Night Of The Fox Read online

  "Offended? I think he's marvelous," Rommel said and jumped to his feet. "Bravo!" he called and started to clap and behind him, the entire audience joined in with the chorus of the Afrika Korps song, cheering wildly.

  In the makeshift dressing room next to the kitchen, Erich Berger slumped into a chair and stared at himself in the mirror. His heart was beating and he was sweating. A hell of a thing for any actor to perform in front of the man he was taking off, and such a man. A name to conjure with. The most popular soldier in Germany.

  "Not bad, Heini," he said softly. "Mazel tov." He took a bottle of schnapps from the drawer, drew the cork and swallowed some.

  A Yiddish phrase on the lips of a corporal in a German Fallschirmjager regiment might have seemed strange to anyone who had overheard. His secret was that he wasn't Erich Berger at all, but Heini Baum, Jewish actor and cabaret performer from Berlin and proud of it.

  His story was surprisingly simple. He had performed with success in cabaret all over Europe. He had never married. To be frank, his inclinations ran more toward men than women. He had persisted in living in Berlin, even as the Nazis came to power, because his aging parents had always lived there and would not believe that anything terrible could ever happen. Which it did, of course, though not for a long time. As an entertainer, Baum was of use to the Reich. He still had to wear his Star of David on his coat, but a series of special permits kept him afloat and his parents with him, while all around them their friends were taken away.

  And then there was the fateful night in 1940 when he had arrived at the end of his street, coming home from cabaret, in time to see the Gestapo taking his mother and father from their house. He had turned and run, like the coward he was, pausing only in a side street to tear the Star of David from his coat. He was forty-four years of age and looked ten years younger on a good day. Nowhere to go, for his papers told the world he was a Jew.

  So, he'd caught a train to Kiel with the wild idea that he might be able to get a ship from there to somewhere— anywhere. He'd arrived just after one of the first of the devastating RAF raids on that city, had stumbled through the chaos and flames of the city center, searching for shelter as the RAF came back for a second go. Lurching down into a cellar, he'd found a man and a woman and a twelve-year-old girl dead, all from the same family he learned when he examined their identity cards. Erich Berger, his wife and daughter. And one thing more. In Berger's pocket were his call-up papers, ordering him to report the following week.

  What better hiding place could a Jew who was afraid to be a Jew find? Sure, he was ten years older than Berger, but it wouldn't show. To change the photos on the two identity cards was simple enough so that the body he dragged out to leave in the rubble of the street to be found later was that of Heini Baum, Jew of Berlin. It had been necessary to obliterate most of the dead man's face with a brick, just to help things along, but after what he'd been through that part was easy.

  How ironic that it was the paratroops he'd been inducted into. He'd been everywhere. Crete, Stalingrad, North Africa, a nice flashy hero in his Luftwaffe blouse and baggy paratroopers' pants and jump boots, with the Iron Cross Second and First Class to prove it. He took another pull at the schnapps bottle, and behind him the door opened and Rommel, Colonel Haider and Hofer entered.

  It was midnight and Hugh Kelso had never been happier, up at Cape Cod at the summer bungalow, sitting on the veranda in the swing seat, reading a book, a cool glass to his hand and Jane, his wife, was calling, on her way up from the beach, her face shaded by a sun hat, the good legs tanned under the old cotton dress, and the girls in swimming suits and carrying buckets and spades, voices faint on the warm afternoon air. Everyone so happy. So very happy. He didn't feel cold anymore, didn't really feel anything. He reached out to take Jane's hand as she came up the steps to the veranda and the voices faded and he came awake, shaking all over.

  It was pitch dark and the sea wasn't as rough, and yet he seemed to be moving very fast. He pulled down the zip on the flap with stiff fingers and peered out. Only a slight phosphorescence as the water turned over and a vast darkness. His eyes were weary, sore from the salt water. For a wild moment he thought he saw a light out there. He shook his head, closed then opened his eyes again. A mistake, of course. Only the never-ending night. He zipped up the flap, lay back and closed his eyes, trying to think of Jane and his two daughters. Perhaps they would come back again?

  Although he didn't know it, he had already drifted something like seventy miles since leaving Lyme Bay on the Devon coast and his eyes had not deceived him. What he had just seen through the darkness was a momentary flash of light as a sentry at the German guard post on Pleinmont Point on the southwest corner of the island of Guernsey had opened a door to go out on duty. To the southeast, perhaps thirty miles away, was Jersey, the largest of the Channel Islands. It was in this general direction that the freshening wind bore him as he slept on.

  Rommel leaned on the mantelpiece and stirred the fire with his boot. "So, the others would like me to talk with von Stulpnagel and Falkenhausen?"

  "Yes, Herr Field Marshal," Hofer said. "But as you point out, one must take things very carefully at the moment. For such a meeting, secrecy would be essential."

  "And opportunity," Rommel said. "Secrecy and opportunity." The clock on the mantelpiece chimed twice and he laughed. "Two o'clock in the morning. The best time for crazy ideas."

  "What are you suggesting, Herr Field Marshal?"

  "Quite simple, really. What is it now, Saturday? What if we arranged a meeting next week at some agreed rendezvous with von Stulpnagel and Falkenhausen while I was actually supposed to be somewhere else? Jersey, for example?"

  "The Channel Islands?" Hofer looked bewildered.

  "The Führer himself suggested not two months ago that I inspect the fortifications there. You know my feelings about the military importance of the islands. The Allies will never attempt a landing. It would cause too many civilian casualties. British civilian casualties, I might add."

  "And yet they tie up the 319 Infantry Division," Hofer said. "Six thousand troops in Jersey alone. Ten thousand service personnel in all, if you include Luftwaffe and Navy people."

  "And yet we've poured so much into them, Konrad, because the Führer wants to hang onto the only piece of British territory we've ever occupied. The strongest fortifications in the world. The same number of strongpoints and batteries as we have to defend the entire European coast from Dieppe to St. Nazaire." He turned and smiled. "The Führer is right. As commander of the Atlantic Wall, I should certainly inspect such an important part of it."

  Hofer nodded. "I see that, Herr Field Marshal, but what I don't see is how you can be in two places at once. Meeting with Falkenhausen and Stulpnagel in France and inspecting fortifications in Jersey."

  "But you saw me in two places earlier this evening," Rommel said calmly, "both in the audience and on stage at the same time."

  The room was so quiet that Hofer could hear the clock ticking. "My God," he whispered. "Are you serious?"

  "Why not? Friend Berger even fooled me when he came on stage. The voice, the appearance."

  "But would he be intelligent enough to carry it off? There are so many things he wouldn't know how to handle. I mean, being a Field Marshal is rather different from being an orderly room clerk," Hofer said.

  "He seems intelligent enough to me," Rommel told him. "He's obviously talented and a brave soldier to boot. Iron Cross First and Second Class. And you mustn't forget one important thing."

  "What's that, Herr Field Marshal?"

  "He'd have you at his shoulder every step of the way to keep him straight." Suddenly Rommel sounded impatient. "Where's your enthusiasm, Konrad? If you're that worried, I'll give you a few days to prepare him. Let's see, it's Saturday now. How about descending on Jersey next Friday. I'm only thinking of thirty-six hours or so. Back in France on Saturday night or Sunday at the latest. If Berger can't carry it off for that length of time, I'll eat my hat."
r />   "Very well, Herr Field Marshal. I'll notify the Channel Islands that you'll be arriving next Friday."

  "No, you won't," Rommel said. "We box more cleverly than that. Who's the commander-in-chief?"

  "Major General Count von Schmettow. His headquarters are in Guernsey."

  "I've met him," Rommel said. "Good officer."

  "With a reputation for being pro-English, which didn't do him any good in some quarters," Hofer said.

  "On the other hand, the fact that he's Field Marshal von Rundstedt's nephew certainly helped there. Who's military commander in Jersey?"

  "I'll check." Hofer took a file from his briefcase and worked his way down a unit situation list. "Yes, here we are. Colonel Heine is military commander."

  "And civil administration?"

  "The important people there are Colonel Baron von Aufsess and Captain Heider."

  "And the inhabitants themselves? Who are their representatives?"

  "There's an organization called the Superior Council of the States of Jersey. The president is the bailiff of the island. A man called Alexander Coutanche."

  "Good," said Rommel. "This is what we do. Send General von Schmettow a signal ordering him to hold a coordinating meeting in Guernsey to consider the implications for the islands of the invasion of France threatened this summer."

  "And you want them all there?"

  "Oh, yes. Military commander Jersey, the civil affairs people, the bailiff and his lot, and whoever's in charge of the Navy and Luftwaffe contingents in the islands."

  "Which will leave only junior officers in command."

  "Exactly."

  "There's not too much flying in and out of the Channel Islands these days. The RAF are far too active in that area. It's usual to travel between the islands by sea and at night."

  "I know," Rommel said. "I've taken advice on that point from Naval Headquarters in Cherbourg. Tell von Schmettow to call his meeting for next Saturday. In the circumstances they must travel either Thursday night or in the early hours of Friday to make sure they get there. I'll fly in on Friday morning in the Storch."

  "A risky flight, Herr Field Marshal."

  "For you, Konrad, and Berger, of course, not for me." Rommel smiled with a kind of ruthless charm. "The first thing they'll know about my arrival is when you ask the tower for permission to land at the airfield."

  "And what will von Schmettow think?"

  "That the whole thing has been a deliberate ploy so that I can make a snap inspection of the military situation in the island and its defenses."

  "That's really rather clever," Hofer said.

  "Yes, I think it is." Rommel started to unbutton his tunic. "In the meantime, I'll meet with Falkenhausen and Stulpnagel at some quiet spot and get on with it." He yawned. "I think I'll go to bed. See that signal goes to von Schmettow in Guernsey tomorrow. Oh, and speak to Colonel Haider first thing in the morning. Tell him I'm much taken with Corporal Berger and want to borrow him for a while. I don't think he'll make any difficulties."

  "I doubt it, Herr Field Marshal," Hofer said. "Sleep well," and he went out.

  Dougal Munro slept on a small military bed in the corner of his office at Baker Street

  that night. It was about three o'clock in the morning when Jack Carter shook him gently awake. Munro opened his eyes instantly and sat up. "What is it?"

  "Latest lists from Slapton, sir. You asked to see them. Still over a hundred bodies missing."

  "And no sign of Kelso?"

  "I'm afraid not. General Montgomery isn't too happy, but he has had an assurance from the Navy that the E-boats couldn't have picked survivors up. They were too far away."

  "The trouble with life, Jack, is that the moment someone tells you something is impossible, someone else promptly proves that it isn't. What time is first light?"

  "Just before six. That should make a big difference to the final search."

  "Order a car for eight o'clock. We'll take a run down to Slapton and see for ourselves."

  "Very well, sir. Are you going back to sleep?"

  "No, I don't think so." Munro stood up and stretched. "Think I'll catch up on some paperwork. No peace for the wicked in this life, Jack."

  At six o'clock on that same morning, Kelso came awake from a strange dream in which some primeval creature was calling to him from a great distance. He was very, very cold, feet and hands numb, and yet his face burned and there was sweat on his forehead.

  He unzipped the flap and peered out into the gray light of dawn, not that there was anything much to see for he was shrouded in a sea fog of considerable density. Somewhere in the distance, the beast called again, only now he recognized it for what it was—a foghorn. Although he didn't know it, it was the Corbiere Light on the tip of the southernmost coast of Jersey, already behind him as the current swept him along. He sensed land, could almost smell it and, for a little while, came back to life again.

  He could hear waves breaking on an unseen shore, and then the wind tore a hole in the curtain and he glimpsed cliffs, concrete gun emplacements on top. The place, although it meant nothing to Kelso, was Noirmont Point, and as the sea fog dropped back into place, the current carried him into St. Aubin's Bay, close inshore.

  There were waves taking him in, strange, twisting currents carrying him round. At one side, a wave broke sending spray high in the air, and all around him was white foam, rocks showing through. And then there was a voice, high and clear, and the fog rolled away to reveal a small beach, rocks climbing steeply to a pine wood above. There was someone there, a man running along the shore, in woolen cap, heavy reefer coat and rubber boots.

  The life raft slewed broadside in the surf, lifted high and smashed against rocks, pitching Kelso headfirst through the flap into the water. He tried to stand up, his scream as his right leg collapsed under him drowned by the roaring of the surf, and then the man was knee-deep in water, holding him. It was only then that he realized it was a woman.

  "All right, I've got you. Just hang on."

  "Leg," he mumbled. "Leg broken."

  He wasn't sure what happened after that, and he came to in the shelter of some rocks. The woman was dragging the landing craft out of the water. When he tried to sit up, she turned and came toward him. Kelso said as she knelt down, "Where am I, France?"

  "No," she said. "Jersey."

  He closed his eyes for a moment and shivered. "You're British, then?"

  "I should hope so. The last I heard of my husband, he was a major in the Tanks Corps serving in the Western Desert. My name's Helen de Ville."

  "Colonel Hugh Kelso."

  "American Air Force, I suppose? Where did your plane come down?"

  "It didn't. I'm an army officer."

  "An army officer? But that doesn't make sense. Where on earth have you come from?"

  "England. I'm a survivor of a ship that was torpedoed in Lyme Bay." He groaned suddenly as pain knifed through his leg and almost lost his senses.

  She opened his torn trouser leg and frowned. "That's terrible. You'll have to go to hospital."

  "Will that mean Germans?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  He clutched at the front of her reefer coat. "No—no Germans."

  She eased him back down. "Just lie still. I'm going to leave you for a little while. I'm going to need a cart."

  "Okay," he said. "But no Germans, They mustn't get their hands on me. You must promise. If you can't do that, then you must kill me. See, there's a Browning pistol here."

  He plucked at it and she leaned over him, face set, and took the pistol from its holster on his left thigh. "You're not going to die and the Jerries aren't going to have you either—that's the only promise I'm prepared to give. Now wait for me."

  She slipped the pistol into her pocket, turned and hurried away. He lay there on that fog-shrouded shore, trying to get his bearings, and then the leg started to hurt again and he remembered the morphine in the emergency kit. He began to crawl toward the life raft. That, of course, was very defi
nitely the final straw, and he plunged into darkness.

  FOUR

  HELEN DE VILLE LEFT THE cart track which was the usual way down to the beach and took a shortcut, scrambling up the steep hillside through the pine trees. She was strong and wiry, not surprising after four years of enemy occupation and the food restrictions that had caused her to lose nearly thirty pounds in weight. She often joked that it had given her back the figure she'd enjoyed at eighteen, an unlooked-for bonus at forty-two. And like most people, the lack of a car and a public transport system meant she was used to walking many miles each week.

  She stood at the edge of the trees and looked across at the house. De Ville Place

  was not one of the largest manors on the island. It had been once in days of family glory, but a disastrous fire at the end of the nineteenth century had destroyed one entire wing. It was very old, constructed of Jersey granite weathered by the years. There were rows of French windows at the front on either side of the entrance, a granite wall dividing the house from a courtyard at one side.

  She paused, taking her time, for there was an old Morris sedan parked in the courtyard, one of those requisitioned by the enemy. For two years now she'd had German naval officers billeted on her. They came and went, of course, sometimes staying only a night or two when E-boats of the 5th Schnellboote Flotilla came over from Guernsey.

  Mostly they were regulars, young officers serving with various naval units based in Jersey. The war took its toll. There were often engagements with British MTBs in the area of the Channel Islands, and the RAF frequently attacked convoys to Granville, St. Malo and Cherbourg, even when they made a night run. Men died, but some survived. As she started across the lawn, the door opened and one of them came out.

  He wore a white sweater, old reefer coat and seaboots and carried a duffel bag in one hand. The face beneath the salt-stained naval cap was good-humored and recklessly handsome. A bravo, this one, straight out of the sixteenth century, who wore a white top to his cap, usually an affectation of German U-boat commanders, but then Lieutenant Guido Orsini was a law unto himself, an Italian on secondment to the German Navy, trapped in the wrong place at entirely the wrong time when the Italian government had capitulated. Helen de Ville had long since given up pretending that she felt anything but considerable affection for him.