by Jack Higgins
"Is that a fact?"
"Yes, I met a Spitfire pilot at the hospital last year. He used to come in for treatment for a broken ankle."
"And true love blossomed?"
"Not really. More like mutual lust, but he was a nice chap and I don't regret it. He was shot down over the Channel three months ago."
She started to cry for no reason that made any kind of sense, and Martmeau held her tight, wordless in the dark.
EIGHT
THE FOLLOWING DAY just after noon at Fermanville on the Cherbourg Peninsula, Karl Hagan, the duty sergeant at the central strongpoint of the 15th Coastal Artillery Battery, was leaning on a concrete parapet idly enjoying a cigarette in the pale afternoon sunshine when he observed a black Mercedes coming up the track. No escort so it couldn't be anyone important—and then he noticed the pennant fluttering on the bonnet. Too far away to see what it was, but to an old soldier it was enough. He was inside the operations room in a flash, where Captain Reimann, the battery commander, sprawled at his desk, tunic buttons undone, reading a book.
"Someone coming, sir. Looks like top brass to me. Shock inspection perhaps."
"Right. Klaxon alarm. Get the men to fall in, just in case."
Reimann buttoned his tunic, buckled his belt and adjusted his cap to a satisfactory angle. As he went out on the redoubt, the Mercedes pulled in below. The driver got out. The first person out was an army major with staff stripes on his pants. The second was Field Marshal Erwin Rommel in leather trenchcoat, white scarf knotted carelessly at his neck, desert goggles pulled up above the peak of his cap.
Reimann had never been so shocked in his life and he grabbed at the parapet. At the same moment he heard Sergeant Hagan's voice and the battery personnel doubled out in the courtyard below. As Reimann hurried down the steps the two battery lieutenants, Scheel and Planck, took up their positions.
Reimann moved forward and remembering what he'd heard of Rommel's preferences chose the military rather than the Nazi salute. "Herr Field Marshal. You do us a great honor."
Rommel tapped the end of his field marshal's baton against the peak of his cap. "Your name?"
"Reimann, Herr Field Marshal."
"Major Hofer, my aide."
Hofer said, "The Field Marshal will see everything, including the subsidiary strongpoints. Please lead the way."
"First, Major, I'll inspect the troops," Rommel told him. "An army is only as strong as its weakest point, always remember that."
"Of course, Herr Field Marshal," Hofer said.
Rommel moved down the line, stopping here and there to talk to an individual who took his fancy Finally he turned. "Good turnout. Highly satisfactory. Now we go."
For the next hour he tramped the clifftop from one strongpoint to another as Reimann led the way. Radio rooms, men's quarters, ammunition stores, even the urinals. Nothing escaped his attention.
"Excellent, Reimann," he told the young artillery officer. "First-rate performance. I'll endorse your field unit report personally."
Reimann almost fainted with pleasure. "Herr Field Marshal—what can I say?"
He called the honor guard to attention. Rommel tapped the baton against his cap again and got into the Mercedes. Hofer joined him on the other side, and as the driver drove away, the major checked that the glass partition was closed tight.
"Excellent," Hofer said. "Have a cigarette. I think you earned that off very well, Berger."
"Really, Herr Major?" Heini Baum said. "I get the booking then?"
"One more test, I think. Something a little bit more ambitious. Dinner at some officers' mess, perhaps. Yes, that would be good. Then you'll be ready for Jersey."
"Anything you say." Baum leaned back, inhaling deeply on the cigarette.
"So, back to the field marshal to report," Konrad Hofer said.
When Sarah and Harry Martineau went into the library at Berkley Hall, Jack Carter was sitting at the table, the maps spread before him.
"Ah, there you are," he said. "Brigadier Munro has gone up to London to report to General Eisenhower, but he'll be back tonight We'll both see you off from Hornley Field. Any problems?"
"None that I can think of." Martmeau turned to Sarah. "What about you?"
"I don't think so."
"Your clothes have all been double-checked for Frenchness," Carter said. "So that's taken care of. Here are your papers, Sarah. French identity card with photo. German Ausweis, with different photo. Now you know why they asked you to change clothes at the photography session. Ration cards. Oh, and a tobacco ration card."
"You're supposed to have one of those even if you don't smoke," Martmeau told her.
"These documents are one hundred percent," Carter said. "Right paper, same watermarks Typewriters, ink— everything perfect. I can assure you that there is no way that even the most skilled Abwehr or Gestapo operative could find them anything but genuine." He handed her a slip of paper. "There are your personal details Anne-Marie Latour. We've kept to your own age and birthdate. Born in Brittany naturally, to explain your accent. We've made your place of birth Paimpol on the coast. I believe you know it well?"
"Yes, my grandmother lived there. I spent many holidays with her."
"Normally you'd have some considerable length of time to get used to your new identity. In this case that just isn't possible. However, you will have Harry with you and it should be for no more than three days. Four at the most."
"I understand."
"One more thing. Your relationship with Standartenführer Vogel must at all times seem convincing. You do appreciate what that could entail?"
"Sharing a room?" The smile when she turned to Martineau was mischievous. "Is that all right with you, Colonel?"
For once, Martineau was put out and he frowned. "You little bitch!"
It was as if they were alone for a moment and she touched his face gently with her fingertips. "Oh, Harry Martineau, you are lovely when you're angry." She turned to Carter. "I think you can take it there'll be no problem, Captain."
Carter, hugely embarrassed, said hurriedly, "All right. Then read this, both of you. Regulations, Sarah."
It was a typical SOE operations order, cold, flat, precise, no-nonsense language. It laid out the task ahead of them, procedure, communication channel via the Cressons in Granville. Everything was covered, even down to a code name for the operation, JERSEYMAN. At the end of the flimsy it said. NOW DESTROY NOW DESTROY.
"All right?" Martineau asked her.
She nodded and he struck a match and touched it to the paper, dropping it into the ashtray. "That's it then," he said. "I'll go and do my packing See you two later."
On the bed in his room, the wardrobe people had laid out a three-piece suit in light-gray tweed, shoes, some white shirts, two black ties. There was also a military overcoat in soft black leather of a kind worn by many SS officers.
The gray-green SS uniform hung behind the door. He checked it carefully. On the left sleeve was the RFSS cuff title of Himmler's personal staff, an SD patch above it. The Waffenfarben, the colored piping on the uniform and cap, was toxic green, indicating that he belonged to the SS Security Service. The oak leaves of his collar patches indicating his rank were in silver thread. There was an Iron Cross First Class on the left side of the tunic. His only other decoration was the Order of Blood, a medal struck specially for old comrades of the Führer who had served prison sentences for political crimes during the twenties.
He decided to try the uniform on and undressed quickly. Everything fit to perfection. He buttoned the tunic and fastened the belt, a rare specimen that had an eagle on the buckle with a swastika in one claw and SS runes in the other. He picked up the cap and examined the silver death's-head badge, running his sleeve across it, then reached inside, scratched a slight tear in the silk lining and withdrew the rigid spring so that the cap crumpled. It was an affectation of many oldtimers, although against regulations.
He put it on his head at a slight angle From behind, Sarah said quietl
y, "You look as if you're enjoying yourself. I get the feeling you like uniforms."
"I like getting it right." he said. "I often think I missed my vocation, I should have been an actor. Getting it right is important, Sarah. You don't get second chances."
There was a kind of distress on her face and she moved close and gripped his arm. "I'm not sure if it's you anymore, Harry."
"It isn't, not in this uniformI Standartenführer Max Vogel, of the SD. Feared by his own side as much as the French. You'll see. This isn't a game anymore."
She shivered and put her arms around him. "I know, Harry, I know."
"Are you frightened?"
"Good God, no." She smiled up at him. "Not with Gypsy Sara in my corner."
Eisenhower sat at his desk in the study at Hayes Lodge, reading glasses perched on his nose as he worked his way through the file. He sat back, removed the glasses and looked across at Dougal Munro.
"Quite a man, Martineau. Extraordinary record, and an American."
"Yes, sir. He told me once that his great-grandmother had immigrated to Virginia in the eighteen-fifties from England. Small town in Lancashire, I believe."
"It sounds a kind of exotic name for Lancashire."
"Not unknown, General. I believe it goes back to Norman times."
He realized that Eisenhower was simply stalling for time while he thought about things. He got up and peered out the window, then turned. "Flight Officer Drayton. She's very young."
"I'm aware of that, General. However, she is in a unique position to help us."
"Of course. You really think this could work?"
"I believe we can put Colonel Martineau and Flight Officer Drayton into France with no trouble. I can't see any problem with their continuing onward to Jersey by boat. Martineau has unique authority. No one would dare question it. If you want to query the Reichsführer's personal representative, the only way you can do it is to ring the Reichsführer himself in Berlin."
"Yes, I see that," Eisenhower said.
"However, once they're in Jersey, the game is really wide open. There is no way I can give you any assurance about what happens. We'll be entirely in Martineau's hands." There was silence for a while, and then Munro added, "They should be in Jersey by Thursday. Martineau has until Sunday. That's his deadline. It's only a few days."
"And a hell of a lot of lives depending on it." Eisenhower sat down behind the desk. "Okay, Brigadier. Carry on and keep me informed at all times."
Hornley Field had been an aero club before the war. It had also been used as a temporary fighter station during the Battle of Britain. It was now used for clandestine flights to the continent only, mainly Lysanders and the occasional Liberator. The runway was grass, but long enough. There was a tower, several huts and two hangars.
The commanding officer was a Squadron Leader Barnes, an ex-fighter pilot who'd lost his left arm in the summer of 1940. The pilot of the Lysander was a flight lieutenant named Peter Green. Sarah, standing at the window, saw him now, bulky in his flying jacket and helmet, standing by the plane.
It was two-thirty in the morning, but warm enough, the stove roaring away. "Can I offer you some more coffee, Flight Officer?" Barnes asked Sarah.
She turned and smiled. "No thanks. I shouldn't imagine Westland included a toilet facility in their Lysander."
He smiled. "No, I'm afraid there wasn't the room."
Martineau stood by the stove, hands in the pockets of his leather trenchcoat. He wore the tweed suit and a dark slouch hat and smoked a cigarette. Carter sat by the stove, tapping his stick restlessly on the floor.
"We're really going to have to get moving, I'm afraid," Barnes said. "Just the right conditions at the other end if you go now. Too light if we wait."
"I can't imagine what's happened to the brigadier," Carter said.
"It doesn't matter." Martineau turned to Sarah. "Ready to go?"
She nodded and very carefully pulled on her fashionable leather gloves She was wearing a black coat over her dress, nipped in at the waist with large shoulders, all very fashionable.
Barnes put a very large fur-lined flying jacket over her shoulders. "It might be cold up there."
"Thank you."
Martmeau picked up their two suitcases and they went out and crossed to the Lysander where Green waited. "Any problems?" Martmeau asked.
"Coastal fog, but only in patches Slight headwind." He glanced at his watch. "We'll be there by four-thirty at the outside."
Sarah went first and strapped herself in. Martmeau passed up the suitcases then turned and shook hands with Carter. "See you soon, Jack."
"You've got the call sign," Carter said. "All Cresson has to do is send that. No message needed. We'll have a Lysander out to the same field at ten o'clock at night of the same day to pick you up."
Martmeau climbed in next to Sarah and fastened his seat belt. He didn't look at her or say anything, but he took her hand as Green climbed into the pilot's sea.t The sound of the engines shattered the night. They started to taxi to the far end of the runway and turned. As they started to roll between the two lines of lights, gradually increasing speed, the Austin Princess turned in through the main gate, hesitated for the sentry's inspection then bumped across the grass to the huts. As Dougal Munro got out, the Lysander lifted over the trees at the far end of the field and was swallowed by darkness.
"Damnation!" he said. "Held up at Baker Street
, Jack. Something came up. Thought I'd just make it."
"They couldn't wait, sir," Barnes told him. "Might have made things difficult at the other end."
"Of course," Munro said.
Barnes walked away and Carter said, "What did General Eisenhower have to say, sir?"
"What could he say Jack? What can any of us say?" Munro shrugged. "The ball's in Harry Martineau's court now. All up to him."
"And Sarah Drayton. sir."
"Yes, I liked that young woman." Aware suddenly that he had spoken in the past tense, Munro shivered as if at an omen. "Come on Jack, let's go home," he said, and he turned and got back into the Austin.
Sophia Cresson waited on the edge of a wood beside the field seven miles northwest of Granville which was the designated landing strip. She was on her own and stood beside an old Renault van smoking a cigarette in her cupped hands. The door of the van was open, and a Sten gun lay ready to hand on the passenger seat. There was also the homing beacon She'd waited at the bar until Gerard had received the message that they had actually left Hornley. Timing was critical in these things.
She wore a woolen cap pulled down over her ears against the cold, an old fur-lined hunting coat of Gerard's, belted at the waist, and slacks. She wasn't worried about problems with any security patrol she might run across. She knew all the soldiers in the Granville area and they knew her. As for the police, they did as they were told. There wasn't one she didn't know too much about. In the back of the van were several dead chickens and a few pheasants. Out on another black-market trip, that was her cover.
She checked her watch and switched on the homing beacon. Then she took three torches from the van and ran forward into the broad meadow and arranged them in an inverted L-shape with the crossbar at the upwind end. Then she moved back to the van and waited.
The flight had been completely uneventful, mainly because Green was an old hand, with more than forty such sorties under his belt. He had never belonged to the school of thought that recommended approaching the French coast below the radar screen. The one time he had tried this tactic the Royal Navy had fired at him. So, it was at 8,000 feet that the Lysander crossed over the Cherbourg Peninsula and turned slightly south.
He spoke over the intercom. "Fifteen minutes, so be ready."
"Any chance of running into a night fighter?" Martmeau asked.
"Unlikely. Maximum effort strike by Bomber Command on various towns in the Ruhr. Jerry will have scrambled every night fighter in France to go and protect the Fatherland."
"Look!" Sarah cut in. "I can se
e lights."
The L-shape was clearly visible below as they descended rapidly. "That's it," Green told them. "I've landed here twice before so I know my stuff. In and out very fast. You know the drill, Colonel."
And then they were drifting down over the trees into the meadow, rolling forward across the lights Sophie Cresson ran forward, waving, the Sten gun in one hand. Martmeau got the door open, threw out the suitcases and followed them. He turned to help Sarah. Behind her, Green reached for the door and slammed it shut, locking the handle. The engine note deepened to a full-throated roar as the Lysander raced across the meadow and took off.
Sophie Cresson said, "Come on, let's get out of here. Bring your suitcases while I get my lamps." They followed her to the van and she opened the rear door. "There's just enough room for both of you to sit behind the two barrels. Don't worry, I know every flic in the district. If they stop me, all they'll do is take a chicken and go home."
"Some things never change," Sarah said.
"Heh, a Breton girl?" Sophie flashed her torch on Sarah's face and grunted. "My God, now they send little girls." She shrugged. "In you get and let's be out of here."
Sarah crouched behind the barrels, her knees touching Martmeau as Sophie drove away. So, this was it, she thought, the real thing. No more games now. She opened her handbag and felt for the butt of the Walther PPK inside. The little Belgian automatic Kelly had given her was in her case. Would she be able to use them if necessary? Only time would tell. Martmeau lit a cigarette and passed it to her. When she inhaled, nothing had ever felt better, and she leaned back against the side of the van feeling wonderfully, marvelously alive.
It was noon before she awoke, yawning and stretching her arms. The small bedroom under the roof was plainly furnished but comfortable. She threw back the sheets and crossed to the window. The view across the walls down to the harbor was really quite special. Behind her the door opened and Sophie came in with a bowl of coffee on a tray.
"So, you're up."
"It's good to be back." Sarah took the bowl from her and sat on the window seat.