Eagle Has Landed

by Jack Higgins

  ‘And drive out again with fifty thousand quid’s worth of scotch and cigarettes. It’s been done before,’ Rogan said.

  ‘So Murphy’s just another thief on the take, sir? Is that your hunch?’

  ‘I’d accept that if it wasn’t for the bullet in the kneecap. That’s pure IRA. No, my left ear’s twitching about this one, Fergus. I think we could be on to something.’

  ‘All right, sir, what’s the next move?’

  Rogan walked over to the window thinking about it. Outside it was typical autumn weather, fog drifting across the rooftops from the Thames, rain dripping from the sycamore trees.

  He turned. ‘I know one thing. I’m not having Birmingham cock this up for us. You handle it personally. Book a car from the pool and get up there today. Take the files with you, photos, the lot. Every known IRA man not under wrappers. Maybe Garvald can pick him out for us.’

  ‘And if not, sir?’

  ‘Then we start asking questions at this end. All the usual channels. Special Branch in Dublin will help all they can. They hate the IRA worse than ever since they shot Detective Sergeant O’Brien last year. You always feel worse when it’s one of your own.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Grant said. ‘I’ll get moving.’

  It was eight that evening when General Karl Steiner finished the meal which had been served to him in his room on the second floor at Prinz Albrechtstrasse. A chicken leg, potatoes fried in oil, just as he liked them, a tossed salad and a half-bottle of Riesling, served ice-cold. Quite incredible. And real coffee to follow.

  Things had certainly changed since the final terrible night when he had collapsed after the electrical treatment. The following morning he had awakened to find himself lying between clean sheets in a comfortable bed. No sign of that bastard Rossman and his Gestapo bully boys. Just an Obersturmbannführer named Zeidler, a thoroughly decent type, even if he was SS. A gentleman.

  He had been full of apologies. A dreadful mistake had been made. False information had been laid with malicious intent. The Reichsführer himself had ordered the fullest possible enquiry. Those responsible would undoubtedly be apprehended and punished. In the meantime, he regretted the fact that the Herr General still had to be kept under lock and key, but this would only be for a matter of a few days. He was sure he understood the situation.

  Which Steiner did perfectly. All they had ever had against him was innuendo, nothing concrete. And he hadn’t said a word in spite of everything Rossman had done, so the whole thing was going to look like one God-Almighty foul-up on someone’s part. They were hanging on to him now to make sure he looked good for when they released him. Already, the bruises had almost faded. Except for the rings around his eyes he looked fine. They’d even given him a new uniform.

  The coffee was really quite excellent. He started to pour another cup and the key rattled in the lock and the door opened behind him. There was an uncanny silence. The hair seemed to lift on the back of his head.

  He turned slowly and found Karl Rossman standing in the doorway. He was wearing his slouch hat, the leather coat over his shoulders and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. Two Gestapo men in full uniform stood on either side of him.

  ‘Hello, there, Herr General,’ Rossman said. ‘Did you think we’d forgotten you?’

  Something seemed to break inside Steiner. The whole thing became dreadfully clear. ‘You bastard!’ he said and threw the cup of coffee at Rossman’s head.

  ‘Very naughty,’ Rossman said. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

  One of the Gestapo men moved in quickly. He rammed the end of his baton into Steiner’s groin, who dropped to his knees with a scream of agony. A further blow to the side of the head put him down completely.

  ‘The cellars,’ Rossman said simply, and went out.

  The two Gestapo men got an ankle apiece and followed, dragging the General behind them face-down, keeping in step with a military precision that didn’t even falter when they reached the stairs.

  Max Radl knocked at the door of the Reichsführer’s office and went in. Himmler was standing in front of the fire, drinking coffee. He put down his cup and crossed to the desk. ‘I had hoped that you would have been on your way by now.’

  ‘I leave on the overnight flight for Paris,’ Radl told him. ‘As the Herr Reichsführer is aware, Admiral Canaris only flew to Italy this morning.’

  ‘Unfortunate,’ Himmler said. ‘However, it should still leave you plenty of time.’ He removed his pince-nez and polished them as meticulously as usual. ‘I’ve read the report you gave Rossman this morning. What about these American Rangers who have appeared in the area? Show me.’

  He unfolded the ordnance survey map in front of him and Radl put a finger on Meltham House. ‘As you can see, Herr Reichsführer, Meltham House is eight miles to the north along the coast from Studley Constable. Twelve or thirteen from Hobs End. Mrs Grey anticipates no trouble whatsoever in that direction in her latest radio message.’

  Himmler nodded. ‘Your Irishman seems to have earned his wages. The rest is up to Steiner.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll let us down.’

  ‘Yes, I was forgetting,’ Himmler said dryly. ‘He has, after all, a personal stake in this.’

  Radl said, ‘May I be permitted to enquire after Major-General Steiner’s health?’

  ‘I last saw him yesterday evening,’ Himmler replied with perfect truth, ‘although I must confess he did not see me. At that time he was working his way through a meal consisting of roast potatoes, mixed vegetables and a rather large rump steak.’ He sighed. ‘If only these meat eaters realized the effect on the system of such a diet. Do you eat meat, Herr Oberst?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘And smoke sixty or seventy of those vile Russian cigarettes a day and drink. What is your brandy consumption now?’ He shook his head as he shuffled his papers into a neat pile in front of him. ‘Ah, well, in your case I don’t suppose it really matters.’

  Is there anything the swine doesn’t know? Radl thought. ‘No, Herr Reichsführer.’

  ‘What time do they leave on Friday?’

  ‘Just before midnight. A one-hour flight, weather permitting.’

  Himmler looked up instantly, eyes cold. ‘Colonel Radl, let me make one thing perfectly plain. Steiner and his men go in as arranged, weather or no weather. This is not something that can be postponed until another night. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. There will be a line kept open to these headquarters at all times. From Friday morning you will communicate with me each hour on the hour and continue so doing until the operation is successfully concluded.’

  ‘I will, Herr Reichsführer.’

  Radl turned for the door and Himmler said, ‘One more thing. I have not kept the Führer informed of our progress in this affair for many reasons. These are hard times, Radl, the destiny of Germany rests on his shoulders. I would like this to be, how can I put it, a surprise for him?’

  For a moment, Radl thought he must be going out of his mind. Then realized that Himmler was serious. ‘It is essential that we don’t disappoint him,’ Himmler went on. ‘We are all in Steiner’s hands now. Please impress that on him.’

  ‘I will, Herr Reichsführer.’ Radl choked back an insane desire to laugh.

  Himmler flipped up his right arm in a rather negligent party salute. ‘Heil Hitler!’

  Radl, in what he afterwards swore to his wife was the bravest action of his entire life, gave him a punctilious military salute, turned to the door and got out as fast as he could.

  When he went into his office at the Tirpitz Ufer, Hofer was packing an overnight bag for him. Radl got out the Courvoisier and poured himself a large one. ‘Is the Herr Oberst all right?’ Hofer enquired anxiously.

  ‘You know what our esteemed Reichsführer has just let slip, Karl? He hasn’t told the Führer about how far along the road we are with this thing. He wants to surprise him. Now isn’t that sweet?’

  ‘Herr Oberst, for God’s s
ake.’

  Radl raised his glass. ‘To our comrades, Karl, the three hundred and ten of the regiment who died in the Winter War, I’m not sure what for. If you find out, let me know.’ Hofer stared at him and Radl smiled. ‘All right, Karl, I’ll be good. Did you check the time of my Paris flight?’

  ‘Ten-thirty from Tempelhof. I’ve ordered a car for nine-fifteen. You have plenty of time.’

  ‘And the onward flight to Amsterdam?’

  ‘Some time tomorrow morning. Probably about eleven, but they couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘That’s cutting it fine. All I need is a little dirty weather and I won’t get to Landsvoort till Thursday. What’s the met report?’

  ‘Not good. A cold front coming in from Russia.’

  ‘There always is,’ Radl told him bleakly. He opened the desk drawer and took out a sealed envelope. ‘That’s for my wife. See that she gets it. Sorry you can’t come with me, but you must hold the fort here, you understand that?’

  Hofer looked down at the letter and there was fear in his eyes. ‘Surely the Herr Oberst doesn’t think…’

  ‘My dear, good Karl,’ Radl told him. ‘I think nothing. I simply prepare for any unpleasant eventuality. If this thing goes wrong then it seems to me that those connected with it might not be considered—how shall I put it?—persona grata at court. In any such eventuality your own line should be to deny all knowledge of the affair. Anything I’ve done, I’ve done alone.’

  ‘Herr Oberst, please,’ Hofer said hoarsely. There were tears in his eyes.

  Radl took out another glass, filled it and handed it to him. ‘Come now, a toast. What shall we drink to?’

  ‘God knows, Herr Oberst.’

  ‘Then I shall tell you. To life, Karl, and love and friendship and hope.’ He smiled wryly. ‘You know, it’s just occurred to me that the Reichsführer very probably doesn’t know the first thing about any one of those items. Ah, well…’

  He threw back his head and emptied his glass at a single swallow.

  Like most senior officers at Scotland Yard, Jack Rogan had a small camp bed in his office for use on those occasions when air raids made travelling home a problem. When he came back from the Assistant Commissioner, Special Branch’s, weekly coordinating meeting with section heads on Wednesday morning just before noon, he found Grant asleep on it, eyes closed.

  Rogan stuck his head out of the door and told the duty constable to make some tea. Then he gave Grant a friendly kick and went and stood at the window filling his pipe. The fog was worse than ever. A real London particular, as Dickens had once aptly phrased it.

  Grant got up, adjusting his tie. His suit was crumpled and he needed a shave. ‘Hell of a journey back. The fog was really quite something.’

  ‘Did you get anywhere?’

  Grant opened his briefcase, took out a file and produced a card which he laid on Rogan’s desk. A photo of Liam Devlin was clipped to it. Strangely enough he looked older. There were several different names typed underneath. ‘That’s Murphy, sir.’

  Rogan whistled softly. ‘Him? Are you sure?’

  ‘Reuben Garvald is.’

  ‘But this doesn’t make sense,’ Rogan said. ‘Last I heard, he was in trouble in Spain, fighting for the wrong side. Serving a life sentence on some penal farm.’

  ‘Evidently not, sir.’

  Rogan jumped up and walked to the window. He stood there, hands in pockets, for a moment. ‘You know, he’s one of the few top-liners in the movement I’ve never met. Always the mystery man. All those bloody aliases for one thing.’

  ‘Went to Trinity College according to his file, which is unusual for a Catholic,’ Grant said. ‘Good degree in English Literature. There’s irony, considering he’s in the IRA.’

  ‘That’s the bloody Irish for you.’ Rogan turned, prodding a finger into his skull. ‘Puddled from birth. Round the twist. I mean his uncle’s a priest, he has a university degree and what is he? The most cold-blooded executioner the movement’s had since Collins and his Murder Squad.’

  ‘All right, sir,’ Grant said. ‘How do we handle it?’

  ‘First of all get in touch with the Special Branch in Dublin. See what they’ve got.’

  ‘And next?’

  ‘If he’s here legally he must have registered with his local police, wherever that is. Alien’s registration form plus photograph.’

  ‘Which are then passed on to the headquarters of the force concerned.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Rogan kicked the desk. ‘I’ve been arguing for two years now that we should have them on a central file, but with nearly three-quarters of a million micks working over here nobody wants to know.’

  ‘That means circulating copies of this photo to all city and county forces and asking for someone to go through every registration on file.’ Grant picked up the card. ‘It’ll take time.’

  ‘What else can we do, stick it in the paper and say: Has anybody seen this man? I want to know what he’s up to, Fergus, I want to catch him at it, not frighten him off.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Just get on with it. Top Priority. Give it a National Security Red File rating. That will make the buggers jump to it.’

  Grant went out and Rogan picked up Devlin’s file, leaned back in the chair and started to read it.

  In Paris, all aircraft were grounded and the fog was so thick that when Radl walked out of the entrance of the departure lounge at Orly he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He went back inside and spoke to the Duty Officer. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Herr Oberst, but on the basis of the latest met report, nothing before morning. To be honest with you, there could be further delays even then. They seem to think this fog could last for some days.’ He smiled amiably. ‘It keeps the Tommis at home, anyway.’

  Radl made his decision and reached for his bag. ‘Absolutely essential that I’m in Rotterdam no later than tomorrow afternoon. Where’s the motor pool?’

  Ten minutes later he was holding the Führer Directive under the nose of a middle-aged transport captain and twenty minutes after that was being driven out of the main gate of Orly Airport in a large, black Citroën saloon.

  At the same moment in the sitting room of Joanna Grey’s cottage at Studley Constable, Sir Henry Willoughby was playing bezique with Father Vereker and Joanna Grey. He had had more to drink than was perhaps good for him and was in high good humour.

  ‘Let me see now, I had a Royal Marriage—forty points and now a sequence in trumps.’

  ‘How many is that?’ Vereker demanded.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty,’ Joanna Grey said. ‘Two-ninety with his Royal Marriage.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Vereker said. ‘He’s got a ten above the Queen.’

  ‘But I explained that earlier,’ Joanna told him. ‘In bezique, the ten does come before the Queen.’

  Philip Vereker shook his head in disgust. ‘It’s no good. I’ll never understand this damned game.’

  Sir Henry laughed delightedly. ‘A gentleman’s game, my boy. The aristocrat of card games.’ He jumped up, knocking his chair over and righted it. ‘Mind if I help myself, Joanna?’

  ‘Of course not, my dear,’ she said brightly.

  ‘You seem pleased with yourself tonight,’ Vereker remarked.

  Sir Henry, warming his backside in front of the fire, grinned. ‘I am, Philip, I am and good cause to be.’ It all came flowing out of him in a sudden burst. ‘Don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you. You’ll know soon enough now.’

  God, the old fool. Joanna Grey’s alarm was genuine as she said hastily, ‘Henry, do you think you should?’

  ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘If I can’t trust you and Philip, who can I trust.’ He turned to Vereker. ‘Fact is, the Prime Minister is coming to stay the weekend on Saturday.’

  ‘Good heavens. I’d heard he was speaking at King’s Lynn, of course.’ Vereker was astounded. ‘To be honest, sir, I didn’t realize you knew Mr Churchill.’

  ‘I d
on’t,’ Sir Henry said. ‘Thing is he fancied a quiet weekend and a little painting before going back to town. Naturally he’d heard about the gardens at Studley, I mean who hasn’t? Laid down in the Armada year. When Downing Street got in touch to ask if he could stay, I was only too delighted.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Vereker said.

  ‘Now you must keep it to yourselves, I’m afraid,’ Sir Henry said.

  ‘Villagers can’t know till he’s gone. They’re most insistent about that. Security, you know. Can’t be too careful.’

  He was very drunk now, slurring his words. Vereker said, ‘I suppose he’ll be quite heavily guarded.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Sir Henry said. ‘Wants as little fuss as possible. He’ll only have three or four people with him. I’ve arranged for a platoon of my Home Guard chaps to guard the perimeter of the Grange while he’s there. Even they don’t know what it’s all about. Think it’s an exercise.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Joanna said.

  ‘Yes, I’m to go up to King’s Lynn on Saturday to meet him. We’ll come back by car.’ He belched and put down his glass. ‘I say, would you excuse me? Don’t feel too good.’

  ‘Of course,’ Joanna Grey said.

  He walked to the door, turned and put a finger to his nose. ‘Mum’s the word now.’

  After he’d gone, Vereker said, ‘That is a turn-up for the book.’

  ‘He’s really very naughty,’ Joanna said. ‘He isn’t supposed to say a word and yet he told me in exactly similar circumstances when he’d had too much to drink. Naturally I felt bound to keep quiet about it.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You were absolutely right.’ He stood up, groping for his stick. ‘I’d better run him home. He’s not fit to drive.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ She took his arm and steered him to the door. ‘That would mean you having to walk up to the presbytery to get your own car out. There’s no need. I’ll take him.’

  She helped him into his coat. ‘If you’re sure, then?’

  ‘Of course.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Pamela on Saturday.’

  He limped away into the night. She stood at the door listening as the sound of his progress faded. It was so still and quiet, almost as quiet as the veldt when she was a young girl. Strange, but she hadn’t thought of that for years.