Storm Island

by Ken Follett

  "Mm." Bloggs sounded dubious.

  "If the U-boat is also waiting for the storm to clear, it will get

  there first."

  "You're right." Godliman lit a cigarette, fumbling for inspiration.

  "Well, we can get a Navy corvette to circle the island and listen for

  Faber's radio signal. When the storm clears it can land a boat on the

  island. Yes, that's a good idea."

  "What about some fighters ?"

  "Yes. Although like you, they'll have to wait until the weather

  breaks."

  "It can't go on much longer."

  "What do the Scottish meteorologists say?"

  "Another day of it, at least."

  "Damn."

  "It doesn't make much difference," Bloggs said.

  "All the time we're grounded he's bottled up."

  "If he's there at all."

  "Yes."

  "All right," Godliman said.

  "We'll have a corvette, the coast guard some fighters and an

  amphibian."

  "And me."

  "You'd better get on your way. Call me from Rosyth. Take care."

  "Cheerio."

  Godliman hung up. His cigarette, neglected in the ashtray, had burned

  down to a tiny stub. He lit another, then picked up the phone again

  and began organizing.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Lying on its side, the jeep looked powerful but helpless, like a

  wounded elephant. The engine had stalled. Faber gave it a hefty push

  and it toppled majestically on to all four wheels. It had survived the

  fight relatively undamaged. The canvas roof was destroyed, of course:

  the rip Faber's knife had made had become a long tear running from one

  side to the other. The offside front wing, which had ploughed into the

  earth and stopped the vehicle, was crumpled. The headlight on that

  side had smashed. The window on the same side had been broken by the

  shot from the gun. The windscreen was miraculously intact.

  Faber climbed into the driving seat, put the gearshift into neutral

  and tried the starter. It kicked over and died. He tried again, and

  the engine fired. He sighed with relief: he could not have faced a

  long walk just then.

  He sat in the car for a while, inventorying his wounds. He touched his

  right ankle gingerly: it was swelling massively. Perhaps he had

  cracked a bone. It was as well that the jeep was designed to be driven

  by a man with no legs, for Faber could not have pressed a brake pedal.

  The lump on the back of his head felt huge, the size of a golf ball;

  and when he touched it his hand came away sticky with blood. He

  examined his face in the driving mirror. It was a mass of small cuts

  and big bruises, like the face of the loser at the end of a boxing

  match.

  He had abandoned his oilskin back at the cottage, so his jacket and

  overalls were soggy with rain and smeared with mud. He needed to get

  warm and dry very soon.

  He gripped the steering wheel, and a burning pain shot through his

  hand: he had forgotten the torn fingernail. He looked at it. It was

  the nastiest of his injuries. He would have to drive one-handed.

  He pulled away slowly and found what he guessed was the road. There

  was no danger of getting lost on this island -all he had to do was

  follow the cliff-edge until he came to Lucy's cottage.

  He needed to invent a lie to explain to Lucy what had become of her

  husband. He might, of course, tell her the truth: there was nothing

  she could do about it. However, if she became awkward he might have to

  kill her; and there had grown within him an aversion to killing Lucy.

  Driving slowly along the cliff-top through the pouring rain and howling

  wind, he marvelled at this new thing inside him, this scruple. It was

  the first time he had ever felt reluctance to kill. It was not that he

  was amoral: quite the contrary. He had made up his mind that the

  killing he did was on the same moral level as death on the battlefield,

  and his emotions followed his intellect. He always had the physical

  reaction, the vomiting, after he killed, but that was something

  incomprehensible which he ignored.

  So why did he not want to kill Lucy?

  The feeling was on a par with the affection which drove him to send

  the Luftwaffe erroneous directions to St. Paul's Cathedral: a

  compulsion to protect a thing of beauty. She was a remarkable

  creation, as full of loveliness and subtlety as a work of art. Faber

  could live with himself as a killer, but not as an iconoclast It was,

  he recognized as soon as the thought occurred to him, a peculiar way to

  be. But then, spies were peculiar people.

  He thought of some of the spies who had been recruited by the Abwehr at

  the same time as he: Otto, the Nordic giant who made delicate paper

  sculptures in the Japanese fashion and hated women; Friedrich, the sly

  little mathematical genius who jumped at shadows and went into a

  five-day depression if he lost a game of chess; Helmut, who liked to

  read books about slavery in America and had soon joined the SS ... all

  different, all peculiar. If they had anything more specific in common,

  he did not know what it was.

  He seemed to be driving more and more slowly, and the rain and mist

  became more impenetrable. He began to worry about the cliff-edge on

  his left-hand side. He felt very hot, but suffered spasms of

  shivering. He realized he had been speaking aloud about Otto and

  Friedrich and Helmut; and he recognized the signs of delirium. He made

  an effort to think of nothing but the problem of keeping the jeep on a

  straight course. The noise of the wind took on some kind of rhythm,

  becoming hypnotic. Once he found himself stationary, staring out over

  the sea, and had no idea how long he had stopped.

  It seemed hours later that Lucy's cottage came into view. He steered

  toward it, thinking: I must remember to put the brake on before I hit

  the wall. There was a figure standing in the doorway, looking at him

  through the rain. He had to stay in control of himself long enough to

  tell her the lie. He had to remember, had to remember... It was late

  afternoon by the time the jeep came back. Lucy was worried about what

  had happened to the men, and at the same time angry with them for not

  coming home for the lunch she had prepared. As the day waned she had

  spent more and more time at the windows, looking out for them.

  When the jeep came down the slight slope to the cottage, it was clear

  something was wrong. It was moving terribly slowly, weaving all over

  the track, and there was only one person in it. It came closer, and

  she saw that the front was dented and the headlamp smashed.

  "Oh, God," she murmured.

  The vehicle shuddered to a halt in front of the cottage, and she saw

  that the figure inside was Henry. He made no move to get out. Lucy

  ran out into the rain and opened the driver's door.

  Henry sat there with his head back and his eyes half-closed. His hand

  was on the brake. His face was bloody and bruised.

  Lucy said: "What happened? What happened?"

  Henry's hand slipped off the brake, and the jeep moved forward. Lucy

  leaned across him and slipped the gearshift into n
eutral.

  Henry said: "Left David at Tom's cottage... had crash on way back ..."

  The words seemed to cost him a great effort.

  Now that she knew what had happened, Lucy's panic subsided.

  "Come inside," she said sharply. The urgency in her voice got through

  to Henry. He turned toward her, put his foot on the running board to

  step down, and promptly fell to the ground. Lucy saw that his ankle

  was swollen like a balloon.

  She got her hands under his shoulders and pulled him upright, saying:

  "Put your weight on the other foot and lean on me." She got his right

  arm around her neck and half-carried him inside.

  Jo watched wide-eyed as she helped Henry into the living-room and got

  him on to the sofa. He lay back with his eyes shut. His clothes were

  soaked and muddy.

  Lucy said: "Jo, go upstairs and get your pyjamas on, please."

  "But I haven't had my story. Is he dead?"

  "He's not dead, but he's had a car crash, and you can't have a story

  tonight. Go on."

  The child made a complaining sound, and Lucy looked threateningly at

  him. He went.

  Lucy got the big scissors out of her sewing basket and cut Henry

  clothes away: first the jacket, then the overalls, then the shirt. She

  frowned in puzzlement when she saw the knife in its sheath strapped to

  his left forearm: she guessed it was a special implement for cleaning

  fish, or something. When she tried to take it off, Henry pushed her

  hand away. She shrugged, and turned her attention to his boots. The

  left one came off easily, and its sock; but he cried out in pain when

  she touched the right.

  "It must come off," she told him.

  "You'll have to be brave."

  A funny kind of smile came over his face, then, and he nodded assent.

  She cut the laces, took the shoe gently but firmly in both hands, and

  pulled it off. This time he made no sound. She cut the elastic in the

  sock and pulled that off too.

  Jo came in and said: "He's in his pants!"

  "His clothes are all wet." She kissed the boy goodnight. Tut yourself

  to bed, darling. I'll tuck you up later."

  "Kiss teddy, then."

  "Goodnight, teddy."

  Jo went out. Lucy looked back to Henry. His eyes were open, and he

  was smiling. He said: "Kiss Henry, then."

  She leaned over him and kissed his battered face. Then, carefully, she

  cut away his underpants.

  The heat from the fire would quickly dry his naked skin. She went into

  the kitchen and filled a bowl with warm water and a little antiseptic

  to bathe his wounds. She found a roll of cotton wool and returned to

  the living-room.

  "This is the second time you've turned up on the doorstep half dead,"

  she said as she set about her task.

  "The usual signal," Henry said.

  What?"

  Waiting at Calais for a phantom army."

  Henry, what are you talking about?"

  "Every Friday and Monday."

  She realized he was delirious.

  "Don't try to talk," she said. She lifted his head slightly to clean

  away the dried blood from around the bump.

  Suddenly he sat upright, looked fiercely at her, and said: "What day is

  it? What day is it?"

  "It's Sunday, relax."

  "Okay."

  He was quiet after that, and he let her remove the knife. She bathed

  his face, bandaged his finger where he had lost the nail, and put a

  dressing on his ankle. When she had finished she stood looking at him

  for a while. He seemed to be sleeping. She touched the long scar on

  his chest, and the star-shaped mark on his hip. The star was a

  birthmark, she decided.

  She went through his pockets before throwing the lacerated clothes

  away. There wasn't much: some money, his papers, a leather wallet and

  a film can. She put them all in a little pile on the mantelpiece

  beside his fish knife. He would have to have some of David's

  clothes.

  She left him and went upstairs to see Jo. The boy was asleep, lying on

  his teddy bear, with his arms outflung. She kissed his soft cheek and

  tucked him in. She went outside and put the jeep in the barn.

  She made herself a drink in the kitchen then sat watching Henry,

  wishing he would wake up and make love to her again.

  It was almost midnight when he awoke. He opened his eyes, and his face

  showed the series of expressions which were now familiar to her: first

  the fear, then the wary survey of the room, then the relaxation. On

  impulse, she asked him: "What are you afraid of, Henry?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "You always look frightened when you wake up."

  "I don't know." He shrugged, and the movement seemed to hurt.

  "God, I'm battered."

  "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

  "Yes, if you'll give me a small amount of brandy."

  She got the brandy out of the cupboard.

  "You can have some of David's clothes."

  "In a minute... unless you're embarrassed."

  She handed him the glass, smiling.

  "I'm afraid I'm enjoying it."

  "What happened to my clothes?"

  "I had to cut them off you. I've thrown them away." Not my papers, I

  hope." He smiled, but there was some other emotion just below the

  surface.

  "On the mantelpiece." She pointed.

  "I suppose that knife is for cleaning fish, or something."

  His right hand went to his left forearm, where the sheath had been.

  "Something like that," he said. He seemed uneasy for a moment, then

  relaxed with an effort and sipped his drink.

  "That's good."

  After a moment she said: "Well?"

  "What?"

  "How did you manage to lose my husband and crash my jeep?"

  "David decided to stay over at Tom's for the night. Some of the sheep

  got into trouble in a place they called the Gully-' "I know it."

  'and six or seven of them were injured. They're all in Tom's kitchen,

  being bandaged up and making a frightful row. Anyway, David suggested

  I came back to tell you he would be staying. I don't really know how I

  managed to crash. The car is unfamiliar, there's no real road, I hit

  something and went into a skid, and the jeep ended up on its side. The

  details ..." he shrugged.

  "You must have been going quite fast you were in an awful mess when you

  got here."

  "I suppose I rattled around inside the jeep a bit. Banged my head,

  twisted my ankle..."

  "Lost a fingernail, bashed your face, and almost caught pneumonia. You

  must be accident-prone."

  He swung his legs to the floor, stood up, and went to the

  mantelpiece.

  Lucy said: "Your powers of recuperation are incredible."

  He was strapping the knife to his arm.

  "We fishermen are very healthy. What about those clothes?"

  She got up and stood close to him. What do you need clothes for? It's

  bedtime."

  He drew her to him, pressing her against his naked body, and kissed her

  hard. She stroked his thighs.

  After a while he broke away from her. He picked up his things from

  the mantelpiece, took her hand, then, hobbling, he led her upstairs to

&
nbsp; bed.

  THIRTY

  The wide, white autobahn snaked through the Bavarian valley up into the

  mountains. In the leather rear seat of the staff Mercedes, Field

  Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt was still and weary. Aged sixty-nine, he

  knew he was too fond of champagne and not fond enough of Hitler. His

  thin, lugubrious face reflected a career longer and more erratic than

  that of any of Hitler's other officers: he had been dismissed in

  disgrace more times than he could remember, but the Fuhrer always asked

  him to come back.

  As the car passed through the sixteenth-century village of

  Berchtesgaden, he wondered why he always returned to his command when

  Hitler forgave him. Money meant nothing to him: he had already

  achieved the highest possible rank; decorations were valueless in the

  Third Reich; and he believed that it was not possible to win honour in