Eagle Has Flown, The

by Higgins, Jack

  ‘Well, it’s the Steiner thing, sir. I mean, here he is, installed at the Priory. What happens now?’

  ‘Liam Devlin, if it is Devlin they choose, is hardly going to parachute into the courtyard at St Mary’s Priory tomorrow night, Jack, and if he did, so what? The only way we could guard Steiner any closer is by having an MP share his bed and that would never do.’

  ‘So we just wait, sir?’

  ‘Of course we do. If they intend to have a go, it’ll take weeks to organize, but that doesn’t matter. After all, we have Vargas in our pocket. Anything happens and we’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  As Carter opened the door Munro added, ‘We’ve got all the time in the world, Jack. So has Steiner.’

  When Steiner went into the chapel that evening he was escorted by Lieutenant Benson and a police corporal. The chapel was cold and damp, slightly eerie with the candles down at the altar and the ruby light of the sanctuary lamp. Instinctively he dipped his fingers in the holy water, a kind of regression to childhood, and went and sat on the end of a bench beside two nuns and waited his turn. The Mother Superior emerged from the confessional box, smiled at him and passed on. One of the nuns went in. After a while she came out and was replaced by the other.

  When it came to Steiner’s turn, he went in and sat down, finding the darkness surprisingly comforting. He hesitated and then that ghost from childhood rose again and he said, almost automatically, ‘Bless me, Father.’

  Father Martin knew it was him of course, had to. He said, ‘May the Lord Jesus bless you and help you tell your sins.’

  ‘Dammit, Father,’ Steiner exploded, ‘I don’t even know why I’m here. Maybe I just wanted to get out of that room.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure God will forgive you that, my son.’ Steiner had an insane desire to laugh. The old man said, ‘Is there anything you want to say to me? Anything?’

  And suddenly Steiner found himself saying, ‘My father. They butchered my father. Hung him up on a hook like a piece of meat.’

  ‘Who did this thing, my son?’

  ‘The Gestapo – the bloody Gestapo.’ Steiner could hardly breathe, his throat dry, eyes hot. ‘Hate, that’s all I feel, and revenge. I want revenge. Now what good is that to a man like you, Father? Am I not guilty of a very great sin?’

  Father Martin said quietly, ‘May our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you, and I, by his authority, absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit.’

  ‘But Father, you don’t understand,’ Kurt Steiner said. ‘I can’t pray any more.’

  ‘That’s all right, my son,’ Father Martin told him. ‘I’ll pray for you.’

  7

  The flight from Berlin to Cap de la Hague took just over three hours, Asa charting a course that took them over parts of occupied Holland, Belgium and then France. They came in to Chernay from the sea. It was a desolate-looking little place. Not even a control tower, just a grass runway, with a wind-sock at one end, three old pre-war hangars and several huts that looked like a Luftwaffe addition. There was also a fuel dump.

  Asa raised them on the radio. ‘Stork as expected from Gatow.’

  A voice said, ‘Chernay control. Permission to land granted. Wind south-east strength three-to-four and freshening.’

  ‘Takes himself seriously,’ Asa said over his shoulder. ‘Here we go.’

  He made a perfect landing and taxied towards the hangars where half a dozen men waited in Luftwaffe overalls. As Schellenberg and Devlin got out, a sergeant emerged from the hut with the radio mast, and hurried towards them.

  He took in Schellenberg’s uniform and got his heels together. ‘General.’

  ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Leber, General. Flight Sergeant.’

  ‘And you are in charge here?’

  ‘Yes, General.’

  ‘Read this.’ Schellenberg handed him the Führer Directive. ‘You and your men are now under my command. A matter of the utmost importance to the Reich.’

  Leber got his heels together again, handed the letter back. ‘At your orders, General.’

  ‘Hauptsturmführer Vaughan will be making a hazardous and highly secret flight across the English Channel. The aircraft he will use is an unusual one. You’ll see that for yourself when it’s delivered.’

  ‘And our duties, General?’

  ‘I’ll inform you later. Is your radio receiving equipment up to scratch?’

  ‘Oh, yes, General, the best the Luftwaffe can offer. Sometimes aircraft returning across the Channel are in a bad way. We have to be able to talk them in when necessary.’

  ‘Good.’ Schellenberg nodded. ‘Do you happen to know a place called Château de Belle Ile? According to the map it’s about thirty miles from here in the general direction of Carentan.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, General.’

  ‘Never mind. We’ll manage. Now find us a Kubelwagen.’

  ‘Certainly, General. May I ask if you’ll be spending the night?’

  Schellenberg glanced around at the desolate landscape. ‘Well I’d prefer not to, Sergeant, but one never knows. Have the Stork refuelled and made ready for the return trip.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Devlin said, as Leber led them towards a field car parked outside the radio hut. ‘Would you look at this place? What a lousy posting. I wonder they can put up with it.’

  ‘Better than Russia,’ Asa Vaughan said.

  Asa drove, Devlin beside him, Schellenberg in the rear, a map spread across his knee. ‘Here it is. The road south from Cherbourg goes to Carentan. It’s off there somewhere on the coast.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it make more sense to land at the Luftwaffe base at Cherbourg?’ Asa asked.

  ‘As the Führer will when he comes?’ Schellenberg shook his head. ‘I prefer to keep our heads down for the moment. We don’t need to go through Cherbourg at all. There’s a network of country roads south that cut across to the coast. Thirty miles, thirty-five at the most.’

  ‘What’s the purpose of this little trip anyway?’ Devlin asked him.

  ‘This Belle Ile place intrigues me. I’d like to see what we’ve got there as long as we’re in the neighbourhood.’ He shrugged.

  Devlin said, ‘I was wondering – does the Reichsführer know we’re here?’

  ‘He knows about our flight to Chernay or he will soon. He likes a regular report.’

  ‘Ah, yes, General, that’s one thing, but this Belle Ile place would be another.’

  ‘You could say that, Mr Devlin, you could.’

  ‘Sweet Mother of God, what a fox you are,’ Devlin said. ‘I pity the huntsman when you’re around.’

  Many of the country lanes were so narrow that it would not have been possible for two vehicles to pass each other, but after half an hour, they cut into the main road that ran south from Cherbourg to Carentan. It was here that Schellenberg had trouble with his map and then they had a stroke of luck, a sign at the side of the road outside the village of St Aubin that said 12th Parachute Detachment. There was a spread of farm buildings visible beyond the trees.

  ‘Let’s try here,’ Schellenberg said and Asa turned off the road.

  The men in the farmyard were all Fallschirmjäger, hard young men, old before their time with cropped hair. Most of them wore camouflaged smocks and jump boots. A number sat on benches against the wall, cleaning weapons. A couple worked on the engine of a troop carrier. They glanced up curiously as the Kubelwagen arrived, rising to their feet when they saw Schellenberg’s uniform.

  ‘That’s all right, carry on with what you’re doing,’ he said.

  A young captain emerged from the farmhouse. He had the Iron Cross First and Second Class, the cuff-titles for Crete and the Afrika Korps. He also had a Winter War ribbon, a tough, hard-faced young man.

  ‘You are in charge here?’ Schellenberg asked.

  ‘Yes, General. Hauptmann Erich Kramer. In what way may I help you?’

  ‘We’re looking for a place called
Château de Belle Ile,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘Very well. About ten miles east of here on the coast. Let me show you on my area map.’

  They followed him into the farmhouse. The living room was fitted as a command post with radio and large-scale maps on the wall. The back road to Belle Ile was plain enough.

  ‘Excellent,’ Schellenberg said. ‘Tell me something. What’s your unit’s purpose here?’

  ‘Security duties, General. We patrol the area, try to keep the French Resistance in place.’

  ‘Do you get much trouble from them?’

  ‘Not really,’ Kramer laughed. ‘I only have thirty-five men left in this unit. We were lucky to get out of Stalingrad. This is a rest cure for us.’

  They went outside and as they got back into the Kubelwagen Devlin said, ‘Crete and the Afrika Korps, I see, and Stalingrad. Did you know Steiner?’

  Even the men cleaning their weapons looked up at the mention of the name. Kramer said, ‘Oberst Kurt Steiner? Who doesn’t in our line of work. A legend in the Parachute Regiment.’

  ‘You’ve met him then?’

  ‘Several times. You know him?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  Kramer said, ‘We heard a rumour he was dead.’

  ‘Ah, well, you mustn’t believe everything you hear,’ Devlin told him.

  ‘Captain.’ Schellenberg returned his salute as Asa drove away.

  ‘Dear God,’ Devlin said, ‘I sometimes wonder why Steiner doesn’t make his own way back across the Channel, walking on water.’

  Belle Ile was quite spectacular, a castle crowning a hill beside the sea, a vast estuary stretching beyond it, sand where the tide had just retreated. Asa took the Kubelwagen up the single winding road. There was a narrow bridge across a gap that was more ravine than moat. Two great doors stood open in an arched entrance and they came out into a cobbled courtyard. Asa braked at the foot of broad steps leading up to the front entrance, walls and towers rising above them.

  They got out and Schellenberg led the way. The door was of oak, buckled with age and studded with rusting iron bolts and bands of steel. There was a bell hanging from the wall beside it. Schellenberg pulled the chain and the jangling echoed around the courtyard, bouncing from the walls.

  ‘Jesus,’ Devlin said, ‘all we need is Quasimodo.’

  A moment later the door creaked open and he appeared, or a fair facsimile, a very old man with grey hair down to his shoulders, a black dresscoat of velvet that had seen better days, a pair of very baggy corduroy trousers beneath of the type worn by peasants on the farm.

  His face was wrinkled and he badly needed a shave. ‘Yes, messieurs?’ he said in French. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You are the caretaker?’ Schellenberg asked.

  ‘Yes, monsieur. Pierre Dissard.’

  ‘You live here with your wife?’

  ‘When she is here, monsieur. At present she is with her niece in Cherbourg.’

  Devlin said to Asa, ‘Are you getting all this?’

  ‘Not a word. I don’t speak French.’

  ‘I suppose you spent all your time playing football. The General and I, on the other hand, being men of intellect and learning, can understand everything the old bugger is saying. I’ll translate freely when necessary.’

  Schellenberg said, ‘I wish to inspect the premises.’

  He walked past Dissard into a great entrance hall, flagged in granite, a carpet here and there. There was an enormous fireplace to one side and a staircase to the first floor wide enough to take a regiment.

  ‘You are of the SS, monsieur?’ Dissard asked.

  ‘I should think that was obvious,’ Schellenberg told him.

  ‘But the premises have already been inspected, monsieur, the other day. An officer in a similar uniform to your own.’

  ‘Do you recall his name?’

  ‘He said he was a major.’ The old man frowned, trying. ‘His face was bad on one side.’

  Schellenberg said calmly, ‘Berger? Was that his name?’

  Dissard nodded eagerly. ‘That’s it, monsieur, Major Berger. His French was very bad.’

  Asa said, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘He’s telling us someone’s been here before us. An SS major named Berger,’ Devlin said.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Oh, intimately, particularly his nose, but I’ll explain later.’

  Schellenberg said, ‘Then you are aware that these premises are required in the near future. I would appreciate a conducted tour.’

  ‘The Château has been closed since nineteen forty, monsieur. My master, the Comte de Beaumont, went to England to fight the Boche.’

  ‘Really?’ Schellenberg said drily. ‘So, let’s get on with it. We’ll go upstairs and work down.’

  The old man looked up the staircase in front of them. There were innumerable bedrooms, some with four-posters, the furniture draped in sheets, two doors leading to separate wings so long disused that the dust lay thick on the floor.

  ‘Mother of God, is this the way the rich live?’ Devlin asked as they went down. ‘Have you seen how far it is to the bathroom?’

  Schellenberg noticed a door at one end of the landing above the entrance. ‘What’s through there?’

  ‘I’ll show you, monsieur. Another way into the dining hall.’

  They found themselves in a long dark gallery above a massive room. The ceiling had arched oaken beams. Below was a massive fireplace in a medieval pattern. In front of it was an enormous oak table surrounded by high-backed chairs. Battle standards hung above the fireplace.

  They went down the stairs and Schellenberg said, ‘What are the flags?’

  ‘Souvenirs of war, monsieur. The de Beaumonts have always served France well. See, in the centre there, the standard in scarlet and gold. An ancestor of the count carried that at Waterloo.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Devlin commented. ‘I always thought they lost that one.’

  Schellenberg looked around the hall, then led the way out through high oak doors back into the entrance hall.

  ‘I have seen enough. What did Major Berger say to you?’

  ‘That he would be back, monsieur.’ The old man shrugged. ‘One week, maybe two.’

  Schellenberg put a hand on his shoulder. ‘No one must know we have been here, my friend, especially Major Berger.’

  ‘Monsieur?’ Dissard looked puzzled.

  Schellenberg said, ‘This is a matter of the greatest secrecy and of considerable importance.’

  ‘I understand, monsieur.’

  ‘If the fact that we had been here came out, the source of the information would be obvious.’ He patted Dissard’s desk with his gloved hand. ‘This would be bad for you.’

  The old man was thoroughly frightened. ‘Monsieur – please. Not a word. I swear it.’

  They went out to the Kubelwagen and drove away. Devlin said, ‘Walter, you can be a cold-blooded bastard when you want to be.’

  ‘Only when necessary.’ Schellenberg turned to Asa. ‘Can we get back to Berlin tonight?’

  The light was already fading, dark clouds dropping towards the sea and rain drifted in across the wet sands.

  ‘Possible,’ Asa said. ‘If we’re lucky. We might have to overnight at Chernay. Get off first thing in the morning.’

  Devlin said, ‘What a prospect.’ He pulled up the collar of his overcoat and lit a cigarette. ‘The glamour of war.’

  On the following afternoon, Devlin was delivered to the UFA film studios for his appointment with the chief makeup artist. Karl Schneider was in his late forties, a tall broad-shouldered man who looked more like a dock worker than anything else.

  He examined a passport-type photo which Devlin had had taken. ‘You say this is what they’ve got on the other side?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘It’s not much, not for a policeman looking for a face in the crowd. When would you be going?’

  Devlin made the
decision then for himseif, for Schellenberg, for all of them. ‘Let’s say two or three days from now.’

  ‘And how long would you be away?’

  ‘Ten days at the most. Can you do anything?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Schneider nodded. ‘One can change the shape of the face by wearing cheek pads in the mouth and all that sort of thing, but I don’t think it’s necessary for you. You don’t carry a lot of weight, my friend, not much flesh on your bones.’

  ‘All down to bad living,’ Devlin said.

  Schneider ignored the joke. ‘Your hair – dark and wavy and you wear it long. I think the key is what I do to the hair. What role do you intend to play?’

  ‘A priest. Ex-Army chaplain. Invalided out.’

  ‘Yes, the hair.’ Schneider draped a sheet about his shoulders and reached for a pair of scissors.

  By the time he was finished, Devlin’s hair was cropped close to the skull.

  ‘Jesus, is that me?’

  ‘That’s only a start. Let’s have you over the basin.’ Schneider washed the hair then rubbed some chemical in. ‘I’ve worked with the best actors. Marlene Dietrich before she cleared out. Now she had marvellous hair. Oh, and there was Conrad Veidt. What a wonderful actor. Chased out by these Nazi bastards and he ends up, so I’m told, playing Nazi bastards in Hollywood.’

  ‘A strange old life.’ Devlin kept his eyes closed and let him get on with it.

  He hardly recognized the face that stared out at him. The close-cropped hair was quite grey now, accentuating the cheekbones, putting ten or twelve years on his age.

  ‘That’s bloody marvellous.’

  ‘One more touch.’ Schneider rummaged in his make-up case, took out several pairs of spectacles and examined them. ‘Yes, these, I think. Clear glass, naturally.’ He placed a pair of steel-rimmed glasses on Devlin’s nose and adjusted them. ‘Yes, excellent. I’m pleased with myself.’

  ‘God help me, but I look like Himmler,’ Devlin said. ‘Will it last, the hair, I mean?’

  ‘A fortnight and you said you’d be away ten days at the most.’ Schneider produced a small plastic bottle. ‘A rinse with this would keep things going, but not for long.’

  ‘No,’ Devlin told him. ‘I said ten days and I meant it. It’s all one in the end anyway. Any longer and I’ll be dead.’