by Jack Higgins
Preston ignored him, put the cartons under his left arm and saluted smartly. ‘Very well, sir.’
In the Dakota, the atmosphere was positively euphoric. The return trip had passed completely without incident. They were thirty miles out from the Dutch coast and Bohmler opened the Thermos and passed Gericke another cup of coffee. ‘Home and dry,’ he said.
Gericke nodded cheerfully. Then the smile vanished abruptly. Over his headphones he heard a familiar voice. Hans Berger, the controller at his old unit, NJG7.
Bohmler touched his shoulder. ‘That’s Berger, isn’t it?’
‘Who else?’ Gericke said. ‘You’ve listened to him often enough.’
‘Steer o-eight-three degrees.’ Berger’s voice crackled through the static.
‘Sounds as if he’s leading a night fighter in for the kill,’ Bohmler said. ‘On our heading.’
‘Target five kilometres.’
Suddenly Berger’s voice seemed like the hammer on the last nail in a coffin, crisp, clear, final. Gericke’s stomach knotted in a cramp that was almost sexual in its intensity. And he was not afraid. It was as if after years of looking for Death, he was now gazing upon his face with a kind of yearning.
Bohmler grabbed his arm convulsively, ‘It’s us, Peter!’ he screamed. ‘We’re the target!’
The Dakota rocked violently from side to side as cannon shell punched through the floor of the cockpit, tearing the instrument panel apart, shattering the windscreen. Shrapnel ripped into Gericke’s right thigh and a heavy blow shattered his left arm. Another part of his brain told him exactly what was happening. Schraege Musik, delivered from below by one of his own comrades—only this time he was on the receiving end.
He wrestled with the control column, heaving it back with all his strength as the Dakota started to go down. Bohmler was struggling to rise to his feet, blood on his face.
‘Get out!’ Gericke shouted above the roaring of the wind through the shattered windscreen. ‘I can’t hold her for long.’
Bohmler was on his feet now and trying to speak. Gericke lashed out wildly with his left arm, catching him across the face. The pain was excruciating and he screamed again, ‘Get out! That’s an order.’
Bohmler turned and moved back along the Dakota to the exit. The plane was in a hell of a state, great holes ripped in the body, pieces of fuselage rattling in the turbulence. He could smell smoke and burning oil. Panic gave him new strength, as he wrestled with the release handles on the hatch.
‘Dear God, don’t let me burn,’ he thought. ‘Anything but that.’ Then the hatch eased back and he poised for a moment and tumbled into the night.
The Dakota corkscrewed and the port wing lifted. Bohmler somersaulted, his head caught the tailplane a violent blow even as his right hand fastened convulsively on the metal ring. He pulled his rip-cord in the very moment of dying. The parachute opened like a strange, pale flower and carried him gently down into darkness.
The Dakota flew on, descending now, the port engine on fire, flames spreading along the wing, reaching for the main body of the plane. Gericke sat at the controls, still fighting to hold her, unaware that his left arm was broken in two places.
There was blood in his eyes. He laughed weakly as he strained to peer through the smoke. What a way to go. No visit to Karinhall now, no Knight’s Cross. His father would be disappointed about that. Though they’d simply award the damn thing posthumously.
Suddenly, the smoke cleared and he could see the sea through intermittent fog. The Dutch coast couldn’t be far away. There were ships down there, at least two. A line of tracer arched up towards him. Some bloody E-boat showing it had teeth. It was really very funny.
He tried to move in his seat and found that his left foot was trapped by a piece of twisted fuselage. Not that it mattered, for by now he was too far down to jump. He was only three hundred feet above the sea, aware of the E-boat to starboard racing him like a greyhound, firing with everything it had got, cannon shells ripping into the Dakota.
‘Bastards!’ Gericke shouted. ‘Stupid bastards!’ He laughed weakly again and said softly, as if Bohmler was still there on his left. ‘Who in the hell am I supposed to be fighting, anyway?’
Quite suddenly, the smoke was torn away in a violent crosswind and he saw the sea no more than a hundred feet below and coming up to meet him fast.
At that moment he became a great pilot for the only time in his life when it really mattered. Every instinct for survival surged up to give him new strength. He pulled on the column and in spite of the agony in his left arm throttled back and dropped what was left of his flaps.
The Dakota almost stalled, the tail started to fall. He gave a final burst of power to straighten her up as she dropped into the waves and pulled hard on the column again. She bounced three times, skimming the water like a gigantic surfboard and came to a halt, the burning engine hissing angrily as a wave slopped across it.
Gericke sat there for a moment. Everything wrong, nothing by the book and yet he had done it and against every conceivable odds. There was water around his ankles. He tried to get up, but his left foot was securely held. He pulled the fire axe on his right from its holding clip and smashed at the crumpled fuselage, and his foot, breaking the ankle in the process. By then he was beyond reason.
It came as no surprise to find himself standing, the foot free. He got the hatch open—no trouble at all, and fell out into the water, bumping against the wing clumsily, pulling at the quick release ring on his life-jacket. It inflated satisfactorily and he kicked out at the wing, pushing himself away as the Dakota started to go under.
When the E-boat arrived behind him he didn’t even bother to turn, but floated there watching the Dakota slide under the surface.
‘You did all right, old girl. All right,’ he said.
A rope splashed into the water beside him and someone called in English with a heavy German accent, ‘Catch hold, Tommi, and we’ll haul you in. You’re safe now.’
Gericke turned and looked up at the young German naval lieutenant and half a dozen sailors who leaned over the rail above him.
‘Safe, is it?’ he demanded in German. ‘You stupid bastards—I’m on your side.’
Fifteen
IT WAS JUST AFTER ten on Saturday morning when Molly rode down through the fields towards Hobs End. The heavy rain of the previous night had slackened into a light drizzle, but the marsh itself was still blanketed in fog.
She’d risen early and worked hard all morning, had fed the livestock and seen to the milking herself, for Laker Armsby had a grave to dig. Her decision to ride down to the marsh had been a sudden impulse for, in spite of the fact that she had promised Devlin to wait until he called for her, she was terrified that something might happen to him. Conviction of those involved in black market activities usually meant a heavy prison sentence.
She took the horse down into the marsh and came to the cottage from the rear through the reed barrier, letting the animal choose its own way. The muddy water came up to its belly and some slopped inside her Wellington boots. She paid no heed and leaned over the horse’s neck, peering through the fog. She was sure she could smell woodsmoke. Then the barn and the cottage gradually materialized from the fog, and there was smoke ascending from the chimney.
She hesitated, momentarily undecided. Liam was at home, obviously back earlier than he had intended, but if she went in now he would think she had been snooping again. She dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and started to turn it away.
In the barn the men were getting their equipment ready for the move out. Brandt and Sergeant Altmann were supervising the mounting of a Browning M2 heavy machine-gun on the jeep. Preston stood watching, hands clasped behind his back, giving the impression of being somehow in charge of the whole thing.
Werner Briegel and Klugl had partially opened one of the rear shutters and Werner surveyed what he could of the marsh through his Zeiss fieldglasses. There were birds in the suaeda bushes, the reedy dykes. Enough to
content even him. Grebes and moorhens, curlew, widgeon, brent geese.
‘There’s a good one,’ he said to Klugl. ‘A green sandpiper. Passage migrant, usually in the autumn, but they’ve been known to winter here.’ He continued his trajectory and Molly jumped into view. ‘Christ, we’re being watched.’
In a moment Brandt and Preston were at his side. Preston said, ‘I’ll get her,’ and he turned and ran for the door.
Brandt grabbed at him, too late, and Preston was across the yard and into the reeds in a matter of moments. Molly turned, reining in. Her first thought was that it was Devlin. Preston grabbed for the reins and she looked down at him in astonishment.
‘All right, let’s have you.’
He reached for her and she tried to back her mount away. ‘Here, you leave me be. I haven’t done anything.’
He grabbed her right wrist and pulled her out of the saddle, catching her as she fell. ‘We’ll see about that, shall we?’
She started to struggle and he tightened his grip. He slung her over his shoulder and carried her kicking and shouting through the reeds to the barn.
Devlin had been up to the beach at first light to make certain that the tide had covered all traces of the previous night’s activities. He had gone up again with Steiner after breakfast to show him as much of the general pick-up area of the estuary and the Point as could be seen in the fog. They were on their way back, only thirty yards from the cottage when Preston emerged from the marsh with the girl on his shoulder.
‘What is it?’ Steiner demanded.
‘It’s Molly Prior, the girl I told you about.’
He started to run, entering the yard as Preston reached the entrance. ‘Put her down, damn you!’ Devlin shouted.
Preston turned. ‘I don’t take orders from you.’
But Steiner, hard on Devlin’s heel into the yard, took a hand. ‘Lieutenant Preston,’ he called in a voice like iron. ‘You will release the lady now.’
Preston hesitated, then set Molly down reluctantly. She promptly slapped his face. ‘And you keep your hands to yourself, you bugger,’ she stormed at him.
There was immediate laughter from inside the barn and she turned to see through the open door, a line of grinning faces, the truck beyond, the jeep with the Browning machine-gun mounted.
Devlin arrived and shoved Preston out of the way. ‘Are you all right, Molly?’
‘Liam,’ she said in bewilderment. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’
But it was Steiner who handled it, smooth as silk. ‘Lieutenant Preston,’ he said coldly. ‘You will apologize to this young lady at once.’ Preston hesitated and Steiner really laid it on. ‘At once, Lieutenant!’
Preston got his feet together. ‘Humble apologies, ma’am. My mistake,’ he said with some irony, turned and went inside the barn.
Steiner saluted gravely. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this whole unfortunate incident.’
‘This is Colonel Carter, Molly,’ Devlin explained.
‘Of the Polish Independent Parachute Squadron,’ Steiner said. ‘We’re here in this area for tactical field training and I’m afraid Lieutenant Preston gets rather carried away when it comes to a question of security.’
She was more bewildered than ever now. ‘But, Liam,’ she began.
Devlin took her by the arm. ‘Come on now, let’s catch that horse and get you back into the saddle.’ He pushed her towards the edge of the marsh where her mount nibbled peacefully at the tussocks of grass. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ he scolded her. ‘Didn’t I tell you to wait for me to call this afternoon? When will you learn to stop sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you?’
‘But I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Paratroopers—here, and that truck and the jeep you painted?’
He gripped her arm fiercely. ‘Security, Molly, for God’s sake. Didn’t you get the drift of what the Colonel was saying? Sure and why do you think that lieutenant reacted like he did? They’ve a very special reason for being here. You’ll find out when they’ve gone, but for the moment it’s top secret and you mustn’t mention seeing them here to a living soul. As you love me, promise me that.’
She stared up at him and there was a kind of understanding in her eyes. ‘I see the way of it now,’ she said. ‘All these things you’ve been doing, the trips at night and so on. I thought it was something to do with the black market and you let me think it. But I was wrong. You’re still in the army, that’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he said with some truth. ‘I’m afraid I am.’
Her eyes were shining. ‘Oh, Liam, can you ever forgive me thinking you some cheap spiv peddling silk stockings and whisky round the pubs?’
Devlin took a very deep breath, but managed a smile. ‘I’ll think about it. Now go home like a good girl and wait until I call, no matter how long.’
‘I will, Liam. I will.’
She kissed him, one hand behind his neck and swung up into the saddle. Devlin said, ‘Mind now, not a word.’
‘You can rely on me.’ She kicked her heels into the horse’s belly and moved away through the reeds.
Devlin went back across the yard walking very fast. Ritter had joined Steiner from the cottage and the Colonel said, ‘Is it all right?’
Devlin brushed past him and plunged into the barn. The men were talking together in small groups and Preston was in the act of lighting a cigarette, the match flaring in his cupped hands. He looked up with a slight, mocking smile. ‘And we all know what you’ve been getting up to during the past few weeks. Was it nice, Devlin?’
Devlin got in one beautiful right hand that landed high on Preston’s cheekbone and sent the Englishman sprawling over someone’s outstretched foot. Then Steiner had him by the arm.
‘I’ll kill the bastard!’ Devlin said.
Steiner got in front of him, both hands on the Irishman’s shoulders and Devlin was astonished at the strength. ‘Go up to the cottage,’ he said calmly. ‘I’ll handle it.’
Devlin glared at him, that bone-white killing face on him again and then the eyes dulled a little. He turned and went out, breaking into a run across the yard. Preston got to his feet, a hand to his face. There was total silence.
Steiner said, ‘There is a man who will kill you if he can, Preston. Be warned. Step out of line once more and if he doesn’t, I’ll shoot you myself.’ He nodded to Ritter, ‘Take command!’
When he went into the cottage, Devlin was at the Bushmills. The Irishman turned with a shaky grin. ‘God, but I would have killed him. I must be going to pieces.’
‘What about the girl?’
‘No worries there. She’s convinced I’m still in the army and up to my neck in official secrets.’ The self-disgust was plain on his face.
‘Her lovely boy, that’s what she called me. I’m that all right.’ He started to pour another whiskey, hesitated then corked the bottle firmly. ‘All right,’ he said to Steiner. ‘What now?’
‘We’ll move up to the village around noon and go through the motions. My own feeling is that you should keep completely out of the way for the time being. We can meet up again this evening, after dark, when we’re closer to making the assault.’
‘All right,’ Devlin said. ‘Joanna Grey is certain to contact you at the village somehow during the afternoon. Tell her I’ll be at her place by six-thirty. The E-boat should be available any time between nine and ten. I’ll bring the S-phone with me so that you can contact Koenig direct from the scene of operations and fix a pick-up time to fit the circumstances.’
‘Fine,’ Steiner said and appeared to hesitate. ‘There’s one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘My orders regarding Churchill. They’re quite explicit. They’d like to have him alive, but if that isn’t possible…’
‘You’ve got to put a bullet in him. So what’s the problem?’
‘I wasn’t sure whether there might be one for you?’
‘Not in the slightest,’ Devlin sai
d. ‘This time everyone’s a soldier, and takes a soldier’s chances. That includes old Churchill.’
In London, Rogan was clearing his desk, thoughts of lunch in his mind, when the door opened with no preliminary knock and Grant entered. His face was tense with excitement. ‘Just in over the teleprinter, sir.’ He slapped the message down in front of Rogan. ‘We’ve got him.’
‘Norfolk Constabulary, Norwich,’ Rogan said.
‘That’s where his registration particulars ended up, but he’s some distance from there, right up on the North Norfolk coast near Studley Constable and Blakeney. Very isolated sort of place.’
‘Do you know the area?’ Rogan asked as he read the message.
‘Two holidays in Sheringham when I was a nipper, sir.’
‘So, he’s calling himself Devlin and he’s working as a marsh warden for Sir Henry Willoughby, the local squire. He’s certainly due for a shock. How far is this place?’
‘I’d say about a couple of hundred miles.’ Grant shook his head. ‘What in the hell could he be up to?’
‘We’ll find that out soon enough,’ Rogan looked up from the report.
‘What’s the next move, sir? Shall I get the Norfolk Constabulary to pick him up?’
‘Are you mad?’ Rogan said in amazement. ‘You know what these country police are like? Turnip heads. No, we’ll handle this one ourselves, Fergus. You and me. It’s a while since I’ve had a weekend in the country. It’ll make a nice change.’
‘You’ve got an appointment at the Attorney General’s office after lunch,’ Grant reminded him. ‘Evidence for the Halloran case.’
‘I’ll be out of there by three o’clock. Three-thirty at the latest. You get a car from the pool and be ready and waiting and we can get straight off.’
‘Should I clear it with the Assistant Commissioner, sir?’
Rogan flared in irritation. ‘For Christ’s sake, Fergus, what’s wrong with you? He’s in Portsmouth, isn’t he? Now get moving.’
Unable to explain his strange reluctance to himself, Grant made an effort. ‘Very well, sir.’
He had a hand on the door when Rogan added, ‘And Fergus.’