Eagle Has Landed

by Jack Higgins

  I had reached the path when he called, ‘And don’t come back. If you do I shall call the local police without the slightest hesitation.’

  I went out through the lychgate, got into the Peugeot and drove away. His threats didn’t worry me. I was too excited for that, too intrigued. Everything about Studley Constable was intriguing. It was one of those places that seem to turn up in North Norfolk and nowhere else. The kind of village that you find by accident one day and can never find again, so that you begin to question whether it ever existed in the first place.

  Not that there was very much of it. The church, the old presbytery in its walled garden, fifteen or sixteen cottages of one kind or another scattered along the stream, the old mill with its massive water wheel, the village inn on the opposite side of the green, the Studley Arms.

  I pulled into the side of the road beside the stream, lit a cigarette and gave the whole thing a little quiet thought. Father Vereker was lying. He’d seen that stone before, he knew its significance, of that I was convinced. It was rather ironic when one thought about it. I’d come to Studley Constable by chance in search of Charles Gascoigne. Instead I’d discovered something vastly more intriguing, a genuine mystery. But what was I going to do about it, that was the thing?

  The solution presented itself to me almost instantly in the person of Laker Armsby, the sexton, who appeared from a narrow alley between two cottages. He was still splashed with mud, still had that old grain sack over his shoulders. He crossed the road and entered the Studley Arms and I got out of the Peugeot instantly and went after him.

  According to the plate over the entrance, the licencee was one George Henry Wilde. I opened the door and found myself in a stone-flagged corridor with panelled walls. A door to the left stood ajar and there was a murmur of voices, a burst of laughter.

  Inside, there was no bar, just a large, comfortable room with an open fire on a stone hearth, several high-backed benches, a couple of wooden tables. There were six or seven customers and none of them young. I’d have said that sixty was about the average age—a pattern that’s distressingly common in such rural areas these days.

  They were countrymen to the backbone, faces weathered by exposure, tweed caps, gumboots. Three played dominoes watched by two more, an old man sat by the fire playing a mouth-organ softly to himself. They all looked up to consider me with the kind of grave interest close-knit groups always have in strangers.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I said.

  Two or three nodded in a cheerful enough way, though one massively-built character with a black beard flecked with grey didn’t look too friendly. Laker Armsby was sitting at a table on his own, rolling a cigarette between his fingers laboriously, a glass of ale in front of him. He put the cigarette in his mouth and I moved to his side and offered him a light. ‘Hello, there.’

  He glanced up blankly and then his face cleared. ‘Oh, it’s you again. Did you find Father Vereker then?’

  I nodded. ‘Will you have another drink?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no.’ He emptied his glass in a couple of swallows. ‘A pint of brown ale would go down very nicely. Georgy!’

  I turned and found a short, stocky man in shirt-sleeves standing behind me, presumably the landlord, George Wilde. He seemed about the same age range as the others and was a reasonable enough looking man except for one unusual feature. At some time in his life he’d been shot in the face at close quarters. I’d seen enough gunshot wounds in my time to be certain of that. In his case the bullet had scoured a furrow in his left cheek, obviously taking bone with it as well. His luck was good.

  He smiled pleasantly. ‘And you, sir?’

  I told him I’d have a large vodka and tonic which brought amused looks from the farmers or whatever they were, but that didn’t particularly worry me as it happens to be the only alcohol I can drink with any kind of pleasure. Laker Armsby’s hand-rolled cigarette hadn’t lasted too long so I gave him one of mine which he accepted with alacrity. The drinks came and I pushed his ale across to him.

  ‘How long did you say you’d been sexton up at St Mary’s?’

  ‘Forty-one years.’

  He drained his pint glass. I said, ‘Here, have another and tell me about Steiner.’

  The mouth-organ stopped playing abruptly, all conversation died. Old Laker Armsby stared at me across the top of his glass, that look of sly cunning on his face again. ‘Steiner?’ he said. ‘Why, Steiner was …’

  George Wilde cut in, reached for the empty glass and ran a cloth over the table. ‘Right, sir, time please.’

  I looked at my watch. It was two-thirty. I said, ‘You’ve got it wrong. Another half-hour till closing time.’

  He picked up my glass of vodka and handed it to me. ‘This is a free house, sir, and in a quiet little village like this we generally do as we please without anybody getting too upset about it. If I say I’m closing at two-thirty then two-thirty it is.’ He smiled amiably. ‘I’d drink up if I were you, sir.’

  There was tension in the air that you could cut with a knife. They were all sitting looking at me, hard, flat faces, eyes like stones and the giant with the black beard moved across to the end of the table and leaned on it, glaring at me.

  ‘You heard him,’ he said in a low, dangerous voice. ‘Now drink up like a good boy and go home, wherever that is.’

  I didn’t argue because the atmosphere was getting worse by the minute. I drank my vodka and tonic, taking a certain amount of time over it, though whether to prove something to them or myself I’m not certain, then I left.

  Strange, but I wasn’t angry, just fascinated by the whole incredible affair and by now, of course, I was too far in to draw back. I had to have some answers and it occurred to me that there was a rather obvious way of getting them.

  I got into the Peugeot, turned over the bridge and drove up out of the village, passing the church and the presbytery, taking the road to Blakeney. A few hundred yards past the church, I turned the Peugeot into a cart track, left it there and walked back, taking a small Pentax camera with me from the glove compartment of the car.

  I wasn’t afraid. After all, on one famous occasion I’d been escorted from the Europa Hotel in Belfast to the airport by men with guns in their pockets who’d suggested I get the next plane out for the good of my health and not return. But I had and on several occasions; had even got a book out of it.

  When I went back into the churchyard I found the stone to Steiner and his men exactly as I’d left it. I checked the inscription once again just to make sure I wasn’t making a fool of myself, took several photos of it from different angles, then hurried to the church and went inside.

  There was a curtain across the base of the tower and I went behind it. Choirboys’ scarlet cottas and white surplices hung neatly on a rail, there was an old iron-bound trunk, several bell ropes trailed down through the gloom above and a board on the wall informed the world that on 22 July 1936, a peal of five thousand and fifty-eight changes of Bob Minor was rung at the church. I was interested to note that Laker Armsby was listed as one of the six bell-ringers involved.

  Even more interesting was a line of holes cutting across the board which had at some time been filled in with plaster and stained. They continued into the masonry, for all the world like a machine-gun burst, but that was really too outrageous.

  What I was after was the burial register and there was no sign of any kind of books or documents there. I went out through the curtain and almost instantly noticed the small door in the wall behind the font. It opened easily enough when I tried the handle and I stepped inside and found myself in what was very obviously the sacristy, a small, oak-panelled room. There was a rack containing a couple of cassocks, several surplices and copes, an oak cupboard and a large, old-fashioned desk.

  I tried the cupboard first and struck oil at once. Every kind of ledger possible was in there, stacked neatly on one of the shelves. There were three burial registers and 1943 was in the second one. I leafed through the pages qui
ckly, conscious at once of a feeling of enormous disappointment.

  There were two deaths entered during November 1943 and they were both women. I hurriedly worked my way back to the beginning of the year, which didn’t take very long, then closed the register and replaced it in the cupboard. So one very obvious avenue was closed to me. If Steiner, whoever he was, had been buried here, then he should have gone into the register. That was an incontrovertible point of English law. So what in the hell did it all mean?

  I opened the sacristy door and stepped out, closing it behind me. There were two of them there from the pub. George Wilde and the man with the black beard whom I was disturbed to notice carried a double-barrelled shotgun.

  Wilde said gently, ‘I did advise you to move on, sir, you must admit that. Now why weren’t you sensible?’

  The man with the black beard said, ‘What in the hell are we waiting for? Let’s get this over with.’

  He moved with astonishing speed for a man of such size and grabbed hold of the lapels of my trenchcoat. In the same moment the sacristy door opened behind me and Vereker stepped out. God knows where he’d come from, but I was distinctly pleased to see him.

  ‘What on earth’s going on here?’ he demanded.

  Blackbeard said, ‘You just leave this to us, Father, we’ll handle it.’

  ‘You’ll handle nothing, Arthur Seymour,’ Vereker said. ‘Now step back.’

  Seymour stared at him flatly, still hanging on to me. I could have cut him down to size in several different ways, but there didn’t seem a great deal of point.

  Vereker said again, ‘Seymour!’ and there was really iron in his voice this time.

  Seymour slowly released his grip and Vereker said, ‘Don’t come back again, Mr Higgins. It should be obvious to you by now that it wouldn’t be in your best interests.’

  ‘A good point.’

  I didn’t exactly expect a hue and cry, not after Vereker’s intervention, but it hardly seemed politic to hang around, so I hurried back to the car at a jog trot. Further consideration of the whole mysterious affair could come later.

  I turned into the cart track and found Laker Armsby sitting on the bonnet of the Peugeot rolling a cigarette. He stood up as I approached. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said. ‘You got away then?’

  There was that same look of low cunning on his face again. I took out my cigarettes and offered him one. ‘Do you want to know something?’ I said. ‘I don’t think you’re anything like as simple as you look.’

  He grinned slyly and puffed out smoke in a cloud into the rain. ‘How much?’

  I knew what he meant instantly, but for the moment, played him along. ‘What do you mean, how much?’

  ‘Is it worth to you. To know about Steiner.’

  He leaned back against the car looking at me, waiting, so I took out my wallet, extracted a five-pound note and held it up between my fingers. His eyes gleamed and he reached. I pulled back my hand.

  ‘Oh, no. Let’s have some answers first.’

  ‘All right, mister. What do you want to know?’

  ‘This Kurt Steiner—who was he?’

  He grinned, the eyes furtive again, that sly, cunning smile on his lips. ‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘He was the German lad who came here with his men to shoot Mr Churchill.’

  I was so astonished that I simply stood there staring at him. He snatched the fiver from my hand, turned and cleared off at a shambling trot.

  Some things in life are so enormous in their impact that they are almost impossible to take in, like a strange voice on the other end of a telephone telling you that someone you greatly loved has just died. Words become meaningless, the mind cuts itself off from reality for a little while, a necessary breathing space until one is ready to cope.

  Which is roughly the state I found myself in after Laker Armsby’s astonishing assertion. It wasn’t just that it was so incredible. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned in life it’s that if you say a thing is impossible, it will probably happen next week. The truth is that the implications, if what Armsby had said was true, were so enormous that for the moment, my mind was incapable of handling the idea.

  It was there. I was aware of its existence, but didn’t consciously think about it. I went back to the Blakeney Hotel, packed my bags, paid my bill and started home, the first stop in a journey which, although I didn’t realize it then, was to consume a year of my life. A year of hundreds of files, dozens of interviews, travelling halfway round the world. San Francisco, Singapore, the Argentine, Hamburg, Berlin, Warsaw and even—most ironic of all—the Falls Road in Belfast. Anywhere there seemed to be a clue, however slight, that would lead me to the truth and particularly, because he is somehow central to the whole affair, some knowledge, some understanding of the enigma that was Kurt Steiner.

  Two

  IN A SENSE A man called Otto Skorzeny started it all on Sunday 12 September 1943 by bringing off one of the most brilliantly audacious commando coups of the Second World War—thus proving once again to Adolf Hitler’s entire satisfaction that he, as usual, had been right and the High Command of the Armed Forces wrong.

  Hitler himself had suddenly wanted to know why the German Army did not have commando units like the English ones which had operated so successfully since the beginning of the war. To satisfy him, the High Command decided to form such a unit. Skorzeny, a young SS lieutenant, was kicking his heels in Berlin at the time after being invalided out of his regiment. He was promoted captain and made Chief of German Special Forces, none of which meant very much, which was exactly what the High Command intended.

  Unfortunately for them, Skorzeny proved to be a brilliant soldier, uniquely gifted for the task in hand. And events were soon to give him a chance to prove it.

  On 3 September 1943 Italy surrendered, Mussolini was deposed and Marshal Badoglio had him arrested and spirited away. Hitler insisted that his former ally be found and set free. It seemed an impossible task and even the great Erwin Rommel himself commented that he could see no good in the idea and hoped that it wouldn’t be put on to his plate.

  It wasn’t, for Hitler gave it to Skorzeny personally who threw himself into the task with energy and determination and soon discovered that Mussolini was being held in the Sports Hotel on top of the ten-thousand-foot Gran Sasso in the Abruzzi, guarded by two hundred and fifty men.

  Skorzeny landed by glider with fifty paratroopers, stormed the hotel and freed Mussolini. He was flown out in a tiny Stork spotter plane to Rome, then transshipped by Dormer to the Wolf’s Lair, Hitler’s headquarters for the Eastern Front, which was situated at Rastenburg in a gloomy, damp and heavily-wooded part of East Prussia.

  The feat earned Skorzeny a hatful of medals, including the Knight’s Cross, and started him on a career that was to embrace countless similar daring exploits and make him a legend in his own time. The High Command, as suspicious of such irregular methods as senior officers the world over, remained unimpressed.

  Not so the Führer. He was in his seventh heaven, transported with delight, danced as he had not danced since the fall of Paris and this mood was still with him on the evening of the Wednesday following Mussolini’s arrival at Rastenburg, when he held a meeting in the conference hut to discuss events in Italy and the Duce’s future role.

  The map room was surprisingly pleasant, with pine walls and ceiling. There was a circular table at one end surrounded by eleven rush chairs, flowers in a vase in the centre. At the other end of the room was the long map table. The small group of men who stood beside it discussing the situation on the Italian front included Mussolini himself, Josef Goebbels, Reich Minister of Propaganda and Minister for Total War, Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer of the SS, Chief of the State Police and of the State Secret Police, amongst other things, and Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, Chief of Military Intelligence, the Abwehr.

  When Hitler entered the room they all stiffened to attention. He was in a jovial mood, eyes glittering, a slight fixed smile on his mouth, full of charm as only he
could be on occasion. He descended on Mussolini and shook his hand warmly, holding it in both of his. ‘You look better tonight, Duce. Decidedly better.’

  To everyone else present the Italian dictator looked terrible. Tired and listless, little of his old fire left in him.

  He managed a weak smile and the Führer clapped his hands. ‘Well, gentlemen, and what should our next move be in Italy? What does the future hold? What is your opinion, Herr Reichsführer?’

  Himmler removed his silver pince-nez and polished their lenses meticulously as he replied. ‘Total victory, my Führer. What else? The presence of the Duce here with us now is ample proof of the brilliance with which you saved the situation after that traitor Badoglio signed an armistice.’

  Hitler nodded, his face serious, and turned to Goebbels. ‘And you, Josef?’

  Goebbels’ dark, mad eyes blazed with enthusiasm. ‘I agree, my Führer. The liberation of the Duce has caused a great sensation at home and abroad. Friend and foe alike are full of admiration. We are able to celebrate a first-class moral victory, thanks to your inspired guidance.’

  ‘And no thanks to my generals.’ Hitler turned to Canaris, who was standing looking down at the map, a slight, ironic smile on his face. ‘And you, Herr Admiral? You also think this a first-class moral victory?’

  There are times when it pays to speak the truth, others when it does not. With Hitler it was always difficult to judge the occasion.

  ‘My Führer, the Italian Battle Fleet now lies at anchor under the guns of the fortress of Malta. We have had to abandon Corsica and Sardinia and news is coming through that our old allies are already making arrangements to fight on the other side.’

  Hitler had turned deathly pale, his eyes glittered, there was the faint damp of perspiration on his brow, but Canaris continued, ‘As for the new Italian Socialist Republic as proclaimed by the Duce.’ Here, he shrugged. ‘Not a single neutral country so far, not even Spain, has agreed to set up diplomatic relations. I regret to say, my Führer, that in my opinion, they won’t.’