Jack Higgins - Eagle Has Landed Read online

  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, steaming 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 Reichsfuhrer'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 Reichsfuhrer, 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 Reichsfuhrer?'

  '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 Reichsfuhrer,' Rossman said.

  11

  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 motor-cycle

  '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 saving 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 into the car and drove away and he returned to his work on the motor-cycle 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 shepherds pie.'

  'Yours or your mother's?' She threw a stick at him and he ducked 'It'll have to wait I've got to go out tonight. Put it in the oven for me and I'll heat it up when I get in.'

  'Can I go with you?'

  'Not a chance. Too far And besides, it's business.' He slapped her behind 'A cup of tea is what I crave, woman of the house, or maybe two, so off with you and put the kettle on.'

  He reached for her again, she dodged him, grabbed her basket and
ran for the cottage Devlin let her go. She went into the living-room and put the basket on the table. The Gladstone bag was at the other end and as she turned to go to the stove, she caught it with her left arm, knocking it to the floor It fell open disgorging packets of banknotes and the Sten gun parts.

  She knelt there, stunned for the moment, suddenly icy cold, as if aware by some kind of precogniotion that nothing ever would be the same again.

  There was a step in the doorway and Devlin said quietly, 'Would you put them back, now, like a good girl?'

  She looked up, white-faced but her voice was fierce 'What is it? What does it mean?'

  'Nothing,' he said, 'for little girls '

  'But all this money.'

  She held up a packet of fivers. Devlin took the bag from her, stuffed the money and the weapons back inside and replaced the bottom. Then he opened the cupboard under the window, took out a large envelope and tossed it to her.

  'Size ten. Was I right?'

  She opened the envelope, peered inside and there was an immediate look of awe on her face. 'Silk stockings. Real silk and two pairs. Where on earth did you get these?'

  'Oh, a man I met in a pub in Fakenham. You can get anything you want if you know where to look.'

  'The black market,' she said. 'That's what you're mixed up in, isn't it?'

  There was a certain amount of relief in her eyes and he grinned. 'The right colour for me. Now would you kindly get the tea on and hurry? I want to be away by six and I've still got work to do on the bike.'

  She hesitated, clutching the stockings and moved close. 'Liam, it's all right, isn't it?'

  'And why wouldn't it be?' He kissed her briefly, turned and went out, cursing his own stupidity.

  And yet as he walked towards the barn, he knew in his heart that there was more to it than that. For the first time he had been brought face to face with what he was doing to this girl. Within little more than a week, her entire world was going to be turned upside down. That was absolutely inevitable and nothing he could do about it except leave her, as he must, to bear the hurt of it alone.

  Suddenly, he felt physically sick and kicked out at a packing case savagely. 'Oh, you bastard,' he said. 'You dirty bastard, Liam.'

  .

  Reuben Garvald opened the judas in the main gate of the workshop of Fogarty's garage and peered outside. Rain swept across the cracked concrete of the forecourt where the two rusting petrol pumps stood forlornly. He closed the judas hurriedly and stepped back inside.

  The workshop had once been a barn and was surprisingly spacious. A flight of wooden steps led up to a loft, but in spite of a wrecked saloon car in one corner, there was still plenty of room for the three-ton Bedford truck and the van in which Garvald and his brother had travelled from Birmingham. Ben Garvald himself walked up and down impatiently, occasionally beating his arms together. In spite of the heavy overcoat and scarf he wore, he was bitterly cold.

  'Christ what a dump,' he said. 'Isn't there any sign of that little Irish sod?'

  'It's only a quarter to nine, Ben,' Reuben told him.

  'I don't care what bleeding time it is.' Garvald turned on a large, hefty young man in a sheepskin flying jacket who leaned against the truck reading a newspaper. 'You get me some heat in here tomorrow night, Sammy boy, or I'll have your balls. Understand?'

  Sammy, who had long dark sideburns and a cold, rather dangerous-looking face seemed completely unperturbed. 'Okay, Mr Garvald. I'll see to it.'

  'You'd better, sweatheart, or I'll send you back to the Army.' Garvald patted his face. 'And you wouldn't like that, would you?'

  He took out a packet of Gold Flake, selected one and Sammy gave him a light with a fixed smile. 'You're a card. Mr Garvald. A real card.'

  Reuben called urgently from the door. 'He's just turned on to the forecourt.'

  Garvald tugged at Sammy's arm. 'Get the door open and let's have the bastard in.'

  Devlin entered in a flurry of rain and wind. He wore oilskin leggings with his trenchcoat, an old leather flying helmet and goggles which he'd bought in a secondhand shop in Fakenham. His face was filthy and when he switched off and pushed up his goggles, there were great white circles round his eyes.

  "A dirty night for it, Mr Garvald,' he said as he shoved the BSA on its stand.

  'It always is, son,' Garvald replied cheerfully. 'Nice to see you.' He shook hands warmly 'Reuben you know and this is Sammy Jackson, one of my lads. He drove the Bedford over for you.'

  There was an implication that Jackson had somehow done him a great personal favour and Devlin responded in kind, putting on the Irish as usual. 'Sure and I appreciate that. It was damn good of you,' he said, wringing Sammy's hand.

  Jackson looked him over contemptuously but managed a smile and Garvald said, 'All right then, I've got business elsewhere and I don't expect you want to hang around. Here's your truck. What do you think?'

  The Bedford had definitely seen better days, the paintwork badly fading and chipped, but the tyres weren't too bad and the canvas tilt was almost new. Devlin heaved himself over the tailboard and noted the Army jerrycans, the compressor and the drum of paint he'd asked for.

  'It's all there, just like you said.' Garvald offered him a cigarette. 'Check the petrol if you want.'

  'No need, I'll take your word for it.'

  Garvald wouldn't have tried any nonsense with the petrol, he was sure of that. After all, he wanted him to return on the following evening. He went round to the front and lifted the bonnet. The engine seemed sound enough.

  'Try it,' Garvald invited.

  He switched on and tapped the accelerator, and the engine broke into a healthy enough roar as he had expected. Garvald would be much too interested in finding out exactly what he was up to to spoil things by trying to push second-class goods at this stage.

  Devlin jumped down and looked at the truck again, noting the military registration. 'All right?' Garvald asked.

  'I suppose so.' Devlin nodded slowly. 'From the state of it, it looks as if it's been having a hard time in Tobruk or somewhere.'

  'Very probably, old son,' Garvald kicked a wheel. 'But these things are built to take it.'

  'Have you got the delivery licence I asked for?'

  'Sure thing,' Garvald snapped a finger. 'Let's have that form, Reuben.'

  Reuben produced it from his wallet and said sullenly, 'When do we see the colour of his money?'

  'Don't be like that, Reuben. Mr Murphy here is as sound as a bell.'

  'No, he's right enough, a fair exchange.' Devlin took a fat manilla envelope from his breast pocket and passed it to Reuben. 'You'll find seven hundred and fifty in there in fivers, as agreed.'

  He pocketed the form Reuben had given him after glancing at it briefly and Ben Garvald said, 'Aren't you going to fill that thing in?'

  Devlin tapped his nose and tried to assume an expression of low cunning. 'And let you see where I'm going? Not bloody likely, Mr Garvald.'

  Garvald laughed delightedly. He put an arm about Devlin's shoulder. The Irishman said, 'If someone could give me a hand to put my bike in the back, I'll be off.'

  Garvald nodded to Jackson who dropped the tailboard of the Bedford and found an old plank. He and Devlin ran the BSA up and laid it on its side. Devlin clipped the tailboard in place and turned to Garvald. 'That's it then, Mr Garvald, same time tomorrow.'

  'Pleasure to do business with you, old son,' Garvald told him, wringing his hand again. 'Get the door open, Sammy.'

  Devlin climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. He leaned out of the window. 'One thing, Mr Garvald. I'm not likely to find the military police on my tail, now am I?'

  'Would I do that to you, son?' Garvald beamed. 'I ask you.' He banged the side of the truck with the flat of his hand. 'See you tomorrow night. Repeat performance. Same time, same place and I'll bring you another bottle of Bushmills.'

  Devlin drove out into the night and Sammy Jackson and Reuben got the doors closed. Garvald's smile disappeared. 'It's up to
Freddy now.'

  'What if he loses him?' Reuben asked.

  'Then there's tomorrow night, isn't there.' Garvald patted him on the face. 'Where's that half of brandy you brought?'

  'Lose him?' Jackson said. 'That little squirt?' He laughed harshly. 'Christ, he couldn't even find the way to the men's room unless you showed him.'

  .

  Devlin, a quarter of a mile down the road, was aware of the dim lights behind him indicating the vehicle which had pulled out of a lay-by a minute or so earlier as he passed, exactly as he expected.