Jack Higgins - Eagle Has Landed

by Eagle Has Landed [lit]

  He opened a drawer, took out one of the pill bottles and popped two into his mouth. They were supposed to be pain killers, but just to make sure, he half-filled a tumbler with Courvoisier to wash them down. There was a knock on the door and Hofer entered. His normally composed face was full of emotion and his eyes were bright.

  'What is it, Karl, what's happened ?' Radl demanded.

  Hofer pushed a signal flimsy across the desk. 'It's just in, Herr Oberst. From Starling - Mrs. Grey. He's arrived safely. He's with her now.'

  Radl looked down at the flimsy in a kind of awe. 'My God, Devlin,' he whispered. 'You brought it off. It worked.'

  A sense of physical release surged through him. He reached inside his bottom drawer and found another glass. 'Karl, this very definitely calls for a drink.'

  He stood up, full of fierce joy, aware that he had not felt like this in years, not since that incredible euphoria when racing for the French coast at the head of his men in the summer of 1940.

  He raised his glass and said to Hofer, 'I give you a toast, Karl. To Liam Devlin and "Up the Republic".'

  .

  As a staff officer in the Lincoln Washington Brigade in Spain, Devlin had found a motor-cycle the most useful way of keeping contact between the scattered units of his command in difficult mountain country. Very different from Norfolk, but there was that same sense of freedom, of being off the leash, as he rode from Studley Grange through quiet country lanes towards the village.

  He'd obtained a driving licence in Holt that morning along with his other documents, without the slightest difficulty. Wherever he'd gone, from the police station to the local labour exchange, his cover story of being an ex-infantryman, discharged because of wounds, had worked like a charm. The various officials had really put themselves out to push things through for him. It was true what they said. In wartime, everyone loved a soldier, and a wounded hero even more so.

  The motor-cycle was pre-war, of course, and had seen better days. A 350 cc BSA, but when he took a chance and opened the throttle wide on the first straight, the needle swung up to sixty with no trouble at all. He throttled back quickly once he'd established that the power was there if needed. No sense in asking for trouble. There was no village policeman in Studley Constable, but Joanna Grey had warned him that one occasionally appeared from Holt on a motor-cycle.

  He came down the steep hill into the village itself past the old mill with the waterwheel which didn't seem to be turning and slowed for a young girl in a pony and trap carrying three milk churns. She wore a blue beret and a very old, First World War trenchcoat at least two sizes too big for her. She had high cheekbones, large eyes, a mouth that was too wide and three of her fingers poked through holes in the woollen gloves she wore.

  'Good day to you, a colleen.' he said cheerfully as he waited for her to cross his path to the bridge. 'God save the good work.'

  Her eyes widened in a kind of astonishment, her mouth opened slightly. She seemed bereft of speech and clicked her tongue, urging the pony over the bridge and into a trot as they started up the hill past the church.

  'A lovely, ugly little peasant,' he quoted softly, 'who turned my head not once, but twice.' He grinned. 'Oh, no, Liam, me old love. Not that. Not now.'

  He swung the motor-cycle in towards the Studley Arms and became aware of a man standing in the window glaring at him. An enormous individual of thirty or so with a tangled black beard. He was wearing a tweed cap and an old reefer coat.

  And what in the hell have I done to you, son? Devlin asked himself. The man's gaze travelled to the girl and the trap just breasting the hill beside the church and moved back again. It was enough. Devlin pushed the BSA up on to its stand, unstrapped the shotgun in its canvas bag which was hanging about his neck, tucked it under his arm and went inside.

  There was no bar, just a large comfortable room with a low-beamed ceiling, several high-backed benches, a couple of wooden tables. A wood fire burned brightly on an open hearth.

  There were only three people in the room. The man sitting beside the fire playing a mouth organ, the one with the black beard at the window and a short, stocky man in shirt sleeves who looked to be in his late twenties.

  'God bless all here,' Devlin announced, playing the bog Irishman to the hilt.

  He put the gun in its canvas bag on the table and the man in the shirt sleeves smiled and stuck out his hand. 'I'm George Wilde the publican here and you'll be Sir Henry's new warden down on the marshes. We've heard all about you.'

  'What, already?' Devlin said.

  'You know how it is in the country.'

  'Or does he?' the big man at the window said harshly.

  'Oh, I'm a farm boy from way back myself,' Devlin said.

  Wilde looked troubled, but attempted the obvious introduction. 'Arthur Seymour and the old goat by the fire is Laker Armsby.'

  As Devlin discovered later, Laker was in his late forties, but looked older. He was incredibly shabby, his tweed cap torn, his coat tied with string and his trousers and shoes were caked with mud.

  'Would you gentlemen join me in a drink?' Devlin suggested.

  'I wouldn't say no to that,' Laker Armsby told him. 'A pint of brown ale would suit me fine.'

  Seymour drained his flagon and banged it down on the table. 'I buys my own.' He picked up the shotgun and hefted it in one hand. 'The Squire's really looking after you, isn't he? This and the bike. Now I wonder why you should rate that, an incomer like you, when there's those amongst us who've worked the estate for years and still must be content with less.'

  'Sure and I can only put it down to my good looks,' Devlin told him.

  Madness sparked in Seymour's eyes, the Devil looked out, hot and wild. He had Devlin by the front of the coat and pulled him close. 'Don't make fun of me, little man. Don't ever do that or I'll step on you as I'd step on a slug.'

  Wilde grabbed his arm, 'Now come on, Arthur,' but Seymour pushed him away.

  'You walk soft round here, you keep your place and we might get on. Understand me?'

  Devlin smiled anxiously 'Sure and if I've given offence, I'm sorry.'

  'That's better,' Seymour released his grip and patted his face 'That's much better Only in future, remember one thing. When I come in, you leave.'

  He went out, the door banged behind him and Laker Armsby cackled wildly, 'He's a bad bastard is Arthur.'

  George Wilde vanished into the back room and returned with a bottle of Scotch and some glasses. 'This stuffs hard to come by at the moment, but I reckon you've earned one on me Mr Devlin.'

  'Liam,' Devlin said 'Call me Liam.' He accepted the glass of whisky 'Is he always like that?'

  'Ever since I've known him.'

  'There was a girl outside in a pony and trap as I came in. Does he have some special interest there?'

  'Fancies his chances.' Laker Armsby chuckled 'Only she won't have any of it.'

  'That's Molly Prior,' Wilde said 'She and her mother have a farm a couple of miles this side of Hobs End. Been running it between them since last year when her father died. Laker gives them a few hours when he isn't busy at the church.'

  'Seymour does a bit for them as well. Some of the heavy stuff.'

  'And thinks he owns the place, I suppose? Why isn't he in the Army?'

  'That's another sore point They turned him down because of a perforated eardrum.'

  'Which he took as an insult to his great manhood, I suppose?' Devlin said.

  Wilde said awkwardly, as if he felt some explanation was necessary, 'I picked up a packet myself with the Royal Artillery at Narvik in April, nineteen-forty. Lost my right knee-cap so it was a short war for me. You got yours in France I understand?'

  'That's right,' Devlin said calmly. 'Near Arras Came out through Dunkirk on a stretcher and never knew a thing about it.'

  'And over a year in hospitals Mrs. Grey tells me?'

  Devlin nodded. 'A grand woman. I'm very gratetul to her. Her husband knew my people back home years ago. If it wasn't for her. I wouldn'
t have this job.'

  'A lady.' Wilde said. 'A real lady. There's nobody better liked round here.'

  Laker Armsbv said. 'Now me I copped my first packet on the Somme in nineteen-sixteen. With the Welsh Guards I was.'

  'Oh. No' Devlin took a shilling from his pocket slapped it down on the table and winked at Wilde. 'Give him a pint but I'm off Got work to do.'

  He slung the shotgun over his back again kicked the motor-cycle into life and drove down to Park Cottage. Joanna Grey was in WVS uniform standing in the garden drinking a cup of tea. She crossed to the gate with a bright smile. 'Everything all right?'

  'Yes, I've seen the old boy and picked up the bike and the gun, so that's covered. Only snag so far was just now down at the pub. A big ox called Seymour who doesn't like strangers.'

  'Keep out of his way she said. He's quite unbalanced. When are you going to Birmingham?'

  'Overnight Saturday I'll be back Sunday afternoon or evening.'

  'Good she said calmly. Then if you drive round to the back I'll give you that form I promised and you'll find a couple of two gallon cans of petrol in the garage. That should cover you for the Birmingham trip and to spare.'

  'What in the hell would I do without you?' he asked her.

  'Exactly Mr Devlin.'

  She turned and walked back into the house and Devlin pushed the BSA round to the rear.

  .

  As a member of the IRA, Liam Devlin had been officially denied the Sacraments for a considerable number of years and his espousal of the Republican cause in Spain had hardly helped his situation. It was always possible to find the odd priest here and there who sympathetic to the cause itself was willing to overlook such evidence of human frailty but Devlin had never bothered.

  The urge was simply not there. Had not been for some considerable time.

  Having said that, churches in their own right had always given him a certain aesthetic pleasure. He liked the cold spirituality of them, what he called the smell of the ages. The sense of history through people's lives to be found there and when he pushed open the door and went into St Mary and All the Saints, he was not disappointed.

  'Would you look at that now?' he said softly, gazing about him with a conscious pleasure dipping his hand in the Holy Water and crossing himself mechanically.

  It really was very beautiful. Time holding its breath, waiting for the next thing to happen. The flickering candles, the ruby light of the sanctuary lamp and he sat down into the nearest pew, arms folded, filled with a pleasant nostalgia.

  There was the click of a door behind him, approaching footsteps. He turned and found Father Vereker approaching. Devlin got to his feet 'Good afternoon to you, Father.'

  'Can I help you?'

  'Not really I was just watching a little lad going down the aisle there in a scarlet cassock and white cotta, a bucket of holy water in his hand and wondering if it was ever me.'

  'I know that kind of feeling only too well.' Vereker smiled and held out his hand 'You will be Mr. Devlin Mrs. Grey told me you'd be coming.'

  Devlin shook hands. 'That was nice of her.'

  Vereker was nothing if not direct. He said, 'I presume you're a Catholic?'

  'Because I'm Irish, Father?' Devlin smiled 'I mind me one or two who weren't. There was a fella named Wolfe Tone. I heard of a time or two'

  'I take the point,' Vereker managed a smile with some difficulty, for on some days the aluminium foot they'd given him played the very devil - and this was one of them. We have a small congregation here. Never more than fifteen or twenty for Mass. People find it difficult to get in from the outlying farms in the evening with the lack of transport so you will be very welcome. 'Times of Confession are on the board outside.'

  'Sorry, Father, but that's a service I haven't used for some considerable time.'

  Vereker frowned, immediately serious 'May I ask why?'

  'Sure and if I told you, you would never believe me. Let's just say Liam Devlin and Holy Mother Church haven't seen eye to eye on a few things for quite a while now and leave it at that.'

  'But that is something I cannot and will not do, Mr Devlin.'

  'Well, here's one soul you'll have the devil's own luck in saving from the fire, Father, believe me.' Devlin grinned 'I'll be away now Nice meeting you.'

  He had got as far as the door when Father Vereker called, 'Mr Devlin.'

  Devlin turned, the door half-open 'Yes, Father.'

  'Another time. Something I have plenty of.'

  Devlin sighed. 'I know Father. That's the trouble with you fellas. You always do.'

  .

  When he reached the coast road, Devlin took the first dyke path that he came to at the northerly end of Hobs End marsh and drove out towards the fringe of pine trees. It was a crisp, autumnal sort of day, cold but bracing, white clouds chasing each other across a blue sky. He opened the throttle and roared along the narrow dyke path. A hell of a risk, for one wrong move and he'd be into the marsh. Stupid really, but that was the kind of mood he was in, and the sense of freedom was exhilarating.

  He throttled back, braking to turn into another path, working his way along the network of dykes towards the coast, when a horse and rider suddenly appeared from the reeds thirty or forty yards to his right and scrambled up on top of the dyke. It was the girl he'd last seen in the village in the pony and trap, Molly Prior. As he slowed, she leaned low over the horse's neck and urged it into a gallop racing him on a parallel course.

  Devlin responded instantly, opening the throttle and surging forward in a burst of speed, kicking dirt out in a great spray into the marsh behind him. The girl had an advantage, in that the dyke she was on ran straight to the pine trees whereas Devlin had to work his way through a maze, turning from one path into another and he lost ground.

  She was close to the trees now and as he skidded out of one path broadside on and finally found a clear run, she plunged her mount into the water and mud of the marsh, urging it through the reeds in a final short cut. The horse responded well and a few moments later, bounded free and disappeared into the pines.

  Devlin left the dyke path at speed, shot up the inside of the first sand dune, travelled some little distance through, the air and alighted in soft white sand, going down on one knee in a long slide.

  Molly Prior was sitting at the foot of a pine tree gazing out to sea, her chin on her knees. She was dressed exactly as she had been when Devlin had last seen her except that she had taken off the beret, exposing short-cropped, tawny hair. The horse grazed on a tuft of grass that pushed up through the sand.

  Devlin got the bike up on its stand and threw himself down beside her. 'A fine day, thanks be to God.'

  She turned and said calmly, 'What kept you?'

  Devlin had taken off his cap to wipe sweat from his forehead and he looked up at her in astonishment, 'What kept me, is it? Why, you little...'

  And then she smiled. More than that, threw back her head and laughed and Devlin laughed too. 'By God, and I'll know you till the crack of Doomsday, that's for sure.'

  'And what's that supposed to mean?' She spoke with the strong and distinctive Norfolk accent that was still so new to him.

  'Oh, a saying they have where I come from.' He found a packet of cigarettes and put one in his mouth. 'Do you use these things?'

  'No.'

  'Good for you, they'd stunt your growth and you with your green years still ahead of you.'

  'I'm seventeen, I'll have you know,' she told him. 'Eighteen in February.'

  Devlin put a match to his cigarette and lay back pillowing his head on his hands, the peak of his cap over his eyes. 'February what?'

  'The twenty-second.'

  'Ah, a little fish, is it? Pisces. We should do well together, me being a Scorpio. You should never marry a Virgo, by the way. No chance of them and Pisces hitting it off at all. Take Arthur, now. I've a terrible hunch he's a Virgo. I'd watch it there if I were you.'

  'Arthur?' she said. 'You mean Arthur Seymour? Are you crazy?'
r />   'No, but I think he is,' Devlin replied and carried on. 'Pure, clean, virtuous and not very hot, which is a terrible pity from where I'm lying.'

  She had turned round to look down at him and the old coat gaped open. Her breasts were full and firm, barely contained by the cotton blouse she was wearing.

  'Oh, girl dear, you'll have a terrible problem with your weight in a year or two if you don't watch your food.'