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CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR HOWARD LINSKEY
‘Linskey delivers a flawless feel for time and place, snappy down to earth dialect mixed in with unrelenting violence and pace. A Tyneside Dashiell Hammett to put Martina Cole firmly in her place’ – Times
‘Vicious, violent and unashamedly amoral’ – Daily Mail
‘Taut. Tough. Terrifying. The Damage is a deeply atmospheric, in-your-face tale of immorality, seediness, violence, and murder, scintillating with menace from start to finish’ – New York Journal of Books
‘Linskey has delivered a superior historical thriller... He is already a rising star of British crime fiction. Hunting the Hangman will do his reputation no harm whatsoever’ – Crime Fiction Lover
‘One of the single most dramatic events of the Second World War, Linskey makes the mission of Jan Kubis and Joseph Gabcik impossible to put down’ – Northern Echo
‘The Dead is Brit Grit at its finest; sharp, pacey and totally compelling’ – Crime Factory
‘An exhilarating and wild ride through the dark and mean streets of Newcastle’ – Catholic Herald
‘Fast-paced, hard-boiled tale that zips along’ – Crack
For Erin & Alison
PROLOGUE
‘Now, people rise up and let the storm break loose!’
Joseph Goebbels, 1943
Galland was in the foulest of moods. He should have been with his men, debriefing the day’s sorties, not undertaking this trivial errand for Goering. Galland’s FW 190s had fared well against the RAF that morning but two more pilots had been lost and the supply of good men was far from inexhaustible. What could they learn from the engagement? How could he prevent the deaths of yet more pilots? These were the thoughts that preoccupied Galland as his plane taxied to a halt on the runway at Peeneműnde on a bright and cloudless morning.
The Reichsmarschall would be irritated by his lateness but Galland cared more for the well-being of his men. The General der Jagdflieger had downed 94 enemy pilots in dog fights over three countries; first Poland, then England, now France and his principal reward for such gallantry? An order never to fly with his men again. The Fatherland preferred its heroes undamaged. They wished to keep him safe for the newsreels. But what did they expect their fighter ace to do when he was not shaking hands with the Fűhrer for the benefit of the cinematograph; pace the runway like a mother hen, waiting for his charges to return each day? It didn’t bear thinking about. So Galland repeatedly disobeyed this order, not lightly but knowingly and with no lasting regret.
Galland wore his Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves for the demonstration. The ludicrous Goering would expect it. As he walked from the plane he wondered what unflyable new contraption the head of the Luftwaffe had become fixated upon this time.
The group was assembled in a glass-fronted observation room at the far end of a runway. As soon as Galland entered, he picked out the unmistakeable figure of Goering, surrounded by a band of fawning acolytes. Today the Reichsmarschall’s imposing bulk had been squeezed into an expensively tailored bright, white uniform, his large belly straining against its buttons like a badly stuffed cushion. To Galland, he looked like the ringmaster of a cheap, three-ring circus.
‘You’re late, Galland.’ Goering spoke as if this were a deliberate affront to him personally. Then he waved his diamond-encrusted swagger-stick at the assembled group, ‘We started without you.’
‘My apologies, Reichsmarschall. The RAF detained me longer than anticipated,’ before adding, ‘they were unaware of our appointment.’
He’s like a sulking adolescent, thought Galland, as he caught the eye of a brother officer who shared an unflattering view of Goering. Shegel was still a comparatively young man in such exalted company but he looked a good deal older than the last time the two men clapped eyes on each other. Galland wondered what trials he had undergone since then to cause the lines on his face and the premature greying of his hair. Shegel’s reaction to the unedifying spectacle of Goering’s sulk was confined to the merest flicker as his eyes met Galland’s.
There were Luftwaffe men of senior rank in the room, whom Galland recognised, and some in civilian garb that, ominously, he did not. A number were dressed in white lab coats and stood before machines that clicked and whirred in a seemingly random fashion. Occasionally they made marks in pencil on their clipboards. Men in white coats, thought Galland, perhaps they have finally come to take the lunatic away.
Goering spoke to everyone and no one in particular, ‘Dolfo thinks I don’t know he still flies combat missions, despite my express orders,’ and he arched his eyebrows significantly, ‘and those of the Fűhrer. What are we to make of him, eh? How many is it now?’
Galland’s heart sank. Although he expected word of his insubordination would eventually reach Goering, he’d hoped the fog of war might protect him a little longer and he bridled at Goering’s use of a nickname acquired from fellow officers; comrades he held in high regard. Admit nothing, Galland told himself, stand up to the man, don’t quake like a schoolboy in the headmaster’s study. He isn’t going to have a ‘hero of the Reich’ taken out and shot. Not today at any rate.
‘The Reichsmarschall knows I would never defy an order, least of all from the Fűhrer, unless the circumstances were critical to my squadron, the base or my country and I was unable to directly communicate with him prior to take-off.’
Goering frowned and seemed intent on continuing their verbal joust but, before it could escalate to dangerous proportions, he was distracted – a high-pitched rushing sound from outside of the building made them all turn towards the window.
‘Here she is!’ cried one of the technicians. Galland stepped forward to witness the demonstration and he was almost too late; such was the speed of the object hurtling towards them. To this master of aerial combat, the little silver vessel was a shocking sight. To begin with, it was far smaller than any aeroplane Galland had ever seen. The tiny craft seemed barely capable of accommodating a man and the space-age object had no propellers. Galland was aware of experimental work on jet propulsion engines; the concept was hardly a new one but the reality always seemed to reside in a far-off, future land. Despite this, the new prototype flew by the watchtower at an impossible speed, making the windows rattle as it screeched by. One of the scientists punched the air exuberantly and there was unrestrained cheering from his colleagues. Galland merely stared in open-mouthed astonishment. Adolf Galland was not prone to incredulity but even he could not contain his wonder.
‘What in heaven’s name was that?’
Goering had never looked more smug or superior, as if he had personally invented a method for turning base metal into gold.
‘That, Galland?’ he enunciated the words slowly for maximum effect, ‘that is the future!’
1
‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep’
Robert Frost
Even in the subdued glow of the moonlight, Emma could see the fear in the Frenchman’s eyes.
‘How much further?’ asked Etienne Dufoy. His hand gripped Emma’s shoulder as he peered at her through thick lens glasses, ‘Are we lost?’
‘Not far now,’ she tried to sound reassuring, ‘we are close to the landing zone. You must be quiet.’
Etienne did not seem entirely happy with the young girl’s answer. Reluctantly he released his grip and turned his head from her. As the owlish eyes became downcast he tried to contain his fear.
‘Don’t worry, Etienne,’ she smiled at him then, ‘this time tomorrow you will be in London, drinking Scotch and complaining about the weather. Just like an Englishman.’
Etienne managed a weak smile in response. They had stopped again on this mud track for what seemed like the hundredth time, listening for a sound that should not be there. The path snaked its way over the fields and through the dense woodland that covered this little corner of Normandy. Every noise was amplified by the stillness of the night. The constant stop-start was beginning to unnerve the resistance leader.
Emma looked at Etienne again. He seemed more like a frightened office clerk than one of the most wanted men in France. Maybe even the fearless Etienne Dufoy could feel fear and who could blame him after an interrogation at the Avenue Foch, the Gestapo HQ in Paris. Etienne Dufoy knew the names and code names of resistance fighters in the capital and had personally set up cells all over France. His capture could have been a disaster but, somehow, he had found the courage to elude his captors, jumping from a moving truck on his way to Fresnes prison.
Now the man from Marseilles found himself deep in the Normandy countryside, waiting for an English plane to land in a field in the dead of night and rescue him. And who does he have to deliver him to his salvation this night, thought Emma; a bodyguard provided by the local resistance, who is barely able to shave, and a 22-year-old English girl, the only member of the Special Operations Executive within miles. Emma Stirling had carried out precisely two previous missions in occupied France. In each of these, Emma, code name MADELEINE, had acted merely as a courier of papers. Never before has she been tasked to bring men out, and it probably showed. Is it any wonder Etienne’s nerves are shot through, she thought?
As they moved off, she became acutely aware of how incongruous their little party must have looked. Emma wore a raincoat two sizes too big for her, to disguise the Sten gun slung on her shoulder. Her long, dark hair was worn up, obscured by a man’s hat and tonight she wore trousers instead of a skirt but Emma could never be described as boyish. A few short months ago, she was on the SOE training program, learning the Morse code, sabotage and silent killing. Now she was leading a boy and a man in his middle forties across a mud track in a foreign land, towards their appointment with a Lysander, which would fly Emma and her most important charge to safety.
Olivier, their bodyguard, was young but not so young he had failed to notice Emma. As she stooped on one knee to check a map reference he clearly tried to peer down her shirt front.
‘Stay alert, Olivier,’ she told him sharply.
‘Of course,’ he replied, his young pride affronted.
The local resistance leader had assured Emma that Olivier was a good man but he was so effusive in his praise she had begun to wonder if the boy was a relative. Emma was nervous, for Etienne was a highly wanted man. How the Gestapo would love to catch him tonight, and anybody with him. Emma had to remove the stories of torture from her mind – worse for the women even than the men – or she would be completely unable to function as an agent.
‘They like to rape the girls,’ a local Maquis leader had informed her, ‘so they have power over them. Or mutilate them if they won’t talk,’ and Emma had not slept that night.
She guided the men along the muddied track for another hundred yards or so then a shadow crossed the horizon and Emma froze. Had she seen movement or was it just the wind stirring the trees? Perhaps it was merely instinct that caused her to halt suddenly in front of the copse directly ahead of them? Her left hand went out to the side, the signal for her companions to halt.
‘What is it?’ whispered Etienne nervously.
‘Ssshhh.’ Emma brought the Sten higher but kept it pointing low, just as she’d been trained, to allow for the upward tug of the recoil. She aimed directly into the trees. Emma froze, her stance rigid, the silence around them as complete and unchanging as the darkness. Neither of the men dared break it, even though they could see nothing but trees ahead of them. Emma stared into the shadows. Someone was there, standing in the trees, she knew it.
Emma’s hand went to the Sten and, as quietly as she could, she pulled the bolt back to cock the weapon. Emma could hear her own heart now; she almost forgot to breathe. Was her mind playing tricks? Get a grip. The patch shifted shape. No, she was right, there was someone there. Emma brought the Sten up with a jerk, her finger tightening on the trigger.
The silence was finally shattered when Emma heard a familiar voice, deep and resonant. ‘Careful, Madeleine, that thing goes off accidentally and you’ll have the whole German army down on us.’
‘Harry?’ asked Emma disbelievingly, ‘Harry Walsh? Is that you?’
The unseen figure took this as his signal to emerge from the trees, forming into view like an apparition. A tall, well-built man with clear sharp eyes and a shock of straight, dark hair, he was dressed in a dark civilian raincoat, black leather gloves and a plain scarf to shield him from the cold. His face was prematurely aged with the knowing, slightly jaded look of the combat veteran and he had a dangerous air about him. Something about the way he carried himself hinted strongly at the capacity for violence.
‘Don’t use that name here, Madeleine,’ it was spoken quietly but there was steel in his voice. Walsh walked up to the little group as if his anomalous presence was both expected and entirely normal. He turned to the older man.
‘You must be Etienne Dufoy?’ and he held out his hand in greeting.
‘Yes,’ answered Etienne who seemed bemused by this stranger, but the Englishman appeared to know his pretty guide and Etienne reached out to shake his hand.
‘What are you doing here?’ Emma asked, the question tinged with anger. Damn it, couldn’t Baker Street trust her to complete the mission on her own without sending Harry Walsh to nursemaid her. ‘No one told me about a change of plan.’
Ignoring Emma, Walsh tightened his grip on Etienne’s hand and yanked the smaller man towards him. Etienne gasped as Walsh wrapped a burly arm around the Frenchman’s neck and forced him down, on to his knees, facing away from Walsh. There was a further strangled gurgle of alarm from Etienne before Walsh put his full weight behind the next move, as his knee went into the older man’s back and he jerked Etienne’s head sharply backwards, snapping his neck in an instant. He let the body slump to the ground under its own weight.
‘My God, Harry, no!’
‘That is not Etienne Dufoy,’ explained Walsh, as calmly as if Emma had chosen to board the wrong bus, ‘we need to get going. This wood will be full of Germans in minutes.’
Olivier stood rooted to the spot, staring wide-eyed at the lifeless body of his charge on the woodland floor.
‘Come on, lad,’ the Englishman’s voice jerked Olivier out of his stupor, and he scrambled frantically in his coat pocket for the ancient Lebel revolver his uncle had given him. The youth brought the gun up and pointed it into Walsh’s face.
‘Do not move,’ he stammered, but the Englishman calmly advanced towards him.
‘Don’t be bloody stupid, boy,’ Walsh commanded in accent-less French, ‘it’s a trap, a Gestapo trap. That is not Dufoy and if you want to get out of here alive you will do exactly as I tell you.’
‘Don’t shoot,’ begged Emma.
‘Stop, stay back,’ hissed the startled young man as he cocked the revolver.
‘Do as he says, Olivier,’ Emma was worried the inexperienced boy would simply gun down Walsh in his panic, ‘he is with us.’
But Olivier did not lower his gun. Instead his confused eyes darted between them; from Harry to Emma, then the prone and lifeles
s body of the man he was escorting, now back to Emma once more, as if seeking guidance from her that he was still too scared to accept. Walsh waited till the boy’s eyes were on Emma’s then he took a half pace forward and in a blur of movement snaked out his left hand, rotating the palm so that it reached the boy’s revolver on the inside of the barrel. In one fluid movement, he pushed it outward and away, levering it from the young man’s grasp. Walsh brought his right hand up smartly, in time to receive the handle of the gun as it spun from Olivier’s hand. Emma marvelled at the speed of movement and the boy found himself staring down the barrel of his own gun. He let out a startled whimper, assuming the next breath would be his last.
‘I’m not going to shoot you, boy, but I will leave you here if you don’t follow me now.’
Olivier felt like a foolish child. He started to edge back down the path.
‘Olivier, no, come with us,’ said Emma, ‘it’s the only way,’ but Olivier would not listen. He turned and ran.
‘Don’t go back that way. They’ll find you,’ but Walsh was talking to himself for Olivier had fled.
Walsh took Emma by the arm. ‘This way,’ he said.
But Emma did not move. She stood rooted to the spot, staring at the lifeless body of the impostor lying in the mud.
‘Let’s not make it easy for them,’ and he steered her towards a gap in the trees.
2
‘The agents should die, certainly, but not before torture, indignity and interrogation has drained from them the last shred of evidence that should lead us to others. Then and only then, should the blessed release of death be granted to them.’
SS Reichsfűhrer Heinrich Himmler on the treatment of captured SOE agents.
Galland relished the rare tranquillity of a night sky free from enemies. He had forgotten how calming it could be to fly a plane back to base without having to constantly alter its course or keep a ready eye out for Allied fighters.
Ungentlemanly Warfare Page 1