a pretender. His claim to be a member of the szlachta is exaggerated. He cannot be trusted.’
    ‘Can you tell me more?’
    ‘I don’t think so – not yet.’
    Catesby racked his brain for another German equivalent, but Der Elefant im Zimmer was the only one he could recollect. He looked directly at his host. The blue eyes were growing madder. ‘What,’ said Catesby, ‘did you do in the war?’
    ‘I fought.’
    ‘For whom?’
    ‘For European civilisation and against barbarism.’
    Catesby struggled to hide his disgust and revulsion. His host belonged to a cult that glorified violence. You couldn’t defeat them with words, but only with violence. London’s finest hour was when the heroes of Cable Street drove Mosley and the Black-shirts out of the East End with fists and bricks. But at the moment, Catesby’s job was spying. The fighting might come later.
    ‘How did you find out about the attempt to murder me?’
    His host picked up the last piece of khorkhog and slowly macerated the meat as if the food of the Mongolian nomads was helping him think. He finally wiped his mouth and spoke. ‘I heard rumours that you were considered troublesome in some quarters. One has to occasionally make tactical alliances. Among those who wanted you removed were staunch and fierce anti-Communists – who had, in their own way, been fierce warriors in their lost cause.’
    Catesby detected echoes of the Gehlen Org.
    ‘I now regret that I did not intervene to prevent the attempt on your life?’
    ‘Why?’
    His host smiled. ‘You are a Catesby – a descendant of England’s most noble family.’
    Catesby felt his stomach churn. He ought to have changed his name by deed poll.
    ‘Your ancestor tried to overthrow a regime that began England’s degeneration into a nation of shopkeepers and sly merchants. Your country’s break with Rome threw away a thousand years of civilisation. Catesby, Fawkes, Percy, Wintour, Keyes and the others were noble knights fighting to restore England to its proper place in the