Storm Island

by Ken Follett

  It was a vast, meticulous, costly, outrageous trick.

  Of course, it could not possibly fool an onlooker for very long. But

  it was not designed to deceive observers on the ground.

  It was meant to be seen from the air.

  Even a low-flying reconnaissance plane equipped with the latest cameras

  and fast film would come back with pictures which indisputably showed

  an enormous concentration of men and machines.

  No wonder the general staff were anticipating an invasion east of the

  Seine.

  There would be other elements to the deception, he guessed. The

  British would refer to FUSAG in signals, using codes they knew to be

  broken. There would be phoney espionage reports channelled through the

  Spanish diplomatic bag to Hamburg. The possibilities were endless.

  The British had had four years to arm themselves for this invasion.

  Most of the German army was fighting Russia. Once the Allies got a

  toehold on French soil, they would be unstoppable. The Germans' only

  chance was to catch them on the beaches and annihilate them as they

  came off the troop ships.

  If they were waiting in the wrong place, they would lose that one

  chance.

  The whole strategy was immediately clear. It was simple, and it was

  devastating.

  Faber had to tell Hamburg.

  He wondered whether they would believe him.

  War strategy was rarely altered on the word of one man. His own

  standing was particularly high, but was it that high?

  He needed to get proof, and then take it to Berlin.

  He needed photographs.

  He would take pictures of this gigantic dummy army, then he would go to

  Scotland and meet the U-boat, and he would deliver the pictures

  personally to the Fuhrer. He could do no more.

  For photography he needed light. He would have to wait until dawn.

  There had been a ruined barn a little way back: he could spend the rest

  of the night there.

  He checked his compass and set off. The barn was farther than he

  thought, and the walk took him an hour. It was an old wooden building

  with holes in the roof. The rats had long ago deserted it for lack of

  food, but there were bats in the hayloft.

  Faber lay down on some planks, but he could not sleep for the knowledge

  that he was now personally capable of altering the course of the

  greatest war in history. , Dawn was due at 05.21. At 04.20 Faber

  left the barn.

  Although he had not slept, the two hours of immobility had rested his

  body and calmed his mind, and he was now in fine spirits. The cloud

  was clearing with a west wind, so although the moon had set there was

  starlight.

  His timing was good. The sky was growing perceptibly brighter as he

  came in sight of the 'airfield'.

  The sentries were still in their tent. With luck, they would be

  sleeping: Faber knew from his own experience of such duties that it was

  hardest to stay awake during the last few hours.

  And if they did come out, he would just have to kill them.

  He selected his position and loaded the Leica with a 36-frame roll of

  35mm fast Agfa film. He hoped the film's light-sensitive chemicals had

  not spoiled, for it had been stored in his suitcase since before the

  war: you couldn't buy film in Britain nowadays. It should be all

  right, for he had kept it in a light-proof bag away from any heat.

  When the red rim of the sun edged over the horizon he began shooting.

  He took a series of shots from different vantage points and various

  distances, finishing with a close-up of one dummy plane: the pictures

  would show both the illusion and the reality.

  As he took the last he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He

  dropped flat and crawled under a plywood Mosquito. A soldier emerged

  from the tent, walked a few paces, and urinated on the ground. The man

  stretched and yawned, then lit a cigarette. He looked around the

  airfield, shivered, and returned to the tent.

  Faber got up and ran.

  A quarter of a mile away he looked back. The airfield was out of

  sight. He headed west, toward the barracks.

  This would be more than an ordinary espionage coup. Hitler had had a

  life of being the only one in step. The man who brought the proof

  that, yet again, the Fuhrer was right and all the experts were wrong,

  could look for more than a pat on the back. Faber knew that already

  Hitler rated him the Abwehr's best agent: this triumph would probably

  get him Canaris's job.

  If he made it.

  He increased his pace, jogging twenty yards, walking the next twenty,

  and jogging again, so that he reached the barracks by 06.30. It was

  bright daylight now, and he could not approach close, because these

  sentries were not in a tent, but in one of the wall-less huts, with a

  clear view all around them. He lay down by the hedge and took his

  pictures from a distance. Ordinary prints would just show a barracks,

  but big enlargements ought to reveal the details of the deception.

  When he headed back toward the boat he had exposed thirty frames. Again

  he hurried, for he was now terribly conspicuous, a black-clad man

  carrying a canvas bag of equipment, jogging across the open fields of a

  restricted area.

  He reached the fence an hour later, having seen nothing but wild geese.

  As he climbed over the wire, he felt a great release of tension. Inside

  the fence the balance of suspicion had been against him; outside it was

  in his favour. He could revert to his bird-watching, fishing, sailing

  role. The period of greatest risk was over.

  He strolled through the belt of woodland, catching his breath and

  letting the strain of the night's work seep away. He would sail a few

  miles on, he decided, before mooring again to catch a few hours'

  sleep.

  He reached the canal. It was over. The boat looked pretty in the

  morning sunshine. As soon as he was under way he would make some tea,

  then A man in uniform stepped out of the cabin of the boat and said:

  "Well, well. And who might you be ?"

  Faber stood stock still, letting the icy calm and the old instincts

  come into play. The intruder wore the uniform of a captain in the Home

  Guard. He had some kind of handgun in a holster with a buttoned flap.

  He was tall and rangy, but he looked to be in his late fifties. White

  hair showed under his cap. He made no move to draw his gun. Faber

  took all this in as he said: "You are on my boat, so I think it is I

  who should ask who you are."

  "Captain Stephen Langham, Home Guard."

  "James Baker." Faber stayed on the bank. A captain did not patrol

  alone.

  "And what are you doing?"

  "I'm on oliday."

  Where have you been?"

  "Bird-watching."

  "Since before dawn? Cover him, Watson."

  A youngish man in denim uniform appeared on Faber's left, carrying a

  shotgun. Faber looked around. There was another man to his right and

  a fourth behind him.

  The captain called: "Which direction did he come from, Corporal?"

  The reply came from the top of an oak tree.

  "Fr
om the restricted area, sir."

  Faber was calculating odds. Four to one until the corporal came down

  from the tree. They had only two guns: the shotgun and the captain's

  pistol. And they were amateurs. The boat would help, too.

  He said: TRestricted area? All I saw was a bit of fence. Look, do you

  mind pointing that blunderbuss away? It might go off."

  The captain said: "Nobody goes bird-watching in the dark."

  "If you set up your hide under cover of darkness, you're concealed by

  the time the birds wake up. It's the accepted way to do it. Now look,

  the Home Guard is jolly patriotic and keen and all that, but let's not

  take it too far, what? Don't you just have to check my papers and file

  a report?"

  The captain was looking a shade doubtful.

  "What's in that canvas bag?"

  "Binoculars, a camera, and a reference book." Faber's hands went to

  the bag.

  "No, you don't," the captain said.

  "Look inside it, Watson."

  There it was: the amateur's error.

  Watson said'. "Hands up."

  Faber raised his hands above his head, his right hand close to the left

  sleeve of his jacket. Faber choreographed the next few seconds: there

  must be no gunfire.

  Watson came up on Faber's left side, pointing the shotgun at him, and

  opened the flap of Faber's canvas bag. Faber drew tie stiletto from

  his sleeve, moved inside Watson's guard, and plunged the knife downward

  into Watson's neck up to the hilt. Faber's other hand twisted the

  shotgun out of the young man's grasp.

  The other two soldiers on the bank moved toward him, and the corporal

  began to crash down through the branches of the oak.

  Faber tugged the stiletto out of Watson's neck as the man collapsed to

  the ground. The captain was fumbling at the flap of his holster. Faber

  leaped into the well of the boat. It rocked, sending the captain

  staggering. Faber struck at him with the knife, but the man was too

  far away for an accurate thrust. The point caught in the lapel of his

  uniform jacket, then jerked up, slashing his chin. His hand came away

  from the holster to clutch the wound.

  Faber whipped around to face the bank. One of the soldiers jumped.

  Faber stepped forward and held his right arm out rigidly. The leaping

  soldier impaled himself on the eight-inch needle.

  The impact knocked Faber off his feet, and he lost his grip on the

  stiletto. The soldier fell on top of the weapon. Faber got to his

  knees: there was no time to retrieve the stiletto, for the captain was

  opening his holster. Faber jumped at him, his hands going for the

  officer's face. The gun came out. Faber's thumbs gouged at the

  captain's eyes, and he screamed in pain and tried to push Faber's arms

  aside.

  There was a thud as the fourth guardsman landed in the well of the

  boat. Faber turned from the captain, who would now be unable to see to

  fire his pistol even if he could get the safety off. The fourth man

  held a policeman's truncheon. He brought it down hard. Faber shifted

  to the right, so that the blow missed his head and caught his left

  shoulder. His left arm momentarily became paralysed. He chopped the

  man's neck with the side of his right hand, a powerful, accurate blow.

  Amazingly, the man survived it, and brought his truncheon up for a

  second swipe. Faber closed in. The feeling returned to his left arm,

  and it began to hurt mightily. He took the soldier's face in both his

  hands, pushed, twisted, and pushed again. There was a sharp crack as

  the man's neck broke. At the same instant the truncheon landed again,

  this time on Faber's head. He reeled away, dazed.

  no The captain bumped into him, still staggering. Faber pushed him.

  His cap went flying as he stumbled backward over the gunwale and fell

  into the canal with a huge spksh.

  The corporal jumped the last six feet from the oak tree on to the

  ground. Faber retrieved his stiletto from the impaled guard and leaped

  to the bank. Watson was still alive, but it would not be for long:

  blood was pumping out of the wound in his neck.

  Faber and the corporal faced each other. The corporal had a gun.

  He was utterly terrified. In the few seconds it had taken him to climb

  down the oak tree, this stranger had killed three of his mates and

  thrown the fourth into the canal. Horror shone from his eyes like

  torchlight.

  Faber looked at the gun. It was old it looked like a museum piece. If

  the corporal had any confidence in it, he would have fired it

  already.

  The corporal took a step forward, and Faber noticed that he favoured

  his right leg perhaps he had hurt it coming out of the tree. Faber

  stepped sideways, forcing the corporal to put his weight on the weak

  leg as he swung to keep his gun on target. Faber got the toe of his

  shoe under a stone and kicked upward. The corporal's eyes flicked to

  the stone, and Faber moved.

  The corporal pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. The old gun had

  jammed. Even if it had fired, he would have missed Faber: his eyes

  were on the stone, he stumbled on the weak leg, and Faber had moved.

  Faber killed him with the neck stab.

  Only the captain was left.

  Faber looked, to see the man clambering out of the water on the far

  bank. He found a stone and threw it. It hit the captain's head, but

  the man heaved himself on to dry land and began to run.

  Faber ran to the bank, dived in, swam a few strokes, and came up on the

  far side. The captain was a hundred yards away and running; but he was

  old. Faber gave chase. He gained steadily until he could hear the

  man's agonized, ragged breathing. The captain slowed, then collapsed

  into a bush.

  in Faber came up to him and turned him over. The captain said:

  "You're a ... devil."

  "You saw my face," Faber said, and killed him.

  TWELVE

  The Ju-52 tri motor transport plane with swastikas on the wings bumped

  to a halt on the rain-wet runway at Rastenburg in the East Prussian

  forest. A small man with big features a large nose, a wide mouth, big

  ears disembarked and walked quickly across the tarmac to a waiting

  Mercedes car.

  As the car drove through the gloomy, damp forest, Field-Marshal Erwin

  Rommel took off his cap and rubbed a nervous hand along his receding

  hairline. In a few weeks time, he knew, another man would travel this

  route with a bomb in his briefcase a bomb destined for the Fuhrer

  himself. Meanwhile the fight must go on, so that the new leader of

  Germany who might even be Rommel himself could negotiate with the

  Allies from a strong position.

  At the end of a ten-mile driv the car arrived at the Wolf s-schanze,

  the Wolves' Lair, headquarters now for Hitler and the increasingly

  tight, neurotic circle of generals who surrounded him.

  There was a steady drizzle, and raindrops dripped from the tall

  conifers in the compound. At the gate to Hitler's personal quarters,

  Rommel put on his cap and got out of the car. Oberfuhrer Rattenhuber,

  the chief of the" SS bodyguard, wordlessly held out his hand to r
eceive

  Rommel's pistol.

  The conference was to be held in the underground bunker, a cold, damp,

  airless shelter lined with concrete. Rommel went down the steps and

  entered. There were a dozen or so there already, waiting for the noon

  meeting: Himmler, Goering von Ribbentrop, Keitel. Rommel nodded

  greetings and sat on a hard chair to wait.

  They all stood when Hitler entered. He wore a grey tunic and black

  trousers, and he was becoming more and more stooped, Rommel observed.

  He walked straight to the far end of the bunker, where a large wall

  map of north-western Europe was tacked to the concrete. He looked

  tired and irritable. He spoke without preamble.

  "There will be an Allied invasion of Europe. It will come this year.

  It will be launched from Britain, with English and American troops.

  They will land in France. We will destroy them at the high-water mark.

  On this there is no room for discussion.1 He looked around, as if

  daring his staff to contradict him. There was silence. Rommel

  shivered: the bunker was as cold as death.

  "The question is: where will they land? Von Roenne -your report."

  Colonel Alexis von Roenne, who had taken over, effectively, from