Night Of The Fox Page 9

  She delivered the speech with an air of bravado and an illusion of calm sophistication that in one so young was strangely moving.

  Munro, unusually for him, felt uncomfortable. "This is important, believe me." He leaned forward, put a hand on her arm. "We wouldn't ask you if it wasn't."

  She nodded. "I know, Brigadier. I know." She turned and stared out of the window again at the passing scenery, thinking about Martineau.

  He awoke with a dull ache just behind the right eye and his mouth tasted foul. Only one answer to that. He pulled on an old tracksuit and grabbed a towel, left by the front door and ran down to the sea.

  He stripped and ran out through the shallows, plunging through the waves. It wasn't even a nice morning, the sky the color of slate gray, and there was rain on the wind. Yet quite suddenly, he experienced one of those special moments. Sea and sky seemed to become one. For a little while all sounds faded as he battled his way through the waves. Nothing mattered. Not the past or the future. Only this present moment. As he turned on his back, a herring gull fled overhead and it started to rain.

  A voice called out, "Enjoying yourself, Harry?"

  Martineau turned toward the shore and found Munro standing there in old tweed coat and battered hat, holding an umbrella over his head. "My God," he said. "Not you, Dougal?"

  "As ever was, Harry. Come on up to the cottage. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

  He turned and walked back across the beach without another word. Martineau floated there for a while, thinking about it. Dougal Munro wasn't just paying a social call, that was for sure, not all the way from London. Excitement surged through him and he waded out of the water, toweled himself briskly, pulled on the old tracksuit and ran across the beach and up the cliff path. Jack Carter was standing on the porch, watching the rain and smoking a cigarette.

  "What, you too, Jack?" Martineau smiled with real pleasure and took the other man's hand. "Does the old sod want me to go back to work?"

  "Something like that." Carter hesitated, then said, "Harry, I think you've done enough."

  "No such word in the vocabulary, Jack, not until they nail down the lid and put you six feet under." Martineau brushed past Carter and went inside.

  Munro was sitting by the fire, reading the notepad he'd found on the table. "Still writing bad poetry?"

  "Always did." Martineau took the pad from him, tore off the top sheet, crumpled it up and tossed it into the fireplace. It was then that he became aware of Sarah Drayton standing in the kitchen doorway.

  "I'm making tea for everyone. I hope that's all right, Colonel Martineau. I'm Sarah Drayton."

  She didn't bother holding out her hand, for it would have trembled too much. She was aware that she was close to tears and her stomach was hollow with excitement, throat dry. Coup defoudre, the French called it. The thunderclap. The best kind of love of all. Instant and quite irrevocable.

  And at first, he responded, brushing a lock of black hair back from the white forehead, his face illuminated by a smile of great natural charm, and then the smile faded and he turned on Munro, anger in his voice, as if seeing everything.

  "My God, what a bastard you are, Dougal. So now we're using schoolgirls?"

  Hugh Kelso's adventures did not take long in the telling, but when he was finished, Munro carried on.

  "The other month we knocked off a man called Braun in Paris. Jack has the details. I think you'll find it interesting."

  "What was he, Gestapo?" Martineau asked.

  "No, SD." Carter turned to Sarah Drayton sitting on the other side of the fire. "That's the Secret Intelligence Department of the SS, responsible only to Himmler himself. More powerful than any other organization in Germany today."

  "Go on about Braun," Martineau said.

  "Well, according to his papers, he was RFSS." Carter turned again to Sarah. "That means Reichsführer SS. It's a cuff title that members of Himmler's personal staff wear on their uniform sleeve." He took a paper from the file he was holding and offered it to Martineau. "It seems Braun was a kind of roving ambassador, empowered to make his own investigations wherever he pleased."

  "With supreme authority over everyone he came into contact with," Munro said. "Read that letter."

  Martineau took it from its envelope and unfolded it.

  It was on excellent paper, the heading embossed in black.

  DER REICHSFÜHRER—SS Berlin, 9 November

  SS STURMBANNFÜHRER

  BRAUN ERWIN, SS-NR 107863

  This officer acts under my personal orders on business of the utmost importance to the Reich. All personnel, military and civil, without distinction of rank, must assist him in any way he sees fit.

  H. HIMMLER

  A remarkable document in itself. Even more astonishing was that it was countersigned across the bottom: Adolf Hitler, Führer und Reichskanzler.

  "He obviously had a certain amount of influence," Martineau said dryly, handing it back to Carter.

  Munro said, "Well the bastard's dead now, but our Paris people got some useful information out of him before he left."

  "I bet they did," Martineau said, and lit a cigarette.

  "He has a dozen or so of these special envoys floating around Europe, putting the fear of God into everyone wherever they turn up. All highly secret. Nobody knows who they are. I've got our forgery department preparing a complete set of papers for you. SD identity card and a copy of that letter and whatever else you need. Name of Max Vogel. We thought we'd give you a little rank, just to help the ship along, so it's Standartenführer." He turned to Sarah, "Colonel to you."

  "I get the picture," Martineau said. "I arrive on Jersey's fair shore and frighten the hell out of everyone."

  "You know as well as I, dear boy, that there's nothing more frightening than a schoolmaster in a leather overcoat turned revolutionary. Lenin for a start. And you must admit, you do a very good Nazi, Harry."

  "And the child?" Martineau inquired. "Where does she fit in?"

  "You need someone with you to establish your credentials with Mrs. de Ville and this chap Gallagher. Sarah is related to one and knows the other. Another thing, she was last in Jersey six years ago, aged thirteen—all plaits and ankle socks, I shouldn't wonder. Still herself enough for Helen de Ville and Gallagher to recognize, but different enough to pass as a stranger with other people, especially when we've finished with her."

  "And what's that supposed to mean?"

  "Well, there's a fair trade in ladies of the night between France and Jersey."

  "You mean whores? You're not suggesting she play one of those?"

  "Most senior German officers in France have French girlfriends. Why should you be any different? To start off, Sarah speaks excellent French with a Breton accent because that's what her grandmother was. By the time our people at Berkley Hall have finished with her, changed her hair color, got her into the right clothes—"

  "You mean, turned her into a little French tart?" Martineau interrupted.

  "Something like that. Perfect cover for her."

  "And when are we supposed to go in?"

  "Day after tomorrow. A Lysander drop near Granville. Two-hour flight, Harry. Piece of cake. Sophie Cresson will meet you. Afterward, you use your authority to cross to Jersey on one of the night boats from Granville. Once over there, you make it up as you go along. You've got till Sunday at the outside."

  "And what if it's impossible to get him out? What then?"

  "Up to you."

  "I see. I play executioner for you again?" He turned on Sarah. "What do you think about all this?"

  He was angry, the face whiter than ever, the eyes very dark. "Oh, I don't know," she said. "It sounds as if it could be rather interesting."

  In a sense, the flippancy of her remarks was an attempt to control her feelings, and when she turned and moved to the table to pour more tea into her cup, her hand shook slightly. The death of her mother had sent her to live with her father on a plantation deep in the Malayan jungle. A life of d
iscomfort and considerable danger, an extraordinary upbringing for a girl of thirteen, and yet she'd loved every minute of it. In moments of the greatest danger, she seemed to come alive. The hospital by night, the bombing, the casualties who needed her. Once again, she'd loved every minute of it.

  And now this. It was not just sexual desire, although she was enough of a woman to know that she wanted Martineau. But that was only part of it. It was what this strange, intense, tortured man offered. The promise of danger, excitement of a kind she had never even dreamed of before.

  "Rather interesting? Dear God!" Martineau poured himself a scotch. "Have you read any of the works of Heidegger, Jack?"

  "I'm familiar with them."

  "An interesting man. He believed that for authentic living what was necessary was the resolute confrontation of death."

  "That sounds fine by me," Munro said.

  "Really?" Martineau laughed harshly. "As far as I'm concerned, it's idiots like that who made me give up on philosophy." He raised his glass and toasted them all. "Here we go then. Berkley Hall next stop."

  SEVEN

  THE FIRING RANGE at Berkley Hall was in the basement. The armorer was an Irish Guards staff sergeant named Kelly, long past retirement and back in harness only because of the war. The place was brightly lit at the target end where cutout replicas of charging Germans stood against sandbags. Kelly and Sarah Drayton were the only people on the firing line. They'd given her battle dress to wear, slacks and blouse of blue serge, the kind issued to girls in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force. She'd tied her hair up and tucked it inside the peaked cap, leaving her neck bare. It somehow made her look very vulnerable.

  Kelly had various weapons laid out on the table. "Have you ever fired a handgun before, miss?"

  "Yes," she said, "in Malaya. My father was a rubber planter. He used to be away a great deal so he made sure I knew how to use a revolver. And I've fired a shotgun a few times."

  "Anything here that looks familiar?"

  "That revolver." She pointed. "It looks like the Smith and Wesson my father owned."

  "That's exactly what it is, miss," Kelly said. "Obviously in more normal circumstances you'd be given a thorough grounding in weaponry as part of your course, but in your case, there just isn't time. What I'll do is show you a few things, just to familiarize you with some basic weapons you're likely to come across. Then you can fire a few rounds and that will have to do."

  "Fair enough," she said.

  "Rifles are simple," he said. "I won't waste your time with those. Here we've got two basic submachine guns. The British Sten in standard use with our own forces. This is a Mark 11S. Silenced version, developed for use with the French Resistance groups. Thirty-two rounds in that magazine. Automatic fire burns out the silencer, so use it semiautomatic or single burst. Like to have a go?"

  It was surprisingly light and gave her no problems at all when she fired it from the shoulder, the only sound being the bolt reciprocating. She tore a sandbag apart to one side of the target she aimed at.

  "Not much good," she said.

  "Few people are with these things. They're good at close quarters when you're up against several people and that's all," Kelly told her. "The other submachine gun's German. An MP40. Popularly known as the Schmeisser. The Resistance use those a lot too."

  He went through the handguns with her then, both the revolvers and the automatics. When she tried with the Smith & Wesson, arm extended, she only managed to nick the shoulder of the target once out of six shots.

  "I'm afraid you'd be dead, miss."

  As he reloaded, she said, "What about Colonel Martineau? Is he any good?"

  "You could say that, miss. I don't think I've ever known anyone better with a handgun. Now, try this way." He crouched, feet apart, holding the gun two-handed. "See what I mean?"

  "I think so." She copied him, the gun out in front of her in both hands.

  "Now squeeze with a half breath of a pause between each shot."

  This time, she did better, hitting the target once in the shoulder and once in the left hand.

  "Terrific," Kelly said.

  "Not if you consider she was probably aiming for the heart."

  Martineau had come in quietly behind them. He wore a dark polo neck sweater and black corduroy pants and he came to the table and examined the guns. "As I'm going to have to look after this infant and as time is limited, do you mind if I take a hand?"

  "Be my guest, sir."

  Martineau picked up a pistol from the table. "Walther PPK, semiautomatic. Seven-round magazine goes in the butt, like so. Pull the slider back and you're in business. It's not too large. You wouldn't notice it in your handbag, but it will do the job and that's what matters. Now come down the range."

  "All right."

  They moved so close that the targets were no more than ten or twelve yards away. "If he's close enough for you to hold it against him when you pull the trigger, do it that way, but you should never be farther away than you are now. Simply throw up your arm and point the gun at him. Keep both eyes open and fire very fast."

  She hit the target six times in the general area of the chest and belly. "Oh, my word," she said, very excited. "That wasn't bad, was it?"

  As they walked back to the firing line he said, "Yes, but could you do it for real?"

  "I'll only know when the time comes, won't I?" she said. "Anyway, what about you? I hear a lot of talk, but not much to justify it."

  There was another Walther on the table with a round cylinder of polished black steel screwed on to the end of the barrel. "This is what's called a Carswell silencer," Martineau told her. "Specially developed for use by SOE agents."

  His arm swung up. He didn't appear to take aim, firing twice, shooting out the heart of the target. The only sound had been two dull thuds, and the effect was quite terrifying.

  He laid the gun down and turned, eyes blank in the white face. "I've got things to do. Dougal wants us in the library in half an hour. I'll see you then."

  He walked out. There was an awkward silence. Sarah said, "He seemed angry."

  "The colonel gets like that, miss. I don't think he likes what he sees in himself sometimes. Last November he killed the head of the Gestapo at Lyons. Man called Kaufmann. A real butcher. They brought him back from over there in a puddle of blood in a Lysander. Two bullets in his left lung for starters. He's been different since then."

  "In what way?"

  "I don't know, miss." Kelly frowned. "Here, don't you go getting silly ideas about him. I know what you young girls can be like. I've got a daughter your age on an antiaircraft battery in London. Just remember he's got twenty-five years on you."

  "You mean he's too old?" Sarah said. "Isn't that like saying you can't love someone because they're Catholic or Jewish or American or something? What's the difference?"

  "Too clever for me, that kind of talk." Kelly opened a drawer and took out a cloth bundle which he unwrapped. "A little present for you, miss, in spite of what the colonel says." It was a small black automatic pistol, very light, almost swallowed up by her hand. "Belgian. Only .25, but it'll do the trick when you need it and, at that size, very easy to hide." He looked awkward. "I've known ladies to tuck them in the top of their stocking, not intending to be disrespectful, miss."

  She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. "I think you're wonderful."

  "You can't do that, miss, you being an officer. Against regulations."

  "But I'm not an officer, Sergeant."

  "I think you'll find you are, miss. Probably one of the things the brigadier wants to tell you. I'd cut off and go to the library now if I were you."

  "All right and thank you."

  She went out and Kelly sighed and started to clear away the weapons.

  Munro, Carter and Martineau were already in the library when she went in, sitting by the fire having afternoon tea. "Ah, there you are," Munro said. "Do join us. The crumpets are delicious."

  Carter poured her a cup of tea. She said
, "Sergeant Kelly said something about my being an officer now. What was he talking about?"

  "Yes, well, we do prefer our women operatives to hold some sort of commissioned rank. In theory it's supposed to help you if you fall into enemy hands," Munro told her.

  "In practice, it doesn't do you any good at all," Martineau interrupted.

  "However, for good or ill, you are now a flight officer in the WAAF," Munro said. "I trust that is satisfactory. Now, let's look at the map."

  They all got up and went to the table where there were several large-scale maps, together making a patchwork that included the south of England, the Channel, and the general area of the Channel Islands and Normandy and Brittany.

  "All those jolly films they make at Elstree showing you our gallant secret agents at work usually have them parachuting into France. In fact, we prefer to take people in by plane wherever possible."

  "I see," she said.

  "Our popular choice is the Lysander. These days the pilot usually manages on his own. That way we can take up to three passengers. They're operated by a Special Duties Squadron at Hornley Field. It's not too far from here."

  "How long will the flight take?"

  "No more than an hour and a half, perhaps less depending on wind conditions. You'll land not far from Granville."

  "The local Resistance people will be on hand to take care of you. We find the early hours of the morning best. Say four or five."

  "Then what?"

  "The evening of the same day you'll leave Granville by ship for Jersey. Most convoys go by night now. We have air superiority during daylight hours." He turned to Martineau. "Naturally, the question of passage is a matter for Standartenführer Max Vogel, but I doubt whether anyone is likely to do anything other than run round in circles when they see your credentials."

  Martineau nodded. "We'll be in trouble if they don't."

  "As regards your dealings with Mrs. de Ville and General Gallagher. Well, you have Sarah to vouch for you."