Night Of The Fox

by Jack Higgins

  The hall was cool and pleasant. Black and white tiled floor, a curving staircase and two or three oil paintings on the wall. Eighteenth-century seascapes. She opened a double mahogany door and led the way into a large library. The walls were lined with books, and French windows looked out to the garden. There was an Adam fireplace with a fire burning brightly in the basket grate and a grand piano, the top crammed with photos, mostly in silver frames.

  "Scotch all right for you?" she asked.

  "Fine."

  She crossed to a sideboard and busied herself at the drinks tray. "How did you know who I was?" I asked. "Canon Cullen?"

  "I've known about you since you started work on Harry." She handed me a glass.

  "Who told you?"

  "Oh, friends," she said. "From the old days. The kind who get to know things."

  It made me think of Tony Bianco, my CIA contact at the embassy, and I was immediately excited. "Nobody seems to want to answer any of my questions at the Ministry of Defense."

  "I don't suppose they would."

  "And yet they release the body to you. You must have influence?"

  "You could say that." She took a cigarette from a silver box, lit it and sat in a wing chair by the fire, crossing slim legs. "Have you ever heard of SOE, Professor?"

  "Of course," I said. "Special Operations Executive. Set up by British Intelligence in 1940 on Churchill's instructions to coordinate resistance and the underground movement in Europe."

  " 'Set Europe ablaze,' that's what the old man ordered." Sarah Drayton flicked ash in the fire. "I worked for them."

  I was astonished. "But you can't have been more than a child."

  "Nineteen," she said. "In 1944."

  "And Martineau?"

  "Look on the piano," she said. "The end photo in the silver frame."

  I crossed to the piano and picked the photo up and her face jumped out at me, strangely unchanged except in one respect. Her hair was startlingly blond and marcelled— that's the term I think they used to use. She wore a little black hat and one of those coats from the wartime period with big shoulders and tight at the waist. She also wore silk stockings and high-heeled shoes and clutched a black patent-leather bag.

  The man standing next to her was of medium height and wore a leather military trenchcoat over a tweed suit, hands thrust deep into the pockets. His face was shadowed by a dark slouch hat and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. The eyes were dark, no expression to them at all, and his smile had a kind of ruthless charm. He looked a thoroughly dangerous man.

  Sarah Drayton got up and joined me. "Not much like the Croxley Professor of Moral Philosophy at Oxford there, is he?"

  "Where was it taken?" I asked.

  "In Jersey. Not too far from here. May nineteen forty-four. The tenth, I think."

  "But I've been in Jersey long enough to know that it was occupied by the Germans at that time," I said.

  "Very much so."

  "And Martineau was here? With you?"

  She crossed to a Georgian desk, opened a drawer and took out a small folder When she opened it I saw at once that it contained several old photographs. She passed one to me. "This one I don't keep on top of the piano for obvious reasons."

  She was dressed pretty much as she had been in the other photo and Martineau wore the same leather trenchcoat. The only difference was the SS uniform underneath, the silver death's-head badge in his cap. "Standartenführer Max Vogel," she said. "Colonel, to you. He looks rather dashing, doesn't he?" She smiled as she took it from me. "He had a weakness for uniforms, Harry."

  "Dear God," I said. "What is all this?"

  She didn't answer, but simply passed me another photo. It was faded slightly, but still perfectly clear. A group of German officers. In front of them stood two men on their own. One was Martineau in the SS uniform, but it was the other who took my breath away. One of the best-known faces of the Second World War. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. The Desert Fox himself.

  I said, "Was that taken here too?"

  "Oh yes." She put the photos back in the desk and picked up my glass. "I think you could do with another drink."

  "Yes, I believe I could."

  She got me one, handed the glass to me, and we moved to the fire. She took a cigarette from the box. "I should stop, I suppose. Too late now. Another bad habit Harry taught me."

  "Do I get an explanation?"

  "Why not?" she said, and turned as rain drummed against the French windows. "I can't think of anything better to do on an afternoon like this, can you?"

  LONDON 1944

  TWO

  IT STARTED, IF one can ever be certain where anything starts, with a telephone call received by Brigadier Dougal Munro at his flat in Hasten Place

  , ten minutes' walk from the London headquarters of SOE in Baker Street

  . As head of Section D at SOE he had two phones by his bed, one routed straight through to his office. It was this that brought him awake at four o'clock on the morning of April 28,1944.

  He listened, face grave, then swore softly. "I'll be right over. One thing, check if Eisenhower is in town."

  Within five minutes he was letting himself out of the front door, shivering in the damp cold, lighting the first cigarette of the day as he hurried along the deserted street. He was at that time sixty-five, a squat, powerful-looking man with white hair, his round, ugly face set off by steel-rimmed spectacles. He wore an old Burberry raincoat and carried an umbrella.

  There was very little of the military in either his bearing or his appearance, which was hardly surprising. His rank of brigadier was simply to give him the necessary authority in certain quarters. Until 1939, Dougal Munro had been an archaeologist by profession. An Egyptologist, to be more precise, and fellow of All Souls at Oxford. For three years now, head of Section D at SOE. What was commonly referred to in the trade as the dirty tricks department.

  He turned in at the entrance of Baker Street

  , nodded to the night guard and went straight upstairs. When he went into his office, Captain Jack Carter, his night duty officer, was seated behind his desk. Carter had a false leg, a legacy of Dunkirk. He reached for his stick and started to get up.

  "No, stay where you are, Jack," Munro told him. "Is there any tea?"

  "Thermos flask on the map table, sir."

  Munro unscrewed the flask, poured a cup and drank. "God, that's foul, but at least it's hot. Right, get on with it."

  Carter now got up and limped across. There was a map of the southwest of England on the table, concentrating mainly on Devon, Cornwall and the general area of the English Channel.

  "Exercise Tiger, sir," he said. "You remember the details?"

  "Simulated landings for Overlord."

  "That's right. Here in Lyme Bay in Devon there's a place called Slapton Sands. It bears enough similarities to the beach we've designated Utah in the Normandy landings to make it invaluable for training purposes. Most of the young Americans going in have no combat experience."

  "I know that, Jack," Munro said. "Go on."

  "Last night's convoy consisted of eight landing craft. Five from Plymouth and three from Brixham. Under naval escort, of course. They were to do a practice beach landing at Slapton."

  There was a pause. Munro said, "Tell me the worst."

  "They were attacked at sea by German E-boats, we think the Fifth and Ninth Schnellboote Flotillas from Cherbourg."

  "And the damage?"

  "Two landing craft sunk for certain. Others torpedoed and damaged."

  "And the butcher's bill?"

  "Difficult to be accurate at the moment. Around two hundred sailors and four hundred and fifty soldiers."

  Munro said. "Are you trying to tell me we lost six hundred and fifty American servicemen last night? Six hundred and fifty and we haven't even started the invasion of Europe?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  Munro walked restlessly across the room and stood at the window. "Has Eisenhower been told?"

  "He
's in town, sir, at Hayes Lodge. He wants to see you at breakfast. Eight o'clock."

  "And he'll want the facts." Munro turned and went to his desk.

  "Were there any Bigots among those officers lost?"

  "Three, sir."

  "Dear God, I warned them. I warned them about this," Munro said. "No Bigot to in any way undertake hazardous duty."

  Some months previously it had become regrettably clear that there were serious breaches of security, in some cases by high-ranking American officers, in connection with the projected invasion of Europe. The Bigot procedure had been brought in as an answer to the situation. It was an intelligence classification above Most Secret. Bigots knew what others did not—the details of the Allied invasion of Europe.

  "The three are missing so far," Carter said. "I've got their files."

  He laid them on the desk and Munro examined them quickly. "Stupid," he said. "Unbelievably stupid. Take this man, Colonel Hugh Kelso."

  "The engineering officer?" Carter said. "He's already visited two of the Normandy beaches by night, courtesy of Four Commando, to check on the suitability of the terrain for vehicles."

  "Sword Beach and Utah Beach." Munro groaned. "For God's sake, Jack, what if he was picked up by one of those E-boats? He could be in enemy hands right now. And they'll make him talk if they want to, you know that."

  "I don't think it's likely that any of those missing were picked up by the Germans, sir. The captain of the destroyer Saladin, which was one of the escorts, said the E-boats attacked at a range of fifteen hundred meters, then got the hell out of it fast. Typical hit and run. A lot of darkness and confusion on both sides. And the weather isn't too good. Wind force five to six and freshening, but I'm informed that the way the currents are in Lyme Bay, most of the bodies will come ashore. Already started."

  "Most, Jack, most." Munro tapped the map on the table. "The Germans know we're coming. They're expecting the invasion. They're ready for it. Hitler's put Rommel himself in charge of all coastal fortifications. But they don't know where and they don't know when." He shook his head, staring down at the map. "Wouldn't it be ironic if the greatest invasion in history had to be called off because one man with all the right information fell into the wrong hands."

  "Not likely, sir, believe me," Carter said gently. "This Colonel Kelso will come in on the tide with the rest of them."

  "God help me, but I pray that he does, Jack. I pray that he does," Dougal Munro said fervently.

  But at that precise moment, Colonel Hugh Kelso was very much alive, more afraid than he had ever been in his life, cold and wet and in terrible pain. He lay huddled in the bottom of a life raft in several inches of water about a mile offshore from the Devon coast, a contrary current carrying him fast toward Start Point on the southernmost tip of Lyme Bay, and beyond Start Point were the open waters of the English Channel.

  Kelso was forty-two, married with two daughters. A civil engineer, he had been managing director of the family firm of construction engineers in New York for several years and had a high reputation in the field. Which was why he'd been drafted into the Engineering Corps in 1942 with the immediate rank of major. His experience with the engineering problems involved in beach landings on various islands in the South Pacific had earned him a promotion and a transfer to SHAEF Headquarters in England to work on the preparation for the invasion of Europe.

  He'd taken part in Exercise Tiger on the request of the commanding officer for one reason only. The American 1st Engineer Special Brigade was one of the units assigned to take the beach designated as Utah during the coming Normandy landings, and Hugh Kelso had actually visited Utah Beach six weeks previously, under cover of darkness, guarded by British commandos. Slapton Sands was as close to the terrain as they could get. It had seemed sensible to seek his opinion, which was why he'd sailed on LST 31 from Plymouth.

  Like everyone on board, Kelso had been taken totally by surprise by the attack. A considerable number of flares had been noticed in the distance which had been assumed to be from British MTBs. And then the first torpedo had struck and the night had become a living hell of burning oil and screaming men. Although Kelso didn't know it then, 413 men were killed from LST 31 alone. In his own case, he was blown off his feet by the force of the explosion and slammed against a rail, toppling into the water. His life jacket kept him afloat, of course, but he lost consciousness, coming to his senses to find himself being towed through the icy water.

  The flames were a hundred yards away and in the reflected light he was aware only of an oil-soaked face. "You're okay, sir. Just hang on. There's a life raft here." The life raft loomed out of the darkness. It was the new model of inflatable developed from Pacific experience. A round, fat orange sphere riding high in the water and intended to carry as many as ten men. There was a canopy on top to protect the occupants from wind and weather, the entrance flap standing open.

  "I'll get you in, sir, then I'll go back for some more. Come on, up you go."

  Kelso felt weak, but his unknown friend was strong and muscular. He pushed hard, shoving Kelso in headfirst through the flap. And then Kelso was aware of the pain in his right leg, like a living thing and worse than anything he had ever known. He screamed and fainted.

  When he came to, he was numb with cold and it took him a few moments to work out where he was. There was no sign of his unknown friend. He felt around in the darkness, then peered out through the open flap. Spray dashed in his face. There was no light anywhere, only the dark and the wind and the sound of the sea running. He checked the luminous dial of his waterproof watch. It was almost five o'clock and then he remembered that these life rafts carried an emergency kit. As he turned to feel for it, the pain started in his leg again. He gritted his teeth as his hands found the emergency kit box and got the lid open.

  There was a waterproof flashlight in a clip on the inside of the lid and he switched it on. He was alone, as he had thought, in the orange cave, about a foot of water slopping around him. His uniform trousers were badly torn below the right knee, and when he put his hand inside gingerly he could feel the raised edges of bone in several places.

  There was a Verey pistol in the box and he fingered it for a moment. It seemed the obvious thing to send up one of its parachute distress flares, but then he paused, trying to make his tired brain think straight. What if the German naval units that had attacked them were still in the area? What if it was the enemy that picked him up? He couldn't take that chance. He was, after all, a Bigot. In a matter of weeks an armada of six thousand ships would sail across the narrow waters of the English Channel and Kelso knew time and place. No, better to wait until dawn.

  The leg was really hurting now and he rummaged in the box and found the medical kit with its morphine ampules. He jabbed one in his leg and, after a moment's hesitation, used another. Then he found the bailer and wearily started to throw water out through the open flap. God, but he was tired. Too much morphine perhaps, but at least the pain had dulled and he dropped the bailer and pulled the plastic zip at the entrance and leaned back and was suddenly asleep.

  On his right, a few hundred yards away, was Start Point. For a while he seemed to be drifting toward the rocks and then a contrary current pulled him away. Ten minutes later, the life raft passed that final point of land and a freshening wind drove it out into the cold waters of the English Channel.

  Eisenhower was seated in the Regency bow window of the library at Hayes Lodge having breakfast of poached eggs, toast and coffee when the young aide showed Dougal Munro in.

  "Leave us, Captain," the general said and the aide withdrew. "Difficult to smile this morning, Brigadier."

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Have you eaten?"

  "I haven't eaten breakfast for years, General."

  For a moment, Eisenhower's face was illuminated by that famous and inimitable smile. "Which shows you aren't an old military hand. You prefer tea, don't you?"

  "Yes, General."

  "You'll find it on the sidebo
ard behind you—special order. Help yourself, then tell me what you know of this wretched business. My own people have already given me their version, but I've always had considerable respect for your people at SOE, you know that."

  Munro helped himself to the tea and sat in the window seat and gave Eisenhower a brief resume of the night's events.

  "But surely the naval escorts should have been able to prevent such a thing happening," the general said. "On the other hand, I hear the weather wasn't too good. It's past belief. I visited Slapton myself only three days ago to see how the exercises were going. Went down by special train with Tedder and Omar Bradley."

  "Most of the crews of your LSTs are new to those waters, and the English Channel at the best of times can be difficult." Munro shrugged. "We've had torpedo boats from the Royal Navy hanging around off Cherbourg regularly during these exercises because Cherbourg, as the General knows, is the most important E-boat base on the French coast. There was a sea mist and the Germans obviously slipped out with their silencers on and probably with their radar sets switched off. They do more than forty knots, those things. Nothing afloat that's faster and they boxed rather cleverly on their approach. Fired off parachute flares so the people in the convoy assumed they were ours."

  "Goddammit, you never assume anything in this game. I'm tired of telling people that." Eisenhower poured another coffee, stood up and went to the fire. "Bodies coming ashore by the hundred, so they tell me."

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Needless to say, this whole thing stays under wraps. We're going to arrange for some kind of mass grave down there in Devon for the time being. At least it's a defense area under military rule, which should help. If this got out, so close to the invasion, it could have a terrible effect on morale."

  "I agree." Munro hesitated and said carefully, "There is the question of the Bigots, General."

  "Who should never have been there in the first place. No one knows the regulations on Bigots better than you."

  "It could be worse, sir. There were three in all. Two of the bodies have already been recovered. The third, this man." Munro took a file from his briefcase and pushed it across. "Is still missing."