‘I know it well. Take about thirty minutes. Ten o’clock you said.’
‘I’d like to be there earlier. To review the situation, if you follow me.’
‘Leave at nine then. You’ll be back from the Priory before, surely.’
‘I would think so.’ Devlin lit a cigarette. ‘I can’t go down to Shaw Place in your taxi, Michael. A London cab would definitely look out of place in Romney Marsh. This Ford van of yours. Is it in running order?’
‘Yes. As I said, I use it now and then.’
‘One very important point,’ Devlin said. ‘When I get Steiner out, we move and move fast. Two hours to Shaw Place, the plane waiting and out of it before the authorities know what’s hit them. I’ll need the van that night and it would be a one-way trip. It wouldn’t be a good idea for you to try and get it back.’
Ryan smiled. ‘I took it as payment for a bad debt from a dealer in Brixton two years ago. The log book’s so crooked it’s a joke and so is the number plate. No way could it be traced back to me and it’s in good order. You know me and engines. They’re my hobby.’
‘Ah, well, a bob or two extra for you for that,’ Devlin said and got up. ‘I’ll go and make my peace with your niece now.’
She was sitting under the awning in the boat reading again as he went down the steps.
‘What is it this time?’ he said.
‘The Midnight Court,’ she told him reluctantly.
‘In English or Irish?’
‘I don’t have the Irish.’
‘The great pity. I used to be able to recite the whole of it in Irish. My uncle gave me a Bible for doing that. He was a priest.’
‘I wonder what he’d say about what you’re doing this evening,’ she said.
‘Oh, I know very well,’ Devlin told her. ‘He’d forgive me,’ and he went back up the steps.
Devlin sat in the box in uniform, just a violet stole about his neck and listened patiently to four nuns and two male patients as they confessed their sins. It was nothing very dreadful that he heard. Sins of omission in the main, or matters so petty they were hardly worth a thought, and yet they were to those anonymous people talking to him on the other side of the grill. He honestly did the best he could, tried to say the right thing, but it was an effort. His last client departed. He sat there in the silence and then the chapel door opened and he heard the ring of Army boots on the stone floor.
The confessional box door opened and closed. From the darkness Steiner said, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
‘Not as much as I have, Colonel.’ Devlin switched on his light and smiled through the grill at him.
‘Mr Devlin,’ Steiner said. ‘What have they done to you?’
‘A few changes, just to put the hounds off.’ Devlin ran his hands through his grey hair. ‘How have you been?’
‘Never mind that. The British were hoping you would turn up. I was interviewed by a Brigadier Munro of Special Operations Executive. He told me they’d made sure my presence in London was known in Berlin by passing the information through a man at the Spanish Embassy called Vargas. He works for them.’
‘I knew it,’ Devlin said. ‘The bastard.’
‘They told me two things. That General Walter Schellenberg was in charge of organizing my escape and that they expected him to use you. They’re waiting for you, hoping you’ll show up.’
‘Yes, but I allowed for British Intelligence handling it the way they have. Vargas is still getting messages asking for more information. They will be thinking I’m still in Berlin.’
‘Good God!’ Steiner said.
‘How many MPs escort you down here?’
‘Two. Usually, Benson the Lieutenant, but he’s on leave.’
‘Right. I’m going to have you out of here in the next two or three days. We’ll exit through the crypt. It’s pretty well organized. There’ll be a boat waiting on the river. After that a two-hour drive to a place where we’ll be picked up by plane from France.’
‘I see. Everything organized down to the last detail, just like Operation Eagle, and remember how that turned out.’
‘Ah, yes, but I’m in charge this time.’ Devlin smiled. ‘The evening we go you’ll come down to confession just like tonight. Usual time.’
‘How will I know?’
‘A fine view from your window and the steps down to the little beach by the Thames. Remember?’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘The day we decide to go, there’ll be a young girl standing by the wall at the top of those steps. She’ll be wearing a black beret and an old raincoat. She’ll be there at noon exactly so watch at noon each day and she has a strong limp, Colonel, very pronounced. You can’t miss her.’
‘So, I see her, then we go that evening?’ Steiner hesitated. ‘The MPs?’
‘A detail only.’ Devlin smiled. ‘Trust me. Now three Hail Marys and two Our Fathers and be off with you.’
He switched off the light. The door banged, there was a murmur of voices, the sound of boots again and the outer door opening and closing.
Devlin came out and moved towards the altar. ‘God forgive me,’ he murmured.
He checked that the bolt of the crypt door was still pulled back, then went into the sacristy, got his trenchcoat and left.
Ryan stood at the door as Devlin changed quickly from the uniform into dark slacks and sweater. He pulled up his right trouser leg and strapped the ankle holster to it, tucking his sock up around the end. He slipped the Smith & Wesson .38 into it and pulled down his trouser.
‘Just in case.’ He picked up the old leather jacket Ryan had loaned him and put it on. Then he opened his suitcase, took out a wad of fivers and put them in his inside pocket.
They went downstairs and found Mary sitting at the table reading again. ‘Is there any tea in the pot?’ Devlin asked.
‘A mouthful, I think. Are we going now?’ She poured the tea into a cup.
He opened the kitchen table drawer, took out the Luger, checked it and slipped it inside his jacket. ‘You’re not going anywhere, girl dear, not this time,’ he told her and swallowed his tea.
She started to protest, but her uncle shook his head. ‘He’s right, girl, it could get nasty. Best stay out of it.’
She watched, disconsolate, as they went down the steps to the boat and cast off. As Ryan started the engine, Devlin moved into the little wheelhouse beside him and lit a cigarette in cupped hands.
‘And the same applies to you, Michael,’ he said. ‘Stay out of it. My affair, not yours.’
Jack and Eric Carver arrived at Black Lion Dock at nine forty-five in a Humber limousine, George driving. The dock was almost completely dark except for the light over the main warehouse doors, shaded as requested by the blackout regulations. The sign on the warehouse said: ‘Carver Brothers – Export and Import’ and Jack Carver looked up at it with satisfaction as he got out of the car.
‘Very nice that. The sign writer did a good job.’
It was very quiet, the only sounds those of shipping on the river. Eric followed him and George limped round to the back of the car, opened the boot and took out the radio set in its wooden case painted olive green.
Carver turned to his brother. ‘All right, Eric, let’s get on with it.’
Eric unlocked the Judas gate in the main door, stepped inside and found the light switch. His brother and George followed him. The warehouse was stacked with packing cases of every kind. There was a table in the centre and a couple of chairs, obviously used by a shipping clerk.
‘Right, put it on the table.’ George did as he was told and Carver added, ‘You’ve got the shooter?’
George took a Walther PPK from one pocket, a silencer from the other and screwed it into place.
Carver lit a cigar. ‘Look at that, Eric, bloody marvellous. Just sounds like a cork popping.’
‘I can’t wait for that little bastard to get here,’ Eric said.
But Devlin had actually been there for some time, hidden in the
shadows at the rear of the building having gained access through an upstairs window. He watched George position himself behind a stack of packing cases, the Carver brothers sitting down at the table, then turned and slipped out the way he had come.
A couple of minutes later he approached the main door, whistling cheerfully, opened the Judas and went in. ‘God save all here,’ he called, and approached the table. ‘You got it then, Mr Carver?’
‘I told you. I can get anything. You didn’t mention your name last night, by the way.’
‘Churchill,’ Devlin said. ‘Winston.’
‘Very funny.’
Devlin opened the case. The radio fitted inside, head-phones, Morse tapper, aerials, everything. It looked brand new. He closed the lid again.
‘Satisfied?’ Carver asked.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then cash on the table.’
Devlin took the thousand pounds from his pocket and passed it over. ‘The hard man, eh, Mr Carver?’
‘Hard enough.’ Carver dropped the money back on the table. ‘Of course, we now come to the other matter.’
‘And what matter would that be?’
‘Your insulting treatment of my brother and your threats to me. IRA and Special Branch. I can’t have that. I’ve got a reputation to think of. You need chastising, my son.’ He blew cigar smoke in Devlin’s face. ‘George.’
George moved fast considering his damaged knee, had the Walther at the back of Devlin’s neck in a second. Eric reached inside the Irishman’s jacket and relieved him of the Luger. ‘Look at that, Jack. Cunning bastard.’
Devlin spread his arms. ‘All right, Mr Carver, so you’ve got me. What happens now?’
He walked across to a packing case, sat down and took out a cigarette. Carver said, ‘You’re a cool bastard, I’ll give you that.’
‘I’ll tell you what happens now,’ Eric said, taking a cut-throat razor from his pocket and opening it. ‘I’m going to slice your ears off, that’s what I’m going to do.’
‘While George holds the gun on me?’ Devlin asked.
‘That’s the general idea,’ Eric told him.
‘Only one problem with that,’ Devlin said. ‘That gun is a Walther PPK and you have to pull the slider back to put yourself in business and I don’t think George has done that.’
George pulled at the slider desperately, Devlin hitched up his trouser, yanked the Smith & Wesson from the ankle holster and fired, all in one smooth motion, drilling him through the upper arm so that he cried out and dropped the Walther.
Devlin picked it up. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Thanks very much.’ He pushed it into his waistband.
Carver sat there, a look of total disbelief on his face. Eric looked frightened to death as Devlin put first the money and then the Luger inside his leather jacket. He picked up the case containing the radio and walked away.
As he reached the door, he turned. ‘Jesus, Eric, I was forgetting. You said something about slicing my ears off?’
His arm swung up, he fired and Eric screamed as the lower half of his right ear disintegrated. He grabbed at it, blood spurting.
Devlin said, ‘A good job you don’t wear earrings.’
He stepped out and the Judas gate banged behind him.
Schellenberg was in his office when the door burst open and Ilse appeared. Asa Vaughan was at her shoulder, excitement on his face.
‘What on earth is it?’ Schellenberg demanded.
‘You must come to the radio room now. It’s Devlin, General, calling from London.’
The radio was open on the kitchen table, the aerials looped all the way round the walls. Ryan and Mary sat watching in fascination as Devlin tapped away in Morse code.
‘Jesus,’ he said, frowning. There was a little more action and then he stopped. ‘That’s it. Get the aerials down.’
Mary moved around the kitchen coiling up the wires. Ryan said, ‘Is every thing all right, Liam?’
‘All wrong, old son. We were supposed to try and be back in France for the twenty-first. Now they say the great occasion is on the fifteenth and as tonight is the twelfth, that doesn’t give us much time.’
‘Is it possible Liam?’
Devlin said, ‘First thing in the morning we’ll take a run down to Romney Marsh. See what the situation is at Shaw Place.’ He turned to Mary. ‘Would you like a day out in the country?’
‘It sounds just fine to me.’
‘Good, then I’ll give the Shaws a call and warn them to expect me.’
Back in his office Schellenberg sat at his desk, studying the message in front of him, Asa Vaughan and Ilse watching.
‘So, what do we know?’ Schellenberg said. ‘He’s there, at his IRA friend’s house, he’s made contact with Shaw and now with Steiner.’
‘Everything fits,’ Asa said.
‘Perhaps, but he can’t make the fifteenth. It would be impossible, even for Devlin.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder if anything is impossible to that guy,’ Asa said.
‘Stand by tomorrow,’ Schellenberg commented. ‘That was his final instruction. Well, we shall see.’ He stood up. ‘I doubt whether the canteen can run to champagne, but whatever they can manage is on me.’
11
South of the Thames, they took the road to Maidstone, Ryan driving, Devlin squeezed beside him. He wasn’t in uniform, but wore his trenchcoat over the clerical suit and dog collar, the black trilby slanted over one ear. Ryan had told him the truth. The Ford’s engine was in apple-pie order in spite of the vehicle’s rattletrap appearance.
‘You were right, Michael,’ Devlin said. ‘She’s a runner, this old van of yours.’
‘Sure and I could race her at Brooklands if they were still racing at Brooklands,’ Ryan grinned.
Mary was sitting in the back of the van reading a book as usual. ‘Are you all right back there?’ Devlin asked her.
‘I’m fine.’
‘We’ll stop for a cup of tea in a while.’
In Maidstone, Ryan drove round the centre of the town until he found a cycle shop. Devlin went in and bought half a dozen standard bicycle lamps with fresh batteries.
‘I’ve cleaned him out,’ he said when he returned. ‘Told him I wanted them for my church Scout troop. There’s no doubt about it, this collar comes in useful on occasion.’
‘And why would you want those?’ Mary asked.
‘An aeroplane coming in through the darkness at night is like a lost bird, girl dear. It needs a welcome. A little light on the situation, you might say.’
On the other side of Ashford they pulled in at the side of the road and Mary opened a Thermos flask and they had tea. There was a track leading to a little copse. It had stopped raining, but was still very damp. The sky was dark and threatening all the way to Romney Marsh and the sea in the distance. Mary and Devlin strolled along the track and stood under a tree, taking it all in.
He nodded at her book. ‘What this time?’
‘Poetry,’ she said. ‘Robert Browning. Do you like poetry?’
‘I had some published once. What’s called in the trade a slim volume.’ He laughed. ‘I could make the stuff up at the drop of a hat and then I realized one day just how bad it was.’
‘I don’t believe you. Make something up about me.’
He stuck a cigarette in his mouth. ‘All right.’ He thought for a moment then said: ‘Mystery girl, who are you? Hurrying nowhere in your tight skirt and frizzled hair, legs heavy with promise.’
There was a look of mischief on his face and she struck him lightly with her clenched fist. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘I warned you.’ He lit his cigarette. ‘Good poetry says it all for you in a few lines.’
‘All right, what would sum me up?’
‘Easy. “Now Voyager, sail thou forth to seek and find”.’
‘That’s marvellous,’ she said. ‘Did you write that?’
‘Not exactly. A Yankee fella called Walt Whitman thought of it first.’ It started to rai
n and he put a hand on her elbow. ‘But I wish I’d written it for you. Let’s get moving,’ and they hurried back to the van.
At the apartment over the Astoria Jack Carver was sitting at the table by the window having a late breakfast when Eric came in. His ear was heavily bandaged, tape running diagonally up across his forehead holding the dressing in place. He looked terrible.
‘How do you feel?’ Carver asked.
‘Shocking, Jack, the pain’s bloody awful. Aziz gave me some pills, but they don’t seem to have much effect.’
‘He tells me George is in a bad way. That bullet splintered the bone. He could be left with a permanently stiff arm, as well as the leg.’
Eric poured coffee, his hand shaking. ‘That little sod, Jack. We’ve got to get our hands on him. We’ve got to.’
‘We will, son,’ Jack said. ‘And then it’ll be our turn. I’ve put his description out all over London. He’ll turn up. Now drink your coffee and have something to eat.’
Using the road map, Ryan found Charbury easily enough and an enquiry at the little village store led them to Shaw Place. The great rusting iron gates at the end of the drive stood open. The drive, stretching towards the old house, had grass growing through the gravel.
‘This place has seen better days,’ Ryan commented.
Devlin stepped out, opened the van doors and got the radio and the bag of cycle lamps out. ‘You can leave me here,’ he said. ‘I’ll walk up to the house.’
‘What time shall we call back?’ Ryan asked.
‘Give me four hours and if I’m not here, just wait. Go and have a look at Rye or one of those places.’
‘Fine,’ Ryan said. ‘Take care, Liam,’ and he drove away.
Devlin picked up the case and started up the long drive. The house showed every evidence of lack of money. The long shutters at the windows badly needed a coat of paint, as did the front door. There was a bell pull. He gave it a heave and waited, but there was no response. After a while he picked up the case and went round to the rear of the house where there was a cobbled courtyard. One of the stable doors stood open and there were sounds of activity. He put the case down and looked in.
Lavinia Shaw wore riding breeches and boots, her hair bound in a scarf as she curried a large black stallion. Devlin put a cigarette in his mouth and snapped open his lighter. The sound startled her and she looked round.
Eagle Has Flown, The Page 16