Eagle Has Landed

by Jack Higgins

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Call in at the armoury and draw a couple of Browning Hi-Powers. This character shoots first and asks what you wanted afterwards.’

  Grant swallowed hard. ‘I’ll see to that, sir,’ he said, his voice shaking slightly and went out.

  Rogan pushed back his chair and went to the window. He flexed the fingers of both hands, full of tension. ‘Right, you bastard,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s see if you’re as good as they say you are.’

  It was just before noon when Philip Vereker opened the door at the end of the presbytery hall under the back stairs and went down to the cellar. His foot was giving him hell and he had hardly slept at all during the night. That was his own fault. The doctor had offered a plentiful supply of morphine tablets, but Vereker had a morbid fear of becoming addicted.

  So he suffered. At least Pamela was coming for the weekend. She’d telephoned early that morning, not only to confirm it, but to tell him that Harry Kane had offered to pick her up from Pangbourne. At least it saved Vereker a gallon of petrol, and that was something. And he liked Kane. Had done instinctively, which was rare for him. It was nice to see Pamela taking an interest in someone at last.

  A large torch hung from a nail at the bottom of the cellar steps. Vereker took it down, then opened an ancient, black, oak cupboard opposite, stepped inside and closed the door. He switched on the torch, felt for a hidden catch and the back of the cupboard swung open to reveal a long, dark tunnel with Norfolk flint walls that glistened with moisture.

  It was one of the finest remaining examples of such a structure in the country, a priest’s tunnel linking the presbytery with the church, a relic of the days of Roman Catholic persecution under Elizabeth Tudor. The secret of it was handed on from one incumbent to the next. From Vereker’s point of view it was simply a very great convenience.

  At the end of the tunnel, he mounted a flight of stone steps and paused in surprise, listening carefully. Yes, there could be no mistake. Someone was playing the organ, and very well indeed. He went up the rest of the stairs, opened the door at the top (which was in fact a section of the oak-panelled wall in the sacristy), closed it behind him, opened the other door and moved into the church.

  When Vereker went up the aisle he saw to his astonishment that a paratrooper sergeant in camouflaged jump jacket was sitting at the organ, his red beret on the seat beside him. He was playing a Bach choral prelude, one highly appropriate to the season, for it was usually sung to the old Advent hymn Gottes Sohn ist kommen.

  Hans Altmann was thoroughly enjoying himself. A superb instrument, a lovely church. Then he glanced up and in the organist’s mirror saw Vereker at the bottom of the chancel steps. He stopped playing abruptly and turned.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, but I just couldn’t help myself.’ He spread his hands. ‘One doesn’t often get the chance in my—my present occupation.’ His English was excellent but with a definite accent.

  Vereker said, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sergeant Emil Janowski, Father.’

  ‘Polish?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Altmann nodded. ‘Came in here looking for you with my CO. You were not here, of course, so he told me to wait on while he tried the presbytery.’

  Vereker said, ‘You play very well indeed. Bach needs to be played well, a fact I constantly remember with bitterness each time I take that seat.’

  ‘Ah, you play yourself?’ Altmann said.

  ‘Yes,’ Vereker said. ‘I’m very fond of the piece you were playing.’

  Altmann said. ‘A favourite of mine.’ He started to play, singing at the same time, ‘Gott, durch deine Güte, wolst uns arme Leute . . .’

  ‘But that’s a Trinity Sunday hymn,’ Vereker said.

  ‘Not in Thuringia, Father.’ At that moment the great oak door creaked open and Steiner entered.

  He moved down the aisle, a leather swagger stick in one hand, his beret in the other. His boots rang on the flagstones and as he came towards them, the shafts of light, slanting down through the gloom from the clerestory windows above, touched with fire his pale, fair hair.

  ‘Father Vereker?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Howard Carter, in command Independent Polish Parachute Squadron of the Special Air Service Regiment.’ He turned to Altmann. ‘You been behaving yourself, Janowski?’

  ‘As the Colonel knows, the organ is my principal weakness.’

  Steiner grinned. ‘Go on, cut along and wait outside with the others.’ Altmann departed and Steiner looked up into the nave. ‘This is really quite beautiful.’

  Vereker looked him over curiously, noting the crown and pip of a lieutenant-colonel on the epaulettes of the jump jacket. ‘Yes, we’re rather proud of it. SAS. Aren’t you and your chaps rather a long way from your usual haunts? I thought the Greek Islands and Yugoslavia were your stamping ground?’

  ‘Yes, well so did I until a month or so ago and then the powers-that-be in their wisdom decided to bring us home for special training, although perhaps home isn’t exactly the right word to use, my lads all being Polish.’

  ‘Like Janowski?’

  ‘Not at all. He speaks really very good English. Most of the others manage Hello or Will you come out with me tonight and that’s it. They don’t seem to think they need any more.’ Steiner smiled. ‘Paratroopers can be a pretty arrogant lot, Father. Always the trouble with elite units.’

  ‘I know,’ Vereker said. ‘I was one myself. Padre to the First Parachute Brigade.’

  ‘Were you, by God?’ Steiner said. ‘You served in Tunisia then?’

  ‘Yes, at Oudna, which was where I got this.’ Vereker tapped his stick against his aluminum foot ‘And now I’m here.’

  Steiner reached for his hand and shook it. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. Never expected anything like this.’

  Vereker managed one of his rare smiles. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Put us up for the night, if you will. You’ve a barn in the field next door that’s had similar use before, I believe.’

  ‘You’re on exercise?’

  Steiner smiled lightly. ‘Yes, you could call it that. I’ve only got a handful of men with me here. The rest are scattered all over North Norfolk. At a given time tomorrow everyone’s supposed to race like hell for a certain map reference, just to see how fast we can come together.’

  ‘So you’ll only be here this afternoon and tonight?’

  ‘That’s it. We’ll try not to be a nuisance, of course. I’ll probably give the lads a few tactical exercises round the village and so on, just to keep them occupied. You don’t think anyone will mind?’

  It worked, exactly as Devlin had predicted. Philip Vereker smiled. ‘Studley Constable has been used for military manoeuvres of one kind or another many times before, Colonel. We’ll all be only too happy to help in any way we can.’

  When Altmann came out of the church he went down the road to where the Bedford stood beside the five-barred gate at the entrance to the track which gave access to the barn in Old Woman’s Meadow. The jeep waited beside the lychgate, Klugl at the wheel, Werner Briegel behind the Browning M2.

  Werner had his Zeiss fieldglasses trained on the rookery in the beech trees. ‘Very interesting,’ he said to Klugl. ‘I think I’ll take a closer look. Are you coming?’

  He’d spoken in German as there was no one around and Klugl answered in the same language. ‘Do you think we should?’

  ‘What harm?’ Werner said.

  He got out, went in through the lychgate and Klugl followed him reluctantly. Laker Armsby was digging a grave up at the west end of the church. They threaded their way between the tombstones and Laker, seeing them coming, stopped work and took a half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear.

  ‘Hello, there,’ Werner said.

  Laker squinted up at them. ‘Foreigners, eh? Thought you was British boys in them uniforms.’

  ‘Poles,’ Werner told him, ‘so you’ll have to excuse my friend. He doesn’t speak
English.’ Laker fiddled ostentatiously with the dog-end and the young German took the hint and produced a packet of Players. ‘Have one of these.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Laker’s eyes sparkled.

  ‘Take another.’

  Laker needed no second bidding. He put one cigarette behind his ear and lit the other. ‘What’s your name, then?’

  ‘Werner.’ There was a nasty pause as he realized his mistake and added, ‘Kunicki.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Laker said. ‘Always thought Werner was a German name. I took a prisoner once in France in nineteen-fifteen. He was called Werner. Werner Schmidt.’

  ‘My mother was German,’ Werner explained.

  ‘Not your fault that,’ Laker replied. ‘We can’t choose who brings us into this world.’

  ‘The rookery,’ Werner said. ‘Can I ask you how long it has been here?’

  Laker looked at him in puzzlement, then stared up at the trees. ‘Since I were a lad, that is a fact. Are you interested in birds or something.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Werner told him. ‘The most fascinating of living creatures. Unlike man, they seldom fight with each other, they know no boundaries, the whole world is their home.’

  Laker looked at him as if he was mad and laughed. ‘Go on. Who’d want to get worked up over a few tatty old rooks?’

  ‘But are they, my friend?’ Werner said. ‘Rooks are an abundant and widespread resident of Norfolk, true, but many arrive during the late autumn and winter from as far afield as Russia.’

  ‘Get away,’ Laker told him.

  ‘No, it’s true. Many rooks in this area before the war were found to have been ringed around Leningrad, for example.’

  ‘You mean some of these old ragbags sitting above my head could have come from there?’ Laker demanded.

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘Well, I never did.’

  ‘So, my friend, in future you must treat them with the respect they deserve as much-travelled ladies and gentlemen, these rooks from Leningrad,’ Werner told him.

  There was a shout, ‘Kunicki—Moczar,’ and they turned and found Steiner and the priest standing outside the church porch. We’re leaving,’ Steiner called and Werner and Klugl doubled back through the cemetery to the jeep.

  Steiner and Father Vereker started to walk down the path together. A horn sounded and another jeep came up the hill from the direction of the village and pulled in at the opposite side of the road. Pamela Vereker got out in WAAF uniform. Werner and Klugl eyed her appreciatively and then they stiffened as Harry Kane came round from the other side. He was wearing a side cap, combat jacket and jump boots.

  As Steiner and Vereker reached the gate, Pamela joined them and reached up to kiss her brother on the cheek. ‘Sorry I’m late, but Harry wanted to see a little more of Norfolk than he’s been able to manage so far.’

  ‘And you took him the long way round?’ Vereker said affectionately.

  ‘At least I got her here, Father,’ Kane said.

  ‘I’d like you both to meet Colonel Carter of the Polish Independent Parachute Squadron,’ Vereker said. ‘He and his men are on exercise in this district. They’ll be using the barn in Old Woman’s Meadow. My sister Pamela, Colonel, and Major Harry Kane.’

  ‘Twenty-first Specialist Raiding Force.’ Kane shook hands. ‘We’re up the road at Meltham House. I noticed your boys on the way up, Colonel. Your guys have sure got it made with those crazy red berets. I bet the girls go wild.’

  ‘It’s been known to happen,’ Steiner said.

  ‘Polish, eh? We’ve one or two Polish guys in our outfit. Krukowski for instance. He’s from Chicago. Born and raised there and yet his Polish is as good as his English. Funny people. Maybe we can have some sort of get together.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Steiner said. ‘I’m under special orders. Exercises this afternoon and this evening, move on to join up with other units under my command tomorrow. You know how it is.’

  ‘I certainly do,’ Kane said, ‘being in exactly the same position myself.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘In fact, if I’m not back at Meltham House within twenty minutes the Colonel will have me shot.’

  Steiner said pleasantly, ‘Nice to have met you anyway. Miss Vereker. Father.’ He got into the jeep and nodded to Klugl who released the brake and moved away.

  ‘Try to remember it’s the left-hand side of the road you drive on here, Klugl,’ Steiner said calmly.

  The walls of the barn were three feet thick in places. Tradition had it that during the Middle Ages it had been part of a manor house. It was certainly adequate enough for their purposes. There was the usual smell of old hay and mice. A broken wagon stood in one corner and a large loft with round, glassless windows let in light.

  They left the Bedford outside with a man on guard, but took the jeep inside. Steiner stood in it and addressed them all.

  ‘So far, so good. From now on we’ve got to make the whole thing look as natural as possible. First, get the field stoves out and cook a meal.’ He looked at his watch. ‘That should take us somewhere up towards three o’clock. Afterwards, some field training. That’s what we’re here for and that’s what people will expect to see. Basic infantry tactics across the fields, by the stream, amongst the houses. Another thing—be careful at all times about speaking German. Keep your voices low. Use hand signals wherever possible during the field exercises. The only spoken orders to be in English naturally. The field telephones are for emergency only and I mean emergency. Oberleutnant Neumann will give section leaders the necessary call signs.’

  Brandt said, ‘What’s the drill if people try to speak to us?’

  ‘Pretend you don’t understand, even if you’ve got good English, I’d rather you did that than get involved.’

  Steiner turned to Ritter. ‘I’ll leave the field training organization to you. Make sure each group has at least one person who speaks good English. You should be able to manage that.’ He turned back to the men. ‘Remember it will be dark by six to six-thirty. We have only to look busy until then.’

  He jumped down and went outside. He walked down the track and leaned on the gate. Joanna Grey was toiling up the hill on her bicycle, a large bunch of flowers in the basket which hung from her handlebars, Patch running along behind.

  ‘Good afternoon, ma’am.’ Steiner saluted.

  She dismounted and came forward, pushing the machine. ‘How’s everything progressing?’

  ‘Fine.’

  She held out her hand as if introducing herself formally. At a distance it must have looked very natural. ‘And Philip Vereker?’

  ‘Couldn’t be more helpful. Devlin was right. I think he’s decided we’re here to keep an eye on the great man.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘You’ll see us playing soldiers round the village. Devlin said he’ll be up to see you at six-thirty.’

  ‘Good.’ She held out her hand again. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Steiner saluted, turned and went back to the barn and Joanna remounted and continued up the hill to the church. Vereker was standing in the porch waiting for her and she leaned her cycle against the wall and went towards him with the flowers.

  ‘They’re nice,’ he said. ‘Where on earth did you get them?’

  ‘Oh, a friend in Holt. Iris. Raised under glass, of course. Dreadfully unpatriotic. I suppose she should have put the time in on potatoes or cabbages.’

  ‘Nonsense, man does not live by bread alone.’ Strange how pompous he could sound. ‘Did you see Sir Henry before he left?’

  ‘Yes, he called in on his way. Full uniform, too. He really looked very splendid.’

  ‘And he’ll be back with the great man himself before nightfall,’ Vereker said. ‘A brief line in some biography of him one of these days. Spent the night at Studley Grange. The villagers don’t know a thing about it and yet a little piece of history is being made here.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right if you look at it that way.’ She smiled beautifully
. ‘Now, shall we arrange these flowers on the altar?’

  He opened the door for her and they went inside.

  Sixteen

  IN LONDON, AS Big Ben struck three, Rogan came out of the Royal Courts of Justice and hurried along the pavement to where Fergus Grant waited at the wheel of a Humber saloon. In spite of the heavy rain the Chief Inspector was in high good humour as he opened the door.

  ‘Everything go off all right, sir?’ Fergus asked him.

  Rogan grinned smugly. ‘If friend Halloran draws less than ten years I’m a monkey’s uncle. Did you get them?’

  ‘Glove compartment, sir.’

  Rogan opened it and found a Browning Hi-Power automatic. He checked the clip, rammed it back into the butt. Strange how good it felt in his hand. How right. He hefted it for a moment, then slipped it into his inside breast pocket.

  ‘All right, Fergus, now for friend Devlin.’

  At the same moment Molly was approaching St Mary and All the Saints on horseback by way of the field paths. Because of the light drizzle she wore her old trenchcoat and a scarf around her hair and carried a rucksack on her back covered with a piece of sacking.

  She tethered her horse under the trees at the back of the presbytery and went through the back gate into the graveyard. As she went round to the porch, a shouted command drifted up the hill and she paused and looked down towards the village. The paratroops were advancing in skirmishing order towards the old mill by the stream, their red berets very clear against the green of the meadow. She could see Father Vereker, George Wilde’s boy, Graham, and little Susan Turner standing on the footbridge above the weir watching. There was another shouted command and the paratroopers flung themselves down.

  When she went inside the church she found Pamela Vereker on her knees at the altar polishing the brass rails. ‘Hello, Molly,’ she said. ‘Come to help?’

  ‘Well, it is my mum’s weekend for the altar,’ Molly said, slipping her arms out of the rucksack, ‘only she has a bad cold and thought she’d spend the day in bed.’

  Another shouted order echoed faintly from the village. ‘Are they still at it out there?’ Pamela asked. ‘Wouldn’t you think there was enough war to get on with and still they have to play their stupid games. Is my brother down there?’