Night Of The Fox Page 8

  "Who are you?" he cried wildly. The other man pushed up his goggles and Kaufmann stared into the darkest, coldest eyes he had ever seen in his life.

  "My name is Martineau. I'm a major in the British Army serving with SOE."

  "So, you are Martineau." Kaufmann grimaced with pain. "Your German is excellent. Quite perfect."

  "So it should be. My mother was German," Martineau told him.

  Kaufmann said, "I'd hoped to meet you before long, but under different circumstances."

  "I'm sure you did. I've wanted to meet you for quite some time. Since nineteen thirty-eight, in fact. You were a captain at Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin in May of that year. You arrested a young woman called Rosa Bernstein. You probably don't even remember the name."

  "But I recall her very well," Kaufmann told him. "She was Jewish and worked for the Socialist Underground."

  "I was told that by the time you'd finished with her she couldn't even walk to the firing squad."

  "That's not true. The firing squad never came into it. She was hanged in cellar number three. Standard procedure. What was she to you?"

  "I loved her."Martineau raised his pistol.

  Kaufmann cried, "Don't be a fool. We can do a deal. I can save your life, Martineau, believe me."

  "Is that so?" Harry Martineau said, and shot him between the eyes, killing him instantly.

  He pushed the heavy motorcycle off its stand and rode away. He was perfectly in control in spite of what he had just done. No emotion—nothing. The trouble was, it hadn't brought Rosa Bernstein back, but then, nothing ever could.

  He rode through a maze of country lanes for over an hour, working his way steadily westward. Finally, he turned along a narrow country lane, grass growing so tall on either side that it almost touched. The farmhouse in the courtyard at the end of the lane had seen better days, a window broken here and there, a few slates missing. Martineau got off the bike, pushed it up on the stand and crossed to the front door.

  "Heh, Pierre, open up!" He tried the latch and hammered with his fist and then the door opened so suddenly that he fell on his knees.

  The muzzle of a Walther touched him between the eyes. The man holding it was about forty and dressed like a French farm laborer in beret, corduroy jacket and denim trousers, but his German was impeccable. "Please stand, Major Martineau, and walk inside very slowly."

  He followed Martineau along the corridor into the kitchen. Pierre Duval sat at the table, tied to a chair, a handkerchief in his mouth, eyes wild, blood on his face.

  "Hands on the wall and spread," the German said, and ran his hands expertly over Martineau, relieving him of the Schmeisser and the Mauser.

  He moved to the old-fashioned telephone on the wall and gave the operator a number. After a while he said, "Schmidt? He turned up. Yes, Martineau." He nodded. "All right,fifteen minutes."

  "Friend of yours?" Martineau inquired.

  "Not really. I'm Abwehr. Kramer's the name. That was the Gestapo. I don't like those swine any more than you do, but we all have a job to do. Take your helmet and raincoat off. Make yourself comfortable."

  Martineau did as he was told. Evening was falling fast outside, the room was getting quite dark. He put the helmet and coat down and stood there in the SS uniform, aware of Pierre on the other side of the table, eyes glaring wildly, leaning back in his chair, his feet coming up.

  "What about a drink?"Martineau asked.

  "My God, they told me you were a cool one," Kramer said admiringly.

  Pierre lunged with his feet at the edge of the table ramming it into the German's back. Martineau's left hand deflected the pistol and he closed, raising his knee. But Kramer turned a thigh, raising stiffened fingers under Martineau's chin, jerking back his head. Martineau hooked Kramer's left leg, sending the German crashing to the ground, going down with him, reaching for the wrist of the hand that held the pistol, smashing his fist into the side of Kramer's neck, aware of the pistol exploding between them.

  There was the distinct sound of bone cracking and the German lay still, alive, but moaning softly. Martineau got to his feet feeling suddenly weak and faint, opened the table drawer, spilling its contents on the floor and picked up a breadknife. He moved behind Pierre and sliced the ropes that bound him to the chair. The old Frenchman jumped up, pulling the gag from his mouth.

  "My God, Harry, I've never seen so much blood."

  Martineau glanced down. The front of the SS blouse was soaked in blood. His own blood and there were three bullet holes that he could see, one of them smoldering slightly from powder burns.

  He slumped into the chair. "Never mind that."

  "Did you get him, Harry? Did you get Kaufmann?"

  "I got him, Pierre," Martineau said wearily. "When's the pickup?"

  "The old aero club at Fleurie at seven, just before dark."

  Martineau looked at his watch. "That only gives me half an hour. You'll have to come too. Nowhere else for you to go now."

  He got to his feet and started for the door, swaying a little, and the Frenchman put an arm around him. "You'll never make it, Harry."

  "I'd better because about five minutes from now the Gestapo are going to be coming up that road,"Martineau told him and went outside.

  He got the bike off the stand and threw a leg across the saddle, then he kicked it into life, feeling curiously as if everything was happening in slow motion. Pierre climbed up behind and put his arms around him and they rode away, out of the yard and along the lane.

  As they turned into the road at the end, Martineau was aware of two dark sedans coming up fast on his left. One of them skidded to a halt, almost driving him into the ditch. He swung the motorcycle to the right, wheels spinning as he gunned the motor, was aware of shots, a sudden cry from Pierre, hands loosening their hold as the old Frenchman went backward over the rear wheel.

  Martineau roared down the road toward the canal at the far end, swerved onto the towpath, one of the Gestapo cars following close. Two hundred yards away there was a lock, a narrow footbridge for pedestrians crossing to the other side. He rode across with no difficulty. Behind him, the car braked to a halt. The two Gestapo operatives inside jumped out and began to fire wildly, but by then he was long gone.

  He could never remember clearly afterward any details of that cross-country ride to Fleurie. In the end, it was all something of an anticlimax anyway. The field had been headquarters of an aero club before the war. Now it lay derelict and forlorn and long disused.

  He was aware of the roaring of the Lysander's engine in the distance as he rode up to the airfield himself. He paused, waiting, and the Lysander came in out of the darkness for a perfect touchdown, turned and taxied toward him. He got off the bike, allowing it to fall to one side. He promptly fell down himself, got up again and lurched forward. The door swung open and the pilot leaned across and shouted, "I wasn't too sure when I saw the uniform."

  Martineau hauled himself inside. The pilot reached over and closed and locked the door. Martineau coughed suddenly, his mouth and chin red.

  The pilot said, "My God, you're choking on your own blood."

  "I've been doing that for at least four years now," Martineau said.

  The pilot had other things on his mind, several vehicles converging on the other end of the runway by the old buildings. Whoever they were, they were too late. The Bristol Perseus engine responded magnificently when fully boosted. The Westland Lysander was capable of taking off from rough ground, fully loaded, in two hundred and forty yards. At Fleurie, that night, they managed it in two hundred, clearing the cars at the end of the runway and climbing up into the gathering darkness.

  "Very nice,"Martineau said. "I liked that." And then he fainted.

  "So, he's in Dorset, is he?" Munro said. "Doing what?"

  "Not very much from what I can make out." Carter hesitated. "He did take two bullets in the left lung, sir, and…"

  "No sad songs, Jack, I've other things on my mind."

  "You've had a look a
t my ideas on a way of getting him into Jersey? What do you think?"

  "Excellent, sir. I would have thought it all pretty foolproof, at least for a few days."

  "And that's all we need. Now, what else have you got for me?"

  "As I understand it from your preliminary plan, sir, what you're seeking is someone to go in with him to establish his credentials. Someone who knows the island and the people and so on?"

  "That's right."

  "There's an obvious flaw, of course. How on earth would you explain their presence? You can't just pop up in the island after four years of occupation without some sort of an explanation."

  "Very true." Munro nodded. "However, I can tell by the throb in your voice that you've already come up with a solution, so let's get on with it, Jack. What have you got?"

  "Sarah Anne Drayton, sir, age nineteen. Born in Jersey. Left the island just before the war to go out to Malaya where her father was a rubber planter. He was a widower apparently. Sent her home a month before the fall of Singapore."

  "Which means she hasn't been back in Jersey since when?" Munro looked at the file. "Nineteen thirty-eight. Six years. That's a long time at that age, Jack. Girls change out of all recognition."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Mind you, she's young."

  "We've used them as young as this before, sir."

  "Yes, but rarely and only in extremes. Where did you find her?"

  "She was put forward for SOE consideration two years ago, mainly because she speaks fluent French with a Breton accent. Her maternal grandmother was Breton. Naturally, she was turned down because of her youth."

  "Where is she now?"

  "Probationer nurse here in London at Cromwell Hospital."

  "Excellent, Jack." Munro stood up and reached for his jacket. "We'll go and see her. I'm sure she'll prove to be intensely patriotic."

  That the Luftwaffe had been chased from British skies, the Blitz had long gone, was a tale for the front pages of newspapers only. In the spring of 1944 night attacks were renewed on London, using the JU88S with devastating results. That Sunday was no exception. By eight o'clock the casualty department at Cromwell Hospital was working flat out.

  Sarah Drayton had been supposed to come off shift at six. She had now been on duty for fourteen hours without a break, but there were simply not enough nurses or doctors available. She worked on, helping with casualties laid out in the corridors, trying to ignore the crump of bombs falling in the middle distance, the sound of fire engines.

  She was a small, intense girl, dark hair pushed up under her cap, her face very determined, the hazel eyes serious. Her gown was filthy, stained with blood, her stockings torn. She knelt to help the matron sedate a panic-stricken young girl who was bleeding badly from shrapnel wounds. They stood up to allow porters to carry the girl away on a stretcher.

  Sarah said, "I thought night raids were supposed to be a thing of the past."

  "Tell that to the casualties," the matron said. "Almost a thousand of them in March. Right, you clear off, Drayton. You'll be falling down soon from sheer fatigue. No arguments."

  She walked wearily along the corridor, aware that the sound of the bombing now seemed to have moved south of the river. Someone was sweeping up broken glass, and she stepped around them and moved to the reception desk to book out.

  The night clerk was talking to two men. She said, "Actually, this is Nurse Drayton coming now."

  Jack Carter said, "Miss Drayton, this is Brigadier Munro and I'm Captain Carter."

  "What can I do for you?" Her voice was rather low and very pleasant.

  Munro was much taken with her at once, and Carter said, "Do you recall an interview you had two years ago? An Intelligence matter?"

  "With SOE?" She looked surprised. "I was turned down."

  "Yes, well, if you could spare us some time we'd like a word with you." Carter drew her over to a bench beside the wall, and he and Munro sat on either side of her. "You were born in Jersey, Miss Drayton?"

  "That's right."

  He took out his notebook and opened it. "Your mother's name was Margaret de Ville. That has a particular interest for us. Do you by any chance know a Mrs. Helen de Ville?"

  "I do. My mother's cousin, although she was always Aunty Helen to me. She was so much older than I was."

  "And Sean Gallagher?"

  "The General? Since I was a child." She looked puzzled. "What's going on here?"

  "In good time, Miss Drayton," Munro told her. "When did you last see your aunt or General Gallagher?"

  "Nineteen thirty-eight. My mother died that year and my father took a job in Malaya. I went out to join him."

  "Yes, we know that," Carter said.

  She frowned at him for a moment, then turned on Munro. "All right, what's this about?"

  "It's quite simple really," Dougal Munro said. "I'd like to offer you a job with SOE. I'd like you to go to Jersey for me."

  She stared at him in astonishment, but only for a moment, and then she started to laugh helplessly and the sound of it was close to hysteria. It had, after all, been a long day.

  "But, Brigadier," she said. "I hardly know you."

  "Strange chap, Harry Martineau," Munro said. "I've never known anybody quite like him."

  "From what you tell me, neither have I," Sarah said.

  The car taking them down to Lulworth Cove was a huge Austin, a glass partition separating them from the driver. Munro and Jack Carter were in the rear, side by side, and Sarah Drayton sat on the jump seat opposite. She wore a tweed suit with pleated skirt, tan stockings and black brogues with half-heels, blouse in cream satin with a black string tie at her neck. She looked very attractive, cheeks flushed, eyes flickering everywhere. She also looked extremely young.

  "It was his birthday the week before last," Carter told her.

  She was immediately interested. "How old was he?"

  "Forty-four."

  "What they call a child of the century, my dear," Munro told her. "Born on the seventh of April, nineteen hundred. That must seem terribly old to you."

  "Aries," she said.

  Munro smiled. "That's right. Before the advent of our so called enlightened times astrology was a science. Did you know that?"

  "Not really."

  "The ancient Egyptians always chose their generals from Leos, for example."

  "I'm a Leo," she said. "July twenty-seventh."

  "Then you are in for a complicated life. Something of a hobby of mine. Take Harry, for instance. Very gifted, brilliant analytical mind. A professor in the greatest university in the world at thirty-eight. Then look at what he became in middle life."

  "How do you explain that?" she demanded.

  "Astrology explains it for us. Aries is a warrior sign, but very commonly those born around the same time as Harry are one thing on the surface, something else underneath. Mars decanate in Gemini, you see, and Gemini is the sign of the twins."

  "So?"

  "People like that can be very schizophrenic. On one level, you're Harry Martineau, scholar, philosopher, poet, full of sweet reason, but on the dark side…" He shrugged. "A cold and ruthless killer. Yes, there's a curious lack of emotion to him, wouldn't you agree, Jack? Of course, all this has been extremely useful in the job he's been doing for the past four years. Suppose that's what's kept him alive when most of the others have died."

  Carter said, "Just in case you're getting a rather bad impression of Harry Martineau, two things, Sarah. Although his mother was born in the States, she was of German parentage, and Harry spent a lot of time with them in Dresden and Heidelberg as he grew up. His grandfather, a professor of surgery, was an active Socialist. He died in a fall from the balcony of his apartment. A nasty accident."

  "Aided by two Gestapo thugs taking an arm and a leg each to help him on his way," Munro put in.

  "And then there was a Jewish girl named Rosa Bernstein."

  "Yes," Sarah put in. "I was beginning to wonder whether females had ever entered into his life. No men
tion of marriage."

  "He met Rosa Bernstein when she did a year at an Oxford College, St. Hugh's, in nineteen thirty-two. He was spending increasing time in Europe by then. Both his parents were dead. His father had left him reasonably well off, and as an only child, he had no close relatives."

  "But he and Rosa never married?"

  "No," Munro said, and added bluntly: "You'll often find prejudice on both sides of the fence, my dear. Rosa's parents were Orthodox Jews, and they didn't like the idea of their daughter marrying a Gentile. She and Harry pursued what you might term a vigorous affair for some years. I knew them both well. I was at Oxford myself in those days."

  "What happened?"

  It was Carter who answered her. "She was active in the Socialist underground. Went backward and forward from England to Germany as a courier. In May, nineteen thirty-eight, she was apprehended, taken to Gestapo Headquarters at Prince Albrechtstrasse in Berlin. A good address for a very bad place. There, she was interrogated with extreme brutality and, according to our information, executed."

  There was a long silence. She seemed abstracted, staring out of the window into the distance. Munro said, "You don't seem shocked? I find that strange in one so young."

  She shook her head. "I've been nursing for two years now. I deal with death every day of my life. So Harry Martineau doesn't particularly care for Germans?"

  "No," Carter said. "He doesn't like Nazis. There's a difference."

  "Yes, I can see that."

  She stared out of the window again, feeling restless, on edge, and it was all to do with Martineau, this man she had never met. He filled her mind. Would not go away.

  Carter said, "One thing we didn't ask. I hope you don't mind my being personal, but is there anyone in your life at the moment? Anyone who would miss you?"

  "A man?" She laughed harshly. "Good heavens, no! I never work less than a twelve-hour daily shift at the Cromwell. That leaves one just about enough time to have a bath and a meal before falling into bed." She shook her head. "No time for men. My father's in a Japanese prison camp. I've an old aunt in Sussex, his elder sister, and that's about it. No one to miss me at all. I'm all yours, gentlemen."