Henderson's Boys: Eagle Day: Book 2

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘I thought he was your mate,’ Paul said.

  PT shrugged. ‘There are people I like and people I don’t in this world, but no one’s my mate. That’s how I’ve survived on my own since the day the cops murdered my dad.’

  It was a horrible attitude, but Paul understood how tough it must have been for PT to arrive in France at thirteen years old without knowing anyone. The experience would either break you or make you hard.

  ‘Nice little library,’ PT noted, as he disappeared into one of the bedrooms.

  The balcony overlooking the front hallway contained eight levels of fitted shelving, each stuffed with books. Paul loved to read, but all his books had been left behind in Paris.

  ‘Is it OK if I take some of these?’ Paul shouted.

  PT’s answer was muffled because his head was inside a wardrobe. ‘You’d be rather a bad burglar if you didn’t.’

  Downstairs Dumont knocked something over and screamed out in pain.

  Marc emerged from the living room, laughing so hard that he had to hold his stomach. ‘You should have seen it, Paul. Big marble column, right on the idiot’s foot!’

  ‘Shut up!’ Dumont whined.

  Paul scanned the rows of books. He didn’t have a bag, so he was limited by what he could carry in his arms. He picked out three adventure novels, but grew more excited when he found a row of books on famous painters. The trouble was, they were all huge so he picked a single leather-cased volume of works by Picasso and used it as a tray, stacking it up with a couple of smaller art books before finishing off with a pile of novels.

  By the time he’d made his pick, PT had searched all four bedrooms and emerged holding a bunched cloth filled with three good quality watches, seventy francs, two sets of diamond cufflinks and the mummy.

  ‘Imagine how much money these people have,’ PT grinned. ‘I mean, this is just the stuff they left behind.’

  Paul followed PT downstairs. Dumont was busy trashing plates in the kitchen, while Marc had found a bag of children’s clothes under the stairs and grabbed himself a change of shirt and trousers and a hardly-worn pair of boots.

  ‘These ones I’m walking around in are massive,’ Marc explained, as he reached into the cupboard and threw a wicker basket at Paul.

  ‘Oooh, I can get more now,’ Paul said, but PT grabbed him as he headed back to the stairs.

  ‘We’ve been here long enough,’ PT said. ‘Especially with fat boy making all that noise … Dumont, we’re outta here.’

  Dumont laughed when he saw Paul with the basket of books. ‘Books,’ he snorted. ‘You are a girl!’such

  Marc shook his head. ‘Just because you can’t read, Dumont.’

  ‘So what if I can’t read?’ Dumont yelled defensively. ‘You get someone to read it out loud, don’t you?’

  Marc had meant it sarcastically and froze on the spot. ‘You mean you can’t read?’really

  ‘I knew you were dumb,’ PT laughed, ‘but not that dumb.’

  ‘Screw you,’ Dumont shouted. ‘I could still smash all of your faces in, any day of the week.’

  Paul saw that Dumont was upset and looked up at him. ‘It’s not hard to read, I could show you.’

  But all Paul got for his sympathy was a dig in the back. ‘You think I care?’ Dumont said. ‘I swear, if your brother and cousin weren’t here I’d take you and all your books outside and wring your neck like the skinny little chicken you are.’

  ‘Hey,’ PT shouted. ‘Don’t talk to Paul like that. He was being nice. We’re the ones winding you up.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Dumont moaned, as he realised he was the only one leaving the house empty-handed. ‘Wait up, guys. There’s wine in the kitchen, why don’t we steal some bottles and get loaded?’

  Marc looked back from the patio outside the rear door. ‘I thought you said wine upsets your stomach.’

  Dumont was on the defensive after the revelation that he couldn’t read. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I got sick sometimes when I was little and my mum gave me watered-down wine with dinner, but I’m sixteen now.’

  ‘Hurry up and get some wine then,’ PT said, ‘and a corkscrew. And Marc, wipe your fingerprints off the back door.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Paul got bored hanging out. The books were heavy and he didn’t like the taste of wine, so he carried all the loot back home. Following PT’s instructions, he hid everything in a tool store behind the cowshed, but he was excited about his books and sneaked the big Picasso volume back to the attic bedroom he shared with Rosie.

  Paul had the roof hatch open so that the room streamed sunlight on to the pages. He slipped it hurriedly under his blankets as Rosie came up the ladder.

  ‘Where’d you get that from?’ she asked.

  ‘Nowhere,’ Paul said, which he immediately realised was the stupidest and guiltiest sounding answer he could have given.

  Rosie snatched the book. ‘Looks expensive,’ she noted. ‘So how come I never get invited when they go out on their wrecking sprees?’

  ‘Because you’re a girl, I guess.’ Paul shrugged.

  ‘Maxine said to come down, wash your hands and have dinner. Henderson’s early; he got a ride in one of the staff cars.’

  As Paul rubbed his hands, turning soap into grey foam, Henderson sat at the table while Maxine carved the rabbits. She was in a sour mood because of the boys.

  ‘It’s starting to get on my nerves,’ Maxine explained. ‘I mean, they’re out all hours doing god knows what. Marc is supposed to be feeding and milking the cows, but last night he rushed out to do it last thing before bed. I set them chores in the mornings, but they do everything half-arsed.’

  ‘I do chores,’ Paul said defensively as he shut off the tap and dried his hands on his shirt. ‘I cleaned out and painted the two side rooms.’my

  ‘You’re not so bad,’ Maxine said, as she passed him a bowl of vegetable stew and a side plate piled with rabbit meat. ‘I’m talking about PT and Marc.’

  Henderson was in a good mood and didn’t want Maxine to bring it down. ‘They’re just lads of a certain age doing what lads of a certain age do,’ he said dismissively. ‘Leave ’em be.’

  Maxine thumped Henderson’s stew bowl down so hard that its contents sploshed over the table. ‘I don’t mind helping, Charles. But those two treat me like a servant and the looks on their faces when I ask them to do the simplest thing …’

  ‘Fine,’ Henderson said, slightly irritably. ‘When they get home I’ll have a word about them showing you more respect and doing their chores properly. If that doesn’t work out I’ll give them both a thrashing.’

  Maxine shook her head. ‘Violence isn’t the answer to , Charles.’everything

  Henderson raised his hands. ‘Fine – I won’t thrash them,’ he said. ‘But words will only take you so far when you’re dealing with boys that age, so don’t go expecting miracles.’

  By this time Paul, Rosie, Maxine and Henderson had all settled around the table and started on dinner.

  ‘Nice rabbit,’ Paul said, as he bit a long strip in half. ‘Tasty herbs.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Maxine smiled. ‘It’s rosemary. It’s growing like wildfire out back.’

  Paul looked at Henderson. ‘Did you see the leaflet they dropped down at the beach?’

  ‘Yes,’ Henderson replied, as he broke into a laugh. ‘Oberst Ohlsen came back from the demonstration in an absolute state, then spent an hour getting his ear chewed off in the general’s office. The leaflets were getting passed around at headquarters.’

  ‘What was the reaction?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Most people seemed to think it was damned funny,’ Henderson said. ‘The only problem is, they’re suspicious about the leaflet drop taking place while Goering was present. They’re saying British intelligence might have a spy who told them he’d be there.’

  Maxine looked concerned. ‘Is that going to create a problem for you?’

  ‘Not me specifically,’ Henderson answered. ‘The Nazis ke
ep their security tight and even the Oberst didn’t know Goering was going to be there until the general told him on the drive out this morning. But it will ratchet up the tension and make everyone that bit more suspicious from now on.’

  ‘What about the intelligence gathering?’ Rosie asked. ‘Our transmission window isn’t until eleven tonight, but I can start working on the encoding straight after dinner.’

  ‘I got into the plan chest while everyone was out,’ Henderson said, smiling. ‘The invasion is set for September sixteenth. I had the map in my possession for a good ten minutes. We won’t get all the information into tonight’s transmission, we’ll have to spread it over two or three nights. Obviously, we send the most important information first.’

  ‘Have you ever seen any sign in headquarters that they’re out trying to detect radio transmissions?’ Maxine asked.

  Henderson shook his head. ‘No, but Abwehr – military intelligence – and the Gestapo both work out of separate buildings to us. They might have crack squads out looking for spies, they might have nothing at all. There’s no way of knowing. All we can do is keep our transmissions short and change locations once in a while.’

  *

  ‘We’ll help you home,’ Marc said, as Dumont leaned on a fence, gasping for breath. The teenager had just been sick and was trembling.

  ‘Nah,’ Dumont gasped. ‘If my mum knows that I got sick drinking wine she’ll go bananas.’

  PT had drunk a whole bottle of wine and regretted it. After all the walking they’d done he was dehydrated and a thumping headache more than cancelled out any pleasant sensation of drunkenness.

  ‘Why’d you drink wine if you know it makes you sick?’ PT asked.

  ‘I dunno,’ Dumont said. ‘I thought I might have grown out of it.’

  It was just after seven. They were in a lane close to the village and PT had no appetite for the walk home. Marc had barely drunk anything. He was fed up with Dumont and only had an appetite for his dinner.

  ‘Look,’ Marc said pointedly, ‘I’m hungry, I’m knackered and I’ve got cows to deal with back home. But I don’t want to leave you here, Dumont. At least let us take you down to the village green where someone will help if you get worse.’

  Dumont shook his head slowly. ‘Leave me,’ he moaned. ‘Everyone in the village knows me. They’ll get my dad out.’

  PT spoke to Marc. ‘We’ve offered to help and we’re not his nurse maids. Let’s go home and get fed.’

  Marc shrugged awkwardly. ‘But he’s really sick, PT. What if he passes out or something? His mum will get really worried.’

  Dumont leaned forwards and retched again, but nothing came out. ‘Screw it, take me home,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’ve brought most of it up now, I reckon. I’ll tell my mum it’s something I ate.’

  PT stood beside Dumont and let him put a fat arm around his neck. ‘Let’s walk.’

  As Dumont stumbled forwards, Marc supported him from the other side. ‘Why’d you have to be so fat, Dumont?’ he complained.

  They made it over the drainage ditch at the edge of the field and started crunching up the gravel lane towards the village green. A truck was coming up behind and PT looked over his shoulder to check it out.

  ‘Germans,’ he said.

  ‘Who else would have petrol?’ Marc replied.

  As the truck closed in, PT and Marc guided Dumont over the verge. The lane didn’t take you any place that the coast road wouldn’t get you to faster which made the truck a rare sight, but the boys didn’t give any thought until it blasted past, showering them with dirt.

  ‘Nazi pricks,’ Marc coughed, as he flicked grey dust out of his hair.

  Anger turned to alarm as the driver slammed on the brakes and the truck came to a crunching halt twenty metres ahead. The back flap slammed down and three young soldiers jumped out from beneath a canvas canopy with their rifles in hand. Marc recognised their leader, a broad-shouldered fellow with round glasses. He was always the loudest voice in the little crowd that spent its evenings outside the village bar.

  Marc and PT both thought about running, but Dumont was a dead weight and they had no chance of outrunning German bullets.

  ‘Piss in our car?’ the big chap shouted in bad French, as he swung wildly with his rifle butt.

  The blow hit Marc in the chest, knocking him backwards and sending Dumont crashing down on top of him.

  ‘Piss in our car?’ the German repeated.

  His second swing smashed Dumont in the ribs. PT turned to run, but the other two Germans had built up speed and caught up within a couple of paces. One grabbed PT by the arms as his mate slugged him in the belly. Once PT had doubled over, they dragged him forwards, knocking him head first into a tree and then kicking his legs away so that he sprawled face first on to the knobbly roots around the trunk.

  As the German in the round glasses ruthlessly laid into Dumont with heavy boots and rifle butt, the driver grabbed Marc off the ground and slapped his face hard before twisting his hand up behind his back.

  ‘French piece of shit,’ he shouted, as he swung Marc around and frogmarched him until he slammed into the side of the truck. ‘I borrowed that car from our major. You know how long it took to scrub up?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Marc replied in German.

  ‘Let me jog your memory,’ the German said, before smacking Marc’s head against the mudguard over the wheel. ‘Major Ghunsonn’s put us all on report because of you. Then he sent us up here to find the boys that pissed in his car.’

  ‘There’s lots of boys living around here,’ Marc lied, a chill going down his back as he noticed that Dumont had gone quiet.

  ‘You’re the only ones we ever saw,’ the driver growled. ‘I saw one of you going around the side of the bar, but it wasn’t you, was it? He was taller than you.’

  ‘I swear I don’t know,’ Marc said, tears streaming down his face as the German tightened the grip on his arm so that it felt like his shoulder was about to rip out of its socket.

  ‘There’s a prison in Calais,’ the German said nastily. ‘Twenty men in a cell built for six and you’ll be the smallest one in there. You won’t last two days … But if you tell me who it was, I’ll let you go.’

  Marc tried to focus his mind, but all he wanted was for the pain to stop. ‘Dumont did it,’ he sniffed. ‘The fat guy in the road.’

  ‘Thought so,’ the German said, as he let Marc go.

  Marc gasped, but his relief only lasted until the German snapped a set of rigid metal cuffs over his wrists.

  ‘Climb in the truck,’ he ordered.

  ‘You said I could go.’

  ‘I lied.’ The German smiled. ‘Sabotage of German property is a serious matter. You’re in very deep shit, young man.’

  Marc had an awkward time boarding the truck with his hands bound together, but he’d fared better than the other two. PT got dragged from the trees, with his head hanging forwards and blood streaming down his face.

  Dumont was worst of all, barely conscious with his clothes shredded and welts the shape of rifle parts all over his body. It took two Germans to lift him. They bent him forwards, so that he stood in the gravel with his head in the back of the truck. Marc watched as the driver grabbed a length of towing rope, then made a noose out of it before pulling it tight around Dumont’s neck.

  ‘End of the line for you, fatty,’ the biggest German said.

  ‘Please,’ Dumont sobbed. ‘Please don’t kill me.’

  Marc and PT exchanged a desperate glance as they lay on the floor of the truck.

  ‘Just gotta find a nice strong branch to hang you from,’ the German smiled, pulling hard on the noose, before grabbing Dumont’s belt and hitching him up into the truck.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘Their dinners will be stone cold again,’ Maxine said angrily, as Paul helped her wash the dishes. ‘And Luc Boyle said those cows need regular milking if we’re going to get a decent yield out of them.’

>   ‘I said I’ll speak to them,’ Henderson answered, with a touch of annoyance creeping into his voice. ‘Let me concentrate on encoding this message.’

  He sat at the table with Rosie. A road map of northern France was spread out and notepaper sprawled around it.

  If Henderson had been deliberately sent on a long-term spying operation, he would have been accompanied by a professional radio operator who could transmit and receive Morse code at between forty and sixty words per minute. Henderson and Rosie struggled to transmit any more than twenty words per minute. The maximum safe transmission time was ten minutes, restricting them to a two-hundred-word message each night.

  While Henderson used the notes he’d made that lunchtime, carefully sorting all the facts in the order of importance, Rosie compressed them. The 106 characters of was slashed to the thirty-three characters of I have viewed the official German invasion map at headquarters and you can regard the following information as authoritative VWD OFFICL INVSIN MAP AT HQ.RGD INFO AS VG.

  When Rosie wasn’t sure if the compressed message was comprehensible, she’d get Paul or Maxine to read it back. If they didn’t understand she’d rewrite it.

  ‘I think we can get most of the pertinent information into two ten-minute messages,’ Henderson said, as he chewed the end of his pencil.

  Rosie looked up from the notebook she was using to encode the message. Henderson’s key phrase was a short chapter from Dickens’ entitled ‘Mr Merdles’ Complaint’. Henderson knew the words by heart and over the last few weeks Rosie almost felt that she knew them herself.Little Dorrit

  ‘Put the trimmings out for the chickens and see if there’s any eggs,’ Maxine said, as she handed Paul a mixing bowl filled with potato peelings and carrot tops. ‘You’d best get a move on if you want to listen to the news.’

  Henderson glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost eight. As Paul headed out into the evening light, Rosie went through to the living room to warm up the radio they’d brought up from the pink house in Bordeaux.

  There was a cool breeze as Paul headed outside. He didn’t want to stir Maxine up by complaining, but he was cross because the chickens were supposed to be PT’s job. As he hurried across the front lawn, Lottie the goat caught the smell of vegetables and thrust her head into the bowl.