Cold Harbour

by Jack Higgins

  ****

  The house in Hampstead was a late Georgian affair in a couple of acres of ground with high walls and a metal gate which was opened by a man in a peaked cap and some sort of blue uniform. A board on the gate said Rosedene Nursing Home. She couldn't see much of the garden because of the dark. When Craig led the way up the steps to the front door, he carried a flashlight in his hand. He pulled on an old-fashioned bell chain and they waited.

  She heard footsteps approaching. There was the rattle of a chain, the sound of a bolt being withdrawn. The door opened, to reveal a young, fair-haired man in a white dust coat. He stood back and Craig led the way inside without a word.

  The hall was dimly lit with cream-painted walls and a floor of polished wood blocks. There was a strangely antiseptic smell that reminded her of a hospital ward. The young man bolted and chained the door carefully behind them and when he turned to speak, his voice was as colourless as his appearance.

  'Herr Doktor Baum will be with you in a moment. If you'll come this way, please.'

  He opened a door at the end of the hall, let them pass in and closed it again without a word. It was like a dentist's waiting room, shabby chairs, a few magazines, and was rather cold in spite of the electric fire. There was something different about Craig Osbourne now, she could sense that, a restlessness, an air of tension as he lit a cigarette and moved across to the blackout curtains which were slightly open. He pulled them together.

  'Herr Baum,' she said. 'German, I presume?'

  'No - Austrian.'

  The door opened. The man who entered was small, balding and wore a white doctor's jacket, a stethoscope around his neck. His clothes hung on him as if he had lost weight.

  'Hello, Baum,' Craig Osbourne said. This is Miss Trevaunce.'

  The eyes were small and anxious and suddenly, there was the same touch of fear that she had seen with Rene and her father. He moistened dry lips and his smile, obviously intended to put her at her ease, succeeded only in being quite ghastly.

  'Fraulein.' He bowed and when he took her hand, his palm was damp.

  'I've got a phone call to make,' Craig said. 'I'll be back in a minute.'

  The door closed behind him. There was a long silence. Baum was sweating profusely now and took out a handkerchief to mop his brow.

  'Major Osbourne tells me that you have some things for me that belonged to my sister.'

  'Yes - that is so.' His smile was more ghastly than ever. 'And when he returns…' His voice trailed away and then he tried again. 'Can I get you anything? A glass of sherry, perhaps?' He was already at the cupboard in the corner, and turned with a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. 'Not of the best, I'm afraid. Like so many other things these days.'

  There was a photo on the mantelpiece in a black frame of a young girl of sixteen or seventeen, gently smiling. She had a kind of ethereal beauty.

  Genevieve said instinctively, 'Your daughter?'

  'Yes.'

  'Still at school, I suppose?'

  'No, Miss Trevaunce. She is dead.' The sad, quiet voice seemed to echo in her ears and the room really was cold now. 'It was the Gestapo- Vienna in 1939. You see, Miss Trevaunce, I am an Austrian Jew. One of the luckier ones who got away.'

  And now?'

  'I do what I can against her murderers.'

  The voice was so gentle and yet the pain in those eyes was terrible to see. We are all victims. She'd read that somewhere and remembered the young Luftwaffe fighter pilot they'd carried into Casualty at Bart's one day, badly burned and shot to pieces. His face was unmarked, the hair very fair. He'd looked exactly like a sixth-former she'd fallen in love with when she was sixteen and still at school. Just a nice ordinary boy who kept smiling in spite of the pain and held her hand, still smiling as he died.

  The door opened and Craig came in. 'Okay, that's taken care of. You'd better get started. I'll wait for you here.'

  'I don't understand.' Baum looked extremely agitated. 'I thought you were going to handle this.'

  There was a weary contempt on Craig's face. He put up a hand as if to cut off any further conversation. 'Okay, Baum, okay.'

  He opened the door and stood to one side, waiting for her.

  'Look, what game are you playing with me now?' she demanded.

  'Something I think you should see.'

  'What?'

  'This way,' he said gravely. 'Just follow me.'

  He went out and, in spite of herself, she went after him.

  ****

  He opened a door at the end of the hall and they descended a dark stairway. There was a long corridor at the bottom, brick walls painted white, doors on either side. Where the corridor turned a corner, she could see a man sitting on a chair reading a book. He was perhaps fifty, heavily built with a broken nose and grey hair and wore a long white dust coat like the young man who'd admitted them earlier. A rhythmic banging started and as they reached the end of the corridor it increased to quite unbearable proportions. The man on the chair glanced up briefly, then returned to his book.

  'He's quite deaf,' Craig said. 'He needs to be.'

  He stopped at a metal door. The banging had ceased and it was very quiet. He moved a small panel, glanced in, then stood to one side. He didn't say a word and she moved forward as if hypnotised.

  She had never smelled anything as foul as that room as she peered in through the bars. There was a ceiling light, but not a very good one. She could barely make out the outlines of a small bed with no blankets, an enamel slop bucket beside it and not much else. And then a movement, just out of sight, caught her eye.

  There was someone in a rag of clothing crouched in the far corner. Impossible to tell whether it was male or female. It made a moaning sound and clawed at the wall. She could not have moved then if she had wanted to, caught by the horror of it. As if becoming aware that something was watching, it raised its face slowly and she gazed in terror upon her own face, twisted, broken, as if seen in one of those distorting mirrors in a penny arcade.

  She couldn't even scream, fear cold inside her. They seemed to stare at each other for ever, that ruin of a face and Genevieve and then there were fingers reaching out through the bars, hooking into claws. She could not move to save herself, feet nailed to the floor. It was Craig who pulled her back, slamming the panel shut, cutting off the high-pitched animal scream.

  She struck him then, back-handed with all her strength across the face. Once - twice, and then his hands were on her like iron, holding her still.

  'It's all right,' he said calmly. 'We'll go now.'

  The man in the chair looked up, smiled and nodded. The banging behind had reached the level of frenzy, and as they went along the corridor it was only Craig Osbourne's strong arm that kept her from falling.

  ****

  They gave her brandy and she sat beside the electric fire, shaking like a leaf, hanging on to the glass for dear life while Baum lurked anxiously in the background.

  'She left her car at the station as arranged,' Craig said. 'Rene went off to make contact with the local Resistance cell. Your sister changed her clothes, then started across country to the pick-up point on foot.'

  'What happened?' Genevieve whispered.

  'She was stopped by an SS patrol looking for partisans. Her papers, false, of course, seemed perfectly in order. To them she was just a good-looking village girl. They dragged her into the nearest barn.'

  'How many?'

  'Does it matter? Rene and a couple of his Resistance friends found what was left of her wandering the countryside afterwards. That's what the Lysander brought back two days ago.'

  'You lied,' Genevieve said. 'All of you - even Rene.

  'To spare you, if we could, but you left us no choice, did you?'

  'Can nothing be done? Does she really have to stay in that filthy place?'

  It was Baum who answered. 'No - she is at the moment on a course of drugs which should gradually reduce her extreme violence, but it will be at least two weeks before these can take thei
r full effect. Then, of course, we will make arrangements for her to be transferred to a suitable establishment.'

  'Is there any hope?'

  He mopped sweat from his brow again, then rubbed his hands on the damp handkerchief, his agitation clearly visible. Fraulein - please. What do you want me to say?'

  She took a deep breath. 'My father must know nothing about this - you understand me? It would kill him.'

  'Of course,' Craig nodded. 'He has his story. No need to change it now.'

  She stared down into the glass. 'I never really had any choice from the beginning, did I, and you knew that.'

  'Yes,' he said gravely.

  'Right, then.' She swallowed the brandy which burned the back of her throat, placed the glass down carefully. 'What happens now?'

  'Back to Munro, I'm afraid.'

  Then let's get on with it,' and she turned and led the way out.

  ****

  Carter's face was grave as he led the way into the sitting room of the flat at Hasten Place. Munro, still behind the desk, stood up and came round to her.

  'So, now you know everything?'

  'Yes.' She didn't bother to sit down.

  I'm sorry, my dear.'

  'Save it, Brigadier.' She put up a hand. 'I don't like you and I don't like the way you operate. What happens now?'

  'We keep the ground floor flat for guests. You can stay there overnight.' He nodded to Craig. 'You can stay with Jack in the basement.'

  'And tomorrow?' Genevieve inquired.

  'We'll fly you down to Cold Harbour from Croydon. It's in Cornwall. Only takes an hour by Lysander. We have a house there, Grancester Abbey. It's the sort of place used to prepare people in our line of work. Major Osbourne and I will accompany you.' He turned to Carter. 'You hold the fort, Jack.'

  'What time, sir?' Carter asked.

  'About eleven-thirty from Croydon, in deference to the Major's previous appointment.'

  Craig said, 'What would that be then?'

  'It seems someone recommended you for a Military Cross, dear boy, for that last little caper you pulled for SOE before you joined your own people. It's usual for His Majesty to pin these things on himself, so you're expected at the investiture at Buckingham Palace, ten o'clock sharp in the morning.'

  'Oh, my God!' Craig groaned.

  I'll say goodnight then.' They turned to the door and Munro added, 'Just one thing, Craig.' 'Sir?'

  'The uniform, dear boy. Do try to do something with it.' They moved out on to the landing. Jack Carter said, 'The door's open and you'll find everything you need, Miss Trevaunce. I'll see you in the morning.'

  He went down the stairs ahead of them and they followed to the ground floor. They paused outside the door to his flat. Genevieve said, 'The basement for you. That sounds rough.' 'Very nice actually. I've stayed before.' 'Buckingham Palace. I'm impressed.' 'No big deal. I'll be one of many.' He turned away and paused. 'It's usual to take a couple of guests to these things. I won't have anyone. I was wondering… ?'

  She smiled. 'I've never seen the King close up and I suppose it would be on the way to Croydon.'

  'No point in just sitting in the car waiting,' he said. She ran a finger down his tunic. 'Tell you what. You go and change, then let me have it. I'm sure I can put it in order with a sponge and iron.'

  'Yes, ma'am.' He saluted and hurried down to the basement. She went into the flat, closed the door and leaned against it, no longer smiling. She couldn't help liking Craig Osbourne, it was as simple as that, and where was the harm? A little warmth against the dark. Anything to blot out the memory of her sister's ravaged face.

  ****

  It was raining heavily, St James's Park shrouded in mist as the limousine turned up Pall Mall towards Buckingham Palace. Dougal Munro and Genevieve sat in the rear seat. Having no hat, in deference to custom she'd found an old black velvet beret amongst the things in her case and wore that, a black belted raincoat and her last pair of decent stockings.

  'I don't feel very dressed up,' she said nervously.

  'Nonsense, you look marvelous,' Munro assured her.

  Craig Osbourne sat on the jump seat opposite, his forage cap tilted at the regulation angle. She'd really done an excellent job on the olive drab battledress. His slacks were tucked into polished jump boots and instead of a tie, he wore a white scarf at his throat, an affectation of some OSS officers and men.

  'He looks well, our boy, does he not?' Munro said cheerfully.

  'I'm glad you think so. Personally, I feel terrible,' Craig said as they rounded the Victoria monument, paused at the main gate of the palace to be checked and were passed through to the courtyard.

  There was quite a crowd pushing towards the main doors of the palace, uniforms from all the services, most of the civilians obviously being wives or relatives. Everyone was hurrying to get out of the rain.

  It was anything but a solemn occasion. A sense of expectancy on most faces, an edge of excitement as they mounted the stairs to the picture gallery where rows of chairs waited for the party to be seated by court officials. The band at the other end playing light music was from the RAF.

  That feeling of expectancy was heightened now, and then the band started to play 'God Save the King'. A moment later, King George and Queen Elizabeth entered and everyone rose. The royal couple seated themselves on the raised dais. Everyone sat down.

  Decorations were called out in ascending order. Craig Osbourne was astonished at how nervous he was feeling. He listened to the names being called, one after the other, took a deep breath to steady himself and was aware of Genevieve's gloved hand sliding over his. He turned in surprise, she smiled encouragingly. On the other side of her, Munro smiled too and then the usher called his name.

  'Major Craig Osbourne, Office of Strategic Services.'

  And suddenly Craig found himself up there on the dais, the King smiling as he pinned the silver cross with the white purple ribbon to his uniform and the Queen was smiling too.

  'We're very grateful, Major.'

  'Thank you, Your Majesty.'

  He turned and moved away as the next name was called.

  ****

  At the bottom of the steps it was still raining. People were taking photos, smiling, happy. There was a general air of jollity.

  Genevieve said to Craig as they walked to the car, 'What did he say?'

  'He just said he was grateful.'

  'You looked marvelous.' She put a hand up and adjusted his scarf in a slightly proprietorial way. 'Didn't you think so. Brigadier?'

  'Oh, indeed I did. Very handsome,' Munro said sourly.

  As they reached the car, Genevieve looked back at the crowd. 'They're all so happy. You'd never know there was a war on.'

  'Well there is,' Munro said opening the door, 'so let's get moving.'

  SIX

  CROYDON WAS THICK with mist and a heavy rain was falling. There was plenty of activity for it was used as a fighter station in the defense of London, but nothing seemed to be landing or taking off as Genevieve peered out of the window of the rather cheerless Nissen hut they'd been taken to on arrival. The Lysander, a squat, ugly high-wing monoplane was standing outside, a couple of RAF mechanics working on her.

  Rene was sitting by the stove drinking tea and Munro moved across to Genevieve as rain spattered against the window. 'Damn weather.'

  'Doesn't look good, does it?' she said.

  'Mind you, those things can fly in anything.' He nodded out at the Lysander. 'Originally designed to carry a pilot and two passengers, but they can manage you four with a squeeze.'

  Rene brought her tea in an enamel mug. She wrapped her hands around it for warmth as the door opened and Craig came in with their pilot. He was quite young with a fair mustache, dressed in RAF blue, flying jacket and boots. He had a map case in one hand which he dropped on the table.

  'Flight Lieutenant Grant,' Craig said to Genevieve.

  The young man smiled and took her hand. Munro said testily, 'Are we going to be delayed, Grant?'<
br />
  'It's not the weather here that's the problem, Brigadier. We can take off in pea soup as long as it's clear up above. It's landing, and visibility is limited at the Cold Harbour end of things. They'll let us know as soon as there is a change.'

  'Damn!' Munro said and he opened the door and went out.

  'His liver must be acting up this morning,' Grant said and went to the stove and poured himself a mug of tea.

  Craig said to Genevieve, 'It's Grant who'll be flying you across on Thursday night. You're in good hands. He's done that kind of thing before.'

  'Piece of cake really as long as one observes the formalities.' He stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, but didn't bother lighting it. 'Flown before, have you?' he asked Genevieve.

  'Yes, to Paris before the war.'

  'Bit different, old girl, believe me.'

  'Actually we could go over Thursday night's timetable,' Craig said. 'Fill in the time while we're waiting. You've already got a flight plan worked out, haven't you?' he said to Flight Lieutenant Grant.

  'That's right,' Grant said. 'We take off at eleven-thirty from Cold Harbour. Estimated time of arrival, two o'clock our time. I'll explain how it goes.' He opened the map and they moved in as he traced a pencil across the Channel from Cornwall to Brittany.

  'Major Osbourne will be coming with us for the ride. Not much room in these things, but they're good little kites. Never let you down.'

  'What's your altitude on the Channel crossing?' Craig asked.

  'Well, some people like to go in low, try and keep under their radar, but I favour going in around eight thousand all the way. That keeps us well below any bomber formations, which is what those Jerry night fighters tend to be looking for.'

  He was so calm, so terribly offhand about it all, and Genevieve realised that she was shaking a little.

  'We'll be landing in a field about fifteen miles from St Maurice. They'll have a flare path ready for us. Pretty crude. Cycle lamps, but good enough if the weather holds. Recognition code, Sugar Nan in morse. If we don't get that, we don't land, flare path or no flare path. Agreed?'

  He had turned to Craig who nodded. 'You're the boss.'

  'We've lost two Lysanders and a Liberator in the past six weeks because pilots landed and Jerry was waiting. Our experience is that as their aim is to get their hands on everybody intact, they don't start firing until a plane tries to take off again. Our latest instructions are to do the turnround as fast as possible. I'm not bringing anyone back, so the moment I land I'll taxi to the end of the field, you get Miss Trevaunce out fast and we'll get straight off again, just in case.' He folded the map. 'Sorry and all that, but one never really can be sure who's waiting out there in the dark.'