Night Of The Fox

by Jack Higgins

  And then the door swung, a hand had her by the front of her coat, and Kleist tapped the muzzle of the Mauser against her cheek. "Inside, Frau de Ville," he said roughly. "And let us discuss the curious fact that this little French bitch not only speaks the most excellent English, but would appear to be a friend of yours."

  For a moment, Helen was frozen, aware only of a terrible fear as the Mauser tapped again against her face. Kleist reached and got Sarah by the hair.

  "And you are expecting others, I gather. I wonder who?" He walked backward, pulling Sarah by the hair, the gun still probing into Helen's flesh. "No stupidities or I pull the trigger." He released Sarah suddenly. "Go and draw the curtains." She did as she was told. "Good, now turn up the lamp. Let's have everything as it should be." She could see the sweat on his face, now, the terror and pain on Helen's. "Now come back here."

  His fingers tightened in her hair again. The pain was dreadful. She wanted to cry a warning, but was aware of Helen's head back, the Mauser under her chin. Kleist stank of drink, was shaking with excitement as they waited, listening to the voices approaching across the yard. Only at the very last moment, as the door swung open and Gallagher and Guido backed in, Kelso between them, did he push the women away.

  "Harry, look out!" Sarah cried as Martineau slipped in after them, but by then, her anguished cry was too late to help anyone.

  Kelso lay on the floor and Helen, Sarah and the three men leaned against the wall in a row, arms outstretched. Kleist relieved Martineau of his PPK and slipped it into his pocket. "The SS must be doing its recruiting in some strange places these days."

  Martineau said nothing, waiting, coldly, for his chance and Kleist moved on to Guido Orsini, running his hands over him expertly. "I never liked you, pretty boy," he said contemptuously. "All you sodding Italians have ever done is give us trouble. The Führer should have sorted you lot out first."

  "Amazing." Guido turned his head and said amiably to Gallagher, "It can actually talk."

  Kleist kicked his feet from under him and put a boot in his side, then he turned to Gallagher, running a hand over him quickly, feeling for a gun. He found nothing and stood back. "Now then, you bastard, I've been waiting for this."

  He smashed his right fist into the base of the Irishman's spine. Gallagher cried out and went down. Kleist booted him in the side and Helen screamed. "Stop it!"

  Kleist smiled at her. "I haven't even started." He stirred Gallagher with his boot. "Get up and put your hands on your head." Gallagher stayed on his hands and knees for a moment and Kleist prodded him with a toe. "Come on, move it, you thick piece of Irish dung."

  Gallagher got to his feet and stood there, a half-smile on his face, arms at his sides. "Half-Irish," he said, "and half-Jersey. As I told you before, a bad combination."

  Kleist struck him backhanded across the face. "I told you to get your hands on your head."

  "Anything you say."

  The gutting knife was ready in Gallagher's left hand, had been for several minutes, skillfully palmed. His arm swung, there was a click as he pressed the button, the blade flickered in the lamplight, catching Kleist in the soft flesh under the chin. Kleist discharged the Mauser once into the wall, then dropped it and fell back against the table, wrenching the knife from Gallagher's grasp. He tried to get up, one hand tearing at the handle protruding from beneath his chin, then fell sideways to the floor, kicked convulsively and was still.

  "Oh, my God!" Helen said and turned and stumbled into the kitchen, where she was immediately violently sick.

  Martineau said to Sarah, "Go and help her."

  The girl went out and he crouched down and took his Walther from the dead man's pocket. He looked up at Gallagher. "They teach that trick in the SOE silent killing course. Where did you learn it?"

  "Another legacy from my old grandfather," Gallagher said.

  "He must have been a remarkable man."

  He and Guido got Kelso onto the couch while Gallagher retrieved his knife. It took all his strength to pull it free. He wiped it on the dead man's coat. "Do you think this was an official visit?"

  "I shouldn't imagine so." Martineau picked up the empty bottle of schnapps. "He'd been drinking and he had blood in his eye. He wanted revenge, came up here looking for you, and when you weren't here, he waited." He shook his head. "Poor sod, he almost got lucky for once. It would have been the coup of his career."

  "But what happens now?" Kelso demanded. "This could ruin everything. I mean, a Gestapo man doesn't turn up for work, they start looking."

  "No need to panic." Martineau picked up a rug and covered Kleist. "There's always a way out. First, we find his car. It's bound to be parked nearby." He nodded to Guido and Gallagher and led the way out.

  It was Guido who found the Renault within ten minutes and whistled up the others. Martineau and Gallagher joined him. "Now what?" Guido asked.

  "Kelso's right. If Kleist doesn't turn up for work in the morning, Muller will turn this island inside out," Gallagher said. "So what do we do?"

  "Give him to them," Martineau said crisply. "He was drunk and ran off the road in his car, it's as simple as that."

  "Preferably over a cliff," Guido put in. "Exactly." Martineau turned to Gallagher. "Have you anywhere suitable to suggest? Not too far, but far enough for there to be no obvious connection with here."

  "Yes," Gallagher said. "I think I've got just the place."

  "Good. You lead the way in the Renault, and I'll follow in the Kubelwagen."

  "Shall I come?" Guido asked.

  "No," Martineau said. "You hold the fort here. I'll go up to the house and get the Kubelwagen. You two take the Renault back to the cottage and put Kleist in the boot." He turned and hurried away through the wood.

  When Martineau arrived back at the cottage they already had Kleist's body in the boot of the car, and Gallagher was ready to go. Martineau asked, "How long will it take us to get to this place?"

  "The far side of La Moye Point." Gallagher unfolded an old pocket touring map of the island. "About fifteen or twenty minutes at this time in the morning."

  "Are we likely to run into anybody?"

  "We have an honorary police system out here in the parishes, and they don't turn out to work for the enemy unless they have to."

  "And the Germans?"

  "The odd military police patrol, no more than that. We've every chance of driving to La Moye without seeing a soul."

  "Right, then let's get moving." Martineau turned to Guido and the two women standing in the doorway. "Wait for us here. There are things to discuss," and he drove away.

  Gallagher was right. Their run from Noirmont to Woodbine Corner and along the main road to Red Houses passed without incident, no sign of another vehicle all the way along La Route Orange

  and moving toward Corbiere Point. Finally, Gallagher turned into a narrow lane. He stopped the Renault and got out.

  "There's a strongpoint down there on our right at Corbiere, an artillery battery on the left toward La Moye Point. The area up ahead is clear, and the road turns along the edge of the cliffs about two hundred yards from here. It's always been a hazard. No protecting wall."

  "All right," Martineau said. "We'll leave the Kubelwagen here."

  He got a can of petrol and stood on the running board of the Renault as Gallagher drove along the bumpy road between high hedges. They came out on the edge of the cliff's, going down into a small valley, a defile on the left running down to rocks and surf below.

  "This will do." Martineau hammered on the roof.

  Gallagher braked to a halt, got out and went around to the boot. He and Martineau got Kleist out between them, carried him to the front and put him behind the wheel. Gallagher had left the engine running. As he shut the door the dead man slumped forward.

  "All right?" Gallagher demanded in a low voice.

  "In a minute." Martineau opened the can and poured petrol over the front seat and the dead man's clothes. "Okay, let him go."

  Gallagher re
leased the handbrake, leaving the engine in neutral and turned the wheel. He started to push and the Renault left the track, moving across the grass.

  "Watch yourself!" Martineau called and struck a match and dropped it through the open passenger window.

  For a moment, he thought it had gone out and then, as the Renault bumped over the edge, orange and yellow flame blossomed. They turned and ran back along the lane, and behind them, there was a grinding crash and then a brief explosion.

  When they reached the Kubelwagen, Martineau said, "You get down in the back, just in case."

  It was too good to last, of course, and five minutes later, as he turned from the Corbiere Road

  into Route du Sud, he found two military police motorcycles parked at the side of the road. One of them stepped out, hand raised in the moonlight. Martineau slowed at once.

  "Military police," he whispered to Gallagher. "Stay low."

  He opened the door and got out. "Is there a problem?"

  At the sight of the uniform, the two policemen jumped to attention. One of them still had a lighted cigarette between the fingers of his left hand. "Ah, now I see, what we might term a smoke break," Martineau said.

  "Standartenführer, what can I say?" the man replied.

  "Personally, I always find it better to say nothing." There was something supremely menacing in the way he delivered the words. "Now, what did you want?"

  "Nothing, Standartenführer. It's just that we don't often see a vehicle at this time in the morning in this sector."

  "And you were quite properly doing your duty." Martineau produced his papers. "My SD card. Come on, man, hurry up!" He raised his voice and it was harsh and ugly.

  The policeman barely glanced at it, hands shaking as he handed it back. "All is in order."

  "Good, you can return to your duties then." Martineau got back in the car. "As for smoking, be a little more discreet, that's my advice."

  He drove away. Gallagher said, voice slightly muffled, "How in the hell do you manage to sound such a convincing Nazi?"

  "Practice, Sean, that's what it takes. Lots of practice," Martineau told him, and he turned into La Route Orange

  and moved toward Red Houses.

  When they got back to the cottage, Sarah opened the door instantly to them. "Everything all right?"

  "Perfect," Gallagher told her as he followed Martineau inside. "We put the car over a cliff near La Moye and made sure it burned."

  "Was that necessary?" Helen shivered, clasping her arms around herself.

  "We want him to be found," Martineau said. "And if the sentries at the coastal strongpoints in the area are even half-awake they'll have noticed the flames. On the other hand, we don't want him in too good a condition, because if he was, there would be that knife wound to explain." Kelso said, "So, you had no trouble at all?"

  "A military police patrol stopped us on the way back," Gallagher said. "I was well out of sight and Harry did his Nazi bit. No problem."

  "So, all that remains now is for Guido to contact Savary in the morning," Sarah said.

  "No," Martineau said. "Actually, there's been a rather significant change of plan."

  There was general astonishment. Gallagher said, "Sweet Jesus, what have you been up to now?"

  Martineau lit a cigarette, stood with his back to the fire and said calmly, "If you'll all sit down, I'll tell you."

  FOURTEEN

  AT NINE THE following morning Gallagher drove down to St. Helier, two more sacks of potatoes in the van. He didn't call at the central market, but went straight to the troop supply depot in the old garage in Wesley Street

  . The first trucks went out with military supplies to various units around the island at eight-thirty, which was why he had chosen his time carefully. Feldwebel Klinger was up in his glass office eating his breakfast. Sausage, eggs, bacon, all very English. The coffee was real, Gallagher could smell that as he went up the stairs.

  "Good morning, Herr General, what have you got for me today?"

  "A couple of sacks of potatoes if you're interested. I'll take canned food in exchange, whatever you've got, and coffee." He helped himself to a piece of bacon from Klinger's plate. "Whenever I see you, you're eating."

  "And why not? The only pleasure left to me in this lousy life. Here, join me in a coffee." Klinger poured it out. "Why are human beings so stupid? I had a nice restaurant in Hamburg before the war. All the best people came. My wife does her best, but more bomb damage last week and no compensation."

  "And worse to come, Hans," Gallagher told him. "They'll be on the beaches soon, all those Tommies and Yanks, and heading for the Fatherland and the Russians coming the other way. You'll be lucky to have a business at all. Those Reichsmarks you keep hoarding won't be worth the paper they're printed on."

  Klinger wiped a hand across his mouth. "Don't, you'll give me indigestion with talk like that so early in the morning."

  "Of course, this kind of money never loses its value." Gallagher took a coin from his pocket, flicked it in the air, caught it and put it down on the table.

  Klinger picked it up and there was awe on his face. "An English sovereign."

  "Exactly," Gallagher said. "A gold sovereign."

  Klinger tried it with his teeth. "The real thing."

  "Would I offer you anything less?" Gallagher took a small linen bag from his pocket and held it up tantalizingly. "Another forty-nine in there."

  He placed the bag on the table and Klinger spilled the coins out and touched them with his fingers. "All right, what do you want?"

  "A sailor's uniform. Kriegsmarine," Gallagher told him. "No big deal, as our American friends say. You've got stacks of them in store here."

  "Impossible," Klinger said. "Absolutely."

  "I'd also expert boots, reefer coat and cap. We're doing a play at the Parish Hall at St. Brelade. Very good part for a German sailor in it. He falls in love with this Jersey girl and her parents…"

  "Stop this nonsense," Klinger said. "Play? What play is this?"

  "All right." Gallagher shrugged. "If you're not interested."

  He started to pick up the coins and Klinger put a hand on his arm. "You know the GFP at Silvertide would be very interested to know what you wanted with a German uniform, Herr General."

  "Of course they would, only we're not going to tell them, are we? I mean, you don't want them nosing around in here, Hans. All that booze and cigarettes in the cellar and the canned goods. And then there's the coffee and the champagne."

  "Stop it!"

  "I know it's spring now," Gallagher carried on relentlessly. "But it still can't be too healthy on the Russian Front serving with a penal battalion."

  The threat was plain in his voice and the prospect too horrible to contemplate. Klinger was trapped, angry that he'd ever got involved with the Irishman. Too late to cry about that now. Better to give him what he wanted and hope for the best.

  "All right, I hear you." Klinger scooped up the sovereigns, put them in one of his tunic pockets. "I've always loved the theater. It would be a privilege to assist."

  "I knew I could rely on you," Gallagher told him. "Here are the sizes," and he pushed a piece of paper across the desk.

  At ten o'clock the cavalcade left Septembertide and drove to Beaumont and Bel Royal and then along Victoria Avenue

  to St. Helier. The first stop was Elizabeth Castle. The tide was out and they parked the cars opposite the Grand Hotel and clambered on board an armored personnel carrier which followed the line of the causeway across the beach, its half-tracks churning sand.

  "When the tide is in, the causeway is under water, Herr Field Marshal," Necker told him.

  Baum was in his element, filled with excitement at the turn events had taken. He could see Martineau seated at the other end of the truck talking to a couple of young officers and Muller and for a wild moment wondered whether he might have dreamed the events of the previous night. Martineau certainly played a most convincing Nazi. On the other hand, he didn't do too ba
d a job on field marshals himself.

  The carrier drove up from the causeway through the old castle gate and stopped. They all got out and Necker said, "The English fortified this place to keep out the French in Napoleon's time. Some of the original guns are still here."

  "Now we fortify it further to keep out the English," Baum said. "There's irony for you."

  As he led the way along the road to the moat and the entrance to the inner court, Martineau moved to his shoulder. "As a matter of interest, Herr Field Marshal, Sir Walter Raleigh was governor here in the time of Queen Elizabeth Tudor."

  "Really?" Baum said. "An extraordinary man. Soldier, sailor, musician, poet, historian."

  "Who also found time to introduce tobacco to the Western world," Martineau reminded him.

  "For that alone he should have a statue in every major city," Baum said. "I remember the Italian campaign in nineteen seventeen. A terrible time. I think the only thing that got us through the trench warfare was the cigarettes."

  He strode on ahead, Martineau at his shoulder, talking animatedly, and Hofer trailed anxiously behind with Necker. An hour later, after a thorough inspection of every gun and strongpoint Baum could find, they returned to the personnel carrier and were taken back across the beach to the cars.

  On the cliffs near La Moye Point a group of field engineers hauled on a line, helping the corporal on the other end walk up the steep slope. He came over the edge and unhooked himself. The sergeant in charge of the detail gave him a cigarette. "You don't look too good."

  "Neither would you. He's like a piece of badly cooked meat, the driver down there."

  "Any papers?"

  "Burned along with most of his clothes. The car is a Renault and I've got the number."

  The sergeant wrote it down. "The police can handle it now." He turned to the other men. "All right, back to the post, you lot."

  Mont Oigeuil at Gorey on the east coast of Jersey is probably one of the most spectacular castles in Europe. The Germans had garrisoned it with coastal artillery batteries. In fact there were two regimental headquarters situated in the castle. Baum visited both of them, as well as conducting his usual energetic survey. In the observation post which had been constructed on the highest point of the castle, he stood with a pair of fleldglasses and looked across at the French coast, which was clearly visible. He was for the moment slightly apart from the others and Hofer moved to his shoulder. "Is everything all right?" Baum asked, the glasses still to his eyes. "Vogel seems to be pressing his attentions," Hofer said softly.