by Jack Higgins
'Let's try here,' Schellenberg said and Asa turned off the road.
The men in the farmyard were all Fallschirmjager, hard young men, old before their time with cropped hair. Most of them wore camouflaged smocks and jump boots. A number sat on benches against the wall, cleaning weapons. A couple worked on the engine of a troop carrier. They glanced up curiously as the Kubelwagen arrived, rising to their feet when they saw Schellenberg's uniform.
'That's all right, carry on with what you're doing,' he said.
A young captain emerged from the farmhouse. He had the Iron Cross First and Second Class, the cuff-titles for Crete and the Afrika Korps. He also had a Winter War ribbon, a tough, hard-faced young man.
'You are in charge here?' Schellenberg asked.
'Yes, General. Hauptmann Erich Kramer. In what way may I help you?'
'We're looking for a place trailed Chateau de Belle Ile,' Schellenberg told him. 'Do you know it?'
'Very well. About ten miles east of here on the coast. Let me show you on my area map.'
They followed him into the farmhouse. The living room was fitted as a command post with radio and large-scale maps on the wall. The back road to Belle Ile was plain enough.
'Excellent,' Schellenberg said. 'Tell me something. What's your unit's purpose here?'
'Security duties, General. We patrol the area, try to keep the French Resistance in place.'
'Do you get much trouble from them?'
'Not really,' Kramer laughed. 'I only have thirty-five men left in this unit. We were lucky to get out of Stalingrad. This is a rest cure for us.'
They went outside and as they got back into the Kubelwagen Devlin said, 'Crete and the Afrika Korps, I see, and Stalingrad. Did you know Steiner?'
Even the men cleaning their weapons looked up at the mention of the name. Kramer said, 'Oberst Kurt Steiner? Who doesn't in our line of work. A legend in the Parachute Regiment.'
'You've met him then?'
'Several times. You know him?'
'You could say that.'
Kramer said, 'We heard a rumour he was dead.'
'Ah, well, you mustn't believe everything you hear,' Devlin told him.
'Captain.' Schellenberg returned his salute as Asa drove away.
'Dear God,' Devlin said, 'I sometimes wonder why Steiner doesn't make his own way back across the Channel, walking on water.'
Belle Ile was quite spectacular, a castle crowning a hill beside the sea, a vast estuary stretching beyond it, sand where the tide had just retreated. Asa took the Kubelwagen up the single winding road. There was a narrow bridge across a gap that was more ravine than moat. Two great doors stood open in an arched entrance and they came out into a cobbled courtyard. Asa braked at the foot of broad steps leading up to the front entrance, walls and towers rising above them.
They got out and Schellenberg led the way. The door was of oak, buckled with age and studded with rusting iron bolts and bands of steel. There was a bell hanging from the wall beside it. Schellenberg pulled the chain and the jangling echoed around the courtyard, bouncing from the walls.
'Jesus,' Devlin said, 'all we need is Quasimodo.'
A moment later the door creaked open and he appeared, or a fair facsimile, a very old man with grey hair down to his shoulders, a black dresscoat of velvet that had seen better days, a pair of very baggy corduroy trousers beneath of the type worn by peasants on the farm.
His face was wrinkled and he badly needed a shave. 'Yes, messieurs?' he said in French. 'What can I do for you?'
'You are the caretaker?' Schellenberg asked.
'Yes, monsieur. Pierre Dissard.'
'You live here with your wife?'
'When she is here, monsieur. At present she is with her niece in Cherbourg.'
Devlin said to Asa, 'Are you getting all this?'
'Not a word. I don't speak French.'
'I suppose you spent all your time playing football. The General and I, on the other hand, being men of intellect and learning, can understand everything the old bugger is saying. I'll translate freely when necessary.'
Schellenberg said, 'I wish to inspect the premises.'
He walked past Dissard into a great entrance hall, flagged in granite, a carpet here and there. There was an enormous fireplace to one side and a staircase to the first floor wide enough to take a regiment.
'You are of the SS, monsieur?' Dissard asked.
'I should think that was obvious,' Schellenberg told him.
'But the premises have already been inspected, monsieur, the other day. An officer in a similar uniform to your own.'
'Do you recall his name?'
'He said he was a major.' The old man frowned, trying. 'His face was bad on one side.'
Schellenberg said calmly, 'Berger? Was that his name?'
Dissard nodded eagerly. 'That's it, monsieur, Major Berger. His French was very bad.'
Asa said, 'What's going on?'
'He's telling us someone's been here before us. An SS major named Berger,' Devlin said.
'Do you know him?'
'Oh, intimately, particularly his nose, but I'll explain later.'
Schellenberg said, 'Then you are aware that these premises are required in the near future. I would appreciate a conducted tour.'
'The Chateau has been closed since nineteen forty, monsieur. My master, the Comte de Beaumont, went to England to fight the Boche.'
'Really?' Schellenberg said drily. 'So, let's get on with it. We'll go upstairs and work down.'
The old man looked up the staircase in front of them. There were innumerable bedrooms, some with four-posters, the furniture draped in sheets, two doors leading to separate wings so long disused that the dust lay thick on the floor.
'Mother of God, is this the way the rich live?' Devlin asked as they went down. 'Have you seen how far it is to the bathroom?'
Schellenberg noticed a door at one end of the landing above the entrance. 'What's through there?'
'I'll show you, monsieur. Another way into the dining hall.'
They found themselves in a long dark gallery above a massive room. The ceiling had arched oaken beams. Below was a massive fireplace in a medieval pattern. In front of it was an enormous oak table surrounded by high-backed chairs. Battle standards hung above the fireplace.
They went down the stairs and Schellenberg said, 'What are the flags?'
'Souvenirs of war, monsieur. The de Beaumonts have always served France well. See, in the centre there, the standard in scarlet and gold. An ancestor of the count carried that at Waterloo.'
'Is that a fact?' Devlin commented. 'I always thought they lost that one.'
Schellenberg looked around the hall, then led the way out through high oak doors back into the entrance hall.
'I have seen enough. What did Major Berger say to you?'
'That he would be back, monsieur.' The old man shrugged. 'One week, maybe two.'
Schellenberg put a hand on his shoulder. 'No one must know we have been here, my friend, especially Major Berger.'
'Monsieur?' Dissard looked puzzled.
Schellenberg said, 'This is a matter of the greatest secrecy and of considerable importance.'
'I understand, monsieur.'
'If the fact that we had been here came out, the source of the information would be obvious.' He patted Dissard's desk with his gloved hand. 'This would be bad for you.'
The old man was thoroughly frightened. 'Monsieur — please. Not a word. I swear it.'
They went out to the Kubelwagen and drove away. Devlin said, 'Walter, you can be a cold-blooded bastard when you want to be.'
'Only when necessary.' Schellenberg turned to Asa. 'Can we get back to Berlin tonight?'
The light was already fading, dark clouds dropping towards the sea and rain drifted in across the wet sands.
'Possible,' Asa said. 'If we're lucky. We might have to overnight at Chernay. Get off first thing in the morning.'
Devlin said, 'What a prospect.' He pulled up the colla
r of his overcoat and lit a cigarette. 'The glamour of war.'
On the following afternoon, Devlin was delivered to the UFA film studios for his appointment with the chief makeup artist. Karl Schneider was in his late forties, a tall broad-shouldered man who looked more like a dock worker than anything else.
He examined a passport-type photo which Devlin had had taken. 'You say this is what they've got on the other side?'
'Something like that.'
'It's not much, not for a policeman looking for a face in the crowd. When would you be going?'
Devlin made the decision then for himself, for Schellenberg, for all of them. 'Let's say two or three days from now.'
'And how long would you be away?'
'Ten days at the most. Can you do anything?'
'Oh, yes.' Schneider nodded. 'One can change the shape of the face by wearing cheek pads in the mouth and all that sort of thing, but I don't think it's necessary for you. You don't carry a lot of weight, my friend, not much flesh on your bones.'
'All down to bad living,' Devlin said.
Schneider ignored the joke. 'Your hair — dark and wavy and you wear it long. I think the key is what I do to the hair. What role do you intend to play?'
'A priest. Ex-Army chaplain. Invalided out.'
'Yes, the hair.' Schneider draped a sheet about his shoulders and reached for a pair of scissors.
By the time he was finished, Devlin's hair was cropped close to the skull.
'Jesus, is that me?'
'That's only a start. Let's have you over the basin.' Schneider washed the hair then rubbed some chemical in. 'I've worked with the best actors. Marlene Dietrich before she cleared out. Now she had marvellous hair. Oh, and there was Conrad Veidt. What a wonderful actor. Chased out by these Nazi bastards and he ends up, so I'm told, playing Nazi bastards in Hollywood.'
'A strange old life.' Devlin kept his eyes closed and let him get on with it.
He hardly recognized the face that stared out at him. The close-cropped hair was quite grey now, accentuating the cheekbones, putting ten or twelve years on his age.
'That's bloody marvellous.'
'One more touch.' Schneider rummaged in his make-up case, took out several pairs of spectacles and examined them. 'Yes, these, I think. Clear glass, naturally.' He placed a pair of steel-rimmed glasses on Devlin's nose and adjusted them. 'Yes, excellent. I'm pleased with myself.'
'God help me, but I look like Himmler,' Devlin said. 'Will it last, the hair, I mean?'
'A fortnight and you said you'd be away ten days at the most.' Schneider produced a small plastic bottle. 'A rinse with this would keep things going, but not for long.'
'No,' Devlin told him. 'I said ten days and I meant it. It's all one in the end anyway. Any longer and I'll be dead.'
'Astonishing!' Schellenberg said.
'I'm glad you think so,' Devlin told him. 'So let's have the right photos taken. I want to get on with it.'
'And what does that mean?'
'I want to go as soon as possible. Tomorrow or the day after.'
Schellenberg looked at him gravely. 'You're sure about this?'
'There's nothing else to hang about for now that your friend at UFA has given me a new face. We have the set-up at Chernay, Asa and the Lysander. That leaves us with three uncertainties. My IRA friend, Michael Ryan, the Shaws and the Priory.'
'True,' Schellenberg said. 'No matter what the situation at the Priory, if your friend Ryan is not available you would be presented with real difficulty. The same with the Shaws.'
Devlin said, 'Without the Shaws it would be an impossibility so the sooner I get there, the sooner we know.'
'Right,' Schellenberg said briskly, and rang for Use Huber who came in. 'Papers for Mr Devlin from the forgery department.'
'They'll need photos of the new me,' Devlin told her.
'But Mr Devlin, the British identity card is what you need. A ration book for certain items of food, clothing coupons, driving licence. None of these require a photo.'
'That's a pity,' Devlin told her. 'If you're being checked out by someone the fact that they can compare you with a photo is so satisfying that you're on your way before you know it.'
'Have you decided on your name and circumstances yet?' Schellenberg asked.
'As I've often said, the best kind of lie is the one that sticks closest to the truth,' Devlin said. 'No sense in trying to sound completely English. Even the great Devlin wouldn't get away with that. So I'm an Ulster-man.' He turned to Use. 'Are you getting this?'
'Every word.'
'Conlon. Now there's a name I've always liked. My first girlfriend was a Conlon. And my old uncle, the priest in Belfast I lived with as a boy. He was a Henry, though everyone called him Harry.'
'Father Harry Conlon then?' she said.
'Yes, but more than that. Major Harry Conlon, Army chaplain, on extended leave after being wounded.'
'Where?' Schellenberg asked.
'In my head.' Devlin tapped the bullet scar. 'Oh, I see what you mean. Geographically speaking.'
'How about the Allied invasion of Sicily this year?' Schellenberg suggested.
'Excellent. I got clipped in an air strike on the first day. That way I don't need too much information about the place if anyone asks me.'
'I've seen a cross-reference with British Army chaplains in the military documentation file,' Use said. 'I remember because it struck me as being unusual. May I go and check on it, General? It would only take a few minutes.'
Schellenberg nodded. She went out and he said, 'I'll make the arrangements for your flight to Ireland. I've already done some checking with the Luftwaffe. They suggest you take off from Laville base outside Brest.'
Talk about deja vu,' Devlin said. 'That's where I left from before. It wouldn't happen to be a Cornier bomber they suggest, the good old Flying Pencil?'
'Exactly.'
'Ah well, it worked last time, I suppose.'
Use came in at that moment. 'I was right. Look what I found.'
The pass was in the name of a Major George Harvey, Army chaplain, and there was a photo. It had been issued by the War Office and authorized unrestricted access to both military bases and hospitals.
'Astonishing how powerful the need for spiritual comfort is,' Schellenberg said. 'Where did this come from?'
'Documents taken from a prisoner of war, General. I'm certain forging will have no difficulty copying it and it would give Mr Devlin the photo he wanted.'
'Brilliant,' Devlin said. 'You're a marvel of a woman.'
'You'll need to see the clothing department as well,' she said. 'Will you want a uniform?'
'It's a thought. I mean, it could come in useful. Otherwise, a dark suit, clerical collar, dark hat, raincoat, and they can give me a Military Cross. If I'm a priest, I might as well be a gallant one. Always impressive. And I'll want a travel voucher from Belfast to London. The kind the military use, just in case I do want to play the major.'
'I'll get things started.'
She went out and Schellenberg said, 'What else?'
'Cash. Five thousand quid, I'd say. That's to take care of my having to hand a few bribes out as well as supporting myself. If you find one of those canvas military holdalls officers carry these days, the money could go in a false bottom of some sort.'
'I'm sure there'll be no problem.'
'Fivers, Walter, and the real thing. None of the false stuff I happen to know the SS has been printing.'
'You have my word on it. You'll need a code-name.'
'We'll stick with Shaw's. Falcon will do fine. Give me the right details for contacting your radio people at this end and I'll be in touch before you know it.'
'Excellent. The Führer's conference at Belle Ile is on the twenty-first. We could be cutting it fine.'
'We'll manage.' Devlin stood up. 'I think I'll try the canteen.' He turned at the door. 'Oh, just one thing.'
'What's that?'
'When I was dropped by parachute into Ireland in f
orty-one for the Abwehr, I had ten thousand pounds in a suitcase, funds for the IRA. When I opened it I found neat bundles of fivers, each one with a Bank of Berlin band around it. Do you think they could do better this time?'
Schellenberg said, 'And they wonder why we're losing the war.'
Asa was in the canteen drinking a beer and reading a copy of Signal, the magazine for German forces, when Devlin came in. The Irishman got a coffee and joined him.
'I can't believe it,' Asa said. 'I hardly recognized you.'
'The new me, Father Harry Conlon, very much at your service. Also Major Harry Conlon, Army chaplain, and I'm on my way tomorrow night.'
'Isn't that pushing it?'
'Jesus, son, I want to get on with it.'
'Where are you flying from?'
'Laville, near Brest.'
'And the plane?'
'Dornier 215.'
'Okay, I'll fly you myself.'
'No, you won't, you're too valuable. Say you got me to Ireland and dropped me off, then got shot down by a British night-fighter off the French coast on your way back. A right old balls-up that would be.'
'Okay,' Asa said reluctantly, 'but at least I can fly you down to Laville. Nobody can object to that.'
'Always nicer to have a friend see you off,' Devlin said.
It was just after nine the following night, rain pounding in from the Atlantic, when Asa stood in the control tower at Laville and watched the Dornier take off. He opened a window, listened to it fade into the night. He closed the window and said to the radio man, 'Send this message.'
Devlin, sitting at the back of the Dornier in a flying suit, his supply bag beside him, was approached by the wireless operator. 'A message for you, sir. A bad joke on someone's part.'
'Read it.'
'It just says: "Break a leg".'
Devlin laughed. 'Well, son, you'd have to be an actor to understand that one.'
The Dornier made good time and it was shortly after two in the morning when Devlin jumped at five thousand feet. As on the last occasion, he had chosen County Monaghan which was an area he knew well and adjacent to the Ulster border.