Shaw never minded. Lavinia had had relationships before although he himself had little interest in women. The Keitel thing was different, however, because of what it led to.
‘Well, we know where we are with him,’ Devlin said of Shaw. ‘He’s the kind who used to have children transported to Australia for stealing a loaf of bread.’
Schellenberg gave him a cigarette. ‘Werner Keitel was an Abwehr agent employed at the time to select deep cover agents. Not the usual kind at all. A war was coming, that was obvious, and there was much forward planning for Sea Lion.’
‘And the old sod’s place was perfect,’ Devlin observed. ‘The back of beyond and yet only forty-five miles from London and this South Meadow to land a plane on.’
‘Yes. Keitel, according to his report, found it amazingly easy to recruit both of them. He supplied them with a radio. The sister already knew Morse code. They were expressly forbidden to engage in any other activities, of course. Keitel, by the way, was killed in the Battle of Britain.’
‘Did they have a code-name?’
Ilse, who had been sitting quietly, produced another sheet from the file. ‘Falcon. He was to be alerted by the message: “Does the Falcon still wait? It is now time to strike.”’
Devlin said, ‘So there they were. Waiting for the great day, the invasion that never came. And what’s the situation now, I wonder?’
‘As it happens, there is some further information available,’ Ilse told him. ‘We have an article here which appeared in an American magazine.’ She checked the date. ‘March nineteen forty-three. The British Fascist Movement, it’s called. The journalist got an interview with Shaw and his sister. There’s a photo.’
Lavinia was sitting on a horse, a scarf around her head and was far more attractive than Devlin had expected. Shaw stood beside her, a shotgun under his arm.
Schellenberg read the article quickly and passed it to Devlin. ‘Rather sad. You’ll see there that like most of his kind he was detained without trial for a few months under Regulation 18B in nineteen forty.’
‘Brixton Prison? That must have been a shock,’ Devlin said.
‘The rest is even more sad. The estate sold off, no servants. Just the two of them hanging on in that decaying old house,’ Schellenberg said. ‘It could be perfect, you know. Come and have a look at a map of the Channel.’ They went to the map table. ‘Here. Cap de la Hague and Chernay. Used to be a flying club. It’s used as a landing strip for emergencies only by the Luftwaffe. Refuelling, that sort of thing. Only half a dozen men there. It’s perfect for our purposes because it’s only some thirty miles from the Château dc Belle Ile where the Führer’s conference takes place.’
‘How far to our friends in Romney Marsh?’
‘One hundred and fifty miles, most of it over the sea.’
‘Fine,’ Devlin said. ‘Except for one thing. Would the Shaws be willing to be activated?’
‘Couldn’t Vargas find out?’
‘Vargas could drop the lot of us, as I told you. This would be exactly what British Intelligence wanted. The chance to pull in everyone they could.’ Devlin shook his head. ‘No, the Shaws will have to wait till I get there, just like everything else. If they’ll do it, then we’re in business.’
‘But how will you communicate?’ Ilse demanded.
‘They may still have that radio and I can handle one of those things. When the Abwehr recruited me to go to Ireland in forty-one I did the usual radio and Morse code course.’
‘And if they haven’t?’
Devlin laughed. ‘Then I’ll beg, borrow or steal one. Jesus, General, you worry too much.’
Shaw saw a rabbit, flung his shotgun up to his shoulder already too late and missed. He cursed, took a flask from his pocket and drank. Nell whined, gazing up at him anxiously. The reeds here were as high as a man, water gurgling in the creeks, running towards the sea. It was a scene of complete desolation, the sky black, swollen with rain. As it started to fall, Lavinia appeared on horseback, galloping along a dyke towards him.
She reined in. ‘Hello, my darling. I heard your shot.’
‘Can’t hit a brick wall these days, old girl.’ He put the flask to his lips then gestured dramatically. ‘Look at it – a dead world, Lavinia, everything bloody dead, including me. If only something would happen – anything,’ and he raised the flask to his lips again.
Asa Vaughan closed the file and looked up. Schellenberg leaned across the desk and offered him a cigarette. ‘What do you think?’
‘Why me?’
‘Because they tell me you’re a great pilot who can fly anything.’
‘Flattery usually gets you everywhere, General, but let’s examine this. When I was, shall we say, inducted into the SS, the deal was that I only operated against the Russians. It was made clear to me that I wouldn’t have to take part in any act detrimental to my country’s cause.’
Devlin, sitting by the window, laughed harshly. ‘What a load of old bollocks, son. If you believed that, then you’d believe any old thing. They had you by your short and curlies the minute they got you into that uniform.’
‘I’m afraid he’s right, Captain,’ Schellenberg said. ‘You wouldn’t get very far with the Reichsführer with that argument.’
‘I can imagine,’ Asa said, and an expression of gloom settled on his face.
‘What’s your problem?’ Devlin demanded. ‘Where would you rather be? Back on the Eastern Front or here? And you’ve no choice. Say no and that old sod Himmler will have you in a concentration camp.’
‘Sounds like no contest, except for one small point,’ Asa told him. ‘I end up getting caught in England in this uniform, I’ll get the fastest court martial in American history and a firing squad.’
‘No you won’t, my old son,’ Devlin said. ‘They’ll hang you. Now the flight. Do you reckon you could make it in?’
‘No reason why not. If I am going to do it, I’d need to know the English Channel approach backwards. From what I can see I’d stay over the water for almost the whole trip. Turn inland for the last few miles.’
‘Exactly,’ Schellenberg said.
‘This house, Shaw Place. It would mean a night landing. Even with a moon I’d need some sort of guidance.’ He nodded, thinking about it. ‘When I was a kid in California my flying instructor was a guy who had flown with the Lafayette Escadrille in France. I remember him telling me how in those days, things being more primitive, they often used a few cycle lamps arranged in an inverted L-shape with the crossbar at the upwind end.’
‘Simple enough,’ Devlin said.
‘And the plane. It would have to be small. Something like a Fieseler Stork.’
‘Yes well, I’m hoping that’s taken care of,’ Schellenberg said. ‘I’ve spoken to the officer in command of the Enemy Aircraft Flight. They are at Hildorf. It’s a couple of hours’ drive from Berlin, and they’re expecting us in the morning. He thinks he’s found us a suitable plane.’
‘Guess that’s it.’ Asa got up. ‘What happens now?’
‘We eat, son,’ Devlin told him. ‘The best the black market can offer. Then you come back to Frau Huber’s apartment with me where we’ll share the spare room. Don’t worry, it’s got twin beds.’
The chapel at St Mary’s Priory of the Little Sisters of Pity was cold and damp and smelled of candlegrease and incense. In the confession box, Father Frank Martin waited until the sister whose confession he had heard was gone. He switched off the lights and went out.
He was priest in charge at St Patrick’s two streets away and with St Patrick’s came the job of father confessor to the Priory. He was seventy-six, a small, frail man with very white hair. If it hadn’t been for the war, they’d have retired him, but it was like everything else these days, all hands to the pumps.
He went into the sacristy, removed his alb and carefully folded his violet stole. He reached for his raincoat, debating the virtues of an early night, but compassion and Christian charity won the day as usual. Eighteen patien
ts at the moment, seven of them terminal. A last round of the rooms wouldn’t come amiss. He hadn’t visited since early afternoon and that wasn’t good enough.
He went out of the chapel and saw the Mother Superior, Sister Maria Palmer, mopping the floor, a menial task designed to remind herself of what she saw as her greatest weakness: the sin of pride.
Father Martin paused and shook his head. ‘You are too hard on yourself.’
‘Not hard enough,’ she said. ‘I’m glad to see you. There’s been a development since you were here earlier. They’ve given us a German prisoner of war again.’
‘Really?’ They walked out of the chapel into the entrance hall.
‘Yes, a Luftwaffe officer, recently wounded, but well on the way to recovery. A Colonel Kurt Steiner. They’ve put him on the top floor like the other ones we’ve had.’
‘What about guards?’
‘Half a dozen military police. There’s a young second lieutenant called Benson in charge.’
At that moment Jack Carter and Dougal Munro came down the main staircase. Sister Maria Palmer said, ‘Is everything satisfactory, Brigadier?’
‘Perfectly,’ Munro said. ‘We’ll try to inconvenience you as little as possible.’
‘There is no inconvenience,’ she said. ‘This, by the way, is Father Martin, our priest.’
‘Father,’ he said and turned to Carter. ‘I’ll be off now, Jack. Don’t forget to get a doctor in to check him over.’
Sister Maria Palmer said, ‘Perhaps it was not made clear to you that I am a doctor, Brigadier. Whatever Colonel Steiner’s requirements are I’m sure we can take care of them. In fact now that you’re finished, I’ll visit him to make sure he’s settled in properly.’
Jack Carter said, ‘Well actually, Sister, I’m not too sure about that.’
‘Captain Carter, let me remind you that this Priory, of which I am in charge, is not only a house of God, it is a place where we attend to the sick and the dying. I have seen Colonel Steiner’s medical record and note that it’s only been a matter of weeks since he was gravely wounded. He will need my attention and as I note from his record that he is also a Roman Catholic by religion, he may also need the ministrations of Father Martin here.’
‘Quite right, Sister,’ Munro said. ‘See to it, Jack, will you?’
He went out and Carter turned and led the way up the stairs. There was a door at the top, heavily studded and banded with steel. An MP sat at a small table beside it.
‘Open up,’ Carter told him. The MP knocked on the door which was opened after a moment by another MP. They passed inside. Carter said, ‘We’re using the other rooms as billets for the men.’
‘So I see,’ Sister Maria Palmer said.
The door to the first room stood open. There was a small desk beside a narrow bed and the young lieutenant, Benson, sat at it. He jumped to his feet. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘Sister and Father Martin have access whenever they require it. Brigadier Munro’s orders. We’ll talk to the prisoner now.’
There was another MP sitting on a chair outside the room at the far end where the passage ran into a blank wall.
‘God help us, you’re guarding this man well enough,’ Father Martin said.
Benson unlocked the door and Steiner, standing by the window, turned to greet them, an impressive figure in the blue-grey Luftwaffe uniform, the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves at his throat, his other medals making a brave show.
Carter said, ‘This is the Mother Superior, Sister Maria Palmer. You didn’t get a chance to speak earlier. And Father Martin.’
Sister Maria Palmer said, ‘Tomorrow, I’ll have you down to the dispensary for a thorough check, Colonel.’
‘Is that all right, sir?’ Benson asked.
‘For goodness’ sake, bring him down yourself, Lieutenant, surround him with all your men, but if he’s not in the dispensary at ten, we’ll have words,’ she told him.
‘No problem,’ Carter said. ‘See to it, Benson. Anything else, Sister?’
‘No, that will do for tonight.’
Father Martin said, ‘I’d like a word with the Colonel in private, if you wouldn’t mind.’
Carter nodded and turned to Steiner. ‘I’ll check on you from time to time.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
They all went out except for Father Martin who closed the door and sat on the bed. ‘My son, you’ve had a bad time, I can see it in your face. When were you last at Mass?’
‘So long ago I can’t remember. The war, Father, tends to get in the way.’
‘No confession either? A long time since you were able to ease the burden of your sins.’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Steiner smiled, warming to the man. ‘I know you mean well, Father.’
‘Good heavens, man, I’m not concerned with you and me. I’m interested only in you and God.’ Father Martin got up. ‘I’ll pray for you, my son, and I’ll visit every day. The moment you feel the need for confession and the Mass, tell me and I’ll arrange for you to join us in the chapel.’
‘I’m afraid Lieutenant Benson would insist on coming too,’ Steiner said.
‘Now wouldn’t that do his immortal soul some good too?’ The old priest chuckled and went out.
Asa Vaughan sat at the dining table in the living room at Ilse Huber’s apartment, Devlin opposite him.
‘You really think this thing can work?’ the American asked.
‘Anything will as long as the engine keeps ticking over, isn’t that a fact?’
Asa got up and paced restlessly across the room. ‘What in the hell am I doing here? Can you understand? Everything kind of overtook me. It just happened. I don’t seem to have had a choice. Don’t now, when it comes right down to it.’
‘Of course you do,’ Devlin said. ‘You go through with it, fly the plane to England, land and give yourself up.’
‘And what good would that do? They’d never believe me, Devlin.’ There was a kind of horror on his face when he added, ‘Come to think of it, they never will.’
‘Then you’d better hope Adolf wins the war,’ Devlin said.
But the following morning, at the air base at Hildorf, the American seemed in much better spirits as Major Koenig, the officer commanding the Enemy Aircraft Flight, showed them round. He seemed to have examples of most Allied planes. There was a B17, a Lancaster bomber, a Hurricane, a Mustang, all bearing Luftwaffe insignia.
‘Now this is what I thought might suit your purposes,’ he said. ‘Here in the end hangar.’
The plane standing there was a high wing-braced monoplane with a single engine and a wingspan of more than fifty feet.
‘Very nice,’ Asa said. ‘What is it?’
‘A Westland Lysander. Has a maximum speed of two hundred and thirty at ten thousand feet. Short landing and take-off. Only needs two hundred and forty yards fully loaded.’
‘That means you could make the flight in under an hour,’ Schellenberg said to Asa.
Asa ignored him. ‘Passengers?’
‘How many are you thinking of?’ Koenig asked.
‘Two.’
‘Perfect comfort. Can manage three. Even four at a pinch.’ He turned to Schellenberg. ‘I thought of it at once when you made your enquiries. We picked this up in France last month. It was RAF. The pilot caught a bullet in the chest when attacked by a JU night-fighter. Managed to land and collapsed before he could destroy it. These planes are used by British Intelligence for covert operations. They operate with the French Resistance movement, ferrying agents across from England, taking others out. This is the perfect plane for such work.’
‘Good – then it’s mine,’ Schellenberg said.
‘But General – ’ Koenig began.
Schellenberg took the Führer Directive from his pocket. ‘Read that.’
Koenig did and returned it, positively clicking his heels. ‘At your orders, General.’
Schellenberg turned to Asa. ‘So, what are your requirements?’
>
‘Well, obviously I’ll want to try her out. Get used to the thing, though I don’t think that should be a problem.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, I’ll want the RAF roundels back in place for the flight into England. But I’d like that to be temporary. Some sort of canvas covers that can be stripped so that I’m Luftwaffe again for the trip back.’
‘Easily taken care of,’ Koenig said.
‘Excellent,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘Hauptsturmführer Vaughan will remain and test-fly the plane now and as much as he wants for the rest of the day. After that you will do whatever work is needed and have the aircraft delivered at the weekend, to the destination in France that my secretary will notify you of.’
‘Certainly, General,’ Koenig said.
Schellenberg turned to Asa. ‘Enjoy yourself while you can. I’ve arranged to borrow a Fieseler Stork from the Luftwaffe. We’ll fly down to Chernay and inspect the airstrip tomorrow. I’d also like to have a look at this Château de Belle Ile while we’re there.’
‘And you want me to do the flying?’ Asa said.
‘Don’t worry, son, we have every confidence in you,’ Devlin told him as he and Schellenberg went out.
In London, Dougal Munro was working at his desk when Jack Carter came in.
‘What is it, Jack?’
‘I’ve had a medical report from Sister Maria Palmer, sir, on Steiner.’
‘What’s her opinion?’
‘He’s still not a hundred per cent. Some residual infection. She asked me to help her get hold of some of this new wonder drug, penicillin. Apparently it cures just about everything, but it’s in short supply.’
‘Then get it for her, Jack, get it.’
‘Very well, sir. I’m sure I can.’
He hesitated at the door and Munro said impatiently, ‘For God’s sake, what is it, Jack? I’m up to my ears in work here, not least amongst my worries being a meeting at three of Headquarters staff at SHAEF presided over by General Eisenhower himself.’
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