Jack Higgins - Eagle Has Landed

by Eagle Has Landed [lit]

  Her eyes flashed, she glanced down and instinctively pulled her coat together. 'You bastard,' she said, somehow drawing the word out. And then she saw his lips quiver and leaned down to peer under the peak of the cap. 'Why, you're laughing at me!' She pulled off his cap and threw it away.

  'And what else would I do with you, Molly Prior?' He put out a hand defensively. 'No, don't answer that.'

  She sat back against the tree, her hands in her pockets. 'How did you know my name?'

  'George Wilde told me at the pub.'

  'Oh, I see now. And Arthur - was he there?'

  'You could say that. I get the impression he looks upon you as his personal property.'

  'Then he can go to hell,' she said, suddenly fierce. 'I belong to no man.'

  He looked up at her from where he lay, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, and smiled. 'Your nose turns up, has anyone ever told you that? And when you're angry, your mouth goes down at the corners.'

  He had gone too far, touched some source of secret inner hurt. She flushed and said bitterly, 'Oh, I'm ugly enough, Mr Devlin. I've sat all night long at dances in Holt without being asked, too often not to know my place. You wouldn't throw me out on a wet saturday night, I know. But that's men for you. Anything's better than nothing.'

  She started to get up, Devlin had her by the ankle and dragged her down, pinning her with one strong arm as she struggled. 'You know my name? How's that?'

  'Don't let it go to your head. Everybody knows about you. Everything there is to know.'

  'I've news for you,' he said pushing himself up on one elbow and leaning over her. 'You don't know the first thing about me because if you did, you'd know I prefer fine autumn afternoons under the pine trees to wet Saturday nights. On the other hand, the sand has a terrible way of getting where it shouldn't.' She went very still. He kissed her briefly on the mouth and rolled away. 'Now get the hell out of it before I let my mad passion run away with me.'

  She grabbed her beret, jumped to her feet and reached for the horse's bridle. When she turned to glance at him her face was serious, but after she'd scrambled into the saddle and pulled her mount round to look at him again, she was smiling. 'They told me all Irishmen were mad. Now I believe them. I'll be at Mass Sunday evening. Will you?'

  'Do I look as though I will?'

  The horse was stamping, turning in half-circles, but she held it well. 'Yes,' she said seriously, 'I think you do,' and she gave the horse its head and galloped away.

  'Oh, you idiot, Liam,' Devlin said softly as he pushed his motor-cycle off its stand and shoved it alongside the sand dune, through the trees and on to the path. 'Won't you ever learn?'

  He drove back along the main dyke top, sedately this time, and ran the motor-cycle into the barn. He found the key where he'd left it under the stone by the door and let himself in. He put the shotgun in the hallstand, went into the kitchen, unbuttoning his raincoat, and paused. There was a pitcher of milk on the table, a dozen brown eggs in a white bowl.

  'Mother Mary,' he said softly. 'Would you look at that now?'

  He touched the bowl gently with one finger, but when he finally turned to take off his coat, his face was bleak.

  8

  The Sunday morning weather forecast from Wilhelmshaven for the North Sea area generally had been far from promising. Winds five-to-six with rain squalls and off the Dutch coast the weather was about as dirty as it could be, heavy dark clouds swollen with rain, merging with the sea on the horizon.

  Dawn was at six-fifteen, but visibility, even by nine-thirty, was bad enough to keep even the RAF at home; so that no one could have been blamed for failing to spot the lone Mosquito coming in low off the sea astern of the convoy. The pilot ripped up the decks of the fourth and fifth coasters in line with cannon shell and banked to turn for a second run.

  Koenig, in his bunk below trying to snatch an hour's sleep, was awake in an instant and making for the companion way. As he reached the deck, the gun crew were already running for the twin 20mm anti-aircraft cannon. Koenig beat them to it, was into the bucket seat in a second, hands clamping around the trigger handles.

  As the Mosquito came in off the water for a second time, he started to fire along with everyone else in the convoy, swinging to follow its flight as its cannon ripped into the superstructure of another ship-up front. Not that he hit anything, which was hardly surprising as the Mosquito was making its pass at something like four hundred miles an hour. It curved away to port through puffballs of black smoke and fled into the grey morning like a departing spirit.

  All firing stopped and one of the escorting destroyers surged ahead to where a column of black smoke curled up into the morning from the fourth coaster in line. Koenig could clearly see the crew unscrambling the hoses.

  He stood up. and turned to Leading Seaman Kranz who was in charge of the anti-aircraft cannon. 'You were five seconds too slow getting to your post, you and your lads, Kianz, and one day that could be the end of all of us. Do I need to say more?'

  The men of the gun crew shuffled uneasily and Kranz rammed his heels together. 'No, Herr Leutnant, It won't happen again.'

  'If it does,' Koenig assured him, 'you'll be back where you started three years ago. That's a promise.'

  He went on the bridge where Muller had the wheel and slumped into the chart-table chair. When he lit a cigarette, his hands were trembling.

  'A lone wolf,' Muller said.

  Koenig nodded. 'They're not going to turn planes out in any kind of force on a morning like this. They'd lose too many to the weather.'

  'I'm sorry about that gun crew,' Muller said. 'No excuse. I'll have a word with Kranz.'

  'Let it go. They've had a rough trip. They need a rest, that's all.'

  Which was something of an understatement. The trip from Jersey to Cherbourg and on to Boulogne had been bad enough because of extremely poor weather conditions with force eight winds on occasion, but the run with the convoy from Boulogne had been hell for most of the way.

  The coastal minefields were an effective enough barrier as far as keeping the Royal Navy at bay was concerned, but they didn't mean a thing to the RAF. The convoy had been strafed twice by fighter bombers on the way through the Straits of Dover and again near Dunkirk and had lost two ships.

  A young sailor came in with a couple of mugs of coffee which he put on the table. Koenig's eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, his back ached, but by some minor miracle known only to the navy, the coffee was real. He suddenly began to feel human again.

  He turned and found that Muller was looking sideways at him. a trifle anxiously. 'Better, Herr Leutnant?'

  Koenig grinned. 'Much better - as always.'

  'You should get something to eat.'

  'No, you first. I'll take the wheel for a while.'

  Muller looked as if he might argue and Koenig stood up. 'I want to be by myself for a while, Erich. I want to think. You understand?'

  'Yes, Herr Leutnant.' Muller handed over the wheel without further argument and went out.

  Koenig lit another cigarette and opened one of the side windows breathing in the good salt air. They had got the fire on the fourth coaster under control now and the eighteen vessels of the convoy forged on without any slackening of speed, perfectly on station, the two destroyers and four armed trawlers who were the escort, circling to take up position again after the brief taste of battle.

  It came to him. with a kind of wonder, that he was actually enjoying himself, in spite of the hunger, the constant fatigue, the aching back, the stress that must already have taken years off his life. Before the war he'd been a trainee accountant in a Hamburg bank, but now the sea was his life. Meat and drink to him. more important than any woman. It was the circumstance of war which had given him this, but the war wouldn't last forever.

  He said softly, 'What in the hell am I going to do when it's all over?'

  The lead destroyer swept past at that moment, signal lamp flashing on its bridge. Koenig leaned out of the si
de window and spoke to Teusen, the leading telegraphist on duty at the rail. 'What's he saying?'

  ' "Altering course for Rotterdam now. Goodbye and good luck." '

  Koenig waved. 'Make; "Many thanks and heartiest congratulations on a good job well done." '

  Teusen's signal lamp clattered, and there was an acknowledgement as the destroyer turned away, leading the convoy round towards the Dutch coast. As Koenig altered course a couple of points and increased speed, the E-boat plunging over the waves into the grey curtain of rain, it occurred to him, with a certain gloomy satisfaction, that his problem might very well be solved for him. After all, when he considered the task that waited for him at Landsvoort. it seemed highly unlikely that he would survive the war anyway.

  .

  In Birmingham the weather was no better, a cold wind drifting across the city hurling rain again the great plate glass window of Ben Garvald's flat above the garage in Saltley In the silk dressing gown and with a scarf at the throat, the dark, curly hair carefully combed, he made an imposing figure, the broken nose added a sort of rugged grandeur. A closer inspection was not so flattering, the fruits of dissipation showing clearly on the fleshy arrogant face.

  But there was more there this morning - a considerable annoyance with the world at large - and not just because it was Sunday, although he loathed Sunday at the best of times At eleven-thirty on the previous night, one of his business ventures, a small illegal gaming club in a house in an apparently respectable street in Aston had been turned over by the City of Birmingham Police. Not that Garvald was in any personal danger of being arrested himself. That was what the front man was paid for and he would be taken care of. Much more serious was the three and a half thousand pounds on the gaming tables which had been confiscated by the police.

  The kitchen door swung open and a young girl of seventeen or eighteen came in. She wore a pink lace dressing gown, her peroxide-blonde hair was tousled and her face was blotched, the eyes swollen from weeping 'Can I get you anything else, Mr Garvald?' she said in a low voice.

  'Get me anything?' he said. 'That's good, That's bloody rich, that is, seeing as how you haven't bleeding well given me anything yet.'

  He spoke without turning round. His interest had been caught by a man on a motor-cycle who had just ridden into the yard below and parked beside one of the trucks

  The girl, who had found herself quite unable to cope with some of Garvald's more bizarre demands of the previous night said tearfully 'I'm sorry. Mr Garvald.'

  The man below had walked across the yard and disappeared now Garvald turned and said to the girl, 'Go on, get your clothes on and piss off.' She was frightened to death, shaking with fear and staring at him, mesmerized A delicious feeling of power, almost sexual in its intensity, flooded through him He grabbed her hair and twisted it cruelly 'And learn to do as you're told Understand?'

  As the girl fled, the outer door opened and Reuben Garvald, Ben's younger brother, entered He was small and sickly-looking, one shoulder slightly higher than the other, but the black eyes in the pale face were constantly on the move, missing nothing.

  His eyes followed the girl disapprovingly as she disappeared into the bedroom 'I wish you wouldn't, Ben. A dirty little cow like that You might catch something.'

  'That's what they invented penicillin for,' Garvald said 'Anyway, what do you want?'

  'There's a bloke to see you. Just came in on a motor-cycle.'

  'So I noticed What's he want?'

  'Wouldn't say Cheeky little Mick with too much off.' Reuben held out half a five pound note. 'Told me to give you that. Said you could have the other half if you'd see him.'

  Garvald laughed, quite spontaneously, and plucked the torn banknote from his brother's hand 'I like it. Yes, I very definitely go for that.' He took it to the window and examined it 'It looks Kosher, too.' He turned, grinning 'I wonder if he's got any more, Reuben? Let's see.'

  Reuben went out and Garvald crossed to a sideboard in high good humour and poured himself a glass of Scotch. Maybe the morning was not going to turn out to be such a dead loss after all It might even prove to be quite entertaining. He settled himself in an easy chair by the window.

  The door opened and Reuben ushered Devlin into the room He was wet through, his raincoat saturated, and he took off his tweed cap and squeezed it over a Chinese porcelain bowl filled with bulbs 'Would you look at that now?'

  'All right,' Garvald said 'I know all you bleedin' Micks are cracked You needn't rub it in. What's the name?'

  'Murphy, Mr Garvald,' Devlin told him 'As in spuds.'

  'And I believe that, too,' Garvald said Take that coat off. for Christ's sake You'll ruin the bloody carpet Genuine Axminster. Costs a fortune to get hold of that these days.'

  Devlin removed his dripping trenchcoat and handed it to Reuben, who looked mad but took it anyway and draped it over a chair by the window.

  'All right, sweetheart,' Garvald said 'My time's limited so let's get to it.'

  Devlin rubbed his hands dry on his jacket and took out a packet of cigarettes. 'They tell me you're in the transport business,' he said 'Amongst other things.'

  'Who tells you?'

  'I heard it around.'

  'So?'

  'I need a truck Bedford three-tonner Army type.'

  'Is that all?' Garvald was still smiling, but his eyes were watchful.

  'No, I also want a jeep, a compressor plus spray equipment and a couple of gallons of khaki-green paint And I want both trucks to have service registration.'

  Garvald laughed out loud 'What are you going to do, start the Second Front on your own or something?'

  Devlin took a large envelope from his inside breast pocket and held it out. There's five hundred quid on account in there, just so you know I'm not wasting your time.'

  Garvald nodded to his brother who took the envelope, opened it and checked the contents. 'He's right, Ben In brand new fivers, too.'

  He pushed the money across Garvald weighed it in his hand then dropped it on the coffee table in front of him. He leaned back 'All right, let's talk Who are you working for?'

  'Me,' Devlin said.

  Garvald didn't believe him for a moment and showed it but he didn't argue the point 'You must have something good lined up to be going to all this trouble. Maybe you could do with a little help.'

  'I've told you what I need, Mr Garvald,' Devlin said 'One Bedford three-ton truck, a jeep a compressor, and a couple of gallons of khaki-green paint. Now if you don't think you can help, I can always try elsewhere.'

  Reuben said angrily, 'Who the hell do you think you are? Walking in here's one thing. Walking out again isn't always so easy.'

  Devlin's face was very pale and when he turned to look at Reuben, the blue eyes seemed to be fixed on some distant point, cold and remote 'Is that a fact, now?'

  He reached for the bundle of fivers his left hand in his pocket on the butt of the Walther. Garvald slammed a hand down across them hard 'It's cost you,' he said softly 'A nice, round figure. Let's say two thousand quid.'

  He held Devlin's gaze in a kind of challenge there was a lengthy pause and then Devlin smiled 'I bet you had a mean left hand in your prime.'

  'I still do, boy.' Garvald clenched his fist. 'The best in the business.'

  'All right,' Devlin said. 'Throw in fifty gallons of petrol in Army jerrycans and you're on.'

  Garvald held out his hand 'Done We'll have a drink on it What's your pleasure?'

  'Irish if you've got it Bushmills for preference.'

  'I got everything, boy. Anything and everything.' He snapped his fingers Reuben hesitated his face set and angry, and Garvald said in a low dangerous voice. 'The Bushmills Reuben.'

  His brother went over to the sideboard and opened the cupboard, disclosing dozens of bottles underneath. 'You do all right for yourself Devlin observed.'

  'The only way.' Garvald took a cigar from a box on the coffee table. 'You want to take delivery in Birmingham or someplace else?'

  Somewh
ere near Peterborough on the A1 would do.' Devlin said.

  Reuben handed him a glass 'You re bloody choosy aren't you?'

  Garvald cut in. 'No that's all right. You know Norman Cross? That's on the A1 about five miles out of Peterborough. There's a garage called Fogarty's a couple of miles down the road. It's closed at the moment.'

  'I'll find it,' Devlin said.

  'When do you want to take delivery?'

  'Thursday the twenty-eighth and Friday the twenty-ninth. I'll take the truck and the compressor and the jerrycans the first night, the jeep on the second.'

  Garvald frowned slightly. 'You mean you're handling the whole thing yourself?'