He lit the Tilley lamps and manoeuvred the BSA out of the back of the jeep. He was tired and bitterly cold, but not tired enough to sleep. He lit a cigarette and walked up and down, strangely restless.
It was quiet in the barn, only the rain drumming against the roof, the quiet hissing of the Tilley lamps. The door opened in a flurry of wind and Molly entered, closing it behind her. She wore her old trenchcoat, Wellington boots and a headscarf and was soaked to the skin so that she shook with cold, but it didn't seem to matter. She walked to the jeep, a puzzled frown on her face.
She gazed at Devlin dumbly. 'Liam?' she said.
'You promised,' he told her. 'No more prying. It's useful to know how you keep your word.'
'I'm sorry, but I was so frightened, and then all this, gestured at the vehicles. 'What does it mean?'
'None of your business,' he told her brutally. 'As far as I'm concerned you can clear off right now. If you want to report me to the police - well, you must do as you see fit.'
She stood staring at him, eyes very wide, mouth working. 'Go on!' he said, 'If that's what you want. Get out of it!'
She ran into his arms, bursting into tears. 'Oh, no Liam, don't send me away. No more questions, I promise and from now on I'll mind my own business, only don't send me away.'
It was the lowest point in his life and the self-contempt he felt as he held her in his arms was almost physical in its intensity. But it had worked. She would cause him no more trouble, of that he was certain.
He kissed her on the forehead. 'You're freezing. Get on over to the house with you and build up the fire, I'll be with you in a few minutes.'
She gazed up at him searchingly, then turned and went out. Devlin sighed and went over to the jeep and picked up one of the bottles of Bushmills. He eased the cork and took a long swallow.
'Here's to you, Liam, old son,' he said with infinite sadness.
.
In the tiny operating theatre in the nursing home in Aston, Ben Garvald lay back on the padded table, eyes closed. Reuben stood beside him while Das, a tall cadaverous Indian in an immaculate white coat, cut away the trouser leg with surgical scissors.
'Is it bad?' Reuben asked him, his voice shaking.
'Yes, very bad,' Das replied calmly. 'He needs a first-rate surgeon, if he is not to be crippled. There is also the question of sepsis.'
'Listen, you bleeding wog bastard.' Ben Garvald said, eyes opening. 'It says physician and surgeon on that fancy brass plate of yours by the door, doesn't it?'
'True, Mr Garvald,' Das told him calmly. 'I have degrees of the Universities of Bombay and London, but that is not the point. You need specialist assistance in this instance.'
Garvald pushed himself up on one elbow. He was in considerable pain and sweat was pouring down his face. 'You listen to me and listen good. A girl died in here three months ago. What the law would call an illegal operation. I know about that and a lot more. Enough to put you away for seven years at least, so if you don't want the coppers in here, get moving on this leg.'
Das seemed quite unperturbed. 'Very well, Mr Garvald, on your own head be it. I'll have to give you an anaesthetic. You understand this?'
'Give me anything you bleeding well like, only get on with it.'
Garvald closed his eyes. Das opened a cupboard, took out a gauze face mask and a bottle of chloroform. He said to Reuben, 'You'll have to help. Add chloroform to the pad as I tell you, drop by drop. Can you manage it?'
Reuben nodded, too full to speak.
12
It was still raining on the following morning when Devlin rode over to Joanna Grey. He parked his bike by the garage and went to the back door. She opened it instantly and drew him inside. She was still in her dressing gown and her face was strained and anxious.
'Thank God, Liam.' She took his face between her two hands and shook him. 'I hardly slept a wink. I've been up since five o'clock drinking whisky and tea alternately. A hell of a mixture at this time in the morning.' She kissed him warmly. 'You rogue, it's good to see you.'
The retriever swung its hindquarters frantically from side-to-side, anxious to be included. Joanna Grey busied herself at the stove and Devlin stood in front of the fire.
'How was it?' she asked.
'All right.'
He was deliberately noncommital, for it seemed likely she might not be too happy about the way he had handled things.
She turned, surprise on her face. 'They didn't try anything?'
'Oh, yes," he said. 'But I persuaded them otherwise.'
'Any shooting?'
'No need,' he said calmly. 'One look at that Mauser of mine was enough. They're not used to guns, the English criminal fraternity. Razors are more their style.'
She carried the tea things on a tray across to the table. 'God, the English. Sometimes I despair of them.'
'I'll drink to that in spite of the hour. Where's the whisky?'
She went and got the bottle and a couple of glasses. 'This is disgraceful at this time of day, but I'll join you. What do we do now?'
'Wait,' he said. 'I've got the jeep to fix up, but that's all. You'll need to squeeze old Sir Henry dry right up to the last moment, but other than that, all we can do is bite our nails for the next six days.'
'Oh, I don't know,' she said. 'We can always wish ourselves luck.' She raised her glass. 'God bless you, Liam, and long life.'
'And you, my love.'
She raised her glass and drank. Suddenly something moved inside Devlin like a knife in his bowels. In that moment he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the whole bloody thing was going to go about as wrong as it could do.
.
Pamela Vereker had a thirty-six-hour pass that weekend, coming off duty at seven a.m., and her brother had driven over to Pangbourne to pick her up. Once at the presbytery, she couldn't wait to get out of uniform and into a pair of jodhpurs and a sweater.
In spite of this symbolic turning away, however temporarily, from the dreadul facts of daily life on a heavy bomber station, she still felt edgy and extremely tired. After lunch she cycled six miles along the coast road to Meltham Vale Farm where the tenant, a parishioner of Vereker's, had a three-year-old stallion badly in need of exercise.
Once over the dunes behind the farm, she gave the stallion his head and galloped along the winding track through the tangled gorse, climbing towards the wooded ridge above. It was completely exhilarating, with the rain beating in her face, and for a while she was back in another, safer place, the world of her childhood that had ended at four forty-five on the morning of 1 September 1939 when General Gerd von Rundsted's Army Group South had invaded Poland.
She entered the trees, following the old forestry commisssion track and the stallion slowed as it approached the crest of the hill. There was a pine tree across the track a yard or two further on, a windfall. It was no more than three feet high and the stallion took it in its stride. As it landed on the other side, a figure stood up in the undergrowth on the right. The stallion swerved. Pamela Vereker lost her stirrups and was tossed to one side. A rhododendron bush broke her fall, but for a moment she was winded and lay there fighting for breath, aware of voices all around.
'You stupid bastard, Krukowski,' someone said. 'What were you trying to do, kill her?'
The voices were American. She opened her eyes and found a ring of soldiers in combat jackets and steel helmets surrounding her, faces daubed with camouflage cream, all heavily armed. Kneeling beside her was a large rugged Negro with a master sergeant's stripes on his arm. 'You all right, miss?' he asked anxiously.
She frowned and shook her head, and suddenly felt rather better. 'Who are you?'
He touched his helmet in a kind of half-salute. 'Name's Garvey. Master Sergeant. Twenty-first Specialist Raiding Force. We're based at Meltham House for a couple of weeks for field training.'
A jeep arrived at that moment, skidding to a halt in the mud. The driver was an officer, she could tell that, although not sure of his rank, having had
little to do with American forces during her service career. He wore a forage cap and normal uniform and was certainly not dressed for manoeuvres.
'What in the hell is going on here?' he demanded.
'Lady got thrown from her horse, Major,' Garvey replied. 'Krukowski jumped out of the bushes at the wrong moment.'
Major, she thought, surprised at his youth. She scrambled to her feet. 'I'm all right, really I am.'
She swayed and the major took her arm. 'I don't think so. Do you live far, ma'am?'
'Studley Constable. My brother is parish priest there.'
He guided her firmly towards the jeep. 'I think you'd better come with me. We've got a medical officer down at Meltham House. I'd like him to make sure you're still in one piece.'
The flash on his shoulder said Rangers and she remembered having read somewhere that they were the equivalent of the British Commandos. 'Meltham House?'
'I'm sorry, I should introduce myself. Major Harry Kane, attached to the Twenty-first Specialist Raiding Force under the command of Colonel Robert E. Shafto. We're here for field training.'
'Oh, yes,' she said, 'My brother was telling me that Meltham was being used for some such purpose these days.' She closed her eyes. 'Sorry, I feel a little faint.'
'You just relax. I'll have you there in no time.'
It was a nice voice. Most definitely. For some absurd reason it made her feel quite breathless. She lay back and did exactly as she was told.
.
The five acres of garden at Meltham House were surrounded by a typical Norfolk flint wall, some eight feet in height. It had been spiked with barbed wire at the top for extra security. Meltham itself was of modest size, a small manor house dating from the early part of the seventeenth century. Like the wall, a great deal of split flint had been used, the construction of the building, particularly the design of the gable ends, showed the Dutch influence typical of the period.
Harry Kane and Pamela strolled through the shrubbery towards the house. He had spent a good hour showing her over the estate and she had enjoyed every minute of it. 'How many of you are there?'
'At the present time, about ninety. Most of the men are under canvas, of course, in the camp area I pointed out on the other side of the spinney.'
'Why wouldn't you take me down there? Secret training or something?'
'Good God, no.' He chuckled. 'You're entirely too good-looking, it's as simple as that.'
A young soldier hurried down the steps of the terrace and came towards them. He saluted smartly. 'Colonel's back, sir. Master Sergeant Garvey is with him now.'
'Very well. Appleby.'
The boy returned Kane's salute, turned and doubled away.
'I thought Americans were supposed to take things terribly easy,' Pamela said.
Kane grinned. 'You don't know Shafto. I think they must have coined the term martinet especially for him.'
As they went up the steps to the terrace, an officer came out through the French windows. He stood facing them, slapping a riding crop against his knee, full of a restless animal vitality. Pamela did not need to be told who he was. Kane saluted. 'Colonel Shafto, allow me to present Miss Vereker.'
Robert Shafto was at that time forty-four years of age, a handsome, arrogant-looking man; a flamboyant figure in polished top boots and riding breeches. He wore a forage cap slanted to his left eye and the two rows of medal ribbons above his left pocket made a bright splash of colour. Perhaps the most extraordinary thing about him was the pearl handled Colt.45 he carried in an open holster on his left hip.
He touched his riding crop to his brow and said gravely, 'I was distressed to hear of your accident, Miss Vereker. If there is anything I can do to make up for the clumsiness of my men...'
'That's most kind of you,' she said. 'However, Major Kane here has very kindly offered to run me back to Studley Constable, if you can spare him, that is. My brother is priest there.'
'The least we can do.'
She wanted to see Kane again and there seemed to be only one sure way she could accomplish that. She said, 'We're having a little party at the presbytery tomorrow night. Nothing very special. Just a few friends for drinks and sandwiches. I was wondering whether you and Major Kane would care to join us.' Shafto hesitated. It seemed obvious that he was going to make some excuse and she carried on hurriedly. 'Sir Henry Willoughby will be there, the local squire. Have you met yet?'
Shafto's eyes lit up. 'No, I haven't had that pleasure.'
'Miss Vereker's brother was a padre with the First Parachute Brigade,' Kane said. 'Dropped with them at Oudna in Tunisia last year. You remember that one, Colonel?'
'I certainly do,' Shafto said. 'That was one hell of an affair. Your brother must be quite a man to have survived that, young lady.'
'He was awarded the Military Cross,' she said. 'I'm very proud of him.'
'And so you should be. I'll be happy to attend your little soiree tomorrow night and have the pleasure of meeting him. You make the necessary arrangements, Harry.' He saluted again with the riding crop. 'And now you must excuse me. I have work to do.'
.
'Were you impressed?' Kane asked her as they drove back along the coast road in his jeep.
I'm not sure,' she said. 'He's rather a flamboyant figure, you must admit.'
The understatement of this or any other year,' he said. 'Shafto is what is known in the trade as a fighting soldier. The kind of guy who used to lead his men over the top of some trench in Flanders in the old days armed with a swagger stick. Like that French General said at Balaclava, magnificent, but it isn't war.'
'In other words he doesn't use his head?'
'Well, he does have one hell of a fault from the Army's point of view. He can't take orders - from anybody. Fighting Bobby Shafto, the pride of the infantry. Got himself out of Bataan back in April last year when the Japs overran the place. Only trouble was, he left an infantry regiment behind. That didn't sit too well at the Pentagon. Nobody wanted him so they shipped him over to London to work on the staff at Combined Operations.'
'Which he didn't like?'
'Naturally. Used it as a stepping stone to further glory. He discovered the British had their Small Scale Raiding Force slipping over the Channel by night playing Boy Scouts and decided the American Army should have the same. Unfortunately some imbecile at Combined Operations thought it was a good idea.'
'Don't you?' she said.
He seemed to evade the question. 'During the past nine months, men from the Twenty-first have raided across the Channel on no fewer than fourteen separate occasions.'
'But that's incredible.'
'Which includes,' he carried on, 'the destruction of an empty lighthouse in Normandy and several landings on uninhabited French islands.'
'You don't think much of him, it seems?'
'The great American public certainly does. Three months ago some war reporter, in London and short of a story, heard how Shafto had captured the crew of a lightship off the Belgian coast. There were six of them and as they happened to be German soldiers, it looked pretty good, especially the photos of the landing craft coming into Dover in the grey dawn, Shafto and his boys, one helmet strap dangling, the prisoners looking suitably cowed. Straight off Stage Ten at MGM.' He shook his head. 'How the folks back home bought that one. Shafto's Raiders. Life, Colliers, Saturday Evening Post. You name it, he was in there someplace. The people's hero. Two DSCs. Silver Star with Oak Leaf clusters. Everything but the Congressional Medal of Honour and he'll have that before he's through, even if he has to kill the lot of us doing it.'
She said stiffly, 'Why did you join this unit, Major Kane?'
'Stuck behind a desk,' he said. 'That about sums it up. Guess I'd have done just about anything to get out - and did.'
'So you weren't on any of the raids you mention?'
'No, ma'am.'
Then I suggest you think twice in future before dismissing so lightly the actions of a brave man, especially from the vantage point of a desk.
'
He pulled into the side of the road and braked to a halt. He turned to her, smiling cheerfully. 'Heh, I like that. Mind if I write it down to use in that great novel we journalists are always going to write?'
'Damn you, Harry Kane.'
She raised a hand as if to strike him, and he pulled out a pack of Camels and shook one out. 'Have a cigarette instead. Soothes the nerves.'
She took it and the light which followed and inhaled deeply, staring out over the salt marsh towards the sea. 'Sorry, I suppose I am reacting too strongly, but this war has become very personal for me.'
Jack Higgins - Eagle Has Landed Page 26
