by Jack Higgins
‘Only if we have to,’ Steiner said. ‘I’d much prefer to keep him in one piece.’
‘And now the planning’s gone slightly awry? The best laid schemes and so on …’
‘Because one of my men sacrificed himself to save the lives of two children of this village, or perhaps you don’t wish to know about that? Why should that be, I wonder? Because it destroys this pitiful delusion that all German soldiers are savages whose sole occupation is murder and rape? Or is it something deeper? Do you hate all of us because it was a German bullet that crippled you?’
‘Go to hell!’ Vereker said.
‘The Pope, Father, would not be at all pleased with such a sentiment. To answer your original question. Yes, the plan has gone a little awry, but improvisation is the essence of our kind of soldiering. As a paratrooper yourself, you must know that.’
‘For heaven’s sakes, man, you’ve had it,’ Vereker said. ‘No element of surprise.’
‘There still will be,’ Steiner told him calmly. ‘If we hold the entire village incommunicado, so to speak, for the required period.’
Vereker was, for the moment, rendered speechless by the audacity of this suggestion. ‘But that is impossible.’
‘Not at all. My men are at this very moment rounding up everyone at present in Studley Constable. They’ll be up here within the next fifteen or twenty minutes. We control the telephone system, the roads, so that anyone entering will be immediately apprehended.’
‘But you’ll never get away with it.’
‘Sir Henry Willoughby left the Grange at eleven this morning to travel to King’s Lynn where he was to have lunch with the Prime Minister. They were due to leave in two cars with an escort of four Royal Military Police motor-cyclists at three-thirty.’ Steiner looked at his watch. ‘Which, give or take a minute or two, is right now. The Prime Minister has expressed a particular desire to pass through Walsingham, by the way, but forgive me, I must be boring you with all this.’
‘You seem to be very well informed?’
‘Oh, I am. So, you see, all we have to do is to hang on until this evening as arranged, and the prize will still be ours. Your people, by the way, have nothing to fear as long as they do as they are told.’
‘You won’t get away with it,’ Vereker said stubbornly.
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s been done before. Otto Skorzeny got Mussolini out of an apparently impossible situation. Quite a feat of arms as Mr Churchill himself conceded in a speech at Westminster.’
‘Or what’s left of it after your damned bombs,’ Vereker said.
‘Berlin isn’t looking too good either these days,’ Steiner pointed out, ‘and if your friend Wilde is interested, tell him that the five-year-old daughter and the wife of the man who died to save his son, were killed by RAF bombs four months ago.’ Steiner held out his hand. ‘I’ll have the keys of your car. It might come in useful.’
‘I haven’t got them with me,’ Vereker began.
‘Don’t waste my time, Father. I’ll have my lads strip you if I have to.’
Vereker reluctantly produced his keys and Steiner slipped them into his pocket. ‘Right, I have things to do.’ He raised his voice. ‘Brandt, hold the fort here. I’ll send Preston to relieve you, then report to me in the village.’
He went out, and Private Jansen came and stood against the door with his Ml. Vereker walked up the aisle slowly, past Brandt and Wilde who was sitting in one of the pews, shoulders hunched. Sturm was lying in front of the altar in the Lady Chapel. The priest stood looking down at him for a moment, then knelt, folded his hands and in a firm, confident voice, began to recite the prayers for the dying.
‘So now we know,’ Pamela Vereker said as the door banged behind Steiner.
‘What are we going to do?’ Molly said dully.
‘Get out of here, that’s the first thing.’
‘But how?’
Pamela moved to the other side of the room, found the concealed catch and a section of the panelling swung back to reveal the entrance to the priest’s tunnel. She picked up the torch her brother had left on the table. Molly was gaping in amazement. ‘Come on,’ Pamela said impatiently. ‘We must get moving.’
Once inside, she closed the door and led the way quickly along the tunnel. They exited through the oak cupboard in the presbytery cellar and went up the stairs to the hall. Pamela put the torch on the table beside the telephone and when she turned, saw that Molly was crying bitterly.
‘Molly, what is it?’ she said, taking the girl’s hands in hers.
‘Liam Devlin,’ Molly said. ‘He’s one of them. Must be. They were at his place, you see. I saw them.’
‘When was this?’
‘Earlier today. He let me think he was still in the army. Some kind of secret job.’ Molly pulled her hands free and clenched them into fists. ‘He used me. All the time he was using me. God help me, but I hope they hang him.’
‘Molly, I’m sorry,’ Pamela said. ‘Truly I am. If what you say is true then he’ll be taken care of. But we’ve got to get out of here.’ She looked down at the telephone. ‘No use trying to get through to the police or somebody on that, not if they control the village exchange. And I haven’t got the keys of my brother’s car.’
‘Mrs Grey has a car,’ Molly said.
‘Of course.’ Pamela’s eyes glinted with excitement. ‘Now if I could only get down to her house.’
Then what would you do? There isn’t a phone for miles.’
‘I’d go straight to Meltham House,’ Pamela said. ‘There are American Rangers there. A crack outfit. They’d show Steiner and his bunch a thing or two. How did you get here?’
‘Horseback. He’s tied up in the woods behind the presbytery.’
‘All right, leave him. We’ll take the field path back of Hawks Wood and see if we can get to Mrs Grey’s without being seen.’
Molly didn’t argue. Pamela tugged her sleeve, they darted across the road into the shelter of Hawks Wood.
The path was centuries old and cut deep into the earth, giving complete concealment. Pamela led the way, running very fast, not stopping until they came out into the trees on the opposite side of the stream from Joanna Grey’s cottage. There was a narrow footbridge and the road seemed deserted.
Pamela said, ‘All right, let’s go. Straight across.’
Molly grabbed her arm. ‘Not me, I’ve changed my mind.’
‘But why?’
‘You try this way. I’ll go back for my horse and try another. Two bites of the apple.’
Pamela nodded. ‘That makes sense. All right then, Molly.’ She kissed her on the cheek impulsively. ‘Only watch it! They mean business, this lot.’
Molly gave her a little push and Pamela darted across the road and disappeared round the corner of the garden wall. Molly turned and started to run back up the track through Hawks Wood. Oh, Devlin, you bastard, she thought, I hope they crucify you.
By the time she reached the top, the tears, slow, sad and incredibly painful were oozing from her eyes. She didn’t even bother to see if the road was clear, but simply dashed across and followed the line of the garden wall round to the wood at the back. Her horse was waiting patiently where she’d tethered him, cropping the grass. She untied him quickly, scrambled into the saddle and galloped away.
When Pamela went into the yard at the rear of the cottage the Morris saloon was standing outside the garage. When she opened the car door the keys were in the ignition. She started to get behind the wheel and an indignant voice called, ‘Pamela, what on earth are you doing?’
Joanna Grey was standing at the back door. Pamela ran towards her. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Grey, but something absolutely terrible has happened. This Colonel Carter and his men who are exercising in the village. They’re not SAS at all. His name is Steiner and they’re German paratroopers here to kidnap the Prime Minister.’
Joanna Grey drew her into the kitchen and closed the door. Patch fawned about her knees. ‘Now calm down,’ Joanna said. �
��This really is a most incredible story. The Prime Minister isn’t even here.’
She turned to her coat hanging behind the door and fumbled in the pocket. ‘Yes, but he will be this evening,’ Pamela said. ‘Sir Henry is bringing him back from King’s Lynn.’
Joanna turned, a Walther automatic in her hand. ‘You have been busy, haven’t you?’ She reached behind and got the cellar door open. ‘Down you go.’
Pamela was thunderstruck. ‘Mrs Grey, I don’t understand.’
‘And I don’t have time to explain. Let’s just say we’re on different sides in this affair and leave it at that. Now get down those stairs. I won’t hesitate to shoot if I have to.’
Pamela went down, Patch scampering in front of her, and Joanna Grey followed. She switched on a light at the bottom and opened a door opposite. Inside was a dark windowless storeroom filled with junk. ‘In you go.’
Patch, circling his mistress, managed to get between her feet. She stumbled against the wall. Pamela gave her a violent push through the doorway. As she fell back, Joanna Grey fired at point-blank range. Pamela was aware of the explosion that half-blinded her, the sudden touch of a white-hot poker against the side of her head, but she managed to slam the door in Joanna Grey’s face and ram home the bolt.
The shock of a gunshot wound is so great that it numbs the entire central nervous system for a while. There was a desperate air of unreality to everything as Pamela stumbled upstairs to the kitchen. She leaned on a chest of drawers to stop herself from falling, and looked in the mirror above it. A narrow strip of flesh had been gouged out of the left side of her forehead and bone showed through. There was surprisingly little blood and, when she touched it gently with a fingertip, no pain. That would come later.
‘I must get to Harry,’ she said aloud. ‘I must get to Harry.’
Then, like something in a dream, she found herself behind the wheel of the Morris driving out of the yard, as if in slow motion.
As he walked down the road Steiner saw her go and made the natural assumption that Joanna Grey was at the wheel. He swore softly, turned and went back to the bridge where he had left the jeep with Werner Briegel manning the machine-gun and Klugl at the wheel. As he arrived, the Bedford came back down the hill from the church, Ritter Neumann standing on the running-board and hanging on to the door. He jumped down.
‘Twenty-seven people up at the church now, Herr Oberst, including the two children. Five men, nineteen women.’
‘Ten children at harvest camp,’ Steiner said. ‘Devlin estimated a present population of forty-seven. If we allow for Turner in the exchange, and Mrs Grey, that leaves eight people who are certain to turn up at some time. Mostly men, I would imagine. Did you find Vereker’s sister?’
‘No sign of her at the presbytery and when I asked him where she was, he told me to go to hell. Some of the women were more forthcoming. It seems she goes riding on Saturday afternoons when she’s at home.’
‘You’ll have to keep an eye out for her as well, then,’ Steiner said.
‘Have you seen Mrs Grey?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Steiner explained what had happened. ‘I made a bad mistake there. I should have allowed you to go and see her when you suggested it. I can only hope she returns soon.’
‘Perhaps she’s gone to see Devlin?’
‘That’s a point. Worth checking on. We’ll have to let him know what’s happening anyway.’ He slapped the swagger stick against his palm.
There was a crash of breaking glass and a chair came through the window of Turner’s shop. Steiner and Ritter Neumann drew their Brownings and ran across the road.
For most of the day Arthur Seymour had been felling the trees of a small plantation on a farm to the east of Studley Constable. He sold the logs to his own benefit in and around the village. Mrs Turner had given him an order only that morning. When he was finished at the plantation, he filled a couple of sacks, put them on his handcart and went down to the village across the field tracks, coming into the yard at the back of the Turners’ shop from the rear.
He kicked open the kitchen door without knocking and walked in, a sack of logs on his shoulder—and came face-to-face with Dinter and Berg who were sitting on the edge of the table drinking coffee. If anything, they were more surprised than Seymour.
‘Here, what’s going on?’ he demanded.
Dinter, who had his Sten slung across his chest, moved it on target and Berg picked up his Ml. At the same moment Harvey Preston appeared in the door. He stood there, hands on hips, looking Seymour over. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘The original walking ape.’
Something stirred in Seymour’s dark mad eyes. ‘You watch your mouth, soldier boy.’
‘It can talk as well,’ Preston said. ‘Wonders will never cease. All right, put him with the others.’
He turned to go back into the exchange and Seymour tossed the sack of logs at Dinter and Berg and jumped on him, one arm clamping around Preston’s throat, a knee in his back. He snarled like an animal. Berg got to his feet and slammed the butt of his Ml into Seymour’s kidneys. The big man cried out in pain, released his hold on Preston and launched himself at Berg with such force that they went through the open door behind into the shop, a display cabinet collapsing beneath them.
Berg lost his rifle but managed to get to his feet and back away. Seymour advanced on him, sweeping the counter clear of the pyramids of tinned goods and packages, growling deep in his throat. Berg picked up the chair Mrs Turner habitually sat on behind the counter. Seymour knocked it aside in mid-flight and it went out through the shop window. Berg drew his bayonet and Seymour crouched.
Preston took a hand then, moving in from behind, Berg’s Ml in his hands. He raised it high and drove the butt into the back of Seymour’s skull. Seymour cried out and swung round. ‘You bloody great ape,’ Preston cried. ‘We’ll have to teach you your manners, won’t we?’
He smashed the butt into Seymour’s stomach and as the big man started to fold, hit him again in the side of the neck. Seymour fell back, grabbed for support and only succeeded in bringing a shelf and its contents down on top of him as he slid to the floor.
Steiner and Ritter Neumann burst in through the shop doorway at that moment, guns ready. The place was a shambles, cans of various descriptions, sugar, flour, scattered everywhere. Harvey Preston handed Berg his rifle. Dinter appeared in the doorway, swaying slightly, a streak of blood on his forehead.
‘Find some rope,’ Preston said, ‘and tie him up or next time you might not be so lucky.’
Old Mr Turner was hovering in the door of the exchange. There were tears in his eyes as he surveyed the shambles. ‘And who’s going to pay for that lot.’
‘Try sending the bill to Winston Churchill, you never know your luck,’ Preston said brutally. ‘I’ll have a word with him for you if you like. Press your case.’
The old man slumped down in a chair in the small exchange, the picture of misery and Steiner said, ‘All right, Preston, I won’t need you down here any more. Get on up to the church and take that specimen behind the counter with you. Relieve Brandt. Tell him to report to Oberleutnant Neumann.’
‘What about the switchboard?’
‘I’ll send Altmann in. He speaks good English. Dinter and Berg can keep an eye on things until then.’
Seymour was stirring, pushing himself up on his knees and making the discovery that his hands were lashed behind his back. ‘Comfortable are we?’ Preston kicked him in the backside and hauled him to his feet. ‘Come on, ape, start putting one foot in front of the other.’
At the church, the villagers sat in pews as instructed and awaited their fate, talking to each other in low voices. Most of the women were plainly terrified. Vereker moved amongst them, bringing what comfort he could. Corporal Becker stood guard near the chancel steps, a Sten gun in his hands, Private Jansen at the door. Neither spoke English.
After Brandt had departed, Harvey Preston found a length of rope in the bell room at the bottom of the tower, l
ashed Seymour’s ankles together, then turned him over and dragged him on his face to the Lady Chapel where he dumped him beside Sturm. There was blood on Seymour’s cheek where the skin had rubbed away and there were gasps of horror, particularly from the women.
Preston ignored them and kicked Seymour in the ribs. ‘I’ll cool you down before I’m through, I promise you.’
Vereker limped forward and grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him round. ‘Leave that man alone.’
‘Man?’ Preston laughed in his face. ‘That isn’t a man, it’s a thing.’ Vereker reached down to touch Seymour and Preston knocked him away and drew his revolver. ‘You just won’t do as you’re told, will you?’
One of the women choked back a scream. There was a terrible silence as Preston thumbed back the hammer. A moment in time. Vereker crossed himself and Preston laughed again and lowered the revolver. ‘A lot of good that will do you.’
‘What kind of man are you?’ Vereker demanded. ‘What moves you to act like this?’
‘What kind of man?’ Preston said. ‘That’s simple. A special breed. The finest fighting men that ever walked the face of the earth. The Waffen SS in which I have the honour to hold the rank of Untersturmführer.’
He walked up the aisle, turned at the chancel steps, unzipped his jump jacket and took it off, revealing the tunic underneath, the collar patches with the three leopards, the eagle on his left arm, the Union Jack shield beneath and the black and silver cuff-title.
It was Laker Armsby sitting beside George Wilde who said, ‘Here, he’s got a Union Jack on his sleeve.’
Vereker moved forward, a frown on his face and Preston held out his arm. ‘Yes, he’s right. Now read the cuff-title.’
‘Britisches Freikorps,’ Vereker said aloud and glanced up sharply. ‘British Free Corps?’
‘Yes, you damned fool. Don’t you realize? Don’t any of you realize? I’m English, like you, only I’m on the right side. The only side.’
Susan Turner started to cry. George Wilde came out of his pew, walked up the aisle slowly and deliberately and stood looking up at Preston. ‘The Jerries must be damned hard up, because the only place they could have found you was under a stone.’