The Eagle Has Flown

by Jack Higgins

  He brushed past Devlin and knocked on the other door, then went in. After a while he opened it again and looked out. 'All right, he'll see you.'

  Jack Carver sat behind a walnut Regency desk that looked genuine. He was a hard, dangerous-looking man, his face fleshy, the signs of decay setting in early. He wore an excellent suit in navy worsted tailored in Savile Row, a discreet tie. To judge by outward appearances he could have been a prosperous businessman, but the jagged scar that ran from the corner of the left eye into the dark hairline and the look in the cold eyes belied that.

  George stayed by the door and Devlin glanced around the room which was furnished in surprisingly good taste. 'This is nice.'

  'All right, so what's it about?' Carver said, holding up the fiver.

  'Aren't they beautiful, those things?' Devlin said. 'A work of genuine art, the Bank of England five-pound note.'

  Carver said, 'According to George, you said something about another hundred and ninety-nine. That came to a thousand quid when I went to school.'

  'Ah, you remembered, George?' Devlin said.

  At that moment, a door opened and Eric entered wearing a clean shirt and fastening his tie. He stopped dead, astonishment on his face that was quickly replaced by anger. 'Here, that's him, Jack, the little squirt who spilled coffee down me.'

  'Oh, an accident surely,' Devlin told him.

  Eric started towards him and Jack Carver snapped, 'Leave it out, Eric, this is business.' Eric stayed by the desk, rage in his eyes and Carver said, 'Now what would I have to do for a thousand quid? Kill somebody?'

  'Come off it, Mr Carver, we both know you'd do that for fun,' Devlin said. 'No, what I need is an item of military equipment. I hear you're a man who can get anything. At least that's what the IRA seem to think. I wonder what Special Branch at Scotland Yard might make of that titbit?'

  Carver smoothed the fiver between his fingers and looked up, his face blank. 'You're beginning to sound right out of order.'

  'Me and my big mouth. I'll never learn,' Devlin said. 'And all I wanted was to buy a radio.'

  'A radio?' For the first time Carver looked puzzled.

  'Of the transmitting and receiving kind. There's a rather nice one the Army uses these days. It's called a twenty-eight set, Mark Four. God knows why. Fits in a wooden box with a carrying handle. Just like a suitcase. Very handy.' Devlin took a piece of paper from his pocket and put it on the desk. 'I've written the details down.'

  Carver looked at it. 'Sounds a fancy piece of work to me. What would a man want a thing like that for?'

  'Now that, Mr Carver, is between me and my God. Can you handle it?'

  'Jack Carver can handle anything. A thousand, you said?'

  'But I must have it tomorrow.'

  Carver nodded. 'All right, but I'll take half in advance.'

  'Fair enough.'

  Devlin had expected as much, had the money waiting in his pocket. He took it out and dropped it on the table.

  'There you go.'

  Carver scooped it up. 'And it'll cost you another thousand. Tomorrow night, ten o'clock. Just down the road from here. Black Lion Dock. There's a warehouse with my name over the door. Be on time.'

  'Sure and you're a hard man to do business with,' Devlin said. 'But then we have to pay for what we want in this life.'

  'You can say that again,' Carver said. 'Now get out of here.'

  Devlin left the sound of George closing the door behind him. Eric said, 'He's mine, Jack, I want him.'

  'Leave it out, Eric. I've got this.' Carver held up the five hundred pounds. 'And I want the rest of it. Then he gets squeezed. I didn't like that IRA crack he made at all. Very naughty. Now get out of it. I want to make a phone call.'

  Mary was sitting quietly watching the dancers when Devlin joined her. 'Did it go all right with Carver?'she asked.

  'I'd rather shake hands with the Devil. That little rat I chastised turned out to be his brother, Eric. Would you like to go now?'

  'All right. I'll get my coat and see you in the foyer.' When they went out it was raining. She took his arm and they walked down the wet pavements towards the main road. There was an alley to the right and as they approached it, Eric Carver and George stepped out, blocking the way.

  'Saw you leaving. Thought we'd say goodnight,' Eric said.

  'Mother of God!' Devlin put the girl to one side.

  'Go on, George, do him up,' Eric cried.

  'A pleasure.' George came in, enjoying himself.

  Devlin simply stepped to the left and stamped sideways at his knee-cap. George screamed in agony, doubled over and Devlin raised a knee into his face. 'Didn't they teach you that one, George?'

  Eric backed away in terror. Devlin took Mary's arm and walked past him. 'Now where were we?'

  Jack Carver said, 'I told you to leave it out, Eric. You never learn.'

  'The bastard's half crippled George. Dislodged his knee-cap. I had to take him to Dr Aziz round the corner.'

  'Never mind George, I phoned Morrie Green. He knows more about surplus military equipment than any man in London.'

  'Does he have this radio the little bastard wanted?'

  'No, but he can get one. No trouble. He'll drop it in tomorrow. The interesting thing is what he said about it. It's no ordinary radio. Sort of thing the Army would use operating behind enemy lines.'

  Eric looked bewildered. 'But what's it mean, Jack?'

  'That there's a lot more to that little sod than meets the eye. I'm going to have some fun with him tomorrow night.' Carver laughed harshly. 'Now pour me a Scotch.'

  Devlin and Mary took the turning down to Harrow Street

  .

  'Shall I try and get a cab?' he asked.

  'Oh, no, it's not much more than a mile and a half and I like walking in the rain.' She kept her hand lightly on his arm. 'You're very quick, Mr Devlin, you don't hesitate. Back there, I mean.'

  'Yes, well I never could see the point.'

  They walked in companionable silence for a while alongside the river towards Wapping. There was a heavy mist on the Thames and a large cargo boat slipped past them, green and red navigation lights plain in spite of the blackout.

  'I'd love to be like that boat,' she said. 'Going to sea, to far away, distant places, something different every day.'

  'Jesus, girl, you're only nineteen. It's all waiting for you out there and this bloody war can't last for ever.'

  They paused in the shelter of a wall while he lit a cigarette. She said, 'I wish we had time to walk all the way down to the Embankment.'

  'Too far surely?'

  'I saw a film once. I think it was Fred Astaire. He walked along the Embankment with a girl and his chauffeur followed along behind in a Rolls-Royce.'

  'And you liked that?'

  'It was very romantic.'

  'Ah, there's a woman for you.'

  They turned along Cable Wharf and paused on the little terrace before going into the house.

  'I've had a lovely time.'

  He laughed out loud. 'You must be joking, girl.'

  'No, really. I like being with you.'

  She still held his arm and leaned against him. He put his other arm around her and they stayed there for a moment, rain glistening as it fell through the shaded light above the door. He felt a sudden dreadful sadness for everything there had never been in his life, remembering a girl in Norfolk just like Mary Ryan, a girl he had hurt very badly indeed.

  He sighed and Mary looked up. 'What is it?'

  'Oh, nothing, I was just wondering where it had all gone. It's a touch of that three o'clock in the morning feeling when you feel past everything there ever was.'

  'Not you, surely? You've got years ahead of you.'

  'Mary, my love. You are nineteen and I am an old thirty-five who's seen it all and doesn't believe in much any more. In a few days I'll be on my way and a good thing.' He gave her one small hug. 'So let's get inside before I lose what few wits I have entirely.'

  Ryan, sitting on the oth
er side of the table, said, 'Jack Carver's bad news, Liam, always was. How can you be certain he'll play straight?'

  'He couldn't if he wanted to,' Devlin said, 'but there's more to this. Much more. The radio I need, the twenty-eight set. It's an unusual piece of equipment and the more Carver realizes that, the more he's going to want to know what's going on.'

  'So what are you going to do?'

  'I'll think of something, but that can wait. What can't is an inspection of that drainage tunnel under the Priory.'

  'I'll come with you,' Ryan said. 'We'll go in the motor boat. Only take fifteen minutes to get there.'

  'Would that be likely to cause attention?'

  'No problem.' Ryan shook his head. 'The Thames is the busiest highway in London these days. Lots of craft work the river at night. Barges. Freighters.'

  Mary turned from the sink. 'Can I come?'

  Before Devlin could protest, Ryan said, 'A good idea. You can mind the boat.'

  'But you stay on board,' Devlin told her. 'No funny business.'

  'Right, I'll go and change.' She rushed out.

  'Oh, to be young,' Devlin said.

  Ryan nodded. 'She likes you, Liam.'

  'And I like her, Michael old friend, and that's where it will end. Now, what do we need?'

  'The tide is low, but it's still going to be wet. I'll dig out some overalls and boots,' Ryan told him and went out.

  The small motor boat moved in towards the strand, it's engine a muted throbbing. The prow carved its way into mud and sand and Ryan cut the engine. 'Right, Mary. Keep an eye on things. We shouldn't be long.'

  He and Devlin in their dark overalls and boots went over the side and faded into the darkness. Ryan carried a bag of tools and Devlin a large torch of the type used by workmen. There was three feet of water in the tunnel.

  Ryan said, 'So we'll have to wade.'

  As they moved into the water the smell was pungent. Devlin said, 'Christ, you can tell it's a sewer.'

  'So try not to fall down and if you do, keep your mouth closed,' Ryan said. 'The terrible place for diseases, sewers.'

  Devlin led the way, the tunnel stretching ahead of them in the rays of the lamp. The brickwork was obviously very old, corroded and rotting. There was a sudden splash and two rats leapt from a ledge and swam away.

  'Filthy creatures,' Ryan said in disgust.

  'It can't be far,' Devlin said. 'A hundred yards. Not much more surely.'

  Suddenly, there it was, an iron grill perhaps four feet by three, just above the surface of the water. They looked through into the crypt and Devlin played the light across the interior. There were a couple of tombs almost completely covered with water and stone steps in the far corner going up to a door.

  'One thing's for sure,' Ryan said. 'The grill's done nothing to help their drainage system.'

  'It was put in nearly forty years ago,' Devlin said. 'Maybe it worked then.'

  Ryan got a crowbar from his bag of tools. Devlin held the bag for him while the other man pushed into the mortar in the brickwork beside the grill. He jumped back in alarm as the wall buckled and five or six bricks tumbled into the water. 'The whole place is ready to come down. We can have this grill out in a fast ten minutes, Liam.'

  'No, not now. I need to know what the situation is upstairs. We've found out all we need for the moment, which is that the grill can be pulled out any time we want. Now let's get out of here.'

  At the same moment in Romney Marsh, the wind from the sea rattled the French windows of the drawing room as Shaw closed the curtains. The furniture was no longer what it had been, the carpets faded, but there was a log fire burning in the hearth, Nell lying in front of it. The door opened and Lavinia came in. She was wearing slacks and carried a tray.

  'I've made coffee, darling.'

  'Coffee?' he roared. 'To hell with the coffee. I found a bottle of champagne in the cellar. Bellinger. That's what we need tonight.'

  He took it from a bucket on the table, opened it with a flourish and poured some into two glasses. 'This man, Conlon,' she said. 'What did you say he was like?'

  'I've told you about five times, old girl.'

  'Oh, Max, isn't it exciting? To you, my darling.'

  'And to you, old girl,' he said, toasting her in return.

  In Berlin, it was very quiet in Schellenberg's office as he sat working through some papers in the light of a desk lamp. The door opened and Use looked in. 'Coffee, General?'

  'Are you still here? I thought you'd gone home.'

  'I'm going to spend the night in the emergency accommodation. Asa's stayed on too. He's in the canteen.'

  'We might as well join him.' Schellenberg stood up and buttoned his tunic.

  'Are you worried, General, about Devlin?'

  'My dear Use. Liam Devlin is a man of infinite resource and guile. Given those attributes you could say I've nothing to worry about.' He opened the door and smiled. 'Which is why I'm frightened to death instead.'

  From his window Steiner could see across to the river. He peered through a chink in his blackout curtain and closed it again. 'A large ship going downriver. Amazing how active things are out there even at night.'

  Father Martin, sitting by the small table, nodded. 'As the song says, Old Father Thames just goes rolling along.'

  'During the day I sometimes sit at the window and watch for a couple of hours at a time.'

  'I understand, my son. It must be difficult for you.' The priest sighed and got to his feet. 'I must go. I have a midnight Mass.'

  'Good heavens, Father, do you ever stop?'

  'There's a war on, my son.' Father Martin knocked on the door.

  The MP on duty unlocked it and the old priest went along the corridor to the outer door. Lieutenant Benson was sitting at the desk in his room and glanced up. 'Everything all right, Father?'

  'As right as it will ever be,' Martin said and passed through.

  As he went down the stairway to the foyer, Sister Maria Palmer came out of her office. 'Still here, Father? Don't you ever go home?'

  'So much to do, Sister.'

  'You look tired.'

  'It's been a long war.' He smiled. 'Good night and God bless you.'

  The night porter came out of his cubby-hole, helped him on with his raincoat and gave him his umbrella, then unbolted the door. The old man paused, looking out at the rain, then put up his umbrella and walked away wearily.

  Munro was still in his office, standing at a map table, charts of the English Channel and the Normandy approaches spread before him, when Carter limped in.

  'The invasion, sir?'

  'Yes, Jack. Normandy. They've made their decision. Let's hope the Führer still believes it will be the Pas de Calais.'

  'I understand his personal astrologer's convinced him of it,' Carter said.

  Munro laughed. 'The ancient Egyptians would only appoint generals who'd been born under the sign of Leo.'

  'I never knew that, sir.'

  'Yes, well you learn something new every day. No going home tonight, Jack. Eisenhower wants a blanket report on the strength of the French Resistance units in this general area and he wants it in the morning. We'll have to snatch a few hours here.'

  'Very well, sir.'

  'Was there anything else?'

  'Vargas gave me a call.'

  'What did he want?'

  'Another message from his cousin in Berlin. Could he send as much information as possible about St Mary's Priory.'

  'All right, Jack, cook something up in the next couple of days, staying as close to the truth as possible and pass it on to Vargas. We've got more important things to take care of at the moment.'

  'Fine, sir. I'll organize some tea and sandwiches.'

  'Do that, Jack, it's going to be a long night.'

  Carter went out and Munro returned to his maps.

  Chapter Ten

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Father Martin knelt at the altar rail and prayed, eyes closed. He was tired, that was the trouble, had felt so tired for such
a long time and he prayed for strength to the God he had loved unfalteringly all his life and for the ability to stand upright.

  I will bless the Lord who gives me counsel, who even at night directs my heart. I keep the Lord ever in my sight.'

  He had spoken the words aloud and faltered, unable to think of the rest. A strong voice said: 'Since he is at my right hand I shall stand firm.' Father Martin half-turned and found Devlin standing there in uniform, the trenchcoat over one arm. 'Major?' The old man tried to get off his knees and Devlin put a hand under his elbow.

  'Or Father. The uniform is only for the duration. Conlon — Harry Conlon.'

  'And I'm Frank Martin, priest-in-charge. Is there something I can do for you?'

  'Nothing special. I'm on extended leave. I was wounded in Sicily,' Devlin told him. 'Spending a few days with friends not too far from here. I saw St Pat's and thought I'd look in.'

  'Well then, let me offer you a cup of tea,' the old man said.

  Devlin sat in the small crowded sacristy while Martin boiled water in an electric kettle and made the tea.

  'So you've been in it from the beginning?'

  Devlin nodded. 'Yes, November thirty-nine I got my call.'

  'I see they gave you an MC.'

  'The Sicilian landings, that was,' Devlin told him.

  'Was it bad?' Father Martin poured the tea and offered an open tin of condensed milk.

  'Bad enough.' The old man sipped his tea and Devlin lit a cigarette. 'Just as bad for you, though. The Blitz, I mean. You're rather close to the London Docks.'

  'Yes, it was hard.' Martin nodded. 'And it doesn't get any easier. I'm on my own here these days.'

  He suddenly looked very frail and Devlin felt a pang of conscience and yet he had to take this as far as it would go, he knew that. 'I called in at the local pub, The Bargee I think it was called, for some cigarettes. I was talking to a girl there who mentioned you warmly.'

  'Ah, that would be Maggie Brown.'

  'Told me you were father confessor at the hospice near here? St Mary's Priory?'

  'That's right.'

  'Must give you a lot of extra work, Father.'