by Jack Higgins
"Who?"
"An SS auxiliary named Lotto Neumann. She was his mistress during his Berlin period. She's secretary to one of the Reichsführer's aides."
"And he's going to speak to her?"
"He has a call booked through to Berlin in the morning. He'll get back to me as soon as he can. At least it will tell us just how important Vogel is. She's bound to know something about him."
"Excellent." Muller nodded. "Have you seen Willi tonight?"
"Yes," Greiser admitted reluctantly. "At the club. Then he insisted on going to a bar in some back street in St. Helier."
"He's drinking?" Greiser hesitated and Muller said, "Come on, man, tell me the worst."
"Yes, Herr Captain, heavily. I couldn't keep up. As you know I drink very little. I stayed with him for a while, but then he grew morose and angry as he does. He told me to clear off. Became rather violent."
"Damnation!" Muller sighed. "Nothing to be done now. He's probably ended up with some woman. You'd better get off to bed. I'll need you again in the morning. Ten o'clock at Septembertide."
"Very well, Herr Captain."
He went out, and Muller opened another file and picked up his pen.
Kleist was at that moment parking his car on a track on the edge of the de Ville estate very close to Gallagher's cottage. He was dangerously drunk, way beyond any consideration of common sense. He had half a bottle of schnapps with him. He took a pull at it, put it in his pocket, got out of the car and walked unsteadily along the track toward the cottage.
There was a chink of light at the drawn curtains covering one of the sitting room windows. He kicked on the front door vigorously. There was no response. He kicked again, then tried the handle and the door opened. He peered into the sitting room. There was an oil lamp on the table, the embers of a fire on the hearth, but no other sign of life. The kitchen was also empty.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs. "Gallagher, where are you?"
There was no reply. He got the oil lamp and went upstairs to see for himself, but both bedrooms were empty. He descended the stairs again, slowly and with some difficulty, went into the sitting room and put the lamp on the table.
He turned it down, leaving the room in darkness except for a dull glow from the embers of the fire. He pulled back the curtain at the window and sat there in a wing chair, looking at the yard outside, clear in the moonlight. "Right, you bastard. You've got to come home sometime."
He took a Mauser from his right-hand pocket and sat there nursing it in his lap as he waited.
At Septembertide, Baum and Hofer had enjoyed a surprisingly excellent meal. Cold roast chicken, Jersey new potatoes and a salad, washed down with a bottle of excellent Sancerre provided by Captain Heider. The half moon gave a wonderful view of St. Aubin's Bay, and they went out onto the terrace to finish their wine.
After a while, the corporal who had cooked the meal appeared. "All is in order, Herr Major," he told Hofer, "the kitchen is clear again. I've left coffee and milk on the side. Will there be anything else?"
"Not tonight," Hofer told him. "We'll have breakfast at nine sharp in the morning. Eggs, ham, anything you can lay your hands on. You can return to your billet now."
The corporal clicked his heels and withdrew. Baum said, "What a night."
"My dear Berger, what a day," Hofer told him. "The most remarkable of my life."
"And the second act still to come." Baum yawned.
"Speaking of tomorrow, I could do with some sleep," and he went back inside.
Hofer said, "You, of course, in deference to your superior rank, will take the large bedroom above this, which has its own bathroom. I'll take the small room at the end of the corridor. It overlooks the front of the house so I'll be more aware of what's going on there."
They went upstairs, Baum still carrying his glass of wine. "What time?" he said.
"If you're not already up I'll wake you at seven-thirty," Hofer told him.
"Rommel would be up at five, but one can take playacting too far." Baum smiled. He closed the outer door to the bedroom suite, walked through the dressing area into the bedroom itself. It was plainly furnished with two wardrobes, a dressing table and a double bed, presumably left by the owners from whom the house had been requisitioned. The corporal had drawn the curtains at the windows. They were large and heavy, made of red velvet and touched the floor. When he parted them, he found a steel and glass door, which he opened and stepped out onto the upper terrace.
The view was even better at this height, and he could see down into St. Aubin's Harbor in the distance on his right. It was very still, the only sound a dog barking a couple of fields away. The blackout in St. Helier was anything but complete, lights dotted here and there. The sea was calm, a white line of surf down there on the beach, the sky luminous with stars in the moonlight. A night to thank God for.
He raised his glass. "L'chayim," he said softly and he turned, parted the curtains and went back inside, leaving the door open.
It took Martineau twenty minutes to make his way up through the trees. The undergrowth was thick in places and the going was rough, but he'd expected that and there was no barbed wire on the final approach to the garden, he'd noticed that earlier. He still had no idea what he intended and pulled himself up over the concrete block wall cautiously, aware of voices. He stood in the shadow of a palm tree, and looked up to see Hofer and Rommel on the terrace in the moonlight.
"What a night," the field marshal said.
"My dear Berger, what a day," Hofer told him.
"And the second act still to come."
Martineau stayed in the shadow of the palm tree, astonished at this amazing exchange. It didn't make sense. After they had gone inside, he advanced cautiously across the lawn and paused by the covered way. A moment later, the field marshal appeared on the upper terrace and stood at the rail looking out over the bay.
He raised his glass. "L'chayim," he said softly, turned and went back inside.
L'chayim, which meant. "to life," the most ancient of Hebrew toasts. It was enough. Martineau stood on the low wall, reached for the railings on the first terrace and pulled himself over.
Heini Baum took the Blue Max and the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds from around his neck and laid them on the dressing table. He removed his cheek pads and examined his face in the mirror, running his fingers through his hair.
"Not bad, Heini. Not bad. I wonder what the great man would say if he knew he was being taken off by a Jew boy?"
He started to unbutton his tunic and Martineau, who had been standing on the other side of the curtain screwing the Carswell silencer on the barrel of the Walther, stepped inside. Baum saw him instantly in the mirror, and old soldier that he was, reached at once for the Mauser pistol in its holster on his belt which lay on the dressing table.
"I wouldn't," Martineau told him. "They've really done wonders with this new model silencer. If I fired it behind your back you wouldn't even know about it. Now, hands on head and sit on the stool."
"Is this some plot of the SS to get rid of me?" Baum asked, playing his role to the hilt. "I'm aware that Reichsführer Himmler never liked me, but I didn't realize how much."
Martineau sat on the edge of the bed, took out a packet of Gitanes one-handed and shook one up. As he lit it he said, "I heard you and Hofer talking on the terrace. He called you Berger."
"You've been busy."
"And I was outside a couple of minutes ago when you were talking to yourself, so let's get down to facts. Number one, you aren't Rommel."
"If you say so."
"All right," Martineau said, "let's try again. If I am part of an SS plot to kill you on Himmler's orders, there wouldn't be much point if you aren't really Rommel. Of course, if you are…"
He raised the PPK and Baum took a deep breath. "Very clever."
"So you aren't Rommel?"
"I should have thought that was sufficiently obvious by now."
"What are you, an actor?"
"Turned soldier, turned actor again."
"Marvelous," Martineau said. "I saw him in Paris last year and you fooled me. Does he know you're Jewish?"
"No." Baum frowned. "Listen, what kind of an SS man are you anyway?"
"I'm not," Martineau laid the PPK down on the bed beside him. "I'm a colonel in the British Army."
"I don't believe you," Baum said in astonishment.
"A pity you don't speak English and I could prove it," Martineau said.
"But I do." Baum broke into very good English indeed. "I played the Moss Empire circuit in London, Leeds and Manchester in nineteen thirty-five and six."
"And you went back to Germany?" Martineau said. "You must have been crazy."
"My parents." Baum shrugged. "Like most of the old folk, they didn't believe it would happen. I hid in the army using the identity of a man killed in an air raid in Kiel. My real name is Heini Baum. To Rommel, I'm Corporal Erich Berger, 21st Parachute Regiment."
"Harry Martineau."
Baum hesitated then shook hands. "Your German is excellent."
"My mother was German," Martineau explained. "Tell me, where is Rommel?"
"In Normandy."
"And what's the purpose of the masquerade or don't you know?"
"I'm not supposed to, but I can listen at doors as well as anybody." Baum took a cigarette from the field marshal's silver case, fitted it into the ivory holder Rommel had given him and lit it. "He's having a quiet get-together with Generals von Stulpnagel and Falkenhausen. A highly illegal business as far as I can make out. Apparently they and a number of other generals, realizing they've lost the war, want to get rid of Hitler and salvage something from the mess while there's still a chance."
"Possible," Martineau said. "There have been attempts on Hitler's life before."
"Fools, all of them," Baum told him.
"You don't approve? That surprises me."
"They've lost the war anyway. It's only a question of time so there's no point in their scheming. By the time that mad bastard Himmler's finished with them, they'll be hanging on hooks, not that it would worry me. Most of them helped Hitler to power in the first place."
"That's true."
"On the other hand, I'm a German as well as a Jew. I've got to know Rommel pretty well in the past few days. He's a good man. He's on the wrong side, that's all. Now you know all about me. What about you? What are you doing here?"
Martineau told him briefly about Kelso, although omitting, for the moment, any mention of the Operation Overlord connection. When he was finished, Baum said, "I wish you luck. From the sound of it, it's going to be tricky trying to get him out by boat. At least I fly out tomorrow night. A nice fast exit."
Martineau saw it then, the perfect answer to the whole situation. Sheer genius. "Tell me," he said. "Once back, you'll be returned to your regiment?"
"I should imagine so."
"Which means you'll have every chance of having your head blown off during the next few months because the invasion's coming and your paratroopers will be in the thick of it."
"I expect so."
"How would you like to go to England instead?"
"You've got to be joking," Baum said in astonishment. "How could such a thing be?"
"Just think about it." Martineau got up and paced around the room. "What's the most useful thing about being Field Marshal Erwin Rommel?"
"You tell me."
"The fact that everyone does what you tell them to do. For example, tomorrow evening you go to the airport to return to France in the little Storch you came in."
"So what."
"There's a JTJ52 transport up there, the mail plane, due to leave for France around the same time. What do you think would happen if Field Marshal Rommel turned up just before takeoff with an SS Standartenführer, a wounded man on a stretcher, a young Frenchwoman, and commandeered the plane? What do you think they'd say?"
Baum smiled. "Not very much, I imagine."
"Once in the air," Martineau said, "and the nearest point on the English coast would be no more than half an hour's flying time in that mail plane."
"My God!" Baum said in awe. "You really mean it."
"Do you want to go to England or don't you?" Martineau asked. "Make up your mind. Of course, if you hadn't met me you'd have gone back to France to rejoin the field marshal, and who knows what would happen. Another mad plot to kill the Führer fails, which would mean an unpleasant end for Erwin Rommel. I suspect that might also apply to anyone connected with him and, let's face it—the Gestapo and Himmler would find you very suspect indeed."
"You really do have a way with the words," Baum told him.
Martineau lit a cigarette. "Even if you survive, my friend, Berlin will resemble a brickyard before long. The Russians want blood, and I think you'll find that the Allies will stand back and let them get on with it." He peered out through the curtains. "No, I really do think my alternative is the only option that would make sense to an intelligent man."
"You could make an excellent living selling insurance," Baum told him. "As it happens, I used to have a cousin in Leeds which is in the north of England. Yorkshire, to be precise. My only relative, if he's still alive. I need someone to say kaddish for me. That's prayers for the dead, by the way."
"I know what it is," Martineau said patiently. "Do we have a deal?"
"Berlin a brickyard." Baum shook his head and smiled. "I like that."
"That's settled then." Martineau unscrewed the silencer and put the PPK back in its holster.
"So what about Hofer?"
"What about him?"
"He's not so bad. No different from the rest of us. I wouldn't like to have to hurt him."
"I'll think of something. I'll discuss it with my friends. I'll join your tour of the east of the island tomorrow morning. Be more friendly toward me. At a suitable point when Necker is there, ask me where I'm staying. I'll tell you de Ville Place
—all about it. Its magical location, wonderful grounds, and so on. You tell Necker you like the sound of it. That you'd like to have lunch there. Insist on it. I'll finalize things with you then."
"The third act, rewritten at so late a date we don't get any chance to rehearse," Baum said wryly.
"You know what they say," Martineau told him. "That's show business," and he slipped out through the curtain.
It was just after midnight when Sean Gallagher and Guido took Hugh Kelso down the narrow stairway to Helen's bedroom. Sarah waited by the partially open door for Helen's signal from the other end of the corridor. It came and she opened the door quickly.
"Now," she said.
Gallagher and Guido linked arms again and hurried out, Hugh Kelso between them. The back stairs were wider and easier to negotiate, and they were in the kitchen within a couple of minutes. They sat Kelso down and Helen closed the door to the stairs, turning the key.
"So far so good," Gallagher said. "Are you all right, Colonel?"
The American looked strained, but nodded eagerly. "I'm feeling great just to be moving again."
"Fine. We'll take the path through the woods to my place. Ten minutes, that's all."
Helen motioned him to silence. "I think I hear a car."
They waited and Sarah hurriedly turned down the lamp, went to the window and drew the curtains as a vehicle entered the yard outside. "It's Harry," she said.
Helen turned up the lamp again and Sarah unbolted the back door for him. He slipped in and closed the door behind him. After events at Mont de la Rocque he was on a high, full of energy, and the excitement was plain to see on the pale face shadowed by the SS cap.
"What is it, Harry?" Sarah demanded. "Has something happened?"
"I think you could definitely say that, but it can wait until later. Ready to go, are we?"
"As ever was," Kelso said.
"Let's get it done then."
"Sarah and I will go on ahead to make sure everything's ready for you," Helen said as she took a couple of old macs down f
rom a peg, gave one to the girl and put the other one on herself.
She turned the lamp down again, opened the door and she and Sarah hurried across the yard. Gallagher and Guido linked hands and Kelso put his arms around their necks.
"Right," Martineau said. "Here we go. I'll lead the way. If anyone wants a rest, just say so."
He stood to one side to let them go out, closed the door behind him and they started across the courtyard
.
The pale moonlight filtered through the trees, and the track was clear before them, the night perfumed with the scent of flowers again. Sarah took Helen's arm. For a moment, there was an intimacy between them, and she was very aware of that warm, safe feeling she had known in the time following her mother's death when Helen had been not only a strong right arm but the breath of life to her.
"What happens afterward?" Helen said. "When you get back?"
"Assuming that we do."
"Don't be silly. It's going to work. If ever I met a man who knows what he's doing it's Harry Martineau. So, what happens on your return? Back to nursing?"
"God knows," Sarah told her. "Nursing was always only a stopgap. It was medicine I was interested in."
"I remember."
"But after this, who knows?" Sarah said. "The whole thing's been like a mad dream. I've never known a man like Harry, never known such excitement."
"Temporary madness, Sarah, just like the war. Not real life. Neither is Harry Martineau. He's not for you, Sarah. God help him, he's not even for himself."
They paused on the edge of the clearing, the cottage a few yards away, bathed in the moonlight. "It's nothing to do with me," Sarah said. "It never was. I had no control over what happened. It's beyond reason."
In the cottage, sitting at the window, Kleist had seen them the moment they had emerged from the wood, and it was the intimacy that struck him at once. There was something wrong here, and he got up, moved to the door and opened it a little. It was then, of course, as they approached, that he realized they were speaking together in English.
Helen said, "Loving someone is different from being in love, darling. Being in love is a state of heat and that passes, believe me. Still, let's get inside. The others will be here in a moment." She put a hand to the door and it moved. "It seems to be open."