Eagle Has Landed Read online

  Wilde opened his mouth as if to speak and obviously thought better of it. He went into the back and returned with a bottle of White Horse and a small glass. He poured out a single measure and placed the glass on the shelf next to Devlin’s head.

  Devlin produced a handful of change. ‘One shilling and sixpence,’ he said cheerfully, counting it out on the nearest table. ‘The going price for a nip. I’m taking it for granted, of course, that such a fine, upstanding pillar of the church as yourself wouldn’t be dealing in black market booze.’

  Wilde made no reply. The whole room waited. Devlin picked up the glass, held it to the light, then emptied it in a golden stream to the floor. He put the glass down carefully on the table. ‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed that.’

  Laker Armsby broke into a wild cackle of laughter, Devlin grinned. ‘Thank you, Laker, my old son. I love you too,’ he said and walked out.

  It was raining hard at Landsvoort as Steiner drove across the airstrip in his field car. He braked to a halt outside the first hangar and ran for its shelter. The starboard engine of the Dakota was laid bare and Peter Gericke, in a pair of old overalls, grease up to his elbows, worked with a Luftwaffe sergeant and three mechanics.

  ‘Peter?’ Steiner called. ‘Have you got a moment? I’d like a progress report.’

  ‘Oh, things are going well enough.’

  ‘No problems with the engines?’

  ‘None at all. They’re nine-hundred horsepower Wright Cyclones. Really first class and as far as I can judge, they’ve done very little time. We’re only stripping as a precaution.’

  ‘Do you usually work on your own engines?’

  ‘Whenever I’m allowed.’ Gericke smiled. ‘When I flew these things in South America you had to service your own engines, because there was nobody else who could.’

  ‘No problems?’

  ‘Not as far as I can see. She’s scheduled to have her new paint job some time next week. No rush on that and Bohmler’s fitting a Lichtenstein set so we’ll have good radar coverage. A milk run. An hour across the North Sea, an hour back. Nothing to it.’

  ‘In an aircraft whose maximum speed is half that of most RAF or Luftwaffe fighters.’

  Gericke shrugged. ‘It’s all in how you fly them, not in how fast they go.’

  ‘You want a test flight, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Steiner said. ‘It might be a good idea to combine it with a practice drop. Preferably one night when the tide is well out. We could use the beach north of the sand pier. It will give the lads a chance to try out these British parachutes.’

  ‘What altitude are you thinking of?’

  ‘Probably four hundred feet. I want them down fast and from that height fifteen seconds is all it takes.’

  ‘Rather them than me. I’ve only had to hit the silk three times in my career and it was a lot higher than that.’ The wind howled across the airstrip, driving rain before it, and he shivered. ‘What a bloody awful place.’

  ‘It serves its purpose.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  Steiner grinned. ‘You ask me that at least five times a day. Don’t you ever give up?’

  ‘I’d like to know what it’s all about, that’s all.’

  ‘Maybe you will, one day, that’s up to Radl, but for the moment we’re here because we’re here.’

  ‘And Preston?’ Gericke said. ‘I wonder what his reason is? What makes a man do what he’s done.’

  ‘All sorts of things,’ Steiner said. ‘In his case, he’s got a pretty uniform, officer status. He’s somebody for the first time in his life, that means a lot when you’ve been nothing. As regards the rest—well, he’s here as the result of a direct order from Himmler himself.’

  ‘What about you?’ Gericke asked. ‘The greater good of the Third Reich? A life for the Führer?’

  Steiner smiled. ‘God knows. War is only a matter of perspective. After all, if it had been my father who was American and my mother German, I’d have been on the other side. As for the Parachute Regiment—I joined that because it seemed like a good idea at the time. After a while, of course, it grows on you.’

  ‘I do it because I’d rather fly anything than nothing,’ Gericke said, ‘and I suppose it’s much the same for most of those RAF lads on the other side of the North Sea. But you …’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t really see it. Is it a game to you, then, just that and nothing more?’

  Steiner said wearily. ‘I used to know, now I’m not so sure. My father was a soldier of the old school. Prussian blue. Plenty of blood and iron, but honour, too.’

  ‘And this task they’ve given you to do,’ Gericke said, ‘this—this English business, whatever it is. You have no doubts?’

  ‘None at all. A perfectly proper military venture, believe me. Churchill himself couldn’t fault it, in principle, at least.’ Gericke tried to smile and failed and Steiner put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know, there are days when I could weep myself—for all of us,’ and he turned and walked away through the rain.

  In the Reichsführer’s private office, Radl stood in front of the great man’s desk while Himmler read through his report. ‘Excellent, Herr Oberst,’ he said finally. ‘Really quite excellent’ He laid the report down. ‘Everything would appear to be progressing more than satisfactorily. You have heard from the Irishman?’

  ‘No, only from Mrs Grey, that is the arrangement. Devlin has an excellent radio-telephone set. Something which we picked up from the British SOE, which will keep him in touch with the E-boat on its way in. That is the part of the operation he will handle as regards communication.’

  ‘The Admiral has not become suspicious in any way? Has picked up no hint of what is happening? You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Perfectly, Herr Reichsführer. My visits to France and Holland, I’ve been able to handle in conjunction with Abwehr business in Paris and Antwerp or Rotterdam. As the Reichsführer is aware, I have always had considerable latitude from the Admiral as regards running my own section.’

  ‘And when do you go to Landsvoort again?’

  ‘Next weekend. By a fortunate turn of events, the Admiral goes to Italy on the first or second of November. This means I can afford to stay at Landsvoort myself during the final crucial days and indeed, for the period of the operation itself.’

  ‘No coincidence, the Admiral’s visit to Italy, I can assure you.’ Himmler smiled thinly. ‘I suggested it to the Führer at exactly the right moment. Within five minutes he’d quite decided he’d thought of it himself.’ He picked up his pen. ‘So, it progresses, Radl. Two weeks from today and it will all be over. Keep me informed.’

  He bent over his work and Radl licked dry lips and yet it had to be said. ‘Herr Reichsführer.’

  Himmler sighed heavily. ‘I’m really very busy, Radl. What is it now?’

  ‘General Steiner, Herr Reichsführer. He is—he is well?’

  ‘Of course,’ Himmler said calmly. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Colonel Steiner,’ Radl explained, his stomach churning. ‘He is naturally extremely anxious …’

  ‘There is no need to be,’ Himmler said gravely. ‘I gave you my personal assurance, is that not so?’

  ‘Of course.’ Radl backed to the door. ‘Thank you again,’ and he turned and got out as fast as he could.

  Himmler shook his head, sighed in a kind of exasperation and returned to his writing.

  When Devlin went into the church, Mass was almost over. He slipped down the right-hand aisle and eased into a pew. Molly was on her knees beside her mother dressed exactly as she had been on the previous Sunday. Her dress showed no evidence of the rough treatment it had received from Arthur Seymour. He was present also, in the same position he usually occupied and he saw Devlin instantly. He showed no emotion at all, but simply got to his feet and slipped down the aisle in the shadows and went out.

  Devlin waited, watching Molly at prayer, all innocence kneeling there in the c
andlelight. After a while, she opened her eyes and turned very slowly as if physically aware of his presence. Her eyes widened, she looked at him for a long moment, then turned away again.

  Devlin left just before the end of the service and went out quickly. By the time the first of the congregation exited, he was already at his motorcycle. It was raining slightly and he turned up the collar of his trenchcoat and sat astride the bike and waited. When Molly finally came down the path with her mother she ignored him completely. They got into the trap, her mother took the reins and they drove away.

  ‘Ah, well, now,’ Devlin told himself softly. ‘And who would blame her?’

  He kicked the engine into life, heard his name called and found Joanna Grey bearing down on him. She said in a low voice, ‘I had Philip Vereker at me for two hours this afternoon. He wanted to complain to Sir Henry about you.’

  ‘I don’t blame him.’

  She said, ‘Can’t you ever be serious for more than five minutes at any one time?’

  ‘Too much of a strain,’ he said and she was prevented from continuing the conversation by the arrival of the Willoughbys.

  Sir Henry was in uniform. ‘Now then, Devlin, how’s it working out?’

  ‘Fine, sir,’ Devlin rolled out the Irish. ‘I can’t thank you enough for this wonderful opportunity to make good.’

  He was aware of Joanna Grey standing back, tight-lipped, but Sir Henry liked it well enough. ‘Good show, Devlin. Getting excellent reports on you. Excellent. Keep up the good work.’

  He turned to speak to Joanna Grey and Devlin, seizing his opportunity, rode away.

  It was raining very heavily by the time he reached the cottage, so he put the motorcycle in the first barn, changed into waders and an oilskin coat, got his shotgun and started out into the marsh. The dyke gates needed checking in such heavy rain and trudging round in such conditions was a nice negative sort of occupation to take his mind off things.

  It didn’t work. He couldn’t get Molly Prior out of his thoughts. The image recurred constantly of her dropping to her knees in prayer the previous Sunday in a kind of slow motion, the skirt sliding up her thighs. Would not go away.

  ‘Holy Mary and all the Saints,’ he said softly. ‘If this is what love is really like, Liam my boy, you’ve taken one hell of a long time finding out about it.’

  As he came back along the main dyke towards the cottage he smelt woodsmoke heavy on the damp air. There was a light at the window in the evening gloom, the tiniest chink where the blackout curtains had failed to come together. When he opened the door he could smell cooking. He put the shotgun in the corner, hung the oilskin coat up to dry and went into the living room.

  She was on one knee at the fire, putting on another log. She turned to look over her shoulder gravely. ‘You’ll be wet through.’

  ‘Half an hour in front of that fire and a couple of whiskies inside me and I’ll be fine.’

  She went to the cupboard, got the bottle of Bushmills and a glass.

  ‘Don’t pour it on the floor,’ she said. ‘Try drinking it this time.’

  ‘So you know about that?’

  ‘Not much you don’t hear in a place like this. Irish stew on the go. That all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Half an hour, I’d say.’ She crossed to the sink and reached for a glass dish. ‘What went wrong, Liam? Why did you keep out of the way?’

  He sat down in the old wing-back chair, legs wide to the fire, steam rising from his trousers. ‘I thought it best at first.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had my reasons.’

  ‘And what went wrong today?’

  ‘Sunday, bloody Sunday. You know how it is.’

  ‘Damn your eyes.’ She crossed the room, drying her hands on her apron and looked down at the steam rising from Devlin’s trousers.

  ‘You’ll catch your death if you don’t change those. Rheumatism at least.’

  ‘Not worth it,’ he said. ‘I’ll go to bed soon. I’m tired.’

  She reached out hesitantly and touched his hair. He seized her hand and kissed it. ‘I love you, you know that?’

  It was as if a lamp had been switched on inside her. She glowed, seemed to expand and take on an entirely new dimension. ‘Well, thank God for that. At least it means I can go to bed now with a clear conscience.’

  ‘I’m bad for you, girl dear, there’s nothing in it. No future, I warn you. There should be a notice above that bedroom door. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.’

  ‘We’ll see about that’ she said. ‘I’ll get your stew,’ and she moved across to the stove.

  Later, lying in the old brass bed, an arm about her, watching the shadow patterns on the ceiling from the fire, he felt more content, more at peace with himself than he had done for years.

  There was a radio on a small table at her side of the bed. She switched it on, then turned her stomach against his thigh and sighed, eyes closed. ‘Oh, that was lovely. Can we do it again some time?’

  ‘Would you give a fella time to catch his breath?’

  She smiled and ran a hand across his belly. ‘The poor old man. Just listen to him.’

  A record was playing on the radio.

  When that man is dead and gone …

  Some fine day the news will flash,

  Satan with a small moustache

  Is asleep beneath the tomb.

  ‘I’ll be glad when that happens,’ she said drowsily.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Satan with a small moustache asleep beneath the tomb. Hitler. I mean, it’ll all be over then, won’t it?’ She snuggled closer. ‘What’s going to happen to us, Liam? When the war’s over?’

  ‘God knows.’

  He lay there staring at the fire. After a while her breathing steadied and she was asleep. After the war was over. Which war? He’d been on the barricades one way or another for twelve years now. How could he tell her that? It was a nice little farm, too, and they needed a man. God, the pity of it. He held her close and the wind moaned about the old house, rattling the windows.

  And in Berlin, at Prinz Albrechtstrasse, Himmler still sat at his desk, methodically working his way through dozens of reports and sheets of statistics, mainly those relating to the extermination squads who, in the occupied lands of Eastern Europe and Russia, liquidated Jews, gypsies, the mentally and physically handicapped and any others who did not fit into the Reichsführer’s plan for a Greater Europe.

  There was a polite knock at the door and Karl Rossman entered. Himmler looked up. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Herr Reichsführer, he won’t budge and we really have tried just about everything. I’m beginning to think he might be innocent after all.’

  ‘Not possible.’ Himmler produced a sheet of paper. ‘I received this document earlier this evening. A signed confession from an artillery sergeant who was his batman for two years and who during that time engaged in work prejudicial to State Security on Major-General Karl Steiner’s direct order.’

  ‘So what now, Herr Reichsführer?’

  ‘I’d still prefer a signed confession from General Steiner himself. It makes everything that much tighter.’ Himmler frowned slightly. ‘Let’s try a little more psychology. Clean him up, get an SS doctor to him, plenty of food. You know the drill. The whole thing has been a shocking mistake on somebody’s part. Sorry you have still to detain him, but one or two points still remain to be cleared up.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘When he’s had say ten days of that, go to work on him again. Right out of the blue. No warning. The shock might do it.’

  ‘I’ll do as you suggest, Herr Reichsführer,’ Rossman said.

  Eleven

  AT FOUR O’CLOCK ON the afternoon of Thursday, the twenty-eighth October, Joanna Grey drove into the yard of the cottage at Hobs End and found Devlin in the barn working on the motorcycle.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all week,’ she said. ‘Where have you been?�
�

  ‘Around,’ he told her cheerfully, wiping grease from his hands on an old rag. ‘Out and about. I told you there was nothing for me to do till my meeting with Garvald so I’ve been having a look at the countryside.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ she said grimly. ‘Riding around on that motorcycle with Molly Prior on the pillion. You were seen in Holt at a dance on Tuesday night.’

  ‘A very worthy cause,’ he said. ‘Wings for Victory. Actually your friend Vereker turned up and made an impassioned speech about how God would help us crush the bloody Hun. I found that ironic in view of the fact that everywhere I went in Germany I used to see signs saying God with us.’

  ‘I told you to leave her alone.’

  ‘I tried that, it didn’t work. Anyway, what did you want? I’m busy. I’m having a certain amount of magneto trouble and I want this thing to be in perfect working order for my run to Peterborough tonight.’

  ‘Troops have moved into Meltham House,’ she said. ‘They arrived on Tuesday night.’

  He frowned. ‘Meltham House—isn’t that the place where Special Force outfits train?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s about eight miles up the coast road from Studley Constable.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘American Rangers.’

  ‘I see. Should it make any difference, their being here?’

  ‘Not really. They usually stay up at that end, the units who use the facilities. There’s a heavily wooded area, a salt marsh and a good beach. It’s a factor to be considered, that’s all.’

  Devlin nodded. ‘Fair enough. Let Radl know about it in your next broadcast and there’s your duty done. And now, I must get on.’

  She turned to go to the car and hesitated. ‘I don’t like the sound of this man Garvald.’

  ‘Neither do I, but don’t worry, my love. If he’s going to turn nasty, it won’t be tonight. It will be tomorrow.’

  She got to the car and drove away and he returned to his work on the motorcycle. Twenty minutes later Molly rode up out of the marsh, a basket hanging from her saddle. She slipped to the ground and tied the horse to a hitching ring in the wall above the trough. ‘I’ve brought you a shepherd’s pie.’